Arbuthnot nodded, George’s reply clearly meeting with his approval. “Soldiers are rarely where they’re supposed to be,” he said. “At least not ones like your brother.”
George pressed his lips together, working to maintain an even expression. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”
Arbuthnot sat back, tapping his steepled fingers as he regarded George with a thoughtful, eye-narrowed gaze. “Your brother is hardly an enlisted man, Lord Kennard.”
“Surely a captain must still follow orders.”
“And go where he’s told?” Arbuthnot said. “Of course. But that doesn’t mean he ends up where he’s ‘supposed’ to be.”
George took a moment to absorb this, then said incredulously, “Are you trying to tell me that Edward is a spy?”
It was unfathomable. Espionage was a dirty business. Men like Edward wore their red coats with pride.
Arbuthnot shook his head. “No. At least I don’t think so. Damned unsavory, spying is. Your brother wouldn’t have to do it.”
He wouldn’t do it, George thought. Period.
“It’d make no sense, at any rate,” Arbuthnot said briskly. “Do you really think your brother could pass himself off as anything but a proper English gentleman? I hardly think a rebel is going to believe that the son of an earl is going to sympathize with their cause.”
Arbuthnot wiped his mouth with his napkin and reached for the kippers. “I think your brother is a scout.”
“A scout,” George repeated.
Arbuthnot nodded, then offered the dish. “More?”
George shook his head and tried not to grimace. “No, thank you.”
Arbuthnot gave a little grunt and slid the rest of the fish onto his plate. “God, I love kippers,” he sighed. “You can’t get them in the Caribbean. Not like this.”
“A scout,” George said again, trying to get the conversation back on topic. “Why do you think this?”
“Well, no one has told me as much, and to be quite frank, I don’t know that anyone here has the entire story, but putting together the bits and pieces… it seems to fit.” Arbuthnot popped a kipper in his mouth and chewed. “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d say that your brother had been sent afield to get the lay of the land. There hasn’t been much action in Connecticut, not since that thing with Whatshisname Arnold in Ridgefield back in seventy-seven.”
George was not familiar with Whatshisname Arnold, nor did he have a clue where Ridgefield was.
There are some damned good ports on that coast,” Arbuthnot continued, getting back to the serious business of cutting his meat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the rebels were putting them to use. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Captain Rokesby had been sent out to investigate.” He looked up, his bushy brows dipping toward his eyes as his forehead wrinkled. “Does your brother have any mapmaking skills?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Arbuthnot shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t, I suppose. They might not be looking for anything so precise.”
“But then what happened?” George pressed.
The old general shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, m’dear boy. And I’d be lying if I said I’d found anyone who did.”
George hadn’t expected answers, not really, but still, it was disappointing.
“It’s a damned long way to the Colonies, son,” Lord Arbuthnot said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “News is never as swift as we’d like.”
George accepted this with a slow nod. He was going to have to pursue some other avenue of investigation, although for the life of him, he did not know what that might be.
“By the way,” Arbuthnot added, almost too casually, “you wouldn’t happen to be planning to attend Lady Wintour’s ball tomorrow night, would you?”
“I am,” George confirmed. He didn’t want to, but his mother had spun some convoluted story that had ended in his absolutely having to attend. And frankly, he hadn’t the heart to disappoint her. Not while she was so worried about Edward.
And then there was Billie. She’d been roped into attending as well. He’d seen the look of panic on her face when his mother had dragged her from her breakfast to visit the modiste. A London ball was quite possibly Billie Bridgerton’s personal hell, and there was no way he could abandon her when she needed him most.
“Are you acquainted with Robert Tallywhite?” Lord Arbuthnot inquired.
“A bit.” Tallywhite was a couple of years ahead of him at Eton. Quiet fellow, George recalled. Sandy hair and a high forehead. Bookish.
“He is Lady Wintour’s nephew and will most certainly be in attendance. You would be doing a great service to this office if you would pass along a message.”
George raised his eyebrows in question.
“Is that a yes?” Lord Arbuthnot said in a dry voice.
George tipped his head in affirmation.
“Tell him… pease porridge pudding.”
“Pease porridge pudding,” George repeated dubiously.
Arbuthnot broke off a piece of his toast and dipped it into his egg yolk. “He’ll understand.”
“What does it mean?”
“Do you need to know?” Arbuthnot countered.