Page 7

Alan shook off his reverie, grinned, and approached the bed. “Have I interrupted a battle?”

Claud was lying propped by two pillows in bed, toy soldiers scattered on the counterpane.

“Lord Alan.” The nurse rose. Miss Milford had silver hair and a youthful face, which bestowed upon her an oddly eternal quality. Last summer, a different nurse—less formidable—had brought Claud into Hyde Park for his swimming lessons. That nurse had looked the other way when Alan slipped the boy toffees and peppermint candies. Miss Milford’s watchful eye forbade the slightest deviation from her employers’ directives.

She trained it on him now. “There aren’t to be any visitors.”

“I’m family.” Alan sat on the edge of Claud’s bed, leaning his cane against the bedpost. A quandary for Miss Milford. Run and report his transgression—abandoning her charge—or stay put and permit Uncle Alan to flout the rules.

Which would rankle Geoffrey more?

Alan frowned. It seemed that his presence was to make mischief for two women in fewer hours. Unfortunate. But not his chief preoccupation at present.

He turned his attention back to Claud. “Zouaves.” He rested his swollen hand on his thigh and used the other to pick up one of the soldiers, a wonderfully intricate construction of wood and papier-mâché. The Zouave uniform—blue jacket tasseled with gold, red trousers—matched the bedchamber, the red rugs and blue curtains, the red counterpane. He wondered fleetingly if Fanny curated Claud’s toys, if she’d selected this particular regiment because it fit best with her palette.

“Who are they fighting?” he asked Claud. “The Prussians?” He heard the click of the door that denoted Miss Milford’s departure.

“They’re not fighting anyone.” Claud sat up and soldiers tumbled. “They’re not Zouaves. They’re Martians.” His thin face grew serious and hopeful.

Alan’s heart squeezed. The child wanted a playmate—not a nurse, ready to apply a compress to his forehead whenever he began to flush with boyish excitement, but a friend, ready to share his adventures. Romping with Arabella and Mary would do him more good than turpentine vapor and pills of copper sulfate.

“Martians! Better yet.” Alan tried to balance his Zouave—Martian—upright on the red counterpane. “So, this is Mars.” His gesture encompassed the wide bed, and Claud nodded eagerly.

“That’s one of the canals.” Claud pointed to where he’d pinched up the fabric, forming the sides of a long trench. “It goes to the sea.” He leaned to pinch the sides higher. Strands of dark hair plastered his forehead, curled damply at his temples. Heat radiated from his body. Not fever necessarily. A combination of thick blankets and the windows, their western exposure. On sunny days, the room marinated in afternoon light.

“Are the canals for shipping?” Alan asked, to cover his unease. Claud glanced up at him. Alan used to see that very expression in the mirror. The look of a boy who wanted to escape his body through his eyes.

“Boats aren’t allowed.” Claud picked up a soldier. “The canals are for swimming.” Claud laid the soldier facedown in the trench. “The water’s cold, but Felton doesn’t mind.”

“Felton?” Alan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “The Martian’s name is Felton?”

Claud picked up another soldier, bigger than the others, all wood, a relic Alan recognized from his own boyhood. “This one’s Captain Basil. He’s racing Felton.” Into the canal with the wooden soldier. “Captain Basil is stronger, but he only knows the breaststroke. Felton knows the other one, the one we practiced.”

Alan didn’t ask how the Martians had learned terrestrial swimming styles. He nudged Felton, giving him the lead.

“The trudgen stroke,” he said. “An overarm motion. It’s what they use in the Americas.” He raised an arm above his head and arced it down, outlining a half circle. “Plus, a scissor kick. Beats the breaststroke every time. I’m backing Felton.”

“I wasn’t as good at the scissor kicks.” Claud wiggled his legs under the counterpane and more soldiers tipped. “But there’s a new kind of kick. Not scissor. It’s called the pudding kick.”

“Ah,” said Alan. “The pudding kick, did you say? I sense it will revolutionize the sport. Your invention? Very good. How’s it done?”

“You move your legs like a spoon when there’s pudding. You’ll see how fast I go.”

Claud smiled at Alan, then looked toward the bright windows. Nothing to see from that angle except sky, but they both knew that the gardens stretched immediately below, and beyond, Hyde Park, with the Serpentine shining in the sun.

“I hope the funny dog is there again,” added Claud wistfully.

Alan cursed his brother with silent, filthy thoroughness before he spoke. “We’ll have to wait and see about the dog, and about the pudding kick, too.”

Claud’s head whipped around. His eyes seemed to fill his face.

“No swimming this week, I’m afraid.” Alan tried to smile without gritting his teeth.

“Why not?”

White lies. Alan rarely trafficked in them. He purveyed uncomfortable truths.

Because your father is a petty bastard.