Patricia was his wife's sister. She was a widow, now, her husband having been killed in a horsefall a few years since. Victoria and her older brother Andrew were the children of his wife's long-deceased half brother.
Both women were carrying bundles of bedding. "They're driving us out!" Patricia said angrily. "We're losing two of our rooms!"
"Better than most, at that," Stephen said. "Some of the Warders with no officers in the family are being forced out of the Lodging altogether. They'll have to find a shack out on the grounds against the wall. Or make one, more likely."
"What's happening?" asked Victoria plaintively.
Hamilton now had his anger completely under control. Iced down, it would be better to say. "The earl of Cork feels that leaving his new prisoners in the care of Yeoman Warders might be risky. It seems-this will come as a surprise to everyone, of course, including ghosts-that there might be some questions concerning our loyalties. So he's brought in three companies of mercenaries to see to the Tower's security."
"That's idiotic!" snapped Patricia.
So it was. The Yeoman Warders of the Tower answered to the king of England, whoever he might be and whatever they thought of him. No business of theirs, which ministers came and went at the king's favor. Lock one up; let another go; theirs was simply to see to it that the locks were sound.
"As it may be," was all he said, however. "Victoria, I need to speak to you. In the kitchen, as soon as you've put away that bedding."
She looked at him, blankly. "Just me?"
He considered the matter for a moment. "Is Andrew about?"
"He's next door, helping the Hardwicks," said Patricia. "Poor people. They're being forced into a single room-even losing their kitchen."
"Get him too, then." Hamilton headed for the kitchen, not waiting to see if the women would obey. He had no doubt they would. Although he was no blood relation to anyone in his family, over the years he'd come to be what amounted to their patriarch. Partly because he was the oldest, being now into his forties. Partly because…
He was who he was. He never bit. He never snarled.
He never needed to.
Victoria came into the kitchen with her brother Andrew just behind her.
"Sit, girl." Hamilton pointed to the chair across from his at the small work table in a corner. "I've a question."
"What is it?" she asked uncertainly, pulling out the chair. There being no other in the room, her brother just stood to one side, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Your swain, the McCarthy lad. He hasn't come through the window, has he?"
She was startled. Then, flushing, she started to glance nervously over her shoulder, toward her brother.
"Well…"
"I want the truth, Victoria. Whatever it is. I won't care-and neither will Andrew. You're betrothed, now, so what does it matter?"
After a moment, she swallowed. "No. He hasn't."
"It's upset you."
Her nervousness at being asked such questions in the presence of her brother suddenly vanished, replaced by simple hurt. Her green eyes seemed a bit watery. "Yes. It makes me wonder…"
Hamilton chuckled. He glanced at Andrew and saw that the girl's brother was trying to suppress a smile.
"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that, Victoria," Hamilton said. "Whatever Darryl's reasons, lack of ardency is hardly the answer."
The look she gave him belonged more on the face of an eight-year-old girl, than one who'd just passed her twentieth birthday. "You're certain, Uncle?"
He had to suppress a smile himself, now. Victoria's brother wasn't bothering to do so, any longer, since he'd sidled over a bit and was now standing behind his sister where she couldn't see him. Stephen and Andrew had made jokes to each other, often enough, about the way Darryl McCarthy looked at Victoria when he thought no one was observing. Jokes about tongues hanging down to belt buckles and enough drool to drown an ox.
"Oh, yes, I'm quite certain."
"Then, why-"
Suddenly, she gave him a hard look. Almost an angry one.
"It's because he's afraid of you," she pronounced. "It's your fault. Uncle, you shouldn't scare people that much."
Hamilton knew that wasn't the reason either. Darryl McCarthy was wary of him, true enough. All men were, once they got to know Stephen Hamilton-if they had the sort of background that enabled them to gauge him in the first place.
That same background, however, was the key. Hamilton had always understood Darryl McCarthy, from the first day the young man had spent some hours in their quarters. Not too different from Hamilton himself, really-or from Andrew, rather. A tough young man from a tough background, who wasn't a fool but wasn't afraid of men, either.
Hamilton had understood McCarthy, yes-but he'd still underestimated him, and badly. So much was now clear.
"No, I don't think that's it," he said calmly. "I think the reason he hasn't come through the window is simply because he's afraid of getting you pregnant."
She almost crossed her eyes. "But-but-"
Her confusion was understandable. Once a couple was betrothed, the girl's family relaxed. By law and custom both, a betrothal was as good as wedding vows. Young couples often had to postpone the marriage, sometimes for years, until they could put together what they needed to set up their own household. It would be stupid, not to mention cruel, to force them into unnatural abstinence in the meantime. If the girl got pregnant, so be it. She'd hardly be the first one to waddle up to the altar. Likely enough, her mother and half her sisters and aunts had done the same.
But it was time to end this, before the girl's suspicions became aroused. Hamilton shook his head. "No, it's simply that I think the Americans have different customs."
He gave Andrew a quick, meaningful glance.
"I'm sure that's the reason, too," her brother said reassuringly. "I inquired with Lady Mailey, you know. They were a wealthy enough people that they got married quite young. Not like us. So they'd wait-were supposed to, at least, and Darryl's a good lad-until they were actually married."
That was twaddle, of course. Not the generalities-Hamilton had inquired himself, not from Lady Mailey but Captain Simpson-but its application to Darryl. Simpson hadn't come right out and labeled McCarthy a tomcat, but he'd said enough in the way of warning that Hamilton had made sure the girl was watched carefully until McCarthy finally betrothed her. Ironically, his only concern thereafter had been that the American might view his betrothal casually. Hamilton knew their customs were different there, also.
Ironic, indeed, in light of what he now understood.
"You really think that's all it is?" Victoria asked. She seemed aggrieved and mollified at the same time.
"Oh, yes. But now I need to talk privately with Andrew, Victoria."
She rose from the table and left immediately. More slowly, Andrew came over and took the chair she'd vacated.
He started to say something. But then, seeing the distant expression on the Warder captain's face, he fell silent.
Stephen Hamilton was distant, indeed, for a time. Not dwelling on his past-it was not one he liked to think about, except for those few years after he met Jane-but simply letting its essence saturate him. He'd passed through a hell that had left nothing much of the tough young man from a tough background who'd begun the journey. Just a cold, hard predator who'd luckily managed to find a pack of his own. That was now his only lifeline to humanity.
And even that was conditional. Stephen Hamilton would accept duty, well enough. Not because he cared about leashes but simply because he found a certain personal comfort in restraints. That comfort removed, his view of the world was very stark and very simple.
There were two sorts of people. Two, and only two.
His, and everyone else.
"Good God!" Andrew suddenly exclaimed, pulling Hamilton back into the kitchen. From the look on the Warder's face, he'd finally worked his way through the puzzle.