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“He has been doing so since breakfast,” Fielding added.

“’Tis remarkable,” Manners observed. “A man who has faced enemy fire without so much as a tremor, reduced to a state of complete disorder by the prospect of standing before a minister.”

“Perhaps he has finally developed a proper appreciation for danger,” Cholmely suggested.

Renforth regarded them with a familiar mixture of affection and exasperation. “One might almost suppose none of you had ever stood in his position.”

“That is precisely why we are enjoying it,” Stuart replied.

Before Renforth could deliver a response, Baines appeared in the doorway. He was dressed with his customary care, although the expression upon his face suggested he had been informed that his execution was imminent. “Is everything ready?” he demanded.

“Everything except the bridegroom’s composure,” Stuart quipped.

Baines ignored him and addressed Renforth. “Sir, might I have a word?”

Renforth followed him into the passage, where Baines stopped beside a window overlooking the grounds. For several moments, the younger man said nothing.

“Having second thoughts?” Renforth asked.

Baines turned upon him with such an expression of horror that Renforth almost laughed.

“No, no! Nothing of the sort. I only wished—” He broke off, visibly struggling to find the appropriate words. “I wanted to thank you, sir.”

Renforth’s amusement faded. “For what?”

“For rather more than I could possibly explain before the ceremony.” Baines glanced towards the drawing room. “You have been a father to me in every respect that matters, and I should not like to begin this new chapter without telling you how much that has meant.”

Renforth had faced cannon fire with greater equanimity. “Good heavens, Baines. You speak as though you are departing for the colonies.”

“I suppose things will be different.”

“Undoubtedly. You shall have someone considerably more agreeable than Stuart to argue with over breakfast.”

“That would hardly require a wife,” Baines replied, smiling.

Renforth rested a hand upon his shoulder. “You have become a fine man, Basil. I could not be more proud of you.”

The younger man’s expression altered, and for an uncomfortable moment Renforth feared he might be obliged to endure a display of sentiment from which neither of them would recover with dignity. He therefore cleared his throat. “Now, unless you intend to leave Miss Finch waiting at the altar, I suggest you collect yourself. I have no desire to explain to the lady why her intended husband has taken refuge in the passage.”

Baines laughed, and some of the tension departed from his face. “Thank you, sir.”

All Renforth could manage was a nod as he watched him return to his companions. He suddenly found himself contemplating a future he had scarcely considered.

Baines was the last of his men to marry. For years, his London town house had served as their unofficial headquarters, a refuge from the demands of Society and a place where his officers could enjoy one another’s company without the inconveniences of military formality. His mother had left him the property, a handsome residence in Mayfair large enough to accommodate considerably more gentlemen than good sense ought to have permitted beneath one roof.

His elder brother, the Duke, had considered the arrangement eccentric. Renforth had considered it practical. There had been little reason for his officers to hire expensive lodgings when his house possessed an abundance of empty bedchambers. Besides, the arrangement had suited him rather well. The house had never been intended for a solitary occupant, and he had discovered that the presence of his men rendered its considerable dimensions less oppressive.

Now, one by one, they had departed to establish households of their own. He could scarcely begrudge them their happiness, but the prospect of returning to a residence devoid of their familiar arguments and laughter held remarkably little appeal. Perhaps, he reflected, he ought to acquire a dog.

The ceremony took place in the small parish kirk, where Judith Finch arrived upon the arm of her uncle, wearing a gown of ivory silk and an expression of such unmistakable happiness that Renforth found himself smiling despite his earlier melancholy.

Baines, who had spent the preceding hour behaving like a man awaiting sentence, became perfectly still when he saw her. Renforth recognized the look upon his face.

He had seen it upon those of Manners, Fielding, Cholmely, and Stuart at their own weddings, although he had never entirely understood how otherwise sensible men could be so completely overcome by a woman.

Judith reached Baines’ side, and the two exchanged a glance that rendered the remainder of the congregation quite unnecessary. Renforth shifted his attention to the minister. He had no wish to intrude upon something so private.

The ceremony proceeded without mishap, although Chum later maintained that Baines had nearly forgotten the proper response to one of the minister’s questions. Whether this was true or merely another of Chum’s inventions, Renforth could not say. What he could say was that when the minister pronounced them husband and wife, Baines looked as though he had been handed the whole of creation.