The son of a former British prime minister, he was too well bred to mention their battered faces. For that, Holmes was grateful, as it meant he had no need to explain. He and the governor simply greeted one another as though the obvious did not exist, and when Holmes introduced Douglas as his aide-de-camp—a lofty title, given that Holmes himself was little more than that to Cardwell—Hamilton-Gordon did not twitch so much as an eyebrow. There was a slight, black-haired man in his thirties—Holmes assumed he was the governor’s own aide-de-camp—who was not so charitable. He looked askance at Douglas, and when the governor requested a platter of biscuits and three cups of rum, the aide could not hold his tongue. “Three, your Lordship?” he asked, his tone making it clear that he did not approve of Negroes imbibing with their betters. The baron frowned, and turned to Holmes. “Has your aide other duties to execute at this late hour?” he inquired. When Holmes assured him that Douglas was at liberty, the governor smiled.
