Benedict, Captain Hunter had called him. She could recall that much. Would it be gauche to admit she had no idea what his family name was? She had some sense that Captain Hunter had said it before.
“What should I call you?” she asked instead.
He shrugged. “I’m not the sort to stand much on formalities. So Benedict, if you wish. But if you are the sort to stand much on formalities, Mr. Worth, I suppose. Are you?”
“Am I?” she echoed, looking wistfully at the dried inkwell. Would it be horrible to write his name down right in front of him? What would he think? She was just starting here; she didn’t want him to have an ill opinion of her. “Am I what?”
“Are you the sort to stand on formalities?”
“I don’t believe so.” She grimaced and rolled her shoulders. “I have never taken employment before. Ought I stand on formality? Will people not respect me if I do?”
“Ooh.” He looked up into the corner of one room. “That’s a very good question. I had not thought of that. What do you think?”
She felt her suspicions rise. “Mr.…” Oh. Damn. She wanted to hit her head against the desk.
“Mr. Worth,” he said.
“Mr. Worth, are you old enough to liaise?”
His back straightened. “Yes. Of course I am.” He looked the very picture of indignant hurt. Then his shoulders fell, and he heaved a sigh. “Although I have never done it before.” Another moment of dejection before he brightened. “But Captain Hunter gave me instruction last night on what I’m to do. It’s the sort of thing that I’m great guns at.”
Perfect. Neither of them had any idea what they were doing. Amelia tried not to grimace. They were not meeting each other’s eyes, and awkwardness seemed to settle in. She could send him away, or…
Amelia sighed and changed the topic of conversation to one that would give him a chance to show off a little instead. “Captain Hunter said that your family name would open up doors. I’m not much conversant in…” Well, names, for one. Or the hierarchy of British families, for another. “Any of that,” she concluded, “but if we are to work together, I should know who you are.”
Oddly enough, this made him blush. Redness swept his face in little blotchy patches. “Well. If you must. But.” His shoulders squared. “My father was the Earl of Linney.”
That was all he said. No recitation of lands, no further explanation of family history. But he watched her as if waiting for her to recognize the name and respond in some fashion.
Recognize a name? Her? She looked at him. “You said was. Has he passed away? I’m sorry for your loss.”
He winced. “Um. He was not exactly executed for treason? But that’s close enough. My elder brother was transported, also for, ah, treason-related crimes. All of this happened when I was extremely young, and I have no memory of it. Not the deaths. Nor the treason.”
There was an awkward pause, the kind that begged to be filled with anything. An inquiry into the weather. A dramatic shift of the conversation to breeds of sheep. A compliment on his jacket.
“What kind of treason was it?” Amelia heard herself asking instead, beset by curiosity, then wanted to hit her head against the desk again. Anything but that, Amelia. Anything but that.
“You know,” Benedict said slowly, “I’ve never investigated the particulars. From what I have heard, it had something to do with the war with China? Something about trying to offer them aid so as to harm Britain and alter the outcome?”
Amelia glanced out her window. On the muddy street below, she could see the white stone buildings of the American quarter, portions of Shanghai that now sat under the jurisdiction of powers from halfway around the world. “The treason wasn’t very effective, was it?”
Benedict stared at her. Then he let out a laugh. “How can I know? It was two of them against all England. And I wasn’t the one committing treason. I assure you, if—” He stopped talking. “That is to say—not that I would—but if I were to commit treason—” Another pause. “Which I definitely would not.” He squared his chin and folded his arms. “If I were to commit treason, I would be good at it.”
“Yes, yes. Great guns, just like your liaising.” She waved a hand at him. “I don’t really care if you betrayed Britain or whether you’d be good at it.”
He looked at her warily.
She remembered Captain Hunter admonishing her to not say she was fine if she was not fine. Benedict was the captain’s liaison—as close to his voice in Shanghai as it came.
“I’m not good at the whole ‘polite society’ thing,” Amelia confessed. “And—you’ll pardon me for the observation—but you seem to have a similar affliction. Can we enter a pact of nonjudgment?”
“A what?”
“A pact.” She held out her hand. “I, Amelia Smith, hereby solemnly vow that I will not judge you simply because you are not perfect.”
The boy stared at her hand for a while, then slowly held out his own. “I, Benedict Worth, hereby solemnly vow that I will not judge you, Amelia Smith, because you are not perfect.”
They shook hands over this vow. The boy’s hands were warm and rough against hers. Amelia nodded.
“First order of pact business—I don’t remember your family name.”
His mouth gaped. “But you’ve known me for weeks! And I just told you it!”
Amelia raised a finger. “That sounded suspiciously like judgment. I don’t remember names. I don’t know what it is about names; they just refuse to stick in my head, no matter what I do. So I may have to ask after it ninety-seven times before I actually learn it.”
“I see.” Benedict nodded. “As your liaison, can I suggest that we have everyone in the office put name cards at their desks?”
She blinked at him. “How?”
Benedict shrugged. “I’ll just go down and say, ‘Hullo everyone, Mrs. Smith is bad at remembering names, and so we’ll all make her feel better if we just use name cards with profligate abandon.’”
“You can’t just tell people that!”
“Why not?” He looked at her. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone is good at names.”
She was sputtering. “But—that—if we just tell them outright…”
“Then they’ll know?” He seemed puzzled. “And will understand.”
Don’t tell me you’re fine if you’re not fine. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?
“Captain Hunter made my duty very clear to me.” He shrugged. “You’ve got an entire Chinese telegraphic code to work on. Why make you feel bad about not knowing names when we could just use cards to help you out? And if we’re not in the office and I’m around, I can just whisper names to you when someone approaches.”
“You can do that?”
His chest puffed out. “I can do that. I’m supposed to make your way easier so you can concentrate on the telegraphic work. It’s really my only duty, but for—” He stopped and made a face.
“But for…,” she prompted.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. You see, it’s my next-eldest sister. The one who ran away.”