She tapped the family name. “Martin,” she whispered. He nodded and ran his finger down the page. “Charles Alexander William Martin,” he breathed. “Seventeen ninety-seven. Older than I thought.” “Surely not,” Minerva retorted. “His service record…” “Shows nothing,” Griff overrode, his whisper firm without being harsh. “I only discovered tonight that he was in uniform, and that should have been in his file in London. There must be discharge papers somewhere, but it would be at least ten years ago.”
