Lord John and the Private Matter

Inquiries into the Stokes family had revealed them to be a polyglot crew descended from a Greek sailor who had jumped ship in London some forty years earlier, whereupon he had promptly met and married a girl from Cheapside, taken her name—very sensibly, as his own was Aristopolous Xenokratides—and settled down to produce a numerous family, most of whom had promptly returned to the sea like spawning efts. Iphigenia, stranded on shore by the accident of her gender, ostensibly earned her living by the needle, with occasional financial augmentations offered by assorted gentlemen with whom she had lived, Sergeant O’Connell being the most recent of these.

Grey had set Malcolm Stubbs to explore the family’s further connexions, but he had little hope of this producing anything helpful.

As for Finbar Scanlon and his wife—

“Have you ever been in love, John?”

He looked up, startled, to see Olivia looking earnestly at him over the teapot. Evidently she had not abandoned her inquiries, after all, but had merely been occupied with the consumption of breakfast.

“Well . . . yes,” he said slowly, unsure whether this was mere familial curiosity or something more.

“But you did not marry. Why was that?”

Why was that, indeed. He took a deep breath.

“It wasn’t possible,” he said simply. “My lover died.”

Her face clouded, full lip trembling with sympathy.

“Oh,” she murmured, looking down at her empty plate. “That’s awfullysad, Johnny. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged with a slight smile, acknowledging her sympathy but not encouraging further questions.

“Any interesting letters?” he asked, raising his chin toward the small sheaf of papers by her plate.

“Oh! Yes, I almost forgot—here are yours.” Burrowing through the stack, she unearthed two missives addressed to him and handed them across.

The first note, from Magruder, was brief but riveting. Sergeant O’Connell’s uniform—or at least the coat to it—had been found. The pawnbroker in whose shop it was discovered said that it had been brought in by an Irish soldier, himself wearing a uniform.

I went myself to inquire, Magruder wrote, but the man was unable to be sure of the rank or regiment of this Irishman—and I were loath to press him, for fear of his recollection transforming the man into a Welsh lance-corporal or a Cornish grenadier, under the pressure of forced recollection. For what the observation be worth, he believed the man to be selling an old coat of his own.

Impatient as he was for more detail, Grey was forced to admit the soundness and delicacy of Magruder’s instinct. Press questions too far, and a man would tell you what he thought you wanted to hear. It was much better to ask questions briefly, in a number of short sessions, rather than to bombard a witness with interrogation—but time was short.

Still, Magruder had got what he could be sure of. While all insignia and buttons had naturally been stripped from the coat, it was identifiable as having belonged to a sergeant of the 47th. While the government dictated certain specifics of army dress, those gentlemen who raised and financed their own regiments held the privilege of designing the uniforms for said regiments. In the case of the 47th, it was Hal’s wife who had patterned the officers’ coats, with a narrow buff stripe up the outside of the sleeve, which helped to draw the eye when an arm was waved in command. A sergeant’s coat, poorer in material and less stylish in cut, still bore that stripe.

Grey made a mental note to have someone check the other regimental sergeants, to be sure that none had sold an old coat—but this was merely for the sake of thoroughness. Magruder had not only described the coat and included a brief sketch of the garment, but noted also that the lining of the coat had been unstitched at one side, the stitches appearing to have been cut, rather than torn.

Well, that explained where O’Connell had been keeping his booty, if not where it was now. Grey took a bite of cold toast and reached for the second note, sporting Harry Quarry’s bold black scrawl. This one was still more brief.

Meet me at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, tomorrow at six o’clock,it read, the signature rendered merely as a large, slapdash “Q . . .” P.S. wear old uniform.

He was still frowning at this terse communication when Tom Byrd’s round head poked into the room, looking apologetic.

“Me lord? Sorry, sir, but you did say as how if a big Scotchman was to come—”

Grey was already on his feet, leaving Olivia open-mouthed behind him.

Rab the chairman was tall and solid, with a stupid, sullen face that barely brightened into dourness at Grey’s greeting.

“Agnes said ye’d pay for a word,” he muttered, not quite able to keep from staring at the bronze orrery that stood upon the table by the library window, its graceful arms and swooping orbs catching the morning sun.

“I will,” Grey said promptly, wanting to dispose of the man before his mother should come downstairs and start asking questions. “What is the word?”

Rab’s bloodshot eyes met his, displaying a bit more intelligence than did the rest of his countenance.

“Ye dinna want to know the price first?”

“Very well. How much do you want?” He could hear the Countess’s voice upstairs, raised in song.

The man’s thick tongue poked out, touching his upper lip in contemplation.

“Two pound?” he said, trying to sound indifferently truculent, but unable to conceal the tentative note in his voice. Obviously, two pounds was a nearly unthinkable fortune; he had no faith that it might actually be forthcoming, but was willing to hazard the chance.

“How much of that does Agnes get?” Grey asked pointedly. “I shall see her again, mind, and I’ll ask to make certain that she’s had her share.”

“Oh. Ah . . .” Rab struggled with the problem of division for a moment, then he shrugged. “Half, then.”

Grey was surprised at this generosity—and surprised further that Rab was able to discern his response.

“I mean to marry her,” the chairman said gruffly, fixing him with a stare and narrowing one eye as though daring him to make something of this statement. “When she’s bought free of her contract, aye?”

Grey bit his tongue to forestall an incautious response to this startling revelation, merely nodding as he dug into his pocketbook. He laid the silver on the desk, but kept his hand over it.

“What are you to tell me, then?”

“A house called ‘Lavender,’ in Barbican Street. Near to Lincoln’s Inn. Big place—not so much to look at from outside, but verra rich within.”

Grey felt a sudden cold weight in the pit of his stomach, as though he had swallowed lead shot.

“You have been inside?”

Rab moved one burly shoulder, shaking his head.

“Nah, then. Only to the door. But I could see as there were carpets like that”—he nodded at the silk Kermanshah on the floor by the desk—“and pictures on the wall.” He lifted a chin like a battering ram, indicating the painting over the mantelpiece, of Grey’s paternal grandfather seated on horseback. The chairman frowned with the effort of recall.

“I could see a bit into one of the rooms. There was a . . . thing. No quite like that thing”—he nodded at the orrery—“but along the same lines, ken? Bits o’ clockwork, like.”

The sensation of cold heaviness was worse. Not that there could have been any doubt about it from the beginning of Rab’s account.

“The . . . woman you fetched from this place,” Grey forced himself to ask. “Do you know her name? Did you deliver her there, as well?”

Rab shook his head, indifferent. There was no sign on his oxlike face that he knew that the person he had transported was not indeed a woman, nor that Lavender House was not merely another wealthy London house.

Grey essayed a few more questions, for form’s sake, but received no further information of value, and at last he removed his hand and stood back, nodding to indicate that Rab might take his pay.

The chairman was likely a few years younger than Grey himself, but his hands were gnarled, frozen in a curve, as though in permanent execution of his occupation. Grey watched him fumble, thick fingers slowly pinching up the coins one by one, and curled his own hands into fists among the folds of his banyan, to restrain the impulse to do it for him.

The skin of Rab’s hands was thick as horn, the palms yellow with callus. The hands themselves were broad and bluntly powerful, with black hairs sprouting over knobbled joints. Grey saw the chairman to the door himself, all the while imagining those hands upon Nessie’s silken skin, with a sense of morbid wonder.

He shut the door and stood with his back against it, as though he had just escaped from close pursuit. His heart was beating fast. Then he realized that he was imagining Rab’s brutal grasp upon his own wrists, and closed his eyes.

A dew of sweat prickled on his upper lip and temples, though the sense of inner cold had not diminished. He knew the house near Lincoln’s Inn, called “Lavender.’’ And had thought never to see or hear of it again.

Chapter 9

Molly-Walk

The horses clip-clopped through the darkened square at a good rate, but not so fast that he couldn’t make out the row of bog-houses—or the vague figures that surrounded them, dim as the moths that flitted through his mother’s garden at nightfall, drawn by the perfume of the flowers. He drew a deep, deliberate breath through the open window. Quite a different perfume reached him from the bog-houses, acrid and sour, and under it the remembered smell of the sweat of panic and desire—no less compelling in its way than the scent of nicotiana to the moths.

The bog-houses of Lincoln’s Inn were notorious; even more so than Blackfriars Bridge, or the shadowed recesses of the arcades at the Royal Exchange.

A little distance farther on, he rapped on the ceiling with his stick, and the carriage drew to a halt. He paid the driver and stood waiting until the carriage had quite disappeared before turning into Barbican Street.

Barbican Street was a curving lane, less than a quarter mile long, and interrupted by the passage through it of the Fleet Ditch. Covered over for part of its length, the remnants of the river were still open here, spanned by a narrow bridge. The street was various, one end of it a mix of tradesmen’s shops and noisy taverns, these yielding place gradually to the houses of minor City merchants, and terminating abruptly beyond the bridge in a small crescent of large houses that turned their backs upon the street, facing superciliously inward to a small private park. One of these was Lavender House.

Grey could as easily have arrived at the crescent by carriage, but he had wanted to begin at the far end of Barbican Street, approaching his goal more slowly afoot. The journey would give him time to prepare—or so he hoped.

It had been nearly five years since he had last set foot in Barbican Street, and he had changed a great deal in the interim. Had the character of the neighborhood altered as well?

It had not, judging by his first impressions. The street was a dark one, lit only by random spills of window-light and the wash of a cloudy half-moon, but it bustled with life, at least at the near end of the street, where numerous taverns insured traffic. People—mostly men—strolled up and down, brushing shoulders and shouting greetings to friends, or lounged in small gangs around the entrances to the public houses. The smell of ale rose sweet and pungent on the air, mixed with the scents of smoke, roast meat—and bodies, hot with drink and the sweat of a day’s labor.

He had borrowed a suit of rough clothes from one of his mother’s servants, and wore his hair tied back in a heavy tail, bound with a scrap of leather, with a slouch hat to hide its fairness. There was nothing to distinguish him outwardly from the dyers and fullers, smiths and weavers, bakers and butchers whose haunt this was, and he walked anonymous through the churning throng. Anonymous unless he spoke—but there should be no need for speech, until he reached Lavender House. Until then, the swirl of Barbican Street rose round him, dark and intoxicating as the beer-drenched air.

A trio of laughing men brushed by him, leaving a smell of yeast, sweat, and fresh bread in their wake—bakers.

“D’ye hear what that bitchsaid to me?” one was demanding in mock outrage. “How he dares!”

“Ah, come on, then, Betty. Ye don’t want ’em smackin’ your sweet round arse, don’t wave it about!”

“Wave it—I’ll wave you, you cheeky cull!”

They disappeared into the dark, laughing and shoving each other. Grey walked on, feeling suddenly more comfortable, despite the seriousness of his errand.

Mollies. There were four or five molly-walks in London, well-known to those so inclined, but it had been a long time since he had entered one past dark. Of the six taverns on Barbican Street, three at least were molly-houses, patronized by men who sought food and drink and the enjoyment of one another’s companionship—and one another’s flesh—unashamed in like company.

Laughter lapped round him as he passed unnoticed, and here and there he caught the “maiden names” many mollies used among themselves, exchanged in joke or casual insinuation. Nancy, Fanny, Betty, Mrs. Anne, Miss Thing . . . he found himself smiling at the boisterous badinage he overheard, though he had never been inclined to that particular fancy himself.

Was Joseph Trevelyan so inclined? He would have sworn not; even now, he found the notion inconceivable. Still, he knew that almost all his own acquaintance in London society and army circles would swear with one voice on a Bible that Lord John Grey would never, could not possibly . . .

“Would you lookat our Miss Irons tonight?” A carrying voice, raised in grudging admiration, made him turn his head. Holding riotous court in the torchlit yard of the Three Goats was “Miss Irons”—a stout young man with broad shoulders and a bulbous nose, who had evidently paused with his companions for refreshment en route to a masquerade at Vauxhall.

Powdered and painted with joyous abandon, and rigged out in a gown of crimson satin with a ruffled headdress in cloth of gold, Miss Irons was presently seated on a barrel, from which perch she was rejecting the devotions of several masked gentlemen, with an air of flirtatious scorn that would have suited a duchess.

Grey came up short at the sight, then, recollecting himself, faded hastily across the road, seeking to disappear into the shadows.

Despite the finery, he recognized “Miss Irons”—who was by day one Egbert Jones, the cheerful young Welsh blacksmith who had come to repair the wrought-iron fence around his mother’s herb garden. He rather thought that Miss Irons might recognize him in turn despite his disguise—and in her current well-lubricated mood, this was the last thing he desired to happen.

He reached the refuge of the bridge, helpfully shadowed by tall stone pillars at either end, and ducked behind one. His heart was thumping and his cheeks flushed, from alarm rather than exertion. No shout came from behind, though, and he leaned over to brace his hands upon the wall, letting the cool air off the river rise over his heated face.

A pungent smell of sewage and decay rose, too. Ten feet below the arch of the bridge, the dark and fetid waters of the Fleet crawled past, reminding him of Tim O’Connell’s sordid end, and he straightened, slowly.

What had that end been? A spy’s wages, paid in blood to prevent the threat of disclosure? Or something more personal?

Very personal. The thought came to him with sudden certainty, as he saw once more in memory that heelprint on O’Connell’s forehead. Anyone might have killed the Sergeant, for any of several motives—but that final indignity was a deliberate insult, left as signature to the crime.

Scanlon’s hands were unmarked; so were Francine O’Connell’s. But O’Connell’s death had come at the hands of more than one, and the Irish gathered like fleas in the city; where you found one, there were a dozen more nearby. Scanlon doubtless had friends or relations. He should very much like to examine the heels of Scanlon’s shoes.

There were several men standing, as he was, near the wall; one turned aside, tugging at his breeches as though to make water, another sidling toward him. Grey felt the nearness of someone at his own shoulder, and turned his back sharply; he felt the hesitation of the man behind him, and then the small huff of breath, an audible shrug, as the stranger turned away.

Best to keep walking. He had barely resumed his journey, though, when he heard a startled exclamation from the shadows a few feet behind him, followed by a brief scuffling noise.

“Oh, you bold pullet!”

“What are—hey! Mmph!”

“Oh? Well, if you’d rather, my dear . . .”

“Oy! Leggo!”

The agitated voice raised the hairs on the nape of Grey’s neck in recognition. He whirled on his heel and was moving toward the altercation by reflex, before his conscious mind had realized what he was about.

Two shadowy figures swayed together, grappling and shuffling. He seized the taller of these just above the elbow, gripping hard.

“Leave him,” he said, in his soldier’s voice. The steel of it made the man start and step back, shaking off Grey’s grip. Pale moonlight showed a long face, caught between puzzlement and anger.

“Why, I wasn’t but—”

“Leave him,” Grey repeated, more softly, but with no less menace. The man’s face changed, assuming an air of injured dignity, as he did up his breeches.

“Sorry, I’m sure. Didn’t know he was your cull.” He turned away, rubbing ostentatiously at his arm, but Grey paid no attention, being otherwise concerned.

“What in Christ’s name are you doing here?” he said, keeping his voice low.

Tom Byrd appeared not to have heard; his round face was open-mouthed with amazement.

“That bloke come straight up to me and put his pego into me hand!” He stared into his open palm, as though expecting to find the object in question still within his grasp.

“Oh?”

“Yes! I swear as a Christian, he did! And then he kissed me, and went for to put his hand into me breeches and grabbed me by the bollocks! Whatever would he want to do that for?”

Grey was tempted to reply that he had not the slightest idea, but instead took Byrd by the arm and towed him out of earshot of the interested parties on the bridge.

“I repeat—what are you doing here?” he asked, as they reached the refuge of a residence whose gate was sheltered by a pair of flowering laburnums, white in the moonlight.

“Oh, ah.” Byrd was recovering rapidly from his shock. He rubbed the palm of his hand on his thigh and stood up straight.

“Well, sir—me lord, I mean—I saw you go out, and thought as how you might have need of someone at your back, as it was. I mean”—he darted a quick glance at Grey’s unorthodox costume—“I thought you must be headin’ to somewhere as might be dangerous.” He looked back over his shoulder at the bridge, obviously feeling that recent events there had confirmed this suspicion.

“I assure you, Tom, I am in no danger.” Byrd was; while most mollies were simply looking for a good time, there was rough trade to be found in such places and persons who would not take no for an answer—to say nothing of simple footpads.

Grey glanced down the street; he could not send the boy back past the taverns, not alone.

“Come with me, then,” he said, making up his mind upon the moment. “You may accompany me to the house; from there, you will go home.”

Byrd followed him without demur; Grey was obliged to take the young man’s arm and draw him up beside—otherwise the boy fell by habit into step behind him, which would not do.

A middle-aged man in a cocked hat strolled past them, giving Byrd a penetrating glance. Grey felt the boy meet the glance, then jerk his eyes away.

“Me lord,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“These coves hereabouts. Are they . . . sodomites?”

“Many of them, yes.”

Byrd asked no further questions. Grey let go the boy’s arm after a bit, and they walked in silence through the quieter end of the street. Grey felt all his earlier tension return, made the more uncomfortable for the brief interlude before Byrd’s appearance had recalled him to himself.

He had not remembered. Hardly surprising; he had done his best to forget those years after Hector’s death. He had sleepwalked through the year after Culloden, spent with Cumberland’s troops as they cleansed the Highlands of rebels, doing his soldier’s duty, but doing it as in a dream. Returning at last to London, though, he could no longer keep from waking to the reality of a world in which Hector was not.

He had come here in that bad time, looking for surcease at best, oblivion at worst. He had found the latter, both in liquor and in flesh, and realized his luck in surviving both experiences unscathed—though at the time, survival had been the least of his concerns.

What he had forgotten in the years since then, though, was the simple, unutterable comfort of existing—for however brief a time—without pretense. With Byrd’s appearance, he felt that he had hastily clapped on a mask, but wore it now somewhat awry.

“Me lord?”

“Yes?”

Byrd drew a deep and trembling breath, which made Grey turn to look at the boy. Dark as their surroundings were, his strong emotion was evident in the clenched fists.

“Me brother. Jack. D’ye think he—have ye come to find him here?” Byrd blurted.

“No.” Grey hesitated, then touched Byrd’s shoulder gently. “Have you any reason to suppose that he would be here—or in another such place?”

Byrd shook his head, not in negation, but in sheer helplessness.

“I dunno. I never—but I never thought . . . I dunno, sir, that’s the truth.”

“Has he a woman? A girl, perhaps, with whom he walks out?”

“No,” Byrd said miserably. “But he’s a cove to save his money, Jack. Always said as how he’d take a wife when he could afford one, and before then why tempt trouble?”

“Your brother sounds a wise man,” Grey said, letting the hint of a smile show in his voice. “And an honorable one.”

Byrd drew another deep breath, and swiped his knuckles furtively beneath his nose.

“Aye, sir, Jack’s that.”

“Well, then.” Grey turned away, but waited for a moment, until Byrd moved to follow.

Lavender House was large, but in no way ostentatious. Only the marble tubs of fragrant lavender that stood on either side of its door distinguished it in any way from the houses to either side. The curtains were drawn, but shadows passed now and then beyond them, and the murmur of male conversation and occasional bursts of laughter seeped through the hanging velvet.

“It sounds like what goes on at those gentlemen’s clubs in Curzon Street,” Byrd said, sounding faintly puzzled. “I’ve heard ’em.”

“It is a gentlemen’s club,” Grey replied, with a certain grimness. “For gentlemen of a particular sort.” He removed his hat, and, untying his hair, shook it free over his shoulders; the time for disguise was past.

“Now you must go home, Tom.” He pointed the way, across the park. “Do you see that light, at the end? Just beyond is an alley; it will take you to a main street. Here—take some money for a cab.”

Byrd accepted the coin, but shook his head.

“No, me lord. I’ll go to the door with you.”

He glanced at Byrd, surprised. There was sufficient light from the curtained windows to see both the dried tears on Byrd’s round face and the determined expression under them.

“I mean to be sure as these sodomitical sons of bitches shall be aware that somebody knows where you are. Just in case, me lord.”

The door opened promptly to his knock, revealing a liveried butler, who gave Grey’s clothes a disparaging glance. Then the man’s eyes rose to his face, and Grey saw the subtle change of expression. Grey was not one to trade on his looks, but he was aware of their effect in some quarters.

“Good evening,” he said, stepping across the threshold as though he owned the place. “I wish to speak to the current proprietor of this establishment.”

The butler gave way in astonishment, and Grey saw the man’s calculations undergo a rapid shift in the face of his accent and manner, so much at variance with his dress. Still, the man had been well-trained, and wasn’t to be so easily bamboozled.

“Indeed, sir,” the butler said, not quite bowing. “And your name?”

“George Everett,” Grey said.

The butler’s face went blank.

“Indeed, sir,” he said woodenly. He hesitated, plainly uncertain what to do. Grey didn’t recognize the man, but the man clearly had known George—or known of him.

“Give that name to your master, if you please,” Grey said pleasantly. “I will await him in the library.”

On a table by the door stood the clockwork figure Rab the chairman had noted—not an orrery, but a clockwork man, elaborately enameled and gilded, made to drop his breeches and bend over when the key was wound. Grey made as though to go to the left of this figure, toward where he knew the library to be. The butler put out a hand as though to stop him, but then halted, distracted by something outside.

“Who is that?” he said, thoroughly startled.

Grey turned to see Tom Byrd standing at the edge of the lightspill from the door, glowering fiercely, fists clenched and his jaw set in a way that brought his lower teeth up to fix in the flesh of his upper lip. Mud-spattered from his adventures, he looked like a gargoyle knocked from his perch.

“That, sir, is my valet,” Grey said politely, and, turning, strode down the hall.

There were a few men in the library, sprawled in chairs near the hearth, chatting over their newspapers and brandy. It might have been the library at the Beefsteak, save that conversation stopped abruptly with Grey’s entrance, and half a dozen pairs of eyes fixed upon him in open appraisal.

Fortunately, he recognized none of them, nor they him.

“Gentlemen,” he said, bowing. “Your servant.” He turned at once to the sideboard, where the decanters stood, and in defiance of convention and good manners, poured out a glass of some liquid, not taking the time to ascertain what it was. He turned back to find them all still staring at him, trying to reconcile the contradictions of his appearance, his manner, and his voice. He stared back.

One of the men recovered himself quickly, and rose from his seat.

“Welcome . . . sir.”

“And what’s your name, sweet boy?” another chimed in, smiling as he tossed down his paper.

“That is my own affair . . . sir.” Grey returned the smile, with a razor edge to it, and took a sip of his drink. It was porter, curse the luck.

The rest of them had risen now and came to circle round him, nosing in the manner of dogs smelling something freshly dead. Half curious, half wary, thoroughly intrigued. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down the nape of his neck, and a nervous clenching of the belly. All of them were dressed quite ordinarily, though that meant nothing. Lavender House had many rooms, and catered to an assortment of fancies.

All were well-dressed, but none of them wore wigs or paint, and a couple showed some disorder in their dress; stocks discarded, and shirts and waistcoats opened to allow liberties that wouldn’t be countenanced in the Beefsteak.

The golden-haired youth to his left was studying him with narrowed eyes and obvious appetite; the stocky brown-haired lad saw, and didn’t like it. Grey saw him move closer, deliberately jostling Goldie-Locks, to distract his attention. Goldie-Locks put a soothing hand on his playfellow’s leg, but didn’t take his eyes off Grey.

“Well, if you will not give your name, let me make you a present of mine.” A curly-haired young man with a sweet mouth and soft brown eyes stepped forward, smiling, and took his hand. “Percy Wainwright—at your service, ma’am.” He bent over Grey’s hand in the most graceful of gestures, and kissed the knuckles.

The feel of the boy’s warm breath on his skin made the hairs stand up on Grey’s forearm. He would have liked to grasp Percy’s hand and draw him in, but that wouldn’t do, not just now.

He let his own hand lie inert in Wainwright’s for a moment, to offer neither insult nor invitation, then drew it back.

“Your servant . . . madam.”

That made them laugh, though still with an edge of wariness. They were not sure yet if he was fish or fowl, and he meant to keep it that way as long as possible.

He was a good deal more cautious now than he had been when George Everett had first brought him here. Then he had not cared for anything in particular—save George, perhaps. Now, having come so close to losing his for good, he had some appreciation for the value of a reputation; not merely his, but those of his family and his regiment, as well.

“What brings you here, my dear?” Goldie-Locks stepped closer, blue eyes burning like twin candle flames.

“Looking for a lady,” Grey drawled, leaning back against the sideboard in assumed casualness. “In a green velvet gown.”

There was a sputter of laughter at this, and glances among them, but nothing that looked like dawning recognition.

“Green doesn’t suit me,” Goldie-Locks said, and licked a pointed tongue briefly across his upper lip. “But I’ve a charmingblue satin with laced pinners that I’m sureyou’d like.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” the brown-haired boy said, eyeing both Grey and Goldie-Locks with clear dislike. “You cunt, Neil.”

“Language, ladies, language.” Percy Wainwright edged Goldie-Locks back with a deft elbow, smiling at Grey. “This lady in green—have you a name for her?”

“Josephine, I believe,” Grey said, glancing from one face to another. “Josephine, from Cornwall.”

That provoked a chorus of mildly derisive “Oooh”s, and one man began to sing “My Little Black Ewe,” in an off-key voice. Then the door opened, and everyone turned to see who had come in.

It was Richard Caswell, the proprietor of Lavender House. Grey knew him at once—and he recalled Grey, it was plain. Still, Caswell didn’t greet him by name, but merely nodded pleasantly.

“Seppings said that you wished to speak with me. If you would care to join me? . . .” Caswell stood aside, indicating the door.

A low whistle of insinuating admiration followed Grey as he left, succeeded by whoops of laughter.

You cunt, Neil,he thought, and then dismissed all thought of anything save the matter at hand.

Chapter 10

The Affairs of Men

I was not sure that you still owned this place, else I should have inquired for you by name.” Grey settled himself into the chair indicated by his host, and took the opportunity to discard the unwanted glass of porter onto a nearby table crowded with knickknacks.

“Surprised I’m still alive, I expect,” Caswell said dryly, taking his own seat across the hearth.

This was the truth, and Grey didn’t bother to deny it. The fire burned low and lent a deceptively ruddy hue to Caswell’s wasted features, but Grey had seen him by clear candlelight in the library. He looked worse than he had when last seen, years before—but not much worse.

“You don’t look a day over a thousand, Mother Caswell,” Grey said lightly. That was the truth, too; beneath his modish bag-wig and an extravagant suit of striped blue silk, the man might as well have been an Egyptian mummy. Bony brown wrists and hands like bundles of dry sticks protruded from the sleeves; while the suit had undoubtedly been made by an excellent tailor, it hung upon his shrunken form like a scarecrow’s burlap.

“You shameless flatterer.” Caswell looked him over, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Can’t say the same for you, my dear. You look as fresh and innocent as the day I first saw you. How old were you then, eighteen?” Caswell’s eyes were just the same; small, black, and clever, perpetually bloodshot from smoke and late hours, sunk in pouches of deep violet.

“I lead a wholesome life. Keeps the skin clear.”

Caswell laughed, then began to cough. With a practiced economy of motion, he drew a crumpled handkerchief from his waistcoat and clapped it to his mouth. He lifted a sketchy brow at Grey, half-shrugging as though to apologize for the delay of their conversation, meanwhile suffering the racking spasms with the indifference of long custom.

The coughing done at last, he inspected the resultant blood spots on the handkerchief and, evidently finding them no worse than expected, tossed the cloth into the fire.

“I need a drink,” he said hoarsely, rising from his chair and heading toward the big mahogany desk, where a silver tray held a decanter and several glasses.

Unlike Magda’s sanctum, Caswell’s room held nothing at all that indicated the nature of Lavender House or of its members; it might have belonged to a director of the Bank of London, for all its soberness and elegance of furnishing.

“You’re not enjoying that swill, are you?” Caswell nodded toward the discarded glass of porter. He filled a pair of crystal wineglasses with a deep crimson liquid, and held one out. “Here, have some of this.”

Grey took the proffered glass with a sense of unreality; he had taken wine here, in this room, when George had first brought him to Lavender House—a prelude to their retiring to one of the chambers upstairs. The sense of mild disorientation was succeeded by a sharp shock when he took the first sip.

“That’s very good,” he said, holding the glass up to the fire as though to appraise the color. “What is it?”

“Don’t know the name,” Caswell said, sniffing at the wine with appreciation. “German stuff, not bad. Had it before?”

Grey closed his eyes and drank deeply, frowning and affecting to wash it about his tongue in an effort at placement. Not that he entertained the slightest doubt. He had a good nose for wine, and a better palate—and he had drunk enough of this particular vintage with Nessie to be more than sure of recognizing it again.

“Might have,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Caswell’s penetrating gaze with an innocent blink. “Can’t recall. Decent stuff, though. Where’d you find it?”

“One of our members prefers it. He brings it by the cask, and we keep it in the cellar for him. Fond of it myself.” Caswell took another sip, then set down his glass. “Well . . . my lord. How might I have the pleasure of serving you?” The fleshless lips rose in a smile. “Do you mean to seek membership in the Lavender Club? I’m sure the committee would look upon your application with the most cordial favor.”

“Was that the committee I met in the library?” Grey asked dryly.

“Some of them.” Caswell uttered a short laugh, but choked it off, unwilling to start another coughing fit. “Mind you, they might require you to submit to a series of personal interviews, but I’m sure you would have no objection to that?”

The glass felt slippery in his hand. He’d once seen a young man bent over a leather ottoman in that library and subjected to a number of personal interviews, to the vast entertainment of all present. They still had the ottoman; he’d noticed.

“I am exceedingly flattered at the suggestion,” he said politely. “As it happens, though, what I require at the moment is information, rather than companionship, delightful as that prospect might be.”

Caswell coughed, sitting up a little straighter. The smile was still there, but the black eyes had grown brighter.

“Yes?” he said. Grey could almost hear the whisper of steel drawn from a scabbard. The pourparlerswere done; let the duel begin.

“The Honorable Mr. Trevelyan,” he said, laying his own blade against Caswell’s. “He comes here regularly; I know that already. I wish to know whom he meets.”

Caswell actually blinked, not having expected such an immediate thrust, but recovered smoothly with a sidestep.

“Trevelyan? I know no one of that name.”

“Oh, you know him. Whether he uses that name here is of no account; you know everything of interest about everyone who comes here. Certainly you know their real surnames.”

“Flatterer,” Caswell said again, though he looked less amused.

“The gentlemen in the library were not reserved,” Grey said, trying for advantage. “If I were to seek them out, outside the confines of your house, I imagine some of them might tell me what I wish to know.”

Caswell laughed, deeply enough to start a small fit of coughing.

“No, they won’t,” Caswell wheezed, groping for a fresh handkerchief. He mopped at his eyes and his shriveled mouth, drawn up in a smile once more. “No doubt one or two would tell you anything they thought you’d like to hear, if it would loosen your breeches, but they won’t tell you that.”

“Won’t they?” Grey affected indifference, sipping at his wine. “Trevelyan’s affairs must be of more importance than I thought, if it’s worth your threatening your members to keep his secrets.”

“Oh, perish the thought, perish the thought!” Caswell flapped a bony hand. “Threats? Me? You know better than that, dear boy. If I were given to threats, I should have ended in the Fleet Ditch with my head caved in, long since.”

A tingle of alertness shot through Grey at this remark, though he fought to keep his face blandly expressionless. Was this mere hyperbole, or warning? Caswell’s withered face gave nothing away, though the sparkling eyes watched his own for any clue to his intent.

He breathed deeply to slow the rapid beating of his heart, and took another sip of wine. It might be nothing more than a coincidence, a mere accident of speech; the Fleet was at hand, after all—and for what it was worth, Caswell was correct: He serviced men of wealth and influence, and if he were given to threats or blackmail, he would have been quietly put out of business long since, in one way or another.

Information, though, was something else. George had once told him that Caswell’s main stock in trade was information—and the profits from Lavender House likely were not great enough to provide the lavish furnishings evident in Caswell’s private quarters. Everyone knows Dickie Caswell, George had said, lolling indolently on the bed in one of the upstairs rooms. And Dickie knows everyone—and everything. Anything you want to know—for a price.

“Your tact and discretion are most commendable,” Grey said, seeking new footing for a fresh attack. “Why do you say they will not tell me, though?”

“Why, because it isn’t true,” Caswell replied promptly. “They’ve never seen a man called Trevelyan here—how could they tell you anything about him?”

“Not a man, no. I rather imagine they have seen him as a woman.”

He felt a small rush of exhilaration, seeing the violet swags under Caswell’s eyes deepen in hue as the color paled from his cheeks. First blood; he’d pinked his man.

“In a green velvet gown,” he added, pressing the advantage. “I told you—I know he comes here; the fact is not in question.”

“You are quite mistaken,” Caswell said, but a cough bubbling to the surface gave the words a quavering aspect.

“Let it go, Dickie,” Grey said, flicking his rapier with a touch of insolence. He lounged a little, looking tolerantly over his glass. “I say I know; you will scarcely convince me I do not. I require only a few small additional details.”

“But—”

“You need not trouble yourself that you will be blamed. If I have learned the main facts about Trevelyan from another source—as indeed I have—then why should I not have learned everything from this same source?”

Caswell had opened his mouth to say something, but instead narrowed his eyes and pursed his mouth in thought.

“Nor do you need to fear that I mean any harm to Mr. Trevelyan. He is about to become a part of my family, after all—perhaps you are aware that he is engaged to my cousin?”

Caswell nodded, almost imperceptibly. His mouth was pursed so tightly that it resembled nothing so much as a dog’s anus, which Grey thought very disagreeable. Still, it scarcely mattered what the evil old creature looked like, so long as he coughed up the necessary details.

“I am sure you will understand that my efforts in this regard are intended solely to protect my family.” Grey glanced away, toward a massive silver epergne filled with hothouse fruit, then back at Caswell. Time for the coup.

“So, then,” he said, spreading his hands with a graceful gesture. “It remains only to decide the price, does it not?”

Caswell made a deep, catarrhal noise, and spat thickly into a new handkerchief, which he then balled up and cast into the fire after its fellows. Grey thought cynically that he must require a good deal of money merely to keep himself in linen.

“The price.” Caswell took a deep swallow of wine and put down the glass, licking his lips. “What do you have to offer? Always assuming that I have something to sell, mind.”

No more pretence of ignorance. The duel was over. Grey could not help a brief sigh, and was surprised to discover that not only were his palms damp but that he was sweating freely beneath his shirt, though the room was not warm.

“I have money—” he began, but Caswell interrupted him.

“Trevelyan gives me money. A lot of money. What else can you offer me?”

The small black eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, and he saw the tip of Caswell’s tongue steal out, barely visible, to lick away a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth.

Sweet Jesus. He sat dumbstruck for an instant, caught in those eyes, then glanced down, as though suddenly remembering his own wine. He lifted his glass, lowering his lashes to hide his eyes.

In defense of King, country, and family, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his virtue to Nessie, had that been required. If it was a question of Olivia marrying a man with syphilis and half the British army being exterminated in battle, versus himself experiencing a “personal interview” with Richard Caswell, though, he rather thought Olivia and the King had best look to their own devices.

He put down his glass, hoping that this conclusion was not reflected upon his features.

“I have something other than money,” he said, meeting Caswell’s gaze squarely. “Do you want to know how George Everett really died?”

If there was a flicker of disappointment in those black marble orbs, it was swamped at once beneath a wave of interest. Caswell tried to hide it, but there was no disguising the glint of curiosity, mixed with avarice.

“I heard that it was a hunting accident; broke his neck out in the country. Where was it? Wyvern?”

“Francis Dashwood’s place—Medmenham Abbey. It wasn’t his neck, and it was no accident. He was killed on purpose—a sword-thrust through the heart. I was there.”

These last three words were dropped like pebbles into a lake; he could feel their impact send ripples through the air of the room. Caswell sat immobile, scarcely breathing, contemplating the possibilities.

“Dashwood,” he whispered at last. “The Hellfire Club?”

Grey nodded. “I can tell you who was there—and everything that happened that night at Medmenham. Everything.”

Caswell fairly quivered with excitement, black eyes moist.

George had been right. Caswell was one of those who loved secrets, who hoarded information, who kept confidential information for the sheer joy of knowing things that no one else knew. And when the time might come that such things could be sold for a profit . . .

“Have we a bargain, Dickie?”

That recalled Caswell somewhat to himself. He took a deep breath, coughed twice, and nodded, pushing back his chair.

“That we have, my little love. Come along, then.”

The upper floors consisted mostly of private rooms; Grey couldn’t tell whether much had been changed—he had been in no condition to notice very much on the occasions of his previous visits to Lavender House.

Tonight was different; he noticed everything.

It was peculiar, he thought, following Caswell through an upper hall. The feel of this house was quite different from that of the brothel, even though the purpose of the establishments was the same. He could hear music below, and intimate sounds in some of the rooms they passed—and yet it was not the same at all.

Magda’s brothel had been much more explicit, with everything in the place intended to provoke libidinous intent. No molly-house he had ever been in did such things—there was seldom any ornamentation, nor even much furnishing beyond the simplest of beds. Sometimes, not even that; many were no more than taverns, with a room opening off the main taproom, where men could repair for sport, often to the applause and shouted comments of onlookers in the tavern.

He believed that even very poor brothels had doors. Was it that women insisted upon privacy, he wondered? Yet he doubted that many whores found stimulation in the sorts of objects Magda provided for the delectation of her customers. Perhaps there truly was a difference between men who were lured by women, and those who preferred the touch of their own sex? Or was it the women—did they perhaps require some decoration of the exchange?

As far as sexual feeling went . . . this house fairly vibrated with it. There were male voices and the scents of men everywhere; two lovers embraced at the end of the corridor, entwined against a wall, and his own skin prickled and jumped; he could not stop sweating.

Caswell led him to a staircase, past the lovers. One was Goldie-Locks, Neil the Cunt, who looked up, disheveled, mouth swollen, and gave him a languorous smile before returning to his companion—who was not the brown-haired lad. Grey carefully did not look back as they started up the stair.

Things were quieter on the topmost floor of the house. The furnishing seemed more luxurious, as well; a wide oriental carpet ran the length of the corridor, and tasteful pictures decorated the walls, above small tables that held vases of flowers.

“Up here, we have several suites of rooms; sometimes a gentleman will come in from the provinces to stay for a few days, a week . . .”

“Quite the little home away from home. I see. And Trevelyan engages one of these suites now and again?”

“Oh, no.” Caswell stopped at a varnished door, and shook loose a large key from the bunch he carried. “He keeps this particular suite on a permanent basis.”

The door swung open on darkness, showing the pale rectangle of a window on the far wall. It had clouded over, and Grey could see the moon, now high and small in the sky, nearly lost amid layers of hazy cloud.

Caswell had brought a taper; he touched it to a candlestick near the door, and the light caught and grew, shedding a wavering light over a large room with a canopied bed. The room was clean and empty; Grey breathed in, but smelled nothing other than wax and floor polish, with a faint whiff of long-dead fires. The hearth was freshly swept, and a fire laid, but the room was cold; clearly no one had been here recently.

Grey prowled the room, but there was no evidence of its occupants.

“Does he entertain the same companion each time?” he asked. The keeping of a suite argued some long-term affair.

“Yes, I believe he does.” There was an odd tone in Caswell’s voice that made him glance sharply at the man.

“You believe? You have not seen his companion?”

“No—he is very particular, our Mr. Trevelyan.” Caswell’s voice was ironic. “He always arrives first, changes his clothes, and then goes down to wait near the door. He brings his companion in and up the stairs at once; all the servants have instructions to be elsewhere.”

That was a disappointment. He had hoped for a name. Still, a tendency to thoroughness made him turn back to Caswell, probing for further information.

“I am sure your servants are meticulous in observing your instructions,” he said. “But you, Dickie? Surely you don’t expect me to believe that anyone comes into your house without your finding out everything there is to know about them. You’ve only heard my Christian name before, to my knowledge—and yet, if you know about Trevelyan’s engagement to my cousin, plainly you know who I am.”

“Oh, yes—my lord.” Caswell smiled, lips drawn into a puckish point. The bargain struck, he was enjoying his revelations as much as he had his earlier reticence.

“You are right, to a degree. In fact, I do not know the name of Mr. Trevelyan’s inamorata; he is very careful. I do, however, know one rather important thing about her.”

“Which is?”

“That she isan inamorata—rather than an inamorato.”

Grey stared at him for an instant, deciphering this.

“What? Trevelyan is meeting a woman? A real woman? Here?”

Caswell inclined his head, hands folded gravely at his waist like a butler.

“How do you know?” Grey demanded. “Are you sure?”

The candlelight danced like laughter in Caswell’s small black eyes.

“Ever smelt a woman? Close to, I mean.” Caswell shook his head, the loose folds of skin on his neck quivering with the movement. “Let alone a room where someone’s been swiving one of the creatures for hours on end. Of course I’m sure.”

“Of course you are,” Grey murmured, repelled by the mental image of Caswell nosing ratlike through sheets and pillows in the vacated rooms of his house, pilfering crumbs of information from the rubble left by careless love.

“She has dark hair,” Caswell offered helpfully. “Nearly black. Your cousin is fair, I believe?”

Grey didn’t bother answering that.

“And?” he asked tersely.

Caswell pursed his lips, considering.

“She wears considerable paint—but I cannot say, of course, whether that is her normal habit, or part of the guise she adopts when coming here.”

Grey nodded, taking the point. Those mollies who liked to dress as women normally were painted like French noblewomen; a woman hoping to be mistaken for one would likely do the same.

“And?”

“She wears a very expensive scent. Civet, vetiver, and orange, if I am not mistaken.” Caswell cast his eyes up toward the ceiling, considering. “Oh, yes—she has a taste for that German wine I gave you.”

“You said you kept it for a member. Trevelyan, I presume? How do you know it isn’t he alone who drinks it?”

Caswell’s hairy nostrils quivered with amusement.

“A man who drank as much as is brought up to this suite would be incapable for days. And judging from the evidence”—he nodded delicately at the bed—“our Mr. Trevelyan is far from incapable.”

“She arrives by sedan chair?” Grey asked, ignoring the allusion.

“Yes. Different bearers each time, though; if she keeps men of her own, she does not use them when coming here—which argues a high degree of discretion, does it not?”

A lady with a good deal to lose, were the affairediscovered. But the intricacy of Trevelyan’s arrangements was sufficient to tell him that already.

“And that is all I know,” Caswell said, in tones of finality. “Now, as to your part of the bargain, my lord? . . .”

His mind still reeling from the shock of revelation, Grey recalled his promise to Tom Byrd and gathered sufficient wits to ask one more question, pulled almost at random from the swirl of fact and speculation that presently inhabited his cranium.

“All you know about the woman. About Mr. Trevelyan, though—have you ever seen a man with him, a servant? Somewhat taller than myself, lean-faced and dark, with a missing eyetooth on the left side?”

Caswell looked surprised.

“A servant?” He frowned, ransacking his memory. “No. I . . . no, wait. Yes . . . yes, I believe I have seen the man, though I think he has come only once.” He looked up, nodding with decision.

“Yes, that was it; he came to fetch his master, with a note of some kind—some emergency to do with business, I think. I sent him down to the kitchens to wait for Trevelyan—he was comely enough, tooth or no, but I rather thought he was not disposed to such sport as he might encounter abovestairs.”

Tom Byrd would be relieved to hear that expert opinion, Grey thought.

“When was this? Do you recall?”

Caswell’s lips puckered in thought, causing Grey briefly to avert his glance.

“In late April, I think it was, though I cannot—oh. Yes, I canbe sure.” He grinned, triumphantly displaying a set of decaying teeth. “That was it. He brought word of the Austrian defeat at Prague, arrived by special courier. The newspapers had it within days, but naturally Mr. Trevelyan would wish to know of it at once.”

Grey nodded. For a man with Trevelyan’s business interests, information like that would be worth its weight in gold—or even more, depending on its timeliness.

“One last thing, then. When he left so hastily—did the woman leave then, too? And did she go with him, rather than seeking separate transport?”

Caswell was obliged to ponder that one for a moment, leaning against the wall.

“Ye-es, they did leave together,” he said at last. “I seem to recall that the servant ran off to fetch a hired carriage, and they entered it together. She’d a shawl over her head. Quite small, though; I might easily have taken her for a boy—save that her figure was quite rounded.”

Caswell drew himself up straight then, and cast a last glance about the vacant room, as though to satisfy himself that it would yield no further secrets.

“Well, that’s my end of the bargain kept, my love. And yours?” His hand hovered over the candlestick, scrawny claw poised to pinch out the flame. Grey saw the polished obsidian eyes fix on him in invitation, and was all too conscious of the large bed, close behind him.

“Of course,” Grey said, moving purposefully toward the door. “Shall we adjourn to your office?”

Caswell’s expression might have been termed a pout, had he had the fullness of lip to achieve such a thing.

“If you insist,” he said with a sigh, and extinguished the candle in a burst of fragrant smoke.

Dawn was beginning to lighten over the housetops of London by the time Grey left Dickie Caswell’s sanctum, alone. He paused at the end of the corridor, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the casement, watching the City as it emerged by imperceptible degrees from its cloak of night. Muted by clouds that had thickened during the night, the light grew in shades of gray, relieved only by the faintest tinge of pink over the distant Thames. In his present state of mind, it reminded Grey of the last vestiges of life fading from a corpse’s cheeks.

Caswell had been delighted with his half of the bargain, as well he should be. Grey had held back nothing of his Medmenham adventures, save the name of the man who had actually killed George Everett. There, he said only that the man had been robed and masked; impossible to say for sure who it had been.

He felt no compunction in thus blackening George’s name; to his manner of thinking, George had accomplished that reasonably well for himself—and if a posthumous revelation of his actions could help to save the innocent, that might compensate in some small way for the innocent lives Everett had taken or ruined as the price of his ambition.

As for Dashwood and the others . . . let them look to themselves. He who sups wi’ the De’il, needs bring a lang spoon.Grey smiled faintly, hearing the Scots proverb in memory. Jamie Fraser had said it on the occasion of their first meal together—casting Grey as the Devil, he supposed, though he had not asked.

Grey was not a religious man, but he harbored a persistent vision: an avenging angel presiding over a balance on which the deeds of a man’s life were weighed—the bad to one side, the good to the other—and George Everett stood before the angel naked, bound and wide-eyed, waiting to see where the wavering balance might finally come to rest. He hoped this night’s work should be laid to George’s credit, and wondered briefly how long the accounting might go on, if it was true that a man’s deeds lived after him.

Jamie Fraser had told him once of purgatory, that Catholic conception of a place prior to final judgment, where souls remained for a time after death, and where the fate of a soul might still be affected by the prayers and Masses said for it. Perhaps it was true; a place where the soul waited, while each action taken during life played itself out, the unexpected consequences and complications following one another like a collapsing chain of dominoes down through the years. But that would imply that a man was responsible not only for his conscious actions, but for all the good and evil that might spring from them forever, unintended and unforeseen; a terrible thought.

He straightened, feeling at once drained and keyed up. He was exhausted, but completely awake—in fact, sleep had never seemed so far away. Every nerve was raw, and all his muscles ached with unrelieved tension.

The house lay silent around him, its inhabitants still sleeping the drugged sleep of wine and sated sensuality. Rain began to fall, the soft ping of raindrops striking the glass accompanied by a harsh, fresh scent that came cold through the cracks of the casement, cutting through the stale air of the house and through the fog that filled his brain.

“Nothing like a long walk home in a driving rain to clear the cobwebs,” he murmured to himself. He had left his hat somewhere—perhaps in the library—but felt no desire to go in search of it. He made his way to the stair, down to the second floor, and along the gallery toward the main staircase that would take him down to the door.

The door of one of the rooms on the gallery was open, and as he passed by, a shadow fell across the boards at his feet. He glanced up and met the eye of a young man who lounged in the doorway, clad in nothing but his shirt, dark curls loose upon his shoulders. The young man’s eyes, black and long-lashed, passed over him, and he felt the heat of them on his skin.

He made as though to go by, but the young man reached out and grasped him by the arm.

“Come in,” the young man said softly.

“No, I—”

“Come. For a moment only.”

The young man stepped out onto the gallery, his bare feet long and graceful, standing so close that his thigh pressed Grey’s. He leaned forward, and the warmth of his breath brushed Grey’s ear, the tip of his tongue touched the whorl of it with a crackling sound like the spark that springs from the fingers on a dry day when metal is touched.

“Come,” he murmured, and stepped backward, drawing Grey after him into the room.

It was clean and plainly furnished, but he saw nothing save the dark eyes, so close, and the hand that moved from his arm, sliding down to entwine its fingers with his own, the swarthiness of it startling by contrast with his own fairness, the palm broad and hard against his.

Then the young man moved away and, smiling at Grey, took hold of the hem of the shirt and drew it upward over his head.

Grey felt as though the cloth of his stock were choking him. The room was cool, and yet a dew of sweat broke out on his body, hot damp in the small of his back, slick in the creases of his skin.

“What will you, sir?” the young man whispered, still smiling. He put down one hand and stroked himself, inviting.

Grey reached slowly up and fumbled for a moment with the fastening of his stock, until it suddenly came free, leaving his neck exposed, bare and vulnerable. Cool air struck his skin as he shed his coat and loosened his shirt; he felt gooseflesh prickle on his arms and rush pell-mell down the length of his spine.

The young man knelt now on the bed. He turned his back and stretched himself catlike, arching, and the rain-light from the window played upon the broad flat muscle of thigh and shoulder, the groove of back and furrowed buttocks. He looked back over one shoulder, eyelids half-lowered, long and sleepy-looking.

The mattress gave beneath Grey’s weight, and the young man’s mouth moved under his, soft and wet.

“Shall I talk, sir?”

“No,” Grey whispered, closing his eyes, pressing down with hips and hands. “Be silent. Pretend . . . I am not here.”

Chapter 11

German Red

There were, Grey calculated, approximately a thousand wineshops in the City of London. However, if one considered only those dealing in wines of quality, the number was likely more manageable. A brief inquiry with his own wine merchant proving unfruitful, though, he decided upon consultation with an expert.

“Mother—when you had the German evening last week, did you by any chance serve German wine?”

The Countess was sitting in her boudoir reading a book, stockinged feet comfortably propped upon the shaggy back of her favorite dog, an elderly spaniel named Eustace, who opened one sleepy eye and panted genially in response to Grey’s entrance. She looked up at her son’s appearance, and shoved the spectacles she wore for reading up onto her forehead, blinking a little at the shift from the world of the printed page.

“German wine? Well, yes; we had a nice Rhenish one, to go with the lamb. Why?”

“No red wine?”

“Three of them—but not German. Two French, and a rather raw Spanish; crude, but it went well with the sausages.” Benedicta ran the tip of her tongue thoughtfully along her upper lip in recollection. “Captain von Namtzen didn’t seem to like the sausages; very odd. But then, he’s from Hanover. Perhaps I inadvertently had sausages done in the style of Saxony or Prussia, and he thought it an insult. I think Cook considers all Germans to be the same thing.”

“Cook thinks that anyone who isn’t an Englishman is a frog; she doesn’t draw distinctions beyond that.” Dismissing the cook’s prejudices for the moment, Grey unearthed a stool from under a heap of tattered books and manuscripts, and sat on it.

“I am in search of a German red—full-bodied, fruity nose, about the color of one of those roses.” He pointed at the vase of deep-crimson roses spilling petals over his mother’s mahogany secretary.

“Really? I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen a German red wine, let alone tasted one—though I suppose they do exist.” The Countess closed her book, keeping a finger between the pages to mark her place. “Are you planning your supper party? Olivia said you’d invited Joseph to dine with you and your friends—that was very kind of you, dear.”

Grey felt as though he’d received a sudden punch to the midsection. Christ, he’d forgotten all about his invitation to Trevelyan.

“Whyever do you want a German wine, though?” The Countess laid her head on one side, one fair brow lifted in curiosity.

“That is another matter, quite separate,” Grey said hastily. “Are you still getting your wine from Cannel’s?”

“For the most part. Gentry’s, now and then, and sometimes Hemshaw and Crook. Let me see, though . . .” She ran the tip of a forefinger slowly down the bridge of her nose, then pressed the tip, having arrived at the sought-for conclusion.

“There is a newish wine merchant, rather small, down in Fish Street. The neighborhood isn’t very nice, but they do have some quite extraordinary wines; things you can’t find elsewhere. I should ask there, if I were you. Fraser et Cie is the name.”

“Fraser?” It was a fairly common Scots name, after all. Still, the mere sound of it gave him a faint thrill. “I’ll ask there. Thank you, Mother.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, taking in her characteristic perfume: lily of the valley, mixed with ink—the latter fragrance more intense than usual, owing to the newness of the book in her lap.

“What’s that you’re reading?” he asked, glancing at it.

“Oh, young Edmund’s latest bit of light entertainment,” she said, closing the cover to display the title: A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, by Edmund Burke. “I don’t expect you’d like it—too frivolous by half.” Taking up her silver penknife, she neatly cut the next page. “I have a new printing of John Cleland’s Fanny Hill, though, if you find yourself in want of reading matter. You know, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure?”

“Very amusing, Mother,” he said tolerantly, scratching Eustace behind the ears. “Do you mean to read the Cleland thing, or do you intend merely to leave it artfully displayed in the salon, in order to drive off Lady Roswell in a state of shock?”

“Oh, whata good idea!” she said, giving him a look of approval. “I hadn’t thought of that. Unfortunately, it hasn’t got the title on the cover, and she’s much too stupidly incurious simply to pick up a book and open it.”

She reached over and rummaged through the stacked books on her secretary, pulling out a handsome calf-bound quarto volume, which she handed to him.

“It’s a special presentation edition,” she explained. “Blank spine, plain cover. So one can read it in dull company, I suppose, without arousing suspicion—as long as one doesn’t let the illustrations show, at least. Why don’t you take it, though? I read it when it first came out, and you’ll be needing some sort of present for Joseph’s bachelor party. That seems rather appropriate, if half what I hear of such parties is true.”

He had been about to rise, but stopped, holding the book.

“Mother,” he said carefully. “About Mr. Trevelyan. Do you think Livy is terribly in love with him?”

She looked at him with raised brows; then, very slowly, closed her book, took her feet off Eustace, and sat up straight.

“Why?” she asked, in a tone that managed to communicate all of the wariness and cynical suspicion regarding the male sex that was the natural endowment of a woman who had raised four sons and buried two husbands.

“I . . . have some reason to think that Mr. Trevelyan has . . . an irregular attachment,” he said carefully. “The matter is not yet quite certain.”

The Countess inhaled deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and regarded him with a pale, clear blue gaze of pragmatism, tinged only slightly with regret.

“He is a dozen years her senior; it would be not merely unusual, but most remarkable, if he had not had several mistresses. Men of your age do have affaires, after all.” Her lashes lowered briefly in delicate reference to the hushed-up scandal that had sent him to Ardsmuir.

“I could hope that his marriage would cause him to abandon any such irregular liaisons, but if it does not . . .” She shrugged, her shoulders sloping in sudden tiredness. “I trust he will be discreet.”

For the first time, it occurred to Grey to wonder whether either his father or her first husband, Captain DeVane . . . but this was not the time for such speculations.

“I think Mr. Trevelyan is highly discreet,” he said, clearing his throat a little. “I only wondered if . . . if Livy would be heartbroken, should . . . anything happen.” He liked his cousin, but knew very little about her; she had come to live with his mother after he himself had left to take up his first commission.

“She’s sixteen,” his mother said dryly. “ SignorDante and his Beatrice notwithstanding, most girls of sixteen are not capable of grand passion. They merely think they are.”

“So—”

“So,” she said, cutting him neatly off, “Olivia actually knows nothing whatever of her intended husband, beyond the fact that he is rich, well-dressed, not bad-looking, and highly attentive to herself. She knows nothing of his character, nor of the real nature of marriage, and if she is truly in love with anything at the moment, it is with her wedding dress.”

Grey felt somewhat reassured at this. At the same time, he was well aware that the cancellation of his cousin’s nuptials might easily cause a scandal that would dwarf the controversy over the dismissal of Pitt as Prime Minister two months before—and the brush of scandal was not discriminating; Olivia could be tarred with it, blameless or not, to the real ruin of her chances for a decent marriage.

“I see,” he said. “If I were to discover anything further, then—”

“You should keep quiet about it,” his mother said firmly. “Once they are married, if she should discover anything amiss regarding her new husband, she will ignore it.”

“Some things are rather difficult to ignore, Mother,” he said, with more of an edge than he intended. She glanced at him sharply, and the air seemed for an instant to solidify around him, as though there were suddenly nothing to breathe. Her eyes met his straight on and held them for a moment of silence. Then she looked away, setting aside her volume of Burke.

“If she finds she cannot ignore it,” she said steadily, “she will be convinced that her life is ruined. Eventually, with luck, she will have a child, and discover that it is not. Shoo, Eustace.” Pushing the somnolent spaniel aside with her foot, she rose, glancing at the small chiming clock on the table as she did so.

“Go and look for your German wine, John. The wretched sempstress is coming round at three, for what I sincerely hope is the antepenultimate fitting for Livy’s dress.”

“Yes. Well . . . yes.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, then turned to take his leave, but halted suddenly at the door of the boudoir, turning as a question struck him.

“Mother?”

“Mm?” The Countess was picking up things at random, peering nearsightedly beneath a heap of embroidery. “Do you see my spectacles, John? I know I had them!”

“They’re on your cap,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Mother—how old were you when you married Captain DeVane?”

She clapped one hand to her head, as though to trap the errant spectacles before they could take flight. Her face was unguarded, taken by surprise by his question. He could see the waves of memory pass across it, tinged with pleasure and ruefulness. Her lips pursed a little, and then widened in a smile.

“Fifteen,” she said. The faint dimple that showed only when she was most deeply amused glimmered in her cheek. “I had a wonderfuldress!”

Chapter 12

Along Came a Spider

There was unfortunately not time to visit Fraser et Cie before his appointment with Quarry, whom he found waiting in front of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, as advertised.

“Are we attending a wedding or a funeral?” he asked, stepping down from the coach that had brought him.

“Must be a wedding—I see you’ve brought a present. Or is that for me?” Quarry nodded at the book beneath his arm.

“You may have it, if you like.” Grey surrendered the presentation copy of Fanny Hillwith some relief; he had been obliged to leave the house with it, as Olivia had come upon him as he passed through the hall and then had accompanied him to the door, flourishing further samples of lace beneath his nose while asking his opinion.

Quarry opened the book, blinked, then looked up at Grey, leering.

“Why, Johnny. Didn’t know you cared!”

“What?” Seeing Quarry’s grin, he snatched the book back, discovering only then that there was an inscription on the title page. Evidently the Countess had been in ignorance of it, too—or at least he hoped so.

It was a fairly explicit verse from Catullus, inscribed to the Countess, and signed with the initial “J.”

“Too bad my name’s not Benedicta,” Quarry remarked. “Looks quite an interesting volume!”

Gritting his teeth and hastily reviewing a mental list of his mother’s acquaintance for persons beginning with “J,” Grey carefully tore the title page from the book, stuffed it in his pocket, and handed the volume firmly back to Quarry.

“Who are we going to see?” he inquired. He had, as instructed, come in his oldest uniform, and picked critically at an unraveling thread at his cuff. Tom Byrd was an excellent barber, but his skill at valeting left something to be desired.

“Someone,” Quarry said vaguely, looking at one of the illustrations. “Don’t know his name. Richard put me onto him; said he knew all about the Calais business; might be helpful.” Richard was Lord Joffrey, Quarry’s elder half-brother, and a force in politics. While not directly involved with army or navy, he knew everyone of consequence who was, and generally was informed of any brewing scandals weeks before they erupted in public.

“Something in government, then, this person?” Grey asked, because they were turning into Whitehall Street, which contained little else.

Quarry closed the book and gave him a wary look.

“Don’t know, exactly.”

Grey gave up asking questions, but hoped that the business wouldn’t take too long. He had had a frustrating day; the morning spent in futile inquiries, the afternoon in being fitted for a suit that he was increasingly sure would never be worn at the wedding for which it was intended. He was, all in all, in the mood for a hearty tea and a stiff drink—not interviews with nameless persons holding nonexistent positions.

He was a soldier, though, and knew duty when it called.

Whitehall Street was architecturally undistinguished, bar the remnants of the Palace and the great Banqueting Hall, left over from a previous century. Their destination was neither of these, nor yet any of the faintly moldy buildings in the neighborhood that housed the minor functions of government. To Grey’s surprise, Quarry turned in instead at the door of the Golden Cross, a dilapidated tavern that stood across from St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

Quarry led the way to the snug, calling to the barman for a pair of pint-pots, and took a bench, behaving for all the world as though this were his local place of refreshment—and there were in fact a number of military persons among the clientele, though most of these were minor naval officers. Quarry kept up the pretense so far as to hold a loudly jocose conversation with Grey regarding horse-racing, though his gaze roamed ceaselessly round the room, taking note of everyone who entered or left.

After a few minutes of this pantomime, Quarry said very quietly, “Wait two minutes, then follow me.” He gulped the rest of his drink, shoved the empty glass carelessly away, and went out, going down the back passage as though in search of the privy.

Grey, rather bemused, drank the rest of his ale in a leisurely manner, then rose himself.

The sun was setting, but there was enough light to see that the cramped yard behind the Golden Cross was empty, bar the usual detritus of rubbish, wet ash, and broken barrels. The door to the privy hung ajar, showing that to be empty too—bar a cloud of flies, encouraged by the mild weather. Grey was waving off several of these inquisitive insects, when he saw a small movement in the shadows at the end of the yard.

Advancing cautiously, he discovered a personable young man, neatly but unobtrusively dressed, who smiled at him, but turned without greeting. He followed this escort, and found himself climbing a rickety stair that ran between the wall of the tavern and the neighboring building, ending at a door that presumably guarded the tavern owner’s private quarters. The young man opened this and, going through, beckoned him to follow.

He was not sure what this preliminary mystification had led him to expect, but the reality was sadly lacking in excitement. The room was dark, low-raftered, and squalid, furnished with the well-used objects of a shabby life—a battered sideboard, a deal table with bench and stools, a chipped chamber pot, a smoky lamp, and a tray holding smudged glasses and a decanter full of murky wine. By way of incongruous decoration, a small silver vase sat on the table, holding a bunch of brilliant yellow tulips.

Harry Quarry sat just by the flowers, close in conversation with a small, fusty-looking man whose pudgy back was turned to Grey. Quarry glanced up and flicked an eyebrow, acknowledging Grey, but made a small motion with one hand, indicating that Grey was to stay back for a moment.

The discreet young man who had brought him in had disappeared through a door into the next room; another young man was busy at the far end of the room, sorting an array of papers and portfolios at the sideboard.

Something about this gentleman piqued his memory, and he took a step in that direction. The young man suddenly turned around, hands full of papers, looked up, and stood stock-still, gaping like a goldfish. A neat wig covered the golden curls, but Grey had no difficulty in recognizing the white face beneath it.

“Mr. Stapleton?” The pudgy little man at the table did not turn round, but lifted a hand. “Have you found it?”

“Yes, Mr. Bowles,” the young man said, hot blue eyes still fixed on Grey’s face. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Just coming.”

Grey, having no idea whom this Mr. Bowles might be, nor what was going on, gave Stapleton a small, enigmatic smile. The young man tore his eyes away, and went to give the pudgy man the papers in his hand, but could not resist a quick, disbelieving glance over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mr. Stapleton,” the little man said, a clear tone of dismissal in his voice. Mr. Stapleton, alias Neil the Cunt, gave a short, jerky bow and moved away, eyes flickering to and from Grey with the air of one who has just seen an apparition but hopes it will have the good manners to disappear before the next glance.

Quarry and the shabby Mr. Bowles still murmured, heads together. Grey sauntered unobtrusively to an open window, where he stood, hands folded behind him, ostensibly seeking air as an antidote to the fug inside the room.

The sun was nearly down, the last of it gleaming off the rump of the bronze horse bearing the statue of Charles I that stood in the street below. He had always felt a sneaking fondness for that statue, having been informed by some forgotten tutor that the monarch, who had been two inches short of Grey’s own current height, had had himself rendered on horseback in order to look more imposing—in the process, having his height unobtrusively amended to an even six feet.

A slight clearing of the throat behind him informed him that Neil the Cunt had joined him, as intended.

“Will you take some wine, sir?”

He half-turned, in such a way that it seemed natural for the young man, bearing his tray, to step forward and set it down on the broad sill. Grey made a small gesture of assent, looking coolly on as the wine was poured.

Stapleton’s eyes flicked sideways to insure that no one was watching, then darted back to fix on Grey’s with an expression of unspoken desperation.

Please. His lips moved soundlessly, as he held out the tumbler. The wine trembled, washing to and fro against the cloudy glass.

Grey didn’t move to take it at once, but flicked his own glance sideways toward Mr. Bowles’s bowed head, and back at Stapleton, raising his brows in question.

A look of horror at the thought filled Stapleton’s eyes, and he shook his head, very slightly.

Grey reached out and wrapped his hand around the glass, covering the tips of Neil’s fingers as he did so. He squeezed them briefly, then took the glass, lowering his gaze.

“I thank you, sir,” he said politely.

“Your servant, sir,” Stapleton said, with equal politeness, and bowed before turning to lift the tray. Grey caught the faint scent of Stapleton’s sweat, rank with fear, but the decanter and remaining glasses stayed steady as he carried them away.

From this angle of view, he could see the pillory that stood near Charles’s statue. Grey barely tasted the foul wine, half-choked as he was by the beating of the pulse in his own throat. What in God’s name was going on? He didn’t think this meeting was to do with him; surely Harry would have warned him. But perhaps Stapleton had—no, or he would scarcely have been so terrorized at Grey’s appearance. But then, what—

A scraping of chairs fortunately interrupted his speculations before they became any more incoherent.

“Lord John?” Quarry had stood up, addressing him formally. “May I present Mr. Hubert Bowles? Major Grey.”

Mr. Bowles had stood up, too, though he scarcely appeared to have done so, he being so short that there was little change in height from his seated aspect. Grey bowed courteously, murmuring, “Your servant, sir.”

He took the indicated stool, and found himself facing a pair of soft blue eyes, the vague slaty color of a newborn child’s, set in a face bearing as much distinction of feature as a suet pudding. There was an odd scent in the air—something like very old sweat, but with a hint of putrid decay. He couldn’t tell whether it came from the furnishings or from the man in front of him.

“My lord,” Bowles said, in a lisping voice little more than a whisper. “It is kind of you to attend us.”

As though I were here of choice, Grey thought cynically, but merely bowed and murmured a courtesy in reply, trying meanwhile to breathe exclusively through his mouth.

“Colonel Quarry has been recounting your efforts and discoveries,” Bowles said, turning over a sheet of paper with short-fingered delicacy. “You have been most assiduous.”

“You flatter me too much, sir,” Grey said. “I have found out nothing certain—I take it we are discussing the death of Timothy O’Connell?”

“Among other things.” Bowles smiled pleasantly, but the vague expression in his eyes did not alter.

Grey cleared his throat, belatedly tasting the nastiness of the wine he had swallowed. “I imagine that Colonel Quarry has informed you that I have discovered no proof of O’Connell’s involvement in—the matter at hand?”

“He has.” Bowles’s gaze had drifted away from Grey, and rested idly on the yellow tulips. They had orange throats, Grey saw, and glowed like molten gold in the last of the light. If they had a scent, it wasn’t strong enough to perceive, unfortunately. “Colonel Quarry thinks that your efforts might be aided were we to inform you of the results of our other . . . inquiries.”

“I see,” Grey said, though he saw nothing at all, so far. “Our other inquiries.” And who were “we,” exactly? Harry sat hunched on his own stool, an untasted glass of wine in his hand, face carefully expressionless.

“As the Colonel told you, I believe, there were several suspects in the original theft.” Bowles’s small, soft paw spread itself on the papers. “Inquiries were instituted at once, through a variety of channels, regarding all of these men.”

“I supposed that to be the case.”

It was very warm in the chamber, despite the open window, and Grey could feel his shirt sticking to his back, sweat tickling his temples. He wanted to wipe his face on his sleeve, but somehow the presence of this odd little man constrained him to do no more than nod, sitting rigidly at attention.

“Without divulging details”—a tiny smile flitted across Bowles’s face at that, as though the thought of withholding details was something secretly delicious—“I can inform you, Major, that it is now all but certain that Sergeant O’Connell was the guilty party.”

“I see,” Grey said again, guardedly.

“We lost track of him, of course, when the man who was following him—Jack Byrd, was that the name?—disappeared on Saturday.” Grey was quite sure that Bowles knew the name; knew a lot more than that, in all likelihood.

“However,” Bowles continued, extending a stubby finger to touch one of the shimmering petals, “we have recently received a report from another source, placing O’Connell at a particular location on the Friday. The day before his death.”

A drop of sweat was hanging from Grey’s chin; he could feel it trembling there like the grains of pollen trembling on the soft black anthers of the tulips.

“A rather unusual location,” Bowles went on, stroking the petal with dreamy gentleness. “A place called Lavender House, near Lincoln’s Inn. Have you heard of it?”

Oh. Christ.He heard the words distinctly, and hoped he hadn’t spoken them aloud. This was it, then.

He sat up straighter still and wiped the drop of sweat from his chin with the back of his hand, setting himself for the worst.

“I have, yes. I visited Lavender House myself last week—in the course of my inquiries.”

Bowles did not—of course!—look astonished by this. Grey was conscious of Quarry by his side, looking curious but not alarmed. He was reasonably sure that Harry had no idea of the nature of Lavender House. He was quite sure that Bowles did.

Bowles nodded amiably.

“Quite. What I am wondering, Major, is what you discovered regarding O’Connell that led you to that destination?”

“It—was not O’Connell about whom I was inquiring.” Quarry shifted a little at that, and emitted a small “Hmph!”

No help for it. Commending his soul to God, Grey took a deep breath and recounted the entire story of his explorations into the life and behavior of Joseph Trevelyan.

“A green velvet dress,” Bowles said, sounding only mildly curious. “God bless my soul.” His hand had dropped from the tulips, and was now curled possessively around the fat little belly of the silver vase.

Grey’s shirt was soaked through by now, but he was no longer anxious. He felt an odd sort of calm, in fact, as though matters had been taken quite out of his own control. What happened next lay in the hands of Fate, or God—or Hubert Bowles, whoever in God’s name he was.

Stapleton was plainly in the employ of Mr. Bowles’s office—whatever nameless office that might be—and Grey’s second thought, after the shock of seeing him, had been that Stapleton had gone to Lavender House as an agent of Bowles.

But Stapleton had been terrified by Grey’s sudden appearance; that meant that Stapleton thought Bowles to be in ignorance of his own nature. Why else that silent plea?

That being so, Stapleton would never have mentioned Grey’s presence at Lavender House; he could not do so without incriminating himself. And that in turn meant that his presence there had been purely personal. Given room to think for a moment, Grey realized—with the stomach-dropping relief of one stepping back from the trap of a scaffold—that Mr. Bowles was not in fact inquiring into his own behavior, save as it pertained to the O’Connell affair. And with an obvious reason for his presence at Lavender House given . . .

“I b-beg your pardon, sir?” he stammered, realizing belatedly that Bowles had said something to him.

“I asked whether you were convinced that these Irish were conspicuously involved, Major? The Scanlons?”

“I think that they are,” he replied cautiously. “But that is an impression only, sir. I have said to Colonel Quarry that it might be useful to question them more officially, though—and not only the Scanlons, but Miss Iphigenia Stokes and her family.”

“Ah, Miss Stokes.” The pendulous cheeks quivered faintly. “No, we are familiar with the Stokes family. Petty smugglers, to a man, but nothing whatever in the political line. Nor have they any connexion to the . . . persons at Lavender House.”

Persons. That, Grey realized, almost certainly meant Dickie Caswell. For Bowles to know about O’Connell’s presence at Lavender House, someone there must have told him. The obvious conclusion was that Caswell was the “source” who had provided the information regarding O’Connell—which in turn implied that Caswell was a regular source of information for Mr. Bowles and his shadowy office. That was rather worrying, but there was no time to think of such things just now.

“You said that Mr. O’Connell visited Lavender House upon the Friday,” Grey said, taking a fresh grip on the conversation. “Do you know whom he spoke with there?”

“No.” Bowles’s lips thinned to nothing. “He went to the back door of the establishment, and when asked his errand, replied that he was looking for a gentleman named Meyer, or something of the sort. The servant who saw him told him to wait and went away to inquire; when he returned, O’Connell had gone.”

“Meyer?” Quarry leaned forward, interjecting himself into the conversation. “German? A Jew? I’ve heard of a fellow of that name—traveling coin-dealer. Think he works in France. Very good disguise for a secret agent, that—going about to big houses, carrying a pack, what?”

“There you have me, sir.” Bowles seemed mildly annoyed by the admission. “There was no such person at Lavender House, nor was any such known by that name. It does seem most suspicious, though, given the circumstances.”

“Oh, rather,” Quarry said, with a tinge of sarcasm. “So, then. What d’you suggest we do?”

Bowles gave Quarry a cold look.

“It is of the utmost importance that we discover the man to whom O’Connell intended to sell his secrets, sir. It seems clear that this was a crime of impulse, rather than deliberate espionage—no one could have known that the requisitions would be exposed and unattended.”

Quarry gave a grunt of agreement, and sat back, arms folded across his chest.

“Aye, so?”

“Having recognized the value of the information, though, and removed the documents, the thief—call him O’Connell, for convenience—would then be faced with the necessity of finding someone to pay for them.”

Bowles pulled several sheets of rough foolscap from the stack before him, and spread them out. They were covered with a round scrawl, done in pencil, and sufficiently illegible that Grey could make out only the occasional word, read upside down.

“These are the reports that Jack Byrd supplied to us through Mr. Trevelyan,” Bowles said, dealing the sheets upon the table one by one. “He describes O’Connell’s movements, and notes the appearance—and often the name—of each person with whom he observed the Sergeant conversing. Agents of this office”—Grey noticed that he didn’t specify whichoffice—“have located and identified most of these persons. There were several among them who do indeed have tenuous connexions with foreign interests—but none who would themselves be able to accomplish a contract of such magnitude.”

“O’Connell was looking for a purchaser,” Grey summarized. “Perhaps one of these small fish gave him the name of this Meyer for whom he was searching?”

Bowles inclined his round little head an inch in Grey’s direction.

“That was my assumption as well, Major,” he said politely. “‘Small fish.’ A very picturesque and appropriate image, if I may say so. And this Meyer may well be the shark in our sea of intrigue.”

Grey caught a brief glimpse from the corner of his eye of Harry making faces, and coughed, turning a bit to lead Bowles’s gaze in his own direction.

“Your . . . um . . . source, then—could he not discover any such person, if the suspect had an association with Lavender House?”

“I should certainly expect so,” Bowles said, complacency returning. “My source disclaims all knowledge of such a person, though—which leads me to believe either that O’Connell was misdirected, or that this Meyer goes by an alias of some sort. Hardly an unlikely possibility, given the . . . ah . . . nature of that place.”

“That place” was spoken with such an intonation—something between condemnation and . . . fascination? gloating?—that Grey felt a brief crawling sensation, and rubbed instinctively at the back of his hand, as though brushing away some noxious insect.

Bowles was reaching into yet another folder, but the paper he withdrew this time was of somewhat higher quality; good parchment, and sealed with the Royal Seal.

“This, my lord, is a letter empowering you to make inquiries in the matter of Timothy O’Connell,” Bowles said, handing it to Grey. “The language is purposely rather vague, but I trust you may employ it to good use.”

“Thank you,” Grey said, accepting the document with profound misgivings. He wasn’t sure yet why, but his instincts warned him that the red seal indicated danger.

“Well, then, d’ye want Lord John to go back there and rummage the place?” Quarry asked, impatient. “We’ve a tame constable; shall we ask him to collect the Jews in his district and put their feet to the fire until they cough up this Meyer? What shall we do, for God’s sake?”

Mr. Bowles disliked being hurried, Grey could see. His lips thinned again, but before he could reply, Grey made his own interjection.

“Sir—if I might? I have something—it may be nothing, of course—but there seems to be an odd connexion . . .” He explained, as well as he could, the appearance of an unusual German wine at Lavender House and its apparent connexion with Trevelyan’s mysterious companion. And Jack Byrd, of course, was connected to Trevelyan.

“So I am wondering, sir, whether it might be possible to trace buyers of this wine, and thus perhaps to fall upon the scent of the mysterious Mr. Meyer?”

The small bulge of flesh that served Mr. Bowles for a brow underwent convulsions like a snail thinking fierce thoughts—but then relaxed.

“Yes, I think that might be a profitable channel of inquiry,” he conceded. “In the meantime, Colonel”—he turned to Quarry with an air of command—“I recommend that you apprehend Mr. Scanlon and his wife, and make such representations to them as may be appropriate.”

“Up to and including thumbscrews?” Harry inquired, standing up. “Or shall I stop at knouting?”

“I shall leave that to your impeccable professional judgment, Colonel,” Bowles said politely. “I shall handle further investigations at Lavender House. And Major Grey—I think it best that you pursue the matter of Mr. Trevelyan’s potential involvement in the matter; you seem best placed to handle it discreetly.”

Meaning,Grey thought, that I now have “scapegoat” written on my forehead in illuminated capitals. If it all blows up, the blame can be safely pinned to my coat, and I can be shipped off to Scotland or Canada permanently, with no loss to society.

“Thank you,” Grey said, handling the compliment as though it were a dead rat. Harry snorted, and they took their leave.

Before they had quite reached the door, though, Mr. Bowles spoke again.

“Lord John. If you will accept a bit of well-meant advice, sir?” Grey turned. The vague blue eyes seemed focused at a spot over his left shoulder, and he had to steel himself not to turn and look to see whether there was in fact someone behind him.

“Of course, Mr. Bowles.”

“I think I should hesitate to allow Mr. Joseph Trevelyan to become a relation by marriage. Speaking only for myself, you understand.”

“I thank you for your kind interest, sir,” Grey said, and bowed, most correctly.

He followed Harry down the rickety stair and out of the noisome yard to the street, where they both stood for a moment, breathing deeply.

“Knouting?” Grey said.

“Russian flogging,” Quarry explained, tugging at his wilted stock. “With a whip made of hippopotamus hide. Saw it once; flayed the poor bugger to the bone in three strokes.”

“I see the appeal,” Grey agreed, feeling an unexpected kinship with his half-brother Edgar. “You haven’t got a spare knout you might lend me, before I go speak to Trevelyan?”

“No, but Maggie might have such a thing in her collection. Shall I ask?” Freed of Bowles’s oppressive den, Quarry’s natural exuberance was reasserting itself.

Grey made a dissentient motion of the hand.

“Don’t trouble.” He fell in beside Harry and they turned down the street, back toward the river.

“If the recent Mr. Bowles were to be dried and stuffed, he would make an excellent addition to that collection. What ishe, do you know?”

“Not fish nor fowl, so I suppose he must be flesh,” Quarry said with a shrug. “Beyond that, I think it’s best not to inquire.”

Grey nodded understanding. He felt wrung out—and horribly thirsty.

“Stand you a drink at the Beefsteak, Harry?”

“Make it a cask,” Quarry said, clapping him on the back, “and I’ll stand supper. Let’s go.”

Chapter 13

Barber, Barber,

Shave a Pig

The wineshop of Fraser et Cie was small and dark, but cleanly kept—and the air inside was dizzyingly rich with the perfume of grapes.

“Welcome, sir, welcome. Will you have the kindness to give me your honest opinion of this vintage?”

A small man in a tidy wig and coat had popped up out of the gloom, appearing at his elbow with the suddenness of a gnome springing out of the earth, offering a cup with a small quantity of dark wine.

“What?” Startled, Grey took the cup by reflex.

“A new vintage,” the little man explained, bowing. “I think it very fine myself—very fine! But taste is such an individual matter, do you not find it so?”

“Ah . . . yes. To be sure.” Grey raised the cup cautiously to his face, only to have an aroma of amazing warmth and spice insinuate itself so deeply into his nostrils that he found the cup pressed to his lips in an involuntary effort to bring the elusive scent closer.

It spread over mouth and palate and rose up in a magic cloud inside his head, the flavor unfolding like a series of blooming flowers, each scented with a different heady perfume: vanilla, plum, apple, pear . . . and the most delicate aftertaste, which he could describe only as the succulent feeling left on the tongue by the swallowing of fresh buttered toast.

“I will have a cask of it,” he said, lowering the cup and opening his eyes as the last of the perfume evaporated on his palate. “What is it?”

“Oh, you like it!” The little man was all but clapping his hands with delight. “I am so pleased. Now, if you find that particular vintage to your liking, I am convincedthat you will enjoy this. . . . Not everyone does, it takes a particularly educated palate to appreciate the subtleties, but you, sir . . .” The empty cup was snatched from his hand, and another substituted for it before he could draw breath to speak.

Wondering just how much he had already spent, he obligingly lifted the fresh cup.

Half an hour later, with flattened pocketbook and a pleasantly inflated head, he floated out of the shop, feeling rather like a soap bubble—light, airy, and gleaming with iridescent colors. Under his arm was a corked bottle of Schilcher, the mysterious German red, and in his pocket a list of those customers of Fraser et Cie known to have purchased it.

It was a short list, though there were more than he would have suspected—half a dozen names, including that of Richard Caswell, dealer in information. What else had Caswell carefully not told him? he wondered.

The enthusiastic wine-seller, who had eventually introduced himself as Mr. Congreve, was regretfully unable to tell him much regarding the other buyers of the German red: “Most of our customers merely send a servant, you know; such a pity that more will not come in person, like yourself, my lord!”

Still, it was apparent from the names that at least four of the six were in fact Germans, though none was called Meyer. If his mother could not identify them, chances were good that Captain von Namtzen could; wealthy foreigners in London tended to club together, or at least to be aware of each other, and if Prussia and Saxony found themselves on different sides of the present conflict, their inhabitants did at least still speak the same language.

A bundle of rags crouched by the pavement stirred as though to move toward him, and his eyes went to it at once, with a fixed stare that made the bundle hunch and mutter to itself. His mother had been accurate in describing the environs of Fraser et Cie as “not very nice,” and the ice-blue suit with silver buttons, which had proven so helpful in establishing his immediate bona fides with Mr. Congreve, was attracting rather less-desirable attention from the less-reputable inhabitants of the neighborhood.

He had taken the precaution of wearing his sword as visible warning, and had a dagger in the waist of his breeches in addition to a jerkin of thickened leather beneath his waistcoat—though he knew well enough that a manner demonstrating instant willingness to do violence was better armor than any of these. He’d learned that at the age of eight; fine-boned and lightly built as he was, it had been a matter of self-preservation, and the lesson had served him well ever since.

He gave a hostile glare to two loungers eyeing him, and put a hand on his sword hilt; their eyes slid away. He would have welcomed Tom Byrd’s company, but had reckoned that time was more important than safety. He had sent Byrd to the other wine-sellers his mother had recommended; perhaps he would turn up more names to investigate.

It was minor progress in his quest to untangle the affairs of Joseph Trevelyan, but at this point, any information that seemed straightforward and unambiguous was a relief. He had quite made up his mind that Trevelyan would not marry Olivia under any circumstance—but a means of discreetly severing the engagement while not harming Livy’s reputation remained to be found.

Merely to announce the dissolution of the betrothal himself would not do; if no reason was given, rumor would spread like wildfire, and rumor was the ruin of a young woman. Lacking explanation, it would be assumed that Joseph Trevelyan had discovered some grievous fault in her, for engagements in this stratum of society were neither undertaken nor discarded lightly. Olivia’s wedding contract had taken two months and four lawyers to draw up.

Likewise, he could not let the true cause of the severance be publicly known—and in terms of society, there was no privacy; if anyone outside the families concerned learned the truth, within days, everyone would know of it.

While the Greys were not without influence, they did not approach the wealth and power of the Cornish Trevelyans. Letting the truth be known was to invite enmity from the Trevelyans on a scale that would compromise his own family’s affairs for decades—and would still damage Livy, for the Trevelyans would hold her responsible as the agent of Joseph’s exposure and disgrace, no matter that she had known nothing of it.

He could force Joseph Trevelyan to break the engagement by privately threatening exposure; but that too would cast Livy’s reputation in doubt, if no plausible explanation was given. No, Trevelyan must dissolve the engagement voluntarily, and must do so in a fashion that absolved Livy of any blame in the matter. There would still be talk and speculation, but with luck, it would not be so injurious as to prevent Livy eventually making a reasonable match elsewhere.

What such grounds might be, and how he was to induce Trevelyan to discover them . . . he had no good ideas, but was in hopes that finding Trevelyan’s inamoratamight provide one. Clearly, she was a married woman, and just as clearly, in a position of considerable social delicacy; if he could discover her identity, a visit to her husband might possibly suggest a means of bringing pressure to bear upon the Trevelyans without need of Grey appearing to act directly in the matter.

A growing racket jerked him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see a group of three youths coming toward him, joking and shoving each other in lighthearted disportment. They seemed so innocent as to arouse immediate suspicion, and glancing quickly round, he spotted the accomplice: a filthy girl of twelve or so, lurking nearby, ready to dash in and cut his buttons or snatch his wine, as soon as his attention should be distracted by her playfellows.

He took hold of his sword with one hand, and clutched the neck of the bottle club-like in the other, giving the girl a gimlet stare. She pouted impudently at him, but stepped back, and the gang of young pickpockets clattered past, talking loudly and patently ignoring him.

A sudden silence made him turn to look after them, though, and he saw the girl’s petticoat tail just disappearing into an alleyway. The youths were nowhere in sight, but the sound of hasty footsteps thumped softly, running away down the dark alley.

He swore silently to himself, glancing round. Where might that alley come out again? The lane he was in showed several dark openings between his present location and the turn into the next street. Evidently, they meant to dash ahead, then lie in wait until he had passed their hiding place, jumping out to commit ambush from behind.

Forewarned was forearmed, but there were still three of them—four, counting the girl—and he doubted that the pie-sellers and rag-and-bone men on the street would feel compelled to come to his aid. With quick decision, he turned upon his heel and ducked into the alley where the pickpockets had disappeared, lifting the bottom edge of his waistcoat to render the dagger hilt ready to his hand.

The lane had been shabby; the alley was noisome, narrow, dark, and half-choked with refuse. A rat, disturbed by the earlier passage of the pickpockets, hissed at him from a mound of rubble; he swung the bottle and sent the rat flying into the wall, which it struck with a satisfyingly juicy thump before falling limp at his feet. He kicked it aside and went on, bottle at the ready and hand on his dagger, listening for any sound of footfalls ahead.

The alleyway forked, with a jog hard right, back toward the lane; he paused, listening, then risked a quick glance round the corner. Yes, there they were, crouched at the ready, sticks in hand. The girl, curse her, had a knife or a bit of broken glass in her hand; he saw the light glint from it as she moved.

A moment more, and they would realize he was not coming down the lane. He stepped silently past the fork and made his way as fast as he could through the rubble of the left-hand alley. He was obliged to climb over stacks of wet refuse and worm sideways through the hanging goods in a fuller’s yard, to the gross disfigurement of his suit, but emerged at last into a wider thoroughfare.

He didn’t recognize the street, but was able to see the dome of St. Paul’s looming in the distance, and thus to judge his way. Breathing somewhat easier in spite of the mephitis of dog turds and rotten cabbage that surrounded him, he set his steps eastward, and turned his thoughts to the next item on the day’s agenda of unpleasant duties, which was to resume the search for a break in the clouds obscuring the truth of Timothy O’Connell’s life and death.

A note had come that morning from the enigmatic Mr. Bowles, to the effect that no further connexions had been discovered to exist between the late Sergeant and any known agents of a foreign power. Grey wondered grimly just how many unknown agents there might be in London.

Constable Magruder had come in person the night before, to report a lack of result from inquiries into the Turk’s Head, scene of Saturday’s brawl. The tavern’s owner insisted stubbornly that O’Connell had left the place drunk, but moving under his own power—and while admitting that a brawl had occurred on the premises on the night in question, insisted that the only damage done had been to the window of the establishment, when one patron had thrust another through it, headfirst. No witnesses had been found who had seen O’Connell later in the evening—or who would admit to it.

Grey sighed, his mood of mellow buoyancy deflating. Bowles was convinced that O’Connell was the traitor—and possibly he was. But the longer the investigation continued, the more apparent it seemed to Grey that O’Connell’s death had been a strictly personal matter. And if that was the case, the suspects were obvious.

So was the next step—the arrest of Finbar Scanlon and his wife. Well, if it must be done, it must.

It would likely be a simple matter, given the circumstances. Apprehend them, and then question them separately. Quarry would make it clear to Scanlon that Francine would probably hang for O’Connell’s murder, unless it could be proved that she had no involvement in the crime—and what proof was there, other than Scanlon’s own confession of guilt?

Of course, success depended upon the assumption that if Scanlon loved the woman enough to kill for her, he would also die for her—and that might not be the case. It was, however, the best place to start; and if it did not work, why, then the same suggestion might be employed to better effect upon the wife, with respect to her new husband.

It was a sordid matter, and he took no pleasure in its resolution. It was necessary, though—and the process did hold one small gleam of hope. If O’Connell had indeed abstracted the requisitions, and had not passed the information on at the time of his death, then in all probability either Scanlon, Francine, or Iphigenia Stokes knew where it was, even if none of them had killed him for it.

If he or Quarry could extract anything resembling a confession from his suspects, they might be offered official clemency in the form of a commuted sentence—if the stolen records were restored. He was sure that between them, Harry Quarry and the mysterious Mr. Bowles could arrange for a sentence of transportation rather than hanging, and he hoped it would fall out so.

He was very much afraid, though, that the stolen requisitions were presently in France, having been taken there by Jack Byrd. And in that case . . .

In spite of the convoluted nature of his thoughts, he had not abandoned his alertness, and the sound of running footsteps on the roadway behind him made him turn sharply, both hands on his weapons.

His pursuer was not one of the pickpockets, though, but rather his valet, Tom Byrd.

“Me lord,” the boy gasped, coming to a halt beside him. He bent over, hands on his knees, panting like a dog to recover breath. “I was lookin’ for—saw you—and ran—what—you been—a-doing to your suit?”

“Never mind that,” Grey said shortly. “Has something happened?”

Byrd nodded, gulping air. His face was still bright red and streaming sweat, but he could at least form words.

“Constable Magruder. He sent—says come as quick as may be. He’s found a woman. A dead woman—in a green velvet dress.”

Stray bodies would normally be taken to the nearest coroner—but mindful of the possible importance of his discovery and the need for discretion, Constable Magruder had helpfully had the body brought first to the regiment’s quarters near Cadogan Square, where it had been placed in the hay shed—to the horror of Corporal Hicks, who was in charge of the horses. Harry Quarry, summoned from his tea to deal with this new circumstance, told Grey as much upon his arrival in the courtyard.

“What happened to your suit?” Quarry asked, casting an interested eye over the assorted stains. He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. “Phew.”

“Never mind that,” Grey said tersely. “Do you know the woman?”

“Don’t think her own mother would know her,” Quarry said, turning to lead the way into the stables. “Pretty sure I’ve seen the dress, at Maggie’s place. Certainly isn’t Maggie, though—no tits at all.”

A sudden fear turned Grey’s bowels to water. Christ, could it be Nessie?

“When you say her mother wouldn’t know her—had she . . . been in the water long?”

Quarry cast him a puzzled look.

“She wasn’t in the water at all. Had her face beaten in.”

He felt bile rise at the back of his throat. Had the little whore gone nosing about, in hopes of helping him further, and been murdered for her interference? If she had died on his account, and in such a way . . . Uncorking the bottle of wine, he took a deep swallow, and another, then handed it to Quarry.

“Good idea. She’s niffy as a Frenchman’s arse; been dead a day or two.” Harry tilted up the bottle and drank, looking somewhat happier afterward. “Nice stuff, that.”

Grey saw Tom Byrd cast a look of longing at the bottle, but Quarry kept firm hold of it as he led the way through the brick-paved stables.

Magruder was waiting for them outside the shed, with one of his constables.

“My lord.” Magruder inclined his head, looking curiously at Grey. “What happened to—”

“Where did you find her?” Grey interrupted.

“In Saint James’s Park,” the constable replied. “In the bushes by the path.”

“Where?” Grey said incredulously. Saint James’s was the preserve of merchants and aristocrats, where the young, the rich, and the fashionable strolled to see and be seen. Magruder shrugged, slightly defensive.

“People out for an early walk found her—or rather, their dog did.” He stepped back, ushering the soldiers ahead of him through the door to the tack room. “There was considerable blood.”

Grey’s first thought upon seeing the body was that the constable was a master of understatement. His second was a sense of profound relief; the body was in fact fairly flat-chested, but was much too tall to be Nessie. The hair was darker than the Scottish whore’s, too—nearly black—and while it was thick and wavy, it was nothing like Nessie’s wild curly mane.

The face was essentially gone; obliterated in a frenzy of blows from something like the back of a spade or a fireplace poker. Suppressing his distaste—Quarry had been right about the smell—Grey circled slowly about the table on which the corpse had been laid.

“Think it’s the same?” Quarry asked, watching him. “The dress, I mean. You’ve an eye for such things.”

“I am fairly sure that it is. The lace . . .” He nodded at the wide trim on the gown, which matched the edging of the kerchief. The kerchief itself straggled loose across the table, torn and soaked in blood, but still pinned precariously to the gown. “It’s Valenciennes. I noticed it particularly at the brothel, because it’s very like that on my cousin’s wedding gown—there are swathes of it all over my mother’s house. Expensive stuff, though.”

“Not common, then.” Quarry fingered the tattered rag of the kerchief.

“Not at all.”

Quarry nodded, turning to Magruder.

“I think we shall be wanting a word with a madam named Maggie—house in Meacham Street, you know it? Rather a pity, that,” he added, turning back to Grey with a sigh. “Did like that blonde with the big tits.”

Grey nodded, only half-hearing. The gown itself was so crusted with blood and dirt that the color was almost indistinguishable; only the draggled folds of the skirt still showed emerald green. The smell was very strong in the confined quarters—Quarry had been right, she did reek like a . . .

He bent closer, hands on the table, sniffing deeply. Civet. He’d swear he smelt civet—and something else as well. The corpse was wearing perfume, though the scent was nearly obscured by the earthier reeks of blood and ordure.

She wears a very expensive scent. Civet, vetiver, and orange, if I am not mistaken.He could hear Richard Caswell’s voice in his head, dry as grave flowers. She has dark hair. Nearly black. Your cousin is fair, I believe?”

Excitement and dread tightened his belly as he leaned over the dead woman. It had to be; this was Trevelyan’s mysterious lover. But what had happened to her? Had her husband—if she had one—discovered the affair and taken his revenge? Or had Trevelyan . . .

He sniffed again, eager for confirmation.

Where did women wear perfume? Behind the ears—no, not a chance; the corpse had only one ear and the other was in no condition . . . Between the breasts, perhaps; he’d seen his mother tuck a scented cloth down into the top of her stays before a party.

He ducked his head to inhale more deeply, and saw the small, blackened hole in the center of the bodice, inconspicuous amidst the general carnage.

“I will be damned,” he said, looking up at the phalanx of bemused faces hovering over him. “She’s been shot.”

“Do you want to know summat else, me lord?” The whisper came at his elbow. Tom Byrd, by now somewhat inured to nasty sights, had edged his way close, and was looking at the corpse’s smashed face in fascination.

“What’s that, Tom?”

The boy’s finger floated tentatively across the table, pointing at what Grey had taken for a smudge of dirt behind the jaw.

“She’s got whiskers.”

The corpse was, in fact, that of a man. Striking as that was, though, it was not the main point of remark, once the rags of the green gown had been removed to verify the fact.

“I’ve never seen anything like that in me life,” Harry Quarry said, eyeing the dead man with a combination of disgust and fascination. “You, Magruder?”

“Well, on a woman, now and then,” the constable said, pursing his lips fastidiously. “Some of the whores do it regular, I understand. Bit of a curiosity, like.”

“Oh, whores, yes, of course.” Quarry flapped a hand, indicating that such usage was not only familiar to him, but positively commonplace. “But this is a man, dammit! You’ve never seen such a thing, have you, Grey?”

Grey had, in fact, seen such a thing, and more than once, though it was not an affectation that appealed to him personally. It would scarcely do to say so, though, and he shook his head, widening his eyes in a semblance of shocked incomprehension at the perversity of mankind.

“Mr. Byrd,” he said, making space for Tom to approach closer. “You are our chief expert on the art of shaving; what can you tell us about this?”

Nostrils pinched against the reek of the corpse, Tom the barber’s son motioned for the lantern to be brought closer, and leaned down, squinting in professional fashion along the planes of the body.

“Well,” he said judiciously, “he does it—did it, I mean—regular. More like, someone did it for him—a nice, professional bit of work. See, there’s no cuts, nor yet no scraping—and that’s an awkward bit, round there.” He pointed, frowning. “Hard to manage by yourself, I should think.”

Quarry made a noise that might have been a laugh, but converted it hastily into a wheezing cough.

Byrd, ignoring this, stretched out a hand and ran it very delicately up the corpse’s leg.

“Oh, yes,” he said, in tones of satisfaction. “Feel that, me lord? You can feel the stubble, sharp-ended, like, when you goes against the grain. It gets like that when a man shaves regular. If he shaves no more than once or twice a month, he’s like to get bumps—the hair curls up under the skin as it grows, see? But no bumps here.”

There were not. The corpse’s skin was smooth, devoid of hairs on arms, legs, chest, buttocks and privates. Other than smears of dried blood and caked ordure, and the small black hole of the bullet wound in his chest, only the deep purple-brown of the nipples and the riper tones of the rather well-endowed expanse between the man’s legs interrupted the pale olive perfection of his flesh. Grey thought the gentleman would likely have been quite popular, in certain circles.

“He has stubble. So the shaving took place before death?” Grey asked.

“Oh, yes, me lord. Like I said—he does it regular.”

Quarry scratched his head.

“I will be damned. D’ye think he’s a he-whore, then? A sodomite of some type?”

Grey would have taken a substantial wager to that effect, were it not for one observation. The man was slight, but well-built and muscular, like Grey himself. However, the muscles of chest and arms had begun to sag from lack of use, and there was a definite roll of fat around the middle. Adding to these observations the fact that the man’s neck was deeply seamed and, despite an impeccable manicure, the backs of his hands thickly veined and knobbed, Grey was reasonably sure that the body was that of a man in his late thirties or early forties. Male prostitutes seldom lasted far beyond twenty.

“Nah, too old,” Magruder objected, fortunately saving Grey from the necessity of finding some way of saying the same thing, without disclosing how he knew it. “This cove would be one as hires such, not one himself.”

Quarry shook his head in disapproval.

“Should never have suspected Maggie of dealing in that sort of thing,” he said, as much in regret as condemnation. “You sure about the dress, then, Grey?”

“Reasonably. It is not impossible that a dressmaker should make more than one gown, of course—but whoever made this one made the one that Magda was wearing.”

“Magda?” Quarry blinked at him.

Grey cleared his throat, a hideous realization coming suddenly over him. Quarry hadn’t known.

“The . . . ah . . . Scottish woman I met there informed me that the madam was called Magda, and is in fact a, um, a German of some type.”

Quarry’s face looked pinched in the lantern light.

“Of some type,” he repeated bleakly. It made considerable difference whichtype, and Quarry was well aware of it. Prussia and Hanover—of course—had allied themselves with England, while the duchy of Saxony had chosen up sides with France and Russia, in support of its neighbor Austria. For an English colonel to be patronizing a brothel owned by a German of unknown background and allegiance, and now with an evident involvement in criminal matters, was a dicey proposition, and one that Quarry must devoutly hope would never come to official notice. Or the notice of the unblinking Mr. Bowles.

It wouldn’t do Grey’s reputation any good, either. He realized now that he ought to have mentioned the situation to Quarry at the time, rather than assuming that he must know of Magda’s background already. But he had allowed himself to be distracted by alcoholic excess, and by Nessie’s disclosure about Trevelyan—and now he could but hope there wasn’t the devil to pay for it.

Harry Quarry drew a deep breath and blew it out again, squaring his shoulders. One of Harry’s many good points was that he never wasted time in recrimination, and—unlike Bernard Sydell—never blamed subordinates, even when they deserved it.

“Well, then,” he said, and turned to Magruder. “I think we must have Mrs. Magda taken into custody and questioned without delay. We shall need to search her premises, as well, I should think—will you require a warrant?”

“Yes, sir. Given the circumstances”—Magruder nodded delicately at the dead man—“I shouldn’t think the magistrate would be reluctant.”

Quarry nodded, straightening the coat on his shoulders.

“Aye. I’ll come myself and speak to him now.” He drummed his fingers restlessly on the table, making the corpse’s slack hand tremble with the vibration. “Grey—I think we shall have the Scanlons taken up, too, as you advised. You’ll question them; go round to the gaol tomorrow, once Magruder has had a chance to lay them by the heels. As for . . . the Cornish gentleman . . . use your best judgment there, will you?”

Grey managed a nod, cursing himself for his idiocy, and then Quarry and Magruder were gone, leaving the faceless corpse naked and staring in the flickering light.

“You in trouble, me lord?” Tom Byrd was frowning worriedly at him from the shadows, having evidently divined some hint of the undercurrents in the preceding conversation.

“I hope not.” He stood looking down at the dead man. Who the devil was he? Grey had been convinced that the body was that of Trevelyan’s lover—and it might still be, he reminded himself. True, Caswell had insisted that it was a woman whom Trevelyan entertained at Lavender House, but Caswell might have been mistaken in his own powers of olfactory discernment—or lying, for reasons unknown.

Use his best judgment, Harry said. His best judgment was that Trevelyan was in this up to his neck—but there was no direct evidence.

There was certainly no evidence to connect the Scanlons with this business, and precious little to connect them with O’Connell’s murder—but Harry’s motive in ordering an arrest there was apparent; if inquiries were eventually made into the conduct of the investigation, it would be prudent to make it look as though affairs were being pursued aggressively. The muddier the waters, the less likely anyone might be to take up the matter of Magda’s inconvenient nationality.

“Major?” He turned, to see Corporal Hicks frowning at him from the doorway. “You aren’t going to leave that thing here, are you?”

“Oh. No, Corporal. You may remove it to the coroner’s. Fetch some men.”

“Right, sir.” Hicks disappeared with alacrity, but Grey hesitated. Was there any further information that the body itself could offer?

“You think it was the same cove what did for that Sergeant O’Connell what did for this ’un, me lord?” Tom Byrd had come to stand alongside him.

“I have no particular reason to think so,” Grey said, a little startled at this supposition. “Why?”

“Well, the, uh, face.” Tom gestured, a little awkwardly, at the remains, and swallowed audibly. One eyeball had been dislodged so far from its parent socket as to dangle out onto the crushed cheek, staring accusingly off into the shadows of the hay shed. “Seems like whoever did this didn’t care for him much—same as whoever stamped on the Sergeant.”

Grey considered that, pursing his lips. Reluctantly, he shook his head.

“I don’t think so, Tom. I think that whoever did this”—he gestured at the corpse—“did it in order to disguise the gentleman’s identity, not out of personal dislike. It’s heavy work, to crush a skull like that, and this was a very thorough job. One would have to be in an absolute frenzy of hatred—and if that was the case, why shoot him first?”

“Did they? Shoot him first, I mean, me lord. ’Coz what you said about dead men don’t bleed—this one surely did, so he can’t have been dead when they . . . erm.” He glanced at the smashed face, and then away. “But he couldn’t live long like that—so why shoot him, then?”

Grey stared at Tom. The boy was pale, but bright-eyed, intent on his argument.

“You have a very logical sort of mind, Tom,” he said. “Why, indeed?” He stood for a moment looking down at the corpse, trying to reconcile the disparate bits of information at hand. What Tom said made obvious sense—and yet he was convinced that whoever had killed this man had not beaten in his face from anger. Just as he was convinced that whoever had stamped on Tim O’Connell’s face had acted from precisely that emotion.

Tom Byrd stood patiently by, keeping quiet as Grey circled the table, viewing the corpse from all angles. Nothing seemed to make sense of the puzzle, though, and when Hicks’s men came in, he allowed them to bundle up the body into a canvas.

“D’you want us to take this, as well, sir?” One of the men picked up the sodden hem of the green dress, gingerly, between two fingers.

“Not even the mort-man’d want that,” the other objected, wrinkling his nose at the reek.

“You couldn’t sell it to a ragpicker, even was you to wash it.”

“No,” Grey said, “leave it, for now.”

“You don’t mean to leave it in here, do you, sir?” Hicks stood by, arms folded, glowering at the sodden pile of velvet.

“No, I suppose not,” Grey said, with a sigh. “Don’t want to put the horses off their feed, do we?”

It was full dark as they left the stables, but with a gibbous moon rising. No coach would take them as passengers with their malodorous burden, even with it wrapped in tarred canvas, and so they were obliged to walk to Jermyn Street.

They made the journey for the most part in silence, Grey mulling over the events of the day, trying vainly to fit the dead man somehow into the puzzle. Two things alone seemed clear about the matter: one, that a great effort had been made to disguise the man’s identity. Two, that there was some connexion between the dead man and the brothel in Meacham Street—which in turn meant that there must be some connexion with Joseph Trevelyan.

This seemed vaguely wrong; if one’s chief motive was to disguise identity, why clothe the corpse in such a distinctive gown? His mind supplied the answer, belatedly reminding him of what he had seen but not consciously noted at the time. The man had not been dressed in the gown after death—he had been wearing it when he was shot.

There was no doubt about it. The bullet hole in the dress was singed round the edges, and there were powder grains in the fabric of the dress for some distance around it; likewise, the wound in the chest had shreds of fabric driven into it.

That began to make matters seem more sensible. If the victim had been wearing the gown when shot, and there was some reason not to remove it—then the smashing of the man’s face to obscure identity was a reasonable step.

Look at it from the other direction, he thought. If Magruder had not been on the alert for any mention of a green velvet gown—for no one could have known that there was any official interest in such a thing—what might have been expected to happen?

The corpse would have been discovered, and taken to the nearest morgue—which was . . . where, exactly? Near Vauxhall, perhaps?

That was promising; Vauxhall was a rowdy district, full of theaters and amusement parks, much patronized by ladies of the evening andby painted mollies out for an evening’s jollification at one of the many masked balls. He must ask Magruder to discover whether there had been a ball on Tuesday night.

So, then. If not for Magruder’s interference, the body would have been taken to a morgue, where it would likely have been assumed to be that of a prostitute, such women not uncommonly meeting with violent ends. Everyone who had seen the body had in fact assumed it to be that of a woman, until Tom the barber’s son had spotted the tiny patch of telltale stubble.

That was it, he thought, with a small spurt of excitement. That was why the gown was not removed and why the face was smashed; to disguise not the identity per se, but the sex of the victim!

He felt Tom glance at him in curiosity, and realized that he must have made some exclamation. He shook his head at the boy and paced on, too engrossed in his speculations to suffer the distraction of conversation.

Even if the truth of the corpse’s sex had been discovered, he thought, it would likely have been assumed that the body belonged to the shady half-world of transvestite commerce—no one of consequence, no one who would be missed.

The body would then have been promptly disposed of, taken off to a dissection room or a potter’s field, depending on its state—but in either case, safely gone, with no chance of its ever being identified.

All of which gave him an unpleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach. A number of boys and young men from that shadow world disappeared in London every year, their fates—when they were noticed at all—usually concealed in official wording that sought to soothe society’s sensibilities by ignoring any hint that they had been involved in abominable perversion.

Which meant that for such trouble to be taken in disguising this particular death—the dead man wassomeone of consequence. Someone who would be missed. The bundle under his arm seemed suddenly heavier, dragging at him like the weight of a severed head.

“Me lord?” Tom Byrd laid a tentative hand on the bundle, offering to take it from him.

“No, Tom, that’s all right.” He shifted the bundle, tucking it more firmly under his arm. “I smell like a slaughterhouse already; no need for you to spoil your clothes as well.”

The boy took his hand away, with an alacrity that informed Grey of the nobility of the original offer. The bundle didstink abominably. He smiled to himself, face hidden in the darkness.

“I’m afraid we will have missed our supper—but I suppose Cook will let us have something.”

“Yes, me lord.”

Piccadilly lay just ahead; the streets were opening out, lined with the shops of clothiers and merchants, rather than the libkens and taverns of the narrower ways near Queen Street. At this time of night, the streets were busy with foot traffic, horses and carriages; random snatches of conversation, shouts and cheerful bustle drifted past.

A light rain was falling, and mist rose from the pavements round their feet. The lightermen had come already; the streetlamps flickered and glowed under the glass of their canopies and shone upon the wet stones, helping to dispel the lurking horror of that conference in the hay shed.

“Do you get used to it, me lord?” Tom glanced at him, round face troubled in the transient glow.

“To what? Death, do you mean, and bodies?”

“Well . . . that sort of death, I suppose.” The boy made a diffident gesture toward the bundle. “I’d think this was maybe different than what you see in battle—but maybe I’m wrong?”

“Maybe.” Grey slowed his pace to let a group of gay blades pass, laughing as they crossed the street, dodging an oncoming detachment of mounted Horse Guards, harness glittering in the wet.

“I suppose it is no different in the essentials,” he said, stepping out as the sound of hooves clattered off down Piccadilly. “I have seen more dreadful things on a battlefield, often. And yes, you do get used to that—you must.”

“But it isdifferent?” Tom persisted. “This?”

Grey took a deep breath, and a firmer hold on his burden.

“Yes,” he said. “And I should not like to meet the man to whom this is routine.”

Chapter 14

A Troth Is Blighted

Grey was rudely roused from his bed just after dawn, to find Corporal Jowett arrived on the doorstep with bad news.

“Ruddy birds had flown, sir,” Jowett said, handing over a note from Malcolm Stubbs to the same effect. “Lieutenant Stubbs and I went round with a couple of soldiers, along with that Magruder fellow and two constables, thinking to take the Scanlons unawares whilst it was still dark.” Jowett looked like an emaciated bulldog at the best of times; his face now was positively savage. “Found the door locked and broke it in—only to find the place empty as a ruddy tomb on Easter morning.”

Not only had the Scanlons themselves decamped; the entire stock of the apothecary’s shop was missing, leaving behind only empty bottles and bits of scattered rubbish.

“They had warning, eh?” Jowett said. “Somebody tipped ’em—but who?”

“I don’t know,” Grey said grimly, tying the sash of his banyan. “You spoke to the neighbors?”

Jowett snorted.

“For what good it did. Irishmen, all of ’em, and liars born. Magruder arrested a couple of them, but it won’t do any good—you could see that.”

“Did they say at least whenthe Scanlons had decamped?”

“Most of them said they hadn’t the faintest—but we found one old granny down the end of the street as said she’d seen folk carrying boxes out of the house on the Tuesday.”

“Right. I’ll speak to Magruder later.” Grey glanced out the window; it was raining, and the street outside was a dismal gray, but he could see the houses on the other side—the sun was up. “Will you have some breakfast, Jowett? A cup of tea, at least.”

Jowett’s bloodshot eyes brightened slightly.

“I wouldn’t say no, Major,” he allowed. “It’s been a busy night.”

Grey sent the Corporal off to the kitchen in the charge of a yawning servant, and stood staring out the window at the downpour outside, wondering what the devil to make of this.

On the positive side, this hasty disappearance clearly incriminated the Scanlons—but in what? They had a motive for O’Connell’s death, and yet they had simply denied any involvement, Scanlon looking cool as a plateful of sliced cucumbers. Nothing had happened since that might alarm them in that regard; why should they flee now?

What hadhappened was the discovery of the dead man in the green velvet dress—but what could the Scanlons have had to do with that?

Still, it seemed very likely that the man had been killed sometime on Tuesday—and Tuesday appeared to be when the Scanlons had fled. Grey rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to stimulate his mental processes. All right. That was simply too great a coincidence to bea coincidence, he thought. Which meant . . . what?

That the Scanlons—or Finbar Scanlon, at least—were involved in some way with the death of the man in green velvet. And who the hell was he? A gentleman—or someone with similar pretensions, he thought. The corpse was no workingman, that was sure.

“Me lord?” Tom Byrd had come in with a tray. He hadn’t yet washed his face, and his hair stuck up on end, but he seemed wide-awake. “I heard you get up. D’ye want some tea?”

“Christ, yes.” He seized the steaming cup and inhaled its fragrant steam, the heat of the china wonderful in his chilled hands.

The rain poured in sheets from the eaves. When had they left? he wondered. Were Scanlon and his wife out in this, or were they safe in some place of refuge? Chances were, they had decamped immediately following the death of the man in green velvet—and yet, they had taken the time to pack, to remove the valuable stock from the shop. . . . These were not the panicked actions of murderers, surely?

Of course, he was obliged to admit to himself, he hadn’t dealt with many murderers before—unless . . . The recollection flashed through his mind, as it did now and then, of what Harry Quarry had told him about Jamie Fraser and the death of a Sergeant Murchison at Ardsmuir. If it was true—and even Quarry had not been sure—then Fraser also had remained cool and unpanicked, and had gotten away with the crime in consequence. What if Scanlon had a similar temperament, an equal capacity?

He shook his head impatiently, dismissing the thought. Fraser was not a murderer, whatever else he might be. And Scanlon? For the life of him, Grey could not decide.

“Which is why we have courts of law, I suppose,” he said aloud, and drained the rest of the cup.

“Me lord?” Tom Byrd, who had just succeeded in lighting the fire, scrambled to his feet and picked up the tray.

“I was merely observing that our legal system rests on evidence, rather than emotion,” Grey said, setting the empty cup back on the tray. “Which means, I think, that I must go and find some.” Brave words, considering that he had no good ideas as to where to look for it.

“Oh, aye, sir? Will you be wanting your good uniform, then?”

“No, I think not yet.” Grey scratched thoughtfully at his jaw. The only hope of a clue that he had at present was the German wine. Thanks to the helpful Mr. Congreve, he knew what it was, and who had bought it. If he could not find the Scanlons, perhaps he could discover something about the mysterious man in green.

“I’ll wear it when we call upon Captain von Namtzen. But first—”

But first it was high time to discharge an unpleasant duty.

“I’ll wear the ice-blue now, if it’s decent,” he decided. “But first, I need a shave.”

“Very good, me lord,” said Byrd, in his best valet’s voice, and bowed, upsetting the teacup.

Tom Byrd had mostly succeeded in removing the odor from the ice-blue suit. Mostly.

Grey sniffed discreetly at the shoulder of his coat. No, that was all right; perhaps it was just a miasma from the object in his pocket. He had cut a square from the green velvet dress, crusty with dried blood, and brought it with him, wrapped in a bit of oilcloth.

He had, after some hesitation, also brought a walking stick, a slender affair of ebony, with a chased silver handle in the shape of a brooding heron. He did not intend to strike Trevelyan with it, no matter how the interview progressed. He was, however, aware that having some object with which to occupy one’s hands was useful in times of social difficulty—and this occasion promised to be rather more difficult than the usual.

He’d thought of his sword, merely because that was an accustomed tool, and the weight of it at his side a comfort. This wasn’t an occasion for uniform, though.

Not that he wasn’t an oddity among the crush of seamen, porters, barrowmen, and oysterwomen near the docks, but there were at least a few gentlemen here as well. A pair of prosperous-looking merchants strolled together toward him, one holding a chart, which he seemed to be explaining to the other. A man whom he recognized as a banker picked his way through the mud and slime underfoot, careful of his coat as he brushed past a barrow full of slick black mussels, dripping weed and water.

He was aware of people looking at him in curiosity as he passed, but that was all right; it wasn’t the sort of curiosity that would cause talk.

He had gone first to Trevelyan’s house, only to be informed that the master had gone down to his warehouse and was not expected before the evening. Would he leave his card?

He had declined, and taken a carriage to the docks, unable to bear the thought of waiting all day to do what must be done.

And what washe going to do? He felt hollow at the thought of the coming interview, but clung firmly to the one thing he did know. The engagement must be broken, officially. Beyond that, he would get what information he could from Trevelyan, but to protect Olivia was the most important thing—and the only thing that he, personally, could insure.

He wasn’t looking forward to going home afterward and telling Olivia and his mother what he had done—let alone why. He’d learned in the army not to anticipate more than one unpleasant contingency at a time, though, and resolutely ignored the thought of anything that lay beyond the next half hour. Do what must be done, and then deal with the consequences.

It was one of the larger warehouses in the district, and despite the shabby look of such buildings in general, well-maintained. Inside, it was a vast cavern of riches; despite his errand, Grey took time to be impressed. There were stacked chests and wooden boxes, stenciled with cryptic symbols of ownership and destination; bundles wrapped in canvas and oilcloth; sheets of rolled copper; and stacks of boards, barrels, and hogsheads tiered five and six high against the walls.

Beyond the sheer abundance, he was as much impressed by the sense of orderliness amid confusion. Men came and went, burdened like ants, fetching and taking away in a constant stream. The floor was inches deep in the fragrant straw used for packing, and the air filled with golden motes of it, kicked up by the treading feet.

Grey brushed bits of straw from his coat, taking deep breaths with pleasure; the air was perfumed with the intoxicating scents of tea, wine, and spice, gently larded with the more oleaginous tones of whale oil and candle wax, with a solid bottom note of honest tar. On a different occasion, Grey would have liked to poke about in the fascinating clutter, but not today, alas. With a last regretful lungful, he turned aside in pursuit of his duty.

He made his way through the bustle to a small enclosure of clerks, all seated on high stools and madly scribbling. Boys roamed among them like dairymaids through a herd of cows, milking them of their output and carrying off stacks of papers toward a door in the wall, where the foot of a staircase hinted at the presence of offices above.

His heart gave an unpleasant thump as he spotted Trevelyan himself, deep in conversation with an ink-stained functionary. Taking a deep breath of the scented air, he threaded his way through the maze of stools, and tapped Trevelyan on the shoulder. Trevelyan swung round at once, clearly accustomed to interruption, but halted, surprised, at sight of Grey.

“Why, John!” he said, and smiled. “Whatever brings you here?”

Slightly taken aback by the use of his Christian name, Grey bowed formally.

“A private matter, sir. Might we—?” He raised his brows at the ranks of laboring clerks, and nodded toward the stair.

“Of course.” Looking mildly puzzled, Trevelyan waved away a hovering assistant, and led the way up the stair and into his own office.

It was a surprisingly plain room; large, but simply furnished, the only ornaments an ivory-and-crystal inkwell and a small bronze statue of some many-armed Indian deity. Grey had expected something much more ornate, in keeping with Trevelyan’s wealth. On the other hand, he supposed that perhaps that was one reason why Trevelyan waswealthy.

Trevelyan waved him toward a chair, going to take his own seat behind the large, battered desk. Grey stood stiffly, though, the blood thumping softly in his ears.

“No, sir, I thank you. The matter will not take long.”

Trevelyan glanced at him in surprise. The Cornishman’s eyes narrowed, seeming for the first time to take in Grey’s stiffness.

“Is something the matter, Lord John?”

“I have come to inform you that your engagement to my cousin is at an end,” Grey said bluntly.

Trevelyan blinked, expressionless.

What would he do? Grey wondered. Say “Oh,” and leave it at that? Demand an explanation? Become furious and call him out? Summon servants to remove him from the premises?

“Do sit down, John,” Trevelyan said at last, sounding quite as cordial as he had before. He took his own chair and leaned back a little, gesturing in invitation.

Seeing no alternative, Grey sat, resting the walking stick across his knees.

Trevelyan was stroking his long, narrow chin, looking at Grey as though he were a particularly interesting shipment of Chinese pottery.

“I am of course somewhat surprised,” he said politely. “Have you spoken to Hal about this?”

“In my brother’s absence, I am the head of the family,” Grey said firmly. “And I have decided that under the circumstances, your betrothal to my cousin ought not to be continued.”

“Really?” Trevelyan went on looking polite, though he raised one eyebrow dubiously. “I do wonder what your brother is likely to say, upon his return. Tell me, is he not expected back fairly soon?”

Grey set the tip of his walking stick on the floor and leaned upon it, gripping hard. The devil with a sword,he thought, keeping a similar grip upon his temper. I should have brought a knout.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” he said, steel in his voice, “I have told you my decision. It is final. You will cease at once to pay addresses to Miss Pearsall. The wedding will not take place. Do I make myself clear?”

“No, I can’t say that you do, really.” Trevelyan steepled his fingers and placed them precisely below the tip of his nose, so that he looked at Grey over them. He was wearing a cabochon seal ring with the incised figure of a Cornish chough, and the green stone glowed as he leaned back. “Has something occurred that causes you to take this—I hope you will excuse my characterizing it as rather rash—step?”

Grey stared at him for a moment, considering. At last, he reached into his pocket and removed the oilcloth parcel. He laid it on the desk in front of Trevelyan, and flipped it open, releasing a crude stink of corruption that overwhelmed any hint of spice or straw.

Trevelyan stared down at the scrap of green velvet, still expressionless. His nostrils twitched slightly, and he took a deep breath, seeming to inhale something.

“Excuse me a moment, will you, John?” he said, rising. “I’ll just see that we are not disturbed.” He vanished onto the landing, allowing the door to close behind him.

Grey’s heart was still beating fast, but he had himself in better hand, now that it was begun. Trevelyan had recognized the scrap of velvet; there was no doubt of that.

This came as a considerable relief, on the one hand; there would be no need to address the matter of Trevelyan’s disease. It was grounds for great wariness, though; he needed to extract as much information from the Cornishman as he could. How? No way of knowing what would be effective; he must just trust to the inspiration of the moment—and if the man proved obdurate, perhaps a mention of the Scanlons would be beneficial.

It was no more than a few minutes, but seemed an age before Trevelyan returned, carrying with him a jug and a pair of wooden cups.

“Have a drink, John,” he said, setting them on the desk. “Let us speak as friends.”

Grey had it in mind to refuse, but on second thought, it might be helpful. If Trevelyan felt relaxed, he might divulge more than otherwise—and wine had certainly worked to induce a spirit of cooperation in Nessie.

He gave a small nod of acquiescence, and accepted the cup, though he did not drink from it until Trevelyan was likewise equipped. The Cornishman sat back, looking quite unruffled, and lifted his cup a little.

“What shall we drink to, John?”

The gall of the man was staggering—and rather admirable, he had to admit. He lifted his own cup, unsmiling.

“To the truth, sir.”

“Oh? Oh, by all means—to the truth!” Still smiling, though with a slight expression of wariness, Trevelyan drained his cup.

It was a tawny sherry, and a good one, though it hadn’t settled adequately.

“Just off a ship from Jerez,” Trevelyan said, waving at the jug with an air of apology. “The best I had to hand, I’m afraid.”

“It is very good. Thank you,” Grey said repressively. “Now—”

“Have another?” Not pausing for reply, Trevelyan refilled both cups. He lowered the jug, and at last took notice of the square of discolored velvet, sitting on his desk like a toad. He prodded it gingerly with a forefinger.

“I . . . ah . . . confess that I am at something of a loss, John. Does this object have some significance of which I should be aware?”

Grey cursed himself silently for letting the man leave the room; damn it, he’d had time to think, and had obviously decided that a ploy of determined ignorance was best.

“That bit of cloth was taken from the garment on a corpse,” he said, keeping his voice level. “A murdered woman.”

Sure enough, Trevelyan’s left eye twitched, just slightly, and a small, fierce surge of satisfaction burned in Grey’s heart. He didknow!

“God rest her soul, poor creature.” Trevelyan folded the cloth over once, quite gently, so the worst of the blood was hidden. “Who was she? What happened to her?”

“The magistrate is choosing to keep that information private for the moment,” Grey said pleasantly, and was rewarded by the jumping of a muscle in Trevelyan’s jaw at the word “magistrate.” “However, I understand that certain evidence was discovered, suggesting a connexion between this woman and yourself. Given the sordid circumstances, I am afraid that I cannot allow your attachment to my cousin to continue.”

“What evidence?” Trevelyan had got control of himself again, and was exhibiting precisely the right degree of outrage. “There cannot possibly be anything linking . . . whoever this creature is, to me!”

“I regret that I am unable to acquaint you with the particulars,” Grey said, grimly pleased. Two could play the game of ignorance. “But Sir John Fielding is a close friend of the family; he has a natural concern for my cousin’s happiness and reputation.” He shrugged delicately, implying that the magistrate had tipped him the wink, while withholding any number of sordidly incriminating details. “I thought it better to sever the betrothal, before anything of a scandalous nature should emerge. I am sure you—”

“That is—” Trevelyan wore no powder in the warehouse; his face was becoming blotched with emotion. “That is unspeakable! I have nothing to do with any murdered woman!”

That was true—but only because it hadn’t been a woman. To the truth, indeed!

“As I say, I am unable to deal in particulars,” Grey said. “However, I did hear a name, in connexion with the matter. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Scanlon, perhaps? An apothecary?” He took up his cup and sipped, feigning indifference, but watching carefully beneath his lashes.

Trevelyan was master of his face, but not his blood. He kept the expression of outraged bafflement firmly fixed—but his face had gone dead-white.

“I am not, sir,” he said firmly.

“Or an establishment called Lavender House?”

“I am not.” The bones stood out in Trevelyan’s narrow face, and his eyes gleamed dark. Grey thought that if they had been alone in some alley, the man would likely have attacked him.

They sat in silence for a moment. Trevelyan drummed his fingers on the desk, narrow mouth set tight as he thought. The blood began to come back into his face, and he picked up the jug and refilled Grey’s cup, without asking.

“See here, John,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I do not know to whom you have been speaking, but I can assure you that there is no truth whatever to any rumor you may have heard.”

“You would naturally say as much,” Grey remarked.

“So would any innocent man,” Trevelyan replied evenly.

“Or a guilty one.”

“Are you accusing me, John, of having done someone to death? For I will swear to you—on the Book, on your cousin’s life, your mother’s head, on whatever you like—that I have done no such thing.” A slightly different note had entered Trevelyan’s voice; he leaned forward and spoke with passion, eyes blazing. For a moment, Grey felt a slight qualm—either the man was a splendid actor, or he was telling the truth. Or part of it.

“I do not accuse you of murder,” he said, cautiously seeking another way past Trevelyan’s defenses. “However, for your name to be entangled in the matter is clearly a serious concern.”

Trevelyan gave a small grunt, settling back a little.

“Any fool can bandy a man’s name—many do, God knows. I should not have thought you so credulous, John.”

Grey took a sip of sherry, resisting the urge to respond to the insult. “I should have thought, sir, that you would at once be aroused to make inquiry—should you be quite innocent of the matter.”

Trevelyan uttered a short laugh.

“Oh, I am aroused, I assure you of that. Why, I should be calling for my carriage at this moment, to go round and speak to Sir John face-to-face—were I not aware that he is presently in Bath, and has been for the last week.”

Grey bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. God damn him for a fool! How could he have forgotten—Joseph Trevelyan knew everyone.

He was still holding the cup of sherry. He drank it off at a gulp, feeling the liquor sear the bitten place, and set it down with a thump.

“Very well, then,” he said, a little hoarsely. “You leave me no choice. I had sought to spare your sensibilities—”

“Spare me? Spareme? Why, you—”

“—but I see I cannot. I forbid you to marry Olivia—”

“You think you can forbid me? You? When your brother—”

“—because you are poxed.”

Trevelyan stopped speaking so abruptly that it seemed he had been turned into a pillar of salt. He sat utterly immobile, dark eyes fixed on Grey with a stare so penetrating that Grey felt he meant to see through flesh and bone, plucking out truth from Grey’s heart and brain by means of sheer will.

The silver handle of his stick was slick with sweat, and he saw that Trevelyan had gripped the bronze statue so tightly that his knuckles were white. He shifted one hand on his stick for leverage; one move by Trevelyan to brain him, and he’d lay the man out.

As though the small movement had broken some evil spell, Trevelyan blinked, his hand letting go the little bronze goddess. He continued to look at Grey, but now with an expression of concern.

“My dear John,” he said quietly. “My dear fellow.” He sat back, rubbing a hand across his brow, as though overcome.

He said nothing more, though, leaving Grey to sit there, the sound of his denunciation ringing in his ears.

“Have you nothing to say, Mr. Trevelyan?” he demanded at last.

“Say?” Trevelyan dropped his hand, and looked at him, mouth a little open. He closed it, shook his head slightly, and poured fresh sherry, pushing Grey’s cup across to him.

“What have I to say?” he repeated, staring into the depths of his own cup. “Well, I could deny it, of course—and I do. In your present state of mind, though, I am afraid that no statement would be adequate. Would it?” He glanced up, inquiringly.

Grey shook his head.

“Well, then,” Trevelyan said, almost kindly. “I do not know where you have acquired these remarkable notions, John. Of course, if you truly believe them, then you have no choice but to act as you are—I see that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Trevelyan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Did you . . . seek counsel of anyone, before coming here?”

What the devil did the fellow mean by that?

“If you are inquiring whether anyone is cognizant of my whereabouts,” Grey said coldly, “they are.” In fact, they were not; no one knew he was at the warehouse. On the other hand, a dozen clerks and countless laborers had seen him downstairs; it would take a madman to try to do away with him here—and he didn’t think Trevelyan was mad. Dangerous, but not mad.

Trevelyan’s eyes widened.

“What? You thought I meant—good gracious.” He glanced away, rubbing a knuckle over his lips. He cleared his throat, twice, then looked up. “I merely meant to ask whether you had shared these incredible . . . delusions of yours with anyone. I think you have not. For if you had, surely anyone would have tried to persuade you not to pursue such a disastrous course.”

Trevelyan shook his head, an expression of worried dismay pursing his lips.

“Have you a carriage? No, of course not. Never mind; I shall summon mine. The coachman will see you safely to your mother’s house. Might I recommend Doctor Masonby, of Smedley Street? He has an excellent history with nervous disorders.”

Grey was so stricken with amazement that he scarcely felt outraged.

“Are you attempting to suggest that I am insane?”

“No, no! Of course not, certainly not.”

Still Trevelyan went on looking at him in that worried, pitying sort of way, and he felt the amazement melting away. He should perhaps be furious, but felt instead an urge to laugh incredulously.

“I am pleased to hear it,” Grey said dryly, and rose to his feet. “I shall bear your kind advice in mind. In the meantime, however—your betrothal is at an end.”

He had nearly reached the door when Trevelyan called out behind him.

“Lord John! Wait a moment!”

He paused and looked back, though without turning.

“Yes?”

The Cornishman had his lower lip caught in his teeth, and was watching Grey with the air of one judging a wild animal. Would it attack, or run? He beckoned, gesturing to the chair Grey had vacated.

“Come back a moment. Please.”

He stood, undecided, hearing the thrum of business below, longing to escape this room and this man and lose himself in comings and goings, once more a peaceful part of the clockwork, and not a grain of sand in the cogs. But duty dictated otherwise, and he walked back, stick held tight.

“Sit. Please.” Trevelyan waited for him to do so, then sat down slowly himself.

“Lord John. You say that your concern is for your cousin’s reputation. So is mine.” He leaned across the desk, eyes intent. “Such a sudden breach cannot but give rise to scandal—you know this, surely?”

Grey did, but forbore to nod, merely watching impassively. Trevelyan ignored his lack of response, and carried on, speaking more hurriedly.

“Well, then. If you are convinced of the wisdom of your intention, then plainly I cannot dissuade you. Will you give me a short time, though, to devise some reasonable grounds for the dissolution of the betrothal? Something that will discredit neither party?”

Grey drew breath, feeling the beginnings of something like relief. This was the resolution he had hoped for from the moment he had discovered the sore on Trevelyan’s prick. He realized that the situation now bore far more aspects than he had ever thought, and such a resolution would not touch most of them. Still, Olivia would be safe.

Trevelyan sensed his softening, and pushed the advantage.

“You know that merely to announce a severance will give rise to talk,” he said persuasively. “Some public reason, something plausible, must be offered to prevent it.”

Doubtless the man had an ulterior motive; perhaps he meant to flee the country? But then Grey felt again the vibrations beneath his feet, the boomings of rolling wine casks and thud of heaved crates, the muffled shouts of men in the warehouse below. Would a man of such substance readily abandon his interests, merely to avoid accusation?

Probably not; more likely he had it in mind to use the grace period to cover his tracks completely, or dispose of dangerous complications such as the Scanlons. If he hadn’t already done so, Grey thought suddenly.

But there was no good reason to refuse such a request. And he could alert Magruder and Quarry at once—have the man followed.

“Very well. You have three days.”

Trevelyan drew breath, as if to protest, but then nodded, accepting it.

“As you say. I thank you.” He took the jug and poured more sherry, slopping it a little. “Here—let us drink on the bargain.”

Grey had no wish to linger in the man’s company, and took no more than a token sip before pushing his cup away and rising. He took his leave, but turned back briefly at the door, to see Trevelyan looking after him, with eyes that would have burned a hole in the door to hell.

Chapter 15

One Man’s Poison

If Captain von Namtzen was surprised to see Grey and his valet, there was no evidence of it in his manner.

“Major Grey! How great a pleasure to see you again! Please, you will have some wine—a biscuit?” The tall Hanoverian clasped him by hand and forearm, beaming, and had Tom dispatched to the kitchen and Grey himself seated in the drawing room with refreshments before he could gracefully decline, let alone explain his objective in calling. Once he managed to do so, though, the Captain was helpfulness itself.

“But certainly, certainly! Let me see this list.”

He took the paper from Grey and carried it to the window for scrutiny. It was well past teatime, but so near to Midsummer Day, late-afternoon light still flooded in, haloing von Namtzen like a saint in a medieval painting.

He looked like one of those German saints, too, Grey thought a little abstractedly, admiring the cleanly ascetic lines of the German’s face, with its broad brow and wide, calm eyes. The mouth was not particularly sensitive, but it did show humor in the creases beside it.

“I know these names, yes. You wish me to tell you . . . what?”

“Anything that you can.” Tiredness dragged at him, but Grey rose and came to stand beside the Captain, looking at the list. “All I know of these people is that they have purchased a particular wine. I cannot say precisely what the connexion may be, but this wine seems to have something to do with . . . a confidential matter. I’m afraid I can say no more.” He shrugged apologetically.

Von Namtzen glanced sharply at him, but then nodded, and returned his attention to the paper before him.

“Wine, you say? Well, that is strange.”

“What is strange?”

The Captain tapped a long, immaculate finger on the paper.

“This name—Hungerbach. It is the family name of an old noble house; zu Egkh und Hungerbach. Not German at all, you understand; they are Austrian.”

“Austrian?” Grey felt his heart lurch, and leaned forward, as though to make certain of the name on the paper. “You are sure?”

Von Namtzen looked amused.

“Of course. The estate near Graz is very famous for its wines; that is why I say it is strange you bring me this name and say it is about wine. The best of the St. Georgen wines—that is the name of the castle there, St. Georgen—is very famous. A very good red wine they make—the color of fresh blood.”

Grey felt an odd rushing in his ears, as though his own blood were draining suddenly from his head, and put a hand on the table to steady himself.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, feeling a slight numbness about his lips. “The wine is called Schilcher?”

“Why, yes. However did you know that?”

Grey made a small motion with one hand, indicating that it was of no importance. There seemed to be a number of gnats in the room, though he had not noticed them before; they swarmed in the light from the window, dancing motes of black.

“These—the Hungerbach family—some are here, then, in London?”

“Yes. Baron Joseph zu Egkh und Hungerbach is the head of the family, but his heir is a distant cousin, named Reinhardt Mayrhofer—he keeps a quite large house in Mecklenberg Square. I have been there sometimes—though of course with the situation as it now is . . .” He lifted one shoulder in acknowledgment of the delicate diplomatic issues involved.

“And this . . . Reinhardt. He—is he a small man? Dark, with long . . . curling . . . h-hair.” The gnats had become suddenly more numerous, and illuminated, a nearly solid mass of flickering lights before his eyes.

“However did you—Major! Are you quite well?” Dropping the paper, he grabbed Grey by the arm and guided him hurriedly to the sofa. “Sit, please. Water I will have brought, and brandy. Wilhelm, mach schnell!” A servant appeared briefly in the doorway, then disappeared at once at von Namtzen’s urgent gesture.

“I am quite—quite all right,” Grey protested. “Really, there is . . . not . . . the slightest . . . n-need—” But the Hanoverian put a large, firm hand in the center of Grey’s chest and pushed him flat on the sofa. Stooping swiftly, he seized Grey’s boots and hoisted his feet up as well, all the while bellowing in German for assorted incomprehensible things.

“I—really, sir, you must—” And yet he felt a gray mist rising before his eyes, and a whirling in his head that made it difficult to order his thoughts. He could taste blood in his mouth, how odd. . . . It mingled with the smell of pig’s blood, and he felt his gorge rising.

“Me lord, me lord!” Tom Byrd’s voice rang through the mist, shrill with panic. “What you done to him, you bloody Huns?”

A confusion of deeper voices surrounded him, speaking words that slipped away before he could grasp their meaning, and a spasm seized him, twisting his guts with such brutal force that his knees rose toward his chest, trying vainly to contain it.

“Oh, dear,” said von Namtzen’s voice, quite near, in tones of mild dismay. “Well, it was not such a nice sofa, was it? You, boy—there is a doctor who is living two doors down, you run and fetch him right quick, ja?”

Events thereafter assumed a nightmarish quality, with a great deal of noise. Monstrous faces peered at him through a nacreous fog, with words such as “emesis” and “egg whites” shooting past his ears like darting fish. There was a terrible burning feeling in his mouth and throat, superseded periodically by bouts of griping lower down, so intense that he now and then lost consciousness for a few moments, only to be roused again by a flood of sulfurous bile that rose with so much violence that his throat alone provided insufficient egress, and it burst from his nostrils in a searing spew.

These bouts were succeeded by copious outpourings of saliva, welcome at first for their dilution of the brimstone heavings, but then a source of horror as they threatened drowning. He had a dim sense of himself at one point, lying with his head hanging over the edge of the sofa, drooling like a maddened dog, before someone pulled him upright and tried once more to pour something down his throat. It was cool and glutinous, and at the touch of it on his palate, his inward parts again revolted. At last the dense perfume of poppies spread itself like a bandage across the raw membranes of his nose; he sucked feebly at the spoon in his mouth and fell with relief into a darkness shot with fire.

He woke some unimaginable time later from the disorientation of opium visions, to find one of the monstrous faces of his dreams still present, bending over him—a pallid countenance with bulging yellow eyes and lips the color of raw liver. A clammy hand clutched him by the privates.

“Do you suffer from a chronic venereal complaint, my lord?” the countenance inquired. A thumb prodded him familiarly in the scrotum.

“I do not,” Grey said, sitting bolt upright and pressing the tail of his shirt protectively between his legs. The blood rushed from his head and he swayed alarmingly. He seized the edge of a small table by the bed to keep upright, only then noting that in addition to the clammy hands, the dreadful countenance was possessed of an outsize wig and a wizened body clad in rusty black and reeking of medicaments.

“I have been poisoned. What sort of infamous quack are you, that you cannot tell the difference between a derangement of the internal organs and the pox, for God’s sake?” he demanded.

“Poisoned?” The doctor looked mildly bemused. “Do you mean that you did not take an excess of the substance deliberately?”

“What substance?”

“Why, sulphide of mercury, to be sure. It is used to treat syphilis. The results of the gastric lavage— What are you about, sir? You must not exert yourself, sir, really, you must not!”

Grey had thrust his legs out of bed and attempted to rise, only to be overcome by another wave of dizziness. The doctor seized him by the arm, as much to keep him from toppling over as to prevent his escape.

“Now, then, sir, just lie back . . . yes, yes, that is the way, to be sure. You have had a very narrow escape, sir; you must not imperil your health by hasty—”

“Von Namtzen!” Grey resisted the hands pushing him back into bed, and shouted for assistance. His throat felt as though a large wood-rasp had been thrust down it. “Von Namtzen, for God’s sake, where are you?”

“I am here, Major.” A large hand planted itself firmly on his shoulder from the other side, and he turned to see the Hanoverian’s handsome face looking down at him, creased in a frown.

“You were poisoned, you say? Who is it that would do this thing?”

“A man called Trevelyan. I must go. Will you find me my clothes?”

“But, my lord—”

“But, Major, you have been—”

Grey gripped von Namtzen’s wrist, hard. His hand trembled, but he summoned what strength he could.

“I must go, and go at once,” he said hoarsely. “It is a matter of duty.”

The Hanoverian’s face changed at once, and he nodded, standing up.

“Quite so. I will go with you, then.”

His statement of intent had quite exhausted Grey’s meager reserve of strength, but fortunately von Namtzen took charge, dismissing the doctor, sending for his own coach, and summoning Tom Byrd, who went off at once to fetch Grey’s uniform—which had luckily been cleaned—and help him into it.

“I’m very glad as you’re alive, me lord, but I will say as you’re a man what is hard on his clothes,” Byrd said reproachfully. “And this your best uniform, too! Or was,” he added, critically examining a faint stain on the front of the waistcoat before holding it up for Grey to insert his arms therein.

Grey, having no energy to spare, said nothing until they were rattling down the road in von Namtzen’s coach. The Hanoverian was also wearing his full dress uniform, and had brought the plumed helmet, set upon the seat beside him in the coach. He had also brought a large china bowl of eggs, which he set neatly upon his knees.

“What—?” Grey nodded at the eggs, feeling too weak for more precise inquiry.

“The doctor says that you must have egg whites, frequently and in great quantity,” von Namtzen explained, matter-of-factly. “It is the antidote for the mercuric sulphide. And you must not drink water nor wine for two days, only milk. Here.” With admirable dexterity, considering the shaking of the coach, he removed an egg from the bowl, cracked it against the rim, and slopped the white into a small pewter cup. He handed this to Grey, thriftily gulped the leftover yolk, and tossed the fragments of eggshell out the window.

The pewter felt cool in his hand, but Grey viewed the egg white within with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Tom Byrd glared at him from the opposite seat.

“You swallow that,” he said, in tones of menace. “Me lord.”

Grey glared back, but grudgingly obeyed. It felt mildly unpleasant, but he was relieved to discover that the nausea had evidently left him for good.

“How long—?” he asked, glancing out the window. It had been late afternoon of the Thursday; now it was mid-morning—but of which morning?

“It is Friday,” von Namtzen said.

Grey relaxed a little, hearing this. He had lost all sense of time, and was relieved to discover that his experience had not in fact lasted the eon it had seemed. Trevelyan would have had time to flee, but perhaps not to escape altogether.

Von Namtzen coughed, tactfully.

“It is perhaps not proper for me to inquire—you must forgive me, if so—but if we are to meet Herr Trevelyan shortly, I think perhaps it would be good to understand whyhe has been seeking to kill you?”

“I don’t know whether he did mean to kill me,” Grey said, accepting another cup of egg white with no more than a faint grimace of distaste. “He may only have meant to incapacitate me for a time, in order to give himself time to escape.”

Von Namtzen nodded, though a slight frown formed itself between his heavy brows.

“We shall hope so,” he said. “Though if so, his judgment is regrettably imprecise. If you think he wishes to escape, will he be still in his house?”

“Perhaps not.” Grey closed his eyes, trying to think. It was difficult; the nausea had passed, but the dizziness showed a tendency to return periodically. He felt as though his brain were an egg, fragile and runny after being dropped from a height. “One can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,”he murmured.

“Oh?” Von Namtzen said politely. “Just so, Major.”

If Trevelyan hadmeant to kill him, then the man might well be still at his house; for if Grey were dead, Trevelyan would have sufficient leisure to follow his original plans—whatever they were. If not, though, or if he were not sure that the mercuric sulphide would have a fatal effect, he might have fled at once. In which case—

Grey opened his eyes and sat up.

“Tell the coachman to go to Mecklenberg Square,” he said urgently. “If you please.”

Von Namtzen didn’t question this change of plan, but thrust his head out of the window and shouted to the coachman in German. The heavy coach swayed as it slowed, making the turn.

Six eggs later, it drew to a stop before the house of Reinhardt Mayrhofer.

Von Namtzen sprang lithely from the coach, put on his helmet, and strode like bold Achilles toward the door of the house, plumes waving. Grey assumed his own hat, paltry and insignificant as this object seemed by comparison, and followed, holding tightly to Tom Byrd’s arm lest his knees give way.

By the time Grey reached the doorstep, the door was open, and von Namtzen was haranguing the butler in a flood of German menace. Grey’s own German extended to no more than a smattering of parlor conversation, but he was able to follow von Namtzen’s demands that the butler summon Reinhardt Mayrhofer, and do it forthwith, if not sooner.

The butler, a square person of middle age with a stubborn cast to his brow, was stoutly withstanding this preliminary barrage by insisting that his master was not at home, but clearly the man had no notion of the true nature of the forces ranged against him.

“I am Stephan, Landgrave von Erdberg,” von Namtzen announced haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height—which Grey estimated as roughly seven feet, including feathers. “I will come in.”

He promptly did so, bending his neck only sufficiently to prevent the obliteration of his helmet. The butler fell back, sputtering and waving his hands in agitated protest. Grey nodded coolly to the man as he passed, and managed to uphold the dignity of His Majesty’s army by navigating the length of the entry hall without support. Reaching the morning room, he made for the first seat in evidence, and managed to sit down upon it before his legs gave way.

Von Namtzen was lobbing mortar shells into the butler’s position, which appeared to be rapidly crumbling but was still being defended. No, the butler said, now visibly wringing his hands, no, the master was most certainly not at home, and no, nor was the mistress, alas. . . .

Tom Byrd had followed Grey and was looking round the room in some awe, taking in the set of malachite-topped tables with gold feet, the white damask draperies, and the gigantic paintings in gilded frames that covered every wall.

Grey was sweating heavily from the effort of walking, and the dizziness set his head spinning afresh. He took an iron grip upon his will, though, and stayed upright.

“Tom,” he said, low-voiced, so as not to draw the attention of the embattled butler. “Go and search the house. Come and tell me what—or who—you find.”

Byrd gave him a suspicious look, obviously thinking this a device to get rid of him so that Grey could die surreptitiously—but Grey stayed rigidly upright, jaw set tight, and after a moment, the boy nodded and slipped quietly out, unnoticed by the fulminating butler.

Grey let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes, holding tight to his knees until the spinning sensation eased. It seemed to last a shorter time now; only a few moments, and he could open his eyes again.

Von Namtzen in the meantime appeared to have vanquished the butler, and was now demanding in stentorian tones the immediate assembly of the entire household. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Grey, and interrupted his tirade for an instant.

“Oh—and you will bring me the whites of three eggs, please, in a cup.”

“Bitte?”said the butler, faintly.

“Eggs. You are deaf?” von Namtzen inquired, in biting tones. “Only the whites. Schnell!”

Stung at this public solicitude for his weakened condition, Grey forced himself to his feet, coming to stand beside the Hanoverian, who—with the butler in full rout—had now removed his helmet and was looking quite pleased with himself.

“You are better now, Major?” he inquired, dabbing sweat delicately from his hairline with a linen handkerchief.

“Much, I thank you. I take it that both Reinhardt Mayrhofer and his wife are out?” Reinhardt, he reflected, was almost certainly out. But the wife—

“So the butler says. If he is not out, he is a coward,” von Namtzen said with satisfaction, putting away his handkerchief. “I will root him out of his hiding place like a turnip, though, and then—what will you do, then?” he inquired.

“Probably nothing,” Grey said. “I believe him to be dead. Is that the gentleman in question, by chance?” He nodded at a small framed portrait on a table by the window, its frame set with pearls.

“Yes, that is Mayrhofer and his wife, Maria. They are cousins,” he added, unnecessarily, in view of the close resemblance of the two faces in the portrait.

While both had a delicacy of feature, with long necks and rounded chins, Reinhardt was possessed of an imposing nose and an aristocratic scowl. Maria was a lovely woman, though, Grey thought; she was wigged in the portrait, of course, but had the same warm skin tones and brown eyes as her husband, and so was also likely dark-haired.

“Reinhardt is dead?” von Namtzen asked with interest, looking at the portrait. “How did he die?”

“Shot,” Grey replied briefly. “Quite possibly by the gentleman who poisoned me.”

“What a very industrious sort of fellow.” Von Namtzen’s attention was distracted at this point by the entrance of a parlor maid, white-faced with nerves and clutching a small dish containing the requested egg whites. She glanced from one man to the other, then held out the dish timidly toward von Namtzen.

“Danke,”he said. He handed the dish to Grey, then proceeded at once to catechize the maid, bending toward her in a way that made her press herself against the nearest wall, terrorized into speechlessness and capable only of shaking her head yes and no.

Unable to follow the nuances of this one-sided conversation, Grey turned away, viewing the contents of his dish with distaste. The sound of footsteps in the corridor and agitated voices indicated that the butler was indeed assembling the household, as ordered. Depositing the dish behind an alabaster vase on the desk, he stepped out into the corridor, to find a small crowd of household servants milling about, all chattering in excited German.

At sight of him, they stopped abruptly and stared, with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and what looked like simple fright on some faces. Why? he wondered. Was it the uniform?

“Guten Tag,”he said, smiling pleasantly. “Are any of you English?”

There were shifty glances to and fro, the focus of which seemed to be a pair of young chambermaids. He smiled reassuringly at them, beckoning them to one side. They looked at him wide-eyed, like a pair of young deer confronted by a hunter, but a glance at von Namtzen, emerging from the morning room behind him, hastily decided them that Lord John was the lesser of the evils on offer, and they followed close on his heels back into the room, leaving von Namtzen to deal with the crowd in the entry hall.

Their names, the girls admitted, with much stammering and blushing, were Annie and Tab. They were both from Cheapside, bosom friends, and had been in the employ of Herr Mayrhofer for the last three months.

“I gather that Herr Mayrhofer is not, in fact, at home today,” Grey said, still smiling. “When did he go out?”

The girls glanced at each other in confusion.

“Yesterday?” Grey suggested. “This morning?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Annie said. She seemed a trifle the braver of the two, though she could not bring herself to meet his eyes for more than a fraction of a second. “The master’s been g-gone since Tuesday.”

And Magruder’s men had discovered the corpse on Wednesday morning.

“Ah, I see. Do you know where he went?”

Naturally, they did not. They did, however, say—after much shuffling and contradicting of each other—that Herr Mayrhofer was often given to short journeys, leaving home for several days at a time, two or three times a month.

“Indeed,” Grey said. “And what is Herr Mayrhofer’s business, pray?”

Baffled looks, followed by shrugs. Herr Mayrhofer had money, plainly; where it came from was no concern of theirs. Grey felt a growing metallic taste at the back of his tongue, and swallowed, trying to force it down.

“Well, then. When he left the house this time, did he go out in the morning? Or later in the day?”

The girls frowned and conferred with each other in murmurs, before deciding that, well, in fact, they had neither of them actually seen Herr Reinhardt leave the house, and no, they had not heard the carriage draw up, but—

“He must have done, though, Annie,” Tab said, sufficiently engrossed in the argument as to lose some of her timidity. “’Coz he wasn’t in his bedroom in the afternoon, was he? Herr Reinhardt likes to have a bit of a sleep in the afternoon,” she explained, turning to Grey. “I turns down the bed right after lunch, and I did it that day—but it wasn’t mussed when I went up after teatime. So he must have gone in the morning, then, mustn’t he?”

The questioning proceeded in this tedious fashion for some time, but Grey succeeded in eliciting only a few helpful pieces of information, most of these negative in nature.

No, they did not think their mistress owned a green velvet gown, though of course she might have ordered one made; her personal maid would know. No, the mistress really wasn’t at home today, or at least they didn’t think so. No, they did not know for sure when she had left the house—but yes, she was here yesterday, and last night, yes. Had she been in the house on Tuesday last? They thought so, but could not really remember.

“Has a gentleman by the name of Joseph Trevelyan ever visited the house?” he asked. The girls exchanged shrugs and looked at him, baffled. How would they know? Their work was all abovestairs; they would seldom see any visitors to the house, save those who stayed overnight.

“Your mistress—you say that she was at home last night. When is the last time you saw her?”

The girls frowned, as one. Annie glanced at Tab; Tab made a small moue of puzzlement at Annie. Both shrugged.

“Well . . . I don’t rightly know, my lord,” Annie said. “She’s been poorly, the mistress. She’s been a-staying in her room all day, with trays brought up. I go in to change the linens regular, to be sure, but she’d be in her boudoir, or the privy closet. I suppose I haven’t seen her proper since—well, maybe since . . . Monday?” She raised her brows at Tab, who shrugged.