Текст книги "Lord John and the Private Matter "

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

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Hector had grabbed him and squeezed the muscle of his thigh until he squealed like a rabbit, then gathered him in close, laughing, forcing John’s face into the hollow of his shoulder.

“All right, I do remember, then. Wait, though.” He was quiet for a moment, his breath stirring John’s hair warm above the ear. It was too early in the year for midges, but the wind moved over them fresh and cool, tickling their skins with ends of waving grass.

“It was—well, it was fast. Lieutenant Bork had sent me and another fellow round a bit of copse to see if anything was doing, and I was in the lead. I heard a sort of thump and a cough behind me, and I thought Meadows—he was following me—I thought he’d stumbled. I turned to tell him to be quiet, and there he was lying on the ground, with blood all over his head, and a Scot just dropping the thumping great rock he’d hit Meadows with, and bending down to snatch his gun.

“They’re like animals, you know; all wild whiskers and dirt, generally barefoot and half-naked to boot. This one glanced up and saw me, and tried to seize the musket up and brain me, only Meadows had fallen on it, and I—well, I just screamed and lunged at him. I didn’t think a bit about it; it was just like the drills—only it felt a lot different when the bayonet went into him.”

John had felt a small shudder run through the body pressed against him, and put his arm round Hector’s waist, squeezing in reassurance.

“Did he die right away?” he asked.

“No,” Hector said softly, and John felt him swallow. “He fell back and sat down hard on the ground, and—and I lost hold of the gun, so he was sitting there with the bayonet sticking in him, and the gun’s butt . . . it was on the ground, bracing him, almost, like a shooting stick.”

“What did you do?” He stroked Hector’s chest, trying in some clumsy way to comfort him, but that was far beyond his powers at the moment.

“I knew I should do something—try to finish him, somehow—but I couldn’t think how. All I could do was to stand there, like a ninny, and him staring up at me out of that dirty face, and I . . .”

Hector swallowed again, hard.

“I was crying,” he said, all in a rush. “I kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ and crying. And he sort of shook his head, and he said something to me, but it was in that barbarous Erse, and I couldn’t understand if he knew what I’d said, or was cursing me, or if he wanted something, water maybe . . . I had water . . .”

Hector’s voice trailed off, but John could tell from the thickened sound of his breath that he was near to crying now. His hand was fastened hard around John’s upper arm, clinging hard enough to leave a bruise, but John stayed still, perfectly still, until Hector’s breathing eased and the iron-hard grip relaxed at last.

“It seemed to take a long time,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Though I suppose it wasn’t, really. After a bit, his head just fell forward, very slowly, and stayed that way.”

He took a deep, wet breath, as though cleansing himself of the memory, and gave John a reassuring hug.

“Yes, you do remember the first one. But I’m sure it will be easier for you—you’ll do it better.”

Grey lay on Nessie’s bed, wineglass in hand, sipping slowly. He stared up at the soot-stained ceiling, but was seeing instead the gray skies over Culloden. It hadbeen easier—to do, at least, if not to recall.

“You’ll go with Windom’s detail,” Hal had said, handing him a long pistol. “Your job is to give the coup de gr в ce,if you find any still alive. Through one eye is surest, but behind the ear will answer well enough, if you find you can’t bear the eyes.”

His brother’s face was drawn with strain, white under the smudges of powder smoke; Hal was only twenty-five, but looked twice that, uniform plastered to him with rain and filthy with mud from the field. He gave his orders in a calm, clear voice, but Grey felt his brother’s hand tremble as he gave him the gun.

“Hal,” he said, as his brother turned away.

“Yes?” Hal turned back, patient but empty-eyed.

“You all right, Hal?” he asked, lowering his voice lest anyone nearby hear him.

Hal seemed to be looking somewhere far beyond him; it took a visible effort for him to bring his gaze back from that distant place, to fix it on his younger brother’s face.

“Fine,” he said. The edge of his mouth trembled, as though he wanted to smile in reassurance, but it fell back in exhaustion. He clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed hard; John felt oddly as though he were providing support to his brother, rather than the other way round.

“Just remember, Johnny—it’s a mercy that you give them. A mercy,” he repeated softly, then dropped his hand and left.

It lacked perhaps two hours ’til sunset when Corporal Windom’s detail set out onto the field, slogging through mud and moor plants that clung and grasped at their boots as they passed. The rain had stopped, but a freezing wind plastered his damp cloak to his body. He remembered the mixture of dread and excitement in his belly, superseded by the numbness of his fingers and his fear that he would not be able to prime the pistol again, if he had to use it more than once.

As it was, he had no need to use it at all for some time; all the men they came across were clearly dead. Nearly all Scots, though here and there a red coat burned like flame among the dull moor plants. The fallen of the English were taken away with respect, on stretchers. The enemy were thrown in heaps, the soldiers blue-fingered and mumbling curses in puffs of white breath as they dragged the bodies like so many felled logs, naked limbs like pale branches, stiff and awkward in the handling. He was not sure if he should help with this work, but no one seemed to expect him to; he trailed after the soldiers, gun in hand, growing colder by the moment.

He had seen battlefields before, at Preston and Falkirk, though neither had had so many bodies. One dead man was much like another, though, and within a short time, he was no longer bothered by their presence.

He had grown so numb, in fact, that he was barely startled when one of the soldiers shouted, “Hey, Cheeky! Got one for you!” His cold-slowed mind had not had time to interpret this before he found himself face-to-face with the man, the Scot.

He had vaguely supposed that everyone on the field was unconscious, if not dead; execution would be no more than a matter of kneel by the body, place the pistol, pull the trigger, step back and reload.

This man sat bolt upright in the heather, weight braced on the heels of his hands, the smashed leg that had prevented his escape twisted in front of him, streaked with blood. He was staring at Grey, dark eyes lively and watchful. He was young, perhaps Hector’s age. The eyes went from Grey’s face to the gun in his hand, then back to his face. The man lifted his chin, setting his mouth hard.

Behind the ear will answer well enough, if you find you can’t bear the eyes.

How? How was he to reach behind the ear, with him sitting like that? Grey lifted the pistol awkwardly, and stepped to the side, crouching a bit. The man’s head turned, eyes following him.

Grey stopped—but he couldn’t stop, the soldiers were watching.

“H-head, or heart?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. His hands were shaking; it was cold, though, so very cold.

The dark eyes closed for an instant, opened again, piercing through him.

“Christ, do I care?”

He lifted the pistol, the muzzle wavering a little, and pointed it carefully at the center of the man’s body. The Scot’s mouth compressed, and he shifted his weight to one hand. Before Grey could jerk away, he had lifted his free hand to seize Grey’s wrist.

Startled, Grey made no move to pull away. Breathing hard with effort, teeth gritted against the pain, the Scot guided the barrel so it came to rest against his forehead, just between the eyes. And stared at him.

And what Grey recalled most clearly was not the eyes, but the feel of the fingers, colder even than his own chilled flesh, curling gently round his wrist. There was no strength left now in the touch, but it stilled his shaking. The fingers squeezed, very gently. Offering mercy.

An hour later, they had gone back in darkness, and he had learned of Hector’s death.

The candle had been guttering for some time. There was another on the table, but he made no move to reach for it. Instead, he lay staring as the flame went out, and went on drinking wine in the musky dark.

He woke with a splitting head, somewhere in the dark hours before dawn. The candle had gone out, and for a disorienting moment, he had no idea where he was—or with whom. A warm, moist weight was curled against him, and his hand rested on bare flesh.

Possibilities erupted in his mind like a flight of startled quail, then disappeared as he took a deep breath and smelt cheap scent, expensive wine, and female musk. Girl. Yes, of course. The Scottish whore.

He lay still for a moment, muddled, trying to gain his bearings in the unfamiliar dark. There—a thin line of gray marked the shuttered window, a shade lighter than the night inside. Door . . . where was the door? He turned his head and saw a faint flicker of light across the floorboards, the exhausted glow of a guttering candle in the hallway. He vaguely remembered some uproar, singing and stamping from below, but that had ceased now. The brothel had subsided into quiet, though it was an odd, uneasy hush, like the troubled sleep of a drunken man. Speaking of which . . . he worked his tongue, trying to muster enough saliva from his parched and sticky membranes to swallow. His heart was beating with an unpleasant insistence that seemed to cause his eyeballs to protrude, bulging painfully with each throb of the organ. He hastily closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.

It was warm and close in the room, but a faint stirring of air from the shuttered window touched his body, a cool finger raising the hairs of chest and leg. He was naked, but didn’t recall undressing.

She was lying on his arm. Moving slowly, he disengaged himself from the girl, taking care not to rouse her. He sat for a moment on the bed, clutching his head in a soundless moan, then rose to his feet, taking great care lest it fall off.

Christ! What had he been about, to drink so much of that ungodly swill? It would have been better to swive the girl and have done with it, he thought, feeling his way across the room through bursts of brilliant white light that lit up the inside of his skull like fireworks on the Thames. His probing foot struck the table leg, and he felt blindly about beneath it until he found the chamber pot.

Somewhat relieved, but still desperately thirsty, he put it down and groped for the ewer and basin. The water in the pitcher was warm and tasted faintly of metal, but he drank it greedily, spilling it down his chin and chest, gulping until his guts began to protest the tepid onslaught.

He wiped a hand down his face and smeared the wetness across his chest, then loosened the shutters, taking deep, shuddering breaths of the cool gray air. Better.

He turned to look for his clothes, but realized belatedly that he couldn’t leave without Quarry. The thought of searching the house for his friend, flinging open doors and surprising sleep-sodden whores and their customers, was more than he could countenance in his present condition. Well, the madam would rout Harry out in short order, come daybreak. Nothing for it but wait.

Since he must wait, he might as well do it lying down; his innards were shifting and gurgling in ominous fashion, and his legs felt weak.

The girl was naked, too. She lay curled on her side, back to him, smooth and pale as a smelt on a fishmonger’s slab. He crawled cautiously onto the bed and eased himself down beside her. She shifted and murmured, but didn’t wake.

The air was much cooler now, with dawn coming on and the shutters ajar. He would have covered himself, but the girl was lying on the rumpled sheet. She shifted again, and he saw the gooseflesh prickling over her skin. She was thinner even than she had seemed the night before, ribs shadowing her sides and the shoulder blades sharp as wings in her bony little back.

He turned on his side and drew her against him, fumbling with one hand to disentangle the damp sheet and draw it over them both—as much to cover her skinniness as for its dubious warmth.

Her loosened hair was thick and curly, soft against his face. The feel of it disturbed him, though it was a moment before he realized why. She’d had hair like that—the Woman. Fraser’s wife. Grey knew her name—Fraser had told him—and yet he stubbornly refused to think of her as anything but “the Woman.” As though it were her fault—and the fault of her sex alone, at that.

But that was in another country, he thought, pulling the scrawny whore closer to him, and besides, the wench is dead.Fraser had said so.

He’d seen the look in Jamie Fraser’s eyes, though. Fraser had not ceased to love his wife merely because she was dead—no more than Grey could or would cease to love Hector. Memory was one thing, though, and flesh another; the body had no conscience.

He wrapped one arm over the girl’s fine-boned form, holding her tight against him. Nearly breastless, and narrow-arsed as a boy, he thought, and felt a tiny flame of desire, wine-fueled, lick up the insides of his thighs. Why not? he thought. He was paying for it, after all.

But, I’m a person, no?she’d said. And she was neither of the persons he longed for.

He closed his eyes, and kissed the shoulder near his face, very gently. Then he slept again, drifting on the troubled clouds of her hair.

Chapter 7

Green Velvet

He woke to broad daylight and a rumbling stir in the brothel below. The girl was gone—no, not gone. He rolled over and saw her by the window, dressed in her shift, her lips pressed tight in concentration as she plaited her hair, using the reflection in the chamber pot as her looking glass.

“Awake at last, are ye?” she asked, squinting at her reflection. “Thought I might need to poke a darning needle under your toenail to rouse ye.” Tying a red ribbon at the end of her plait, she turned and grinned at him.

“Ready for a bit o’ breakfast, then, chuck?”

“Don’t even mention it.” He sat up, slowly, one hand pressed to his forehead.

“Oh, a wee bit peaky this morn, are we?” A brown glass bottle and a pair of wooden tumblers had appeared on the washstand; she poured out something the color of ditch water and thrust the cup into his hand. “Try that; hair o’ the dog that bit ye is the best cure, or so they say.” She slopped a generous tot into her own glass and drank it off as though it were water.

It wasn’t water. He thought it was possibly turpentine, from the smell. Still, he wouldn’t be put to shame by a fourteen-year-old whore; he tossed it back in a gulp.

Not turpentine; vitriol. The liquid burned a fiery path straight down his gullet and into his bowels, sending a gust of brimstone fumes through the cavities of his head. Whisky, that’s what it was, and very raw whisky, at that.

“Aye, that’s the stuff,” she said approvingly, watching him. “Have another?”

Incapable of speech, he blinked watering eyes and held out his cup. Another fuming swallow, and he found that he had recovered sufficient presence of mind to inquire after his vanished clothes.

“Oh, aye. Just here.” She hopped up, bright as a sparrow, and pulled open a panel in the wall that hid a row of clothes pegs, upon which his uniform and linen had been hung with care.

“Did you undress me?”

“I dinna see anyone else here, do you?” She put a hand above her eyes, peering about the room in exaggerated fashion. He ignored this, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Why?”

He thought the glint of a smile showed in her eyes, though no trace of it touched her lips.

“So much as ye drank, I kent ye’d wake soon to have a piss, and like enough to stagger off then, if ye could. If ye stayed the night through, though, Magda wouldna bring anyone else up for me.” She shrugged, shift sliding off one scrawny shoulder. “Best sleep I’ve had in months.”

“I am deeply gratified to have been of benefit to you, madam,” Grey said dryly, assuming his breeches. “And what is likely to be the cost of an entire night spent in your charming company?”

“Two pound,” she said promptly. “Ye can pay me now, if ye like.”

He gave her a jaundiced look, one hand on his pocketbook.

“Two pound? Ten shillings, more like. Try again.”

“Ten shillings?” She tried to look insulted, but failed, thus informing him that he had been close in his estimate. “Well . . . one and six, then. Or perhaps one and ten”—she eyed him, her small pink tongue darting out to touch her upper lip in speculation—“if I can find out for ye where he goes?”

“Where who goes?”

“The Cornish lad ye were asking after—Trevelyan.”

Grey’s headache seemed suddenly diminished. He stared at her for a moment, then reached slowly into his pocketbook. He drew out three pound notes and tossed them into her lap.

“Tell me what you know.”

Agnes clasped her thighs together, hands between them, tight on the money, eyes sparkling with pleasure.

“What I ken is that he comes here, aye, maybe twa, three times in a month, but he doesna go wi’ any of the lasses—so as I couldna find out about the state of his prick, ye ken.” She looked apologetic.

Grey left off fastening his garter buckles, surprised.

“What does he do, then?”

“Weel, he goes into Mrs. Magda’s room, same as the rich ones always do—and a wee while later, out comes a woman in one of Maggie’s gowns and a big lace cap . . . but it’s no our Maggie. She’s near the same height, aye, but nay bosom to her and nay bum at all—and narrow in the shoulder, where Mags has the meat of a well-fed bullock.”

She raised one perfect eyebrow, obviously entertained by the look on his face.

“And then this . . . lady . . . goes out the back way, intae the alley, where there’s a chair waitin’. I’ve seen her do it,” she added, with a sardonic emphasis on the pronoun. “Though I didna ken who it was at the time.”

“And does . . . she . . . come back?” Grey asked, with the same emphasis.

“Aye, she does. She leaves past dark, and comes back just before dawn. I heard the chairmen in the alley, a week past, and bein’ as I happened for once to be alone”—she made a brief moue—“I got up and had a keek down from my window to see who it was. I couldna see any more than the top of her cap and a flash of green skirt—but whoever it was, her step was quick and long, like a man’s.”

She stopped then, looking expectant. Grey rubbed a hand through his tousled hair. The ribbon had come off as he slept, and was nowhere in sight.

“But you think that you can discover where this . . . person . . . goes to?”

She nodded, certain of herself.

“Oh, aye. I may not have seen the lady’s face, but I saw one of the chairmen, plain. Happen he’s a big auld lad called Rab, from up near Fife. He hasna often got the price of a whore, but when he does, he asks for me. Homesick, see?”

“Yes, I do see.” Grey wiped the hair out of his face, then reached into his pocketbook once more. She spread her legs just in time, catching the handful of silver neatly in the basket of her skirt.

“See that Rab has the price of you soon,” Grey suggested. “Aye?”

A rap came on the door, which sprang open to reveal Harry Quarry, bewhiskered and bleary-eyed, coat hung over one shoulder. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and only half-tucked into his breeches, the neckcloth discarded. While Quarry did have his wig on, it sat crookedly astride one ear.

“Not interrupting, am I?” he said, stifling a belch.

Grey hastily took up his own coat and stuffed his feet into his shoes.

“No, not at all. Just coming.”

Quarry scratched his ribs, rucking up his shirt in unconscious fashion to show a segment of hairy paunch. He blinked vaguely in Nessie’s direction.

“Had a good night, then, Grey? Not much to that one, is there?”

Lord John pressed two fingers between his throbbing brows and essayed what he hoped was an expression of satiated lewdness.

“Ah, well, you know the saying—‘the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat.’ ”

“Really?” Despite his dishevelment, Quarry perked up a little, peering over Lord John’s shoulder into the chamber. “Perhaps I’ll give her a try next time, then. What’s your name, chuck?”

Half-turning, Lord John saw Nessie’s eyes widen at the sight of Quarry, bloodshot and leering. Her mouth twisted in revulsion; she really had no tact, for a whore. He laid a hand on Quarry’s arm to distract him.

“Don’t think you’d like her, old fellow,” he said. “She’s Scotch.”

Quarry’s momentary interest disappeared like a snuffed-out candle.

“Oh, Scotch,” he said, belching slightly. “Christ, no. The sound of that barbarous tongue would wilt me on the spot. No, no. Give me a nice, fat English girl, good round bum, plenty of flesh on her, something to get hold of.” He aimed a jovial slap at the bum of a passing maid who clearly met these requirements, but she dodged adroitly and he staggered, narrowly avoiding ignominious collapse by catching hold of Grey, who in turn seized the doorjamb with both hands to keep from being overborne. He heard a giggle from Nessie, and straightened up, pulling his clothes into what order he could.

Following this rather undignified departure, they found themselves in a coach, rattling up Meacham Street in a manner highly unsuited to the state of Grey’s head.

“Find out anything useful?” Quarry asked, closing one eye to assist in concentration as he redid the buttons of his fly, which had been somehow fastened askew.

“Yes,” Grey said, averting his eyes. “But God knows what it means.”

He explained his inconclusive findings briefly, causing Quarry to blink owlishly at him.

“I don’t know what it means, either,” Quarry said, scratching his balding head. “But you might drop a word to that constable friend of yours—ask if any of his men have heard of a woman in green velvet. If she—or he—is up to something . . .”

The coach turned, sending a piercing ray of light through Grey’s eyes and straight into the center of his brain. He emitted a low moan. What had Constable Magruder suggested? Housebreaking, horse-stealing, robbery from the person . . .

“Right,” he said, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, envisioning the Honorable Joseph Trevelyan under arrest for fire-setting or public riot. “I’ll do that.”

Chapter 8

Enter the Chairman

Grey came down late to breakfast on Monday. The Countess had long since finished her meal and departed; his cousin Olivia was at table, though, informally clad in a muslin wrapper with her hair in a plait down her back, opening letters and nibbling toast.

“Late night?” he said, nodding to her as he slid into his chair.

“Yes.” She yawned, covering her mouth daintily with a small fist. “A party at Lady Quinton’s. What about you?”

“Nothing so entertaining, I’m afraid.” After a long and blissfully restorative sleep, he had spent the Sunday evening at Bernard Sydell’s house, listening to interminable complaints about the lack of discipline in the modern army, the moral shortcomings of the younger officers, the miserliness of politicians who expected wars to be fought without adequate materials, the shortsightedness of the current government, lamentations for the departure of Pitt as Prime Minister—who had been just as roundly excoriated when in office—and further remarks in a similar vein.

At one point during these declamations, Malcolm Stubbs had leaned aside and murmured to Grey, “Why don’t someone just fetch a pistol and put him out of his misery?”

“Toss you a shilling for the honor,” Grey had murmured back, causing Stubbs to choke on the vile sherry Sydell thought appropriate to such gatherings.

Harry Quarry hadn’t been there. Grey hoped that Harry was busy with his “something in train,” rather than merely avoiding the sherry—for if something definite was not discovered soon regarding O’Connell’s death, it was likely to come to the attention not only of Sydell, but of people with the capacity to cause a great deal more trouble.

“What do you think of these two, John?” Olivia’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he withdrew his attention from the coddled egg before him to look across the table. She was frowning thoughtfully at two narrow lengths of lace, one draped across the silver coffeepot, another suspended from one hand.

“Mm.” Grey swallowed egg and tried to focus his attention. “For what?”

“Edging for handkerchiefs.”

“That one.” He pointed with his spoon at the sample on the coffeepot. “The other is too masculine.” In fact, the first one reminded him vividly—though not unpleasantly—of the lace trim on the gown worn by Magda, madam of the Meacham Street brothel.

Olivia’s face broke into a beaming smile.

“Exactly what I thought! Excellent; I want to have a dozen handkerchiefs made for Joseph—I’ll have an extra half-dozen made up for you as well, shall I?”

“Spending Joseph’s money already, are you?” he teased. “The poor man will be bankrupt before you’ve been married a month.”

“Not a bit of it,” she said loftily. “This is my own money, from Papa. A gift from the bride to the bridegroom. D’you think he’ll like it?”

“I’m sure he’ll be charmed at the thought.” And lace-trimmed handkerchiefs would go so well with emerald velvet, he thought, stricken by a sudden qualm. All around him, preparations for the wedding were proceeding like the drawing up of battle lines, with regiments of cooks, battalions of sempstresses, and dozens of people with no discernible function but a great deal of self-important busy-ness swarming through the house each day. Five weeks until the wedding.

“You have a bit of egg on your ruffle, Johnny.”

“Have I?” He peered downward, flicking at the offending particle. “There, is it gone?”

“Yes. Aunt Bennie says you have a new valet,” she said, still looking him over with an air of appraisal. “That odd little person. Is he not a trifle young and—unpolished—for such a position?”

“Mr. Byrd may lack something in terms of years and experience,” Grey admitted, “but he does know how to administer a proper shave.”

His cousin peered closely at him—like his mother, she was a trifle short of sight—then leaned across the table to stroke his cheek, a liberty he suffered with good grace.

“Oh, that isnice,” she said with approval. “Like satin. Is he good with your wardrobe?”

“Splendid,” he assured her, with a mental picture of Tom Byrd frowning over his mending of the torn coat seam. “Most assiduous.”

“Oh, good. You must tell him, then, to make sure your gray velvet is in good repair. I should like you to wear it for the wedding supper, and last time you had it on, I noticed that the hem had come unstitched in back.”

“I shall call it to his attention,” he assured her gravely. “Is this concern lest my appearance disgrace your nuptials, or are you practicing care of domestic detail in preparation for assuming command of your own household?”

She laughed, but flushed, very prettily.

“I amsorry, Johnny. How overbearing of me! I confess, I do worry. Joseph tells me I need not trouble over anything, his butler is a marvel—but I do not wish to be the sort of wife who is nothing more than an ornament.”

She looked quite anxious as she said this, and he felt a deep qualm of misgiving. Caught up in his own responsibilities, he had scarcely taken time to think how his investigation of Joseph Trevelyan might affect his cousin personally, should the man indeed prove to be poxed.

“You are never less than ornamental,” he said, a little gruffly, “but I am sure that any man of worth must discern the true nature of your character, and value it much more highly than your outward appearance.”

“Oh.” She flushed more deeply, and lowered her lashes. “Why—thank you. What a kind thing to say!”

“Not at all. Will I fetch you a kipper?”

They ate in a pleasant silence for a few moments, and Grey’s thoughts had begun to drift toward a contemplation of the day’s activities, when Olivia’s voice pulled him back to the present moment.

“Have you never thought of marriage for yourself, John?”

He plucked a bun from the basket on the table, taking care not to roll his eyes. The newly betrothed and married of either sex invariably believed it their sacred duty to urge others to share their happy state.

“No,” he said equably, breaking the bread. “I see no pressing need to acquire a wife. I have no estate or household that requires a mistress, and Hal is making an adequate job of continuing the family name.” Hal’s wife, Minnie, had just presented her husband with a third son—the family ran to boys.

Olivia laughed.

“Well, that is true,” she agreed. “And I suppose you enjoy playing the gay bachelor, with all the ladies swooning after you. They do, you know.”

“Oh, la.” He made a dismissive gesture with the butter knife, and resumed his attention to the bun. Olivia seemed to take the hint, and retired into the mysteries of a fruit compote, leaving him to organize his thoughts.

The chief business of the day must be the O’Connell affair, of course. His inquiries into Trevelyan’s private life had yielded more mystery than answer so far, but his investigation of the Sergeant’s murder had produced still less in the way of results.

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?”