Текст книги "Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
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He laughed at that, though carefully because of his ribs, and stood up, also carefully. Doing so, he felt a small hard object in his pocket, and was reminded.

“Father was a Freemason, was he not?”

“Yes,” she said, and a fresh uneasiness seemed to flare in her eyes. “Why?”

“I only wondered—could this be his ring?” He fished it out and handed it to her. He might have picked it up carelessly in the library; there was a tray of the duke’s small clutter, kept there by way of memoriam, though he did not recall ever seeing a ring among those objects.

He saw her eyes flick toward the little inlaid secretary that stood in the corner of the room, before she reached for the ring. Which told him that the duke had indeed had such a ring—and that she had kept it. So much for the dead past, he thought cynically.

She tried the ring gingerly on her left hand; it hung loose as a quoit on a stick, and she shook her head, dropping it back into his palm.

“No, it’s much too big. Where did you get it? And why did you think it might be your father’s?”

“No particular reason,” he said with a shrug. “I can’t remember where I picked it up.”

“Let me see it again.”

Puzzled, he handed it over, and watched as she turned it to and fro, bringing it to her candlestick in order to see the inside. At last, she shook her head and gave it back.

“No, I don’t know. But…John, if you do recall where you found it, will you tell me?”

“Of course,” he said lightly. “Good night, Mother.” He kissed her cheek and left her, wondering.

He declined Tom’s suggestion of bread and milk in favor of a large whisky—or two—by the library fire, and had just reached a state of reconciliation with the universe when Brunton came to announce that he had a caller.

“I won’t come in.” Percy Wainwright smiled at him from the shadows of the porch. “I’m not fit to be indoors. I only came to bring you this.”

“This” was Grey’s dagger, which Percy put gingerly into his hands. Percy hadn’t been exaggerating about his fitness for civil surroundings; he was wearing rough clothes, much spotted and stained, and he bore about his person a distinct odor of alleyways and refuse.

“I went back to look for it,” he explained. “Luckily, it was under a pile of dead cabbages—sorry about the smell. I thought…you might need it,” he concluded, rather shyly.

Grey would have kissed him, damaged mouth notwithstanding, save for the lurking presence of Brunton in the hall. As it was, all he could do was to press Percy’s hand, hard, in gratitude.

“Thank you. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Percy’s smile glimmered in the dark.

“Oh, yes. Or shall I say, ‘Yes, sir?’ For I believe you’re now my superior officer, aren’t you?”

Grey laughed at that, bruises, bleeding, and his mother’s odd behavior all seeming inconsequent for the moment.

“I suppose so. I’ll arrange a commendation for you in the morning, then.”

Chapter 12

Officers and Gentlemen

We aren’t like the Russians, you see,” Quarry explained to Percy, kindly. “Bloody officers never go near their troops, let alone take them into battle.”

“They don’t?” Percy looked wary, as though thinking this might be a good idea. He had spent the week prior being taught the duties of an ensign and a second lieutenant, which consisted of attending parades, drills, roll calls, and mountings of the guard, keeping exact lists of accoutrements and stores—Captain Wilmot had complimented his penmanship, before excoriating him in round terms for misplacing a gross of boots and misdirecting ten barrels of powder—supervising the care of the sick in hospital—luckily there were relatively few of these at this season—and touring the soldiers’ accommodation.

“Look out for factions,” Quarry added. “We’ve two battalions—one fights abroad whilst the other reequips and brings up its strength—but we aren’t as large as some, and many of our common soldiers are longtimers, who’ve learnt to rub along together. There’ll be an influx of new men over the next month, though, and they tend to be sucked into one group or another. You can’t afford that—you’ll be watched, because of the family attachment, and there cannot be any sense of favoritism toward any group, save, of course, that you must always champion those companies directly under your command—you have four of them. Clear on that?”

“Oh, yes. Sir,” Percy added hurriedly, making Quarry grin.

“Good lad. Now bugger off to Sergeant Keeble and learn which end of a musket the bullet goes in.”

“Keeble’s on the square with a company,” Grey interrupted, having paused to deliver a sheaf of papers to Quarry’s office. “I have a moment; I’ll run him through the musket drill.”

“Good. What’s this lot?” Quarry picked up his spectacles and squinted through them at the papers. His eyes widened and he snatched off the spectacles, as though unable to believe his eyes. “What?”he bellowed.

Grey plucked at Percy’s sleeve.

“You’re dismissed,” he whispered. “Come on.”

Percy cast a last, apprehensive glance at Quarry, who had gone puce with rage and was addressing the sheaf of papers in loudly blasphemous terms. Quarry wasn’t looking at him, but Percy saluted briskly and turned on his heel to follow Grey.

“What was thatabout, or am I allowed to know?” he asked, once outside.

“Nothing.” Grey shrugged. “Instructions from the War Office, contradicting the last set. It happens once a week or so. How are you getting on with things?” More than busy with his own duties, he’d barely seen Percy during the week.

“Well enough. Or at least I hope so,” Percy said dubiously. “People do shout at me a lot.”

Grey laughed.

“Being shouted at is actually quite high on your list of duties,” he assured Percy.

“No one shouts at you.”

“I am,” Grey said complacently, “a major. No one is allowed to shout at me—within the regiment, of course—save Harry, Colonel Symington, and my brother. I don’t mind Harry, I keep the hell out of Symington’s sight, and I tread with extreme care around Melton; I advise you to do the same. Have you toured the barracks this morning?”

“Yesterday. Ah…is there anything I should look for especially, in terms of brewing trouble?”

Grey had gone with him for the first round of such tours, but now explained the finer points.

“For those in barracks, look for signs of drunkenness—which is not difficult to spot, I assure you—excessive gambling, or a disposition to excessive whoring. For those in billets in the town—”

“How do you know what’s excessive?”

“If a man is missing important bits of his uniform or equipment, he’s gambling excessively. If he’s missing important bits of his anatomy from the syphilis, or if you find a whore actually in his bed, that’s considered above the odds. Pox and the clap are more or less all right, provided he can stand up straight.”

“Easier said than done. Ever had it?”

“No,” Grey said, edging aside and giving Percy a stare. “Have you?”

“Once, in my younger years.” Percy shuddered. “Only time I ever bedded a woman. If I hadn’t already known what I was, that would likely have been enough to seal the matter.”

“Was she a whore?” Grey inquired, not without sympathy. He had himself bedded several whores over the years, partly from necessity, and partly—at first—from a curiosity as to whether the experience might suddenly trigger some dormant desire for the female.

“No,” Percy said. “In fact, she was a rather well-known lady with a marked reputation for piety. A good deal older than myself,” he added delicately.

“Is she dead?” Grey asked, with interest. “Do I know her?”

“Yes, you do, and no, she isn’t, worse luck, the old baggage. Anyway, what am I looking for when Colonel Quarry says, ‘the looks of the men’?”

“Oh—” Grey waved a vague hand toward the distant parade ground, where a mass of new recruits were being chivvied into awkward lines by barking corporals. “If they seem thinner or paler than usual, not themselves.”

“And how would I know that?” Percy protested. “I’ve only seen most of them once!”

“Well, you visit them every week—oftener, if you have reason to think there’s trouble brewing,” Grey said patiently. “You ought to know all their names by the end of the second week, and the names of their mothers, sisters, and sweethearts by the third.”

“After which I will perhaps have mastered the duties of ensign, and be allowed to forget them all, as a second lieutenant?”

“You won’t forget them,” Grey said with confidence. “An officer never forgets his men. Never worry—I have the greatest faith in you.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” Percy said, in tones of extreme doubt, following Grey into the armory. “And these are muskets, are they?”

Despite Percy’s protestations of ignorance and ineptitude, he proved to be a more than adequate shot. Grey had taken him out to the edge of London, to an open field, to try his hand without witnesses, and was agreeably surprised.

“And these are muskets, are they?” he mimicked, poking a finger through the center of a target, the cloth shredded by multiple shots.

Percy grinned, unabashed.

“I didn’t say I’d never held a gun before.”

“No, you didn’t.” Grey rolled up the target. “What kind of gun?”

“Target pistols, for the most part. Fowling pieces, now and again.” Percy didn’t go into detail, shrugging off Grey’s praise with modesty. “What Colonel Quarry said—about the family connexion…” He hesitated, not sure how to express his question.

“Well, there will be a bit of jealousy amongst the other officers,” Grey said, matter-of-factly. “They all view each other as rivals, and of course will suspect you of preferment. Not a great deal you can do about it, though, save do your job well.”

Percy rubbed a handkerchief over his face to remove the powder stains.

“I mean to,” he said with determination. “What other skills ought I to possess, do you think?”

“Well,” said Grey, with a glance at Wainwright’s graceful form, “you must be able to dance. Can you dance?”

Percy looked at him in disbelief.

“Dance?”

Grey looked back in similar disbelief, but this wasn’t mockery. He tended to forget, given Percy’s ease in society, that he had not been born to that world but rather into a family of strict Methodists. He knew nothing of Methodists, but supposed they considered dancing sinful.

“Dance,” Grey said firmly. “Dancing is most necessary for any man of good education, and the more so for an officer. And I quote from a well-known authority: ‘Fencing endows a man with speed and strength, while dancing brings elegance and dignity to carriage and movement.’”

“In that case, I am doomed.”

“Well, dancing is somewhat less lethal in intent,” Grey said, rubbing a finger beneath his nose in an effort not to laugh. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Percy gathered up the musket, cartridge box, shot pouch, powder horn, and other impedimenta of shooting.

“To my brother’s house. My sister-in-law employs a very good dancing master for her sons, and I’m sure will make arrangements for you to be tutored discreetly.”

Minnie was charmed by Percy, whom she had not yet met; still more charmed that he should seek her help. Grey had noticed this female paradox before: women who swooned at the notion of powerful men who would protect them at the same time liked nothing better than an open admission of helplessness on the part of any male within their sphere of influence.

He left Percy to Minnie, who was—in spite of her pregnancy—demonstrating steps and figures with considerable deftness, and went to the library.

Hal’s collection of military historians, tacticians, and theorists was considerable, and Grey helped himself without compunction to those volumes he thought might be of most service in Percy’s military instruction.

Flavius Vegetius Renatus—known chummily as “Vegetius” to his intimates—who wrote Epitomae Rei Militarissometime between A.D. 385 and 450. One of Hal’s favorites, a good place to start.

“Few men are brave; many become so through care and force of discipline,”Grey murmured, tucking the book into the crook of his arm.

There was Mauvillon’s Histoire de la Derni и re Guerre de Boh и me,in three volumes. Very popular, and quite recent, having been published only two years before, in Amsterdam. Only volumes I and II were present—Hal must be reading volume III—but he took the first one.

He hesitated among Marcus Aurelius, Tacitus, and Vauban, but on impulse added Virgil’s Aeneid,for some relief. That would do for now; after all, Percy had very little time to read these days—no more than Grey himself did.

He turned from the bookshelf at the sound of a step, and found his brother had returned.

“Stealing my books again?” Hal asked, with a smile.

“Retrieving my own.” Grey tapped the Aeneid,which was in fact his. “And borrowing Vegetius for Percy Wainwright, if you don’t mind.”

“Not in the least. Quarry says he’s shaping well,” Hal remarked. “I see—or rather, I hear—that Minnie’s teaching him to dance.” He inclined his head toward the drawing room, where the sound of laughter and the counting of steps indicated the satisfactory progress of the first lesson.

“Yes. I think he’ll do very well,” Grey said, pleased at hearing Harry’s good opinion.

“Good. I’m sending him in command of a company down to Sussex tomorrow, to fetch back a shipment of powder.”

Grey felt an immediate urge to protest, but stifled it. His opposition to the suggestion was based more on the fact that he and Percy had agreed to a private rendezvous next day than to any doubt of Percy’s ability to manage such an expedition—or to his knowledge of the inherent dangers of any expedition involving kegs of black powder and inexperienced soldiers.

“Oh, good,” he said casually.

He was beginning to feel, like Percy, that perhaps he was doomed. To involuntary celibacy, if nothing else.

“Where have you been?” he asked curiously, noticing as Hal put off his cloak that his brother was in traveling clothes, rather than uniform.

Hal looked mildly disconcerted, and Grey, with interest, saw him rapidly consider whether to tell the truth or not.

“Bath,” he said, with only an instant’s delay.

“Again? What the devil is in Bath?”

“None of your business.”

Suddenly, and without warning, Grey lost his temper. He dropped the books on the desk with a bang.

“Don’t tell me what is my business and what is not!”

If Hal was taken aback, it was for no more than an instant.

“Need I remind you that I am the head of this family?” he said, lowering his voice, with a glance at the door.

“And I am bloody partof this family. You can’t fob me off by telling me things are none of my business. You cannot ship me off to Aberdeen to prevent my asking questions!”

Hal looked as though he would have liked to do precisely that, but he controlled himself, with a visible effort.

“That was not why you were sent to Aberdeen.”

Grey pounced on that.

“Why, then?”

Hal glared at him.

“I decline to tell you.”

Grey hadn’t hit Hal for a number of years, and had lost the fight on the last occasion when he’d tried it. He gave Hal a look suggesting that he wouldn’t lose this one. Hal returned the look and shifted his weight, indicating that he would welcome the chance of relieving his feelings by violence. That was interesting; Hal was more upset than he appeared.

Grey held his brother’s gaze and ostentatiously unclenched his fist, laying his hand flat on the desk.

“I hesitate to insult your intelligence by pointing out the fact that I am a grown man,” he said, politely.

“Good,” Hal said, very dryly indeed. “Then I won’t insult yours by explaining that it is the fact that you are indeed a man that prevents my telling you anything further. Be on the square at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

He left the room without looking round, though there was a certain tenseness about his shoulders that suggested he thought Grey might conceivably throw something at him.

Had there been anything suitable within reach, he likely would have. As it was, Grey was left with the blood thundering in his ears and both fists clenched.

Aflurry of mutually contradictory instructions from three Whitehall offices, an outbreak of fever in the barracks, and the sudden sinking—in harbor—of one of the transport ships meant to carry them to Germany kept Grey too busy for the next week to worry about what might be happening in Sussex, or to pay more than cursory attention to the news that the sodomite conspirators had been condemned to death.

He was sitting in his own small office at the end of the day, staring at the wall, and trying to decide whether it was worth the trouble to put on his coat and walk to the Beefsteak for supper or whether he might simply send the door guard to bring him a Cornish pasty from the street, when the door guard himself appeared, come to ask if he would receive a visitor—a Mrs. Tomlinson.

Well, that resolved his immediate dilemma. He would have to put on his coat to receive this woman, whoever she was.

A soldier’s wife, perhaps, come to beg him to get her husband out of some difficulty or to advance her his pay. Tomlinson, Tomlinson…he was running mentally through his roster, but failing to recall any Tomlinsons. Still, there were always new recruits—oh, no. Now he remembered; this Tomlinson woman was Minnie’s acquaintance, the mistress of the Captain Bates who had just been condemned to death. He said something which caused the door guard to blink.

“Bring her up,” he said, settling his lapels and brushing crumbs from his luncheon pasty off his shirt ruffle.

Mrs. Tomlinson reminded Grey—not unpleasantly—of his favorite horse. Like Karolus, she had a strong jaw, a kind eye, and a pale mane, which she wore in a bundle of tight plaits, as though on parade. She dropped into a low curtsy before him, spreading her skirts as if he were the king. He took her hand to raise her, and kissed it, taking advantage of the gesture to think uncharitable thoughts about his sister-in-law.

No hint of these thoughts showed in his voice, though, as he begged her to be seated and sent Tom for wine and biscuits.

“Ah, no, sir,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll not stay. I’ve come only to thank your lordship for discovering Captain Bates’s whereabouts for me—and to beg a further favor of your lordship.” A becoming color rose in her cheeks, but she held his gaze, her own pale hazel eyes clear and direct. “I hesitate to impose upon you, my lord. Will you believe me that only the most urgent necessity impels me?”

“Of course,” he said, as cordially as possible under the circumstances. “What may I have the pleasure of doing for you, madam?”

“Will you go and see him?”

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Captain Bates,” she said. “Will you go and see him?”

“What,” he said stupidly, “in Newgate?”

The faintest of smiles lifted her long, solid jaw.

“I’m sure he would wait upon your honor here, and he was able,” she said, very respectful. “I’m sure he would prefer it.” She had the faintest trace of an Irish accent; rather charming.

“I’m sure he would,” Grey said dryly, recovered from the surprise. “Why ought I to go and see him? Beyond, of course, the simple fact of your request.”

“I think he must tell you that himself, sir.”

He rubbed his own jaw, considering.

“Do you…wish me to carry a message for you?” he hazarded. The kind eyes widened.

“Ah, no, my lord. No need; I see him every day.”

“You do?” It wasn’t impossible; even the most depraved felons received visitors. But…“Does your husband not object?” Grey said, as delicately as possible.

She neither blushed nor looked away.

“I haven’t asked him, my lord.”

He thought of inquiring exactly where her husband was,but decided that it was no business of his.

Hal would doubtless advise against it, but Grey’s own curiosity was strong. It was likely the only opportunity he might get to hear any unfiltered details regarding the affair. Between the highly colored public version of events in the newspapers and Hal’s coldly cynical view was a substantial gap; he would like very much to know where the truth lay—or, if not the truth, another view of matters.

What the devil could Bates want with him, though? He hesitated for a moment longer, fixed by those large hazel eyes, but at last capitulated. No harm to hear what Bates had to say.

“Yes, all right. When?”

“Tomorrow, my lord, if you can. The time is short, you see. The ha—the execution is set for Wednesday noon.” Only with the word “hanging” did her composure desert her momentarily. She paled a little and her hand went unthinking to her throat, though she snatched it away again at once.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “May I—” But she had seized his hand and, falling to one knee, kissed it passionately.

“Thank you,” she said, and with a hard squeeze of the hand, was gone in a flurry of petticoats.

Chapter 13

A Visit to Newgate

Entering a prison is never a pleasant experience, even if such entrance be accomplished voluntarily, rather than under duress. Grey had been governor of Ardsmuir Prison for more than a year, and he had never entered the place—even his own quarters—without a deep breath and a stiffening of the spine. Neither had he enjoyed visiting the Fleet in search of recruits who would accept army service to escape debt, nor any of the smaller prisons and gaols from which it had been his occasional duty to abstract errant soldiers. Still, Newgate was notable, even for a connoisseur like himself, and he passed under the portcullis at the main gate with a sense of foreboding.

Henry Fielding had described it in one of his recent novels as “a prototype of hell,” and Grey was inclined to think this description admirably succinct.

The room to which he was shown was bleak, nothing but a deal table, two chairs, and an empty hearth, surrounded by walls of discolored stone that bore many laboriously chiseled names, and a number of disquieting scratches, suggesting that more than one desperate wretch had attempted to claw his—or her—way out. Outside the room, though, the prison teemed like a butcher’s offal pile, rich with maggots.

He’d brought a vial of spirits of turpentine, and applied this periodically to his handkerchief. It numbed his sense of smell, which was a blessing, and might perhaps keep pestilence away. It did nothing for the noises—a cacophony of wailing, cursing, manic laughter and singing second only to Bedlam—nor for the sights.

Through the barred window, he could see across a narrow courtyard to a large opening that apparently provided light and air to an underground cell, and was likewise barred. A woman stood upon the inside sill of this opening, clinging precariously to the bars with one hand, the other being used to lift her ragged petticoats above her waist.

Her privates were pressed through the opening between the bars, for the convenience of a guard who clung, beetlelike, to the outside of the bars. His jacket hung down far enough as to obscure his straining buttocks, but the droop of his breeches and the rhythmic movements of his hips were plain enough.

Prisoners passing through the courtyard ignored this, walking by with downcast eyes. Several guards also ignored it, though one man stopped and said something, evidently an inquiry, for the woman turned her head and made lewd kissing motions toward him, then let go her skirts in order to extend a hand through the bars, fingers curling in enticement—or perhaps demand.

The sound of the door opening behind him tore Grey’s fascinated gaze from this tableau.

Bates was decently dressed in a clean uniform, but heavily shackled. He shuffled across the room and collapsed into one of the chairs, not waiting for introduction or invitation.

“Thank God,” he said, sighing deeply. “Haven’t sat in a proper chair in weeks. My back’s been giving me the very devil.” He stretched, groaning luxuriously, then settled back and looked at Grey.

His eyes were a quick, light blue, and he was shaved to perfection. Grey looked him over slowly, noting the pristine linen, neatly tied wig, and manicured nails.

“I didn’t know one could procure the services of a valet in here,” Grey said, for lack of a better introduction.

Bates shrugged.

“It’s like anywhere else, I imagine; you can get almost anything—provided you can pay for it.”

“And you can.” It wasn’t quite a question, and Bates’s mouth turned up a little. He had a heavy, handsome face, and a body to match; evidently he wasn’t starved in prison.

“Haven’t a great deal else to spend my money on, have I? And you can’t take it with you—or so that very tedious minister tells me. Did you know they force you not merely to go to church on a Sunday here but to sit beside your coffin at the front?”

“I’d heard that, yes. Meant to encourage repentance, is it?” He could not imagine anyone less repentant in outward appearance than the captain.

“Can’t say what it’s meantto do,” the captain said judiciously. “Bloody bore, I call it, and a pain in the arse—literally, as well as metaphorically. No proper pews; just filthy benches with no backs.” He pressed his shoulders against his chair, as though determined to extract as much enjoyment from his present circumstances as possible.

Grey took the other chair.

“You are otherwise well treated?” Not waiting for an answer, Grey withdrew the flask of brandy he had brought, unstoppered it, and passed it across.

Bates snorted, accepting it.

“The buggers here who think I’m a sodomite are bad enough; the buggers who aresodomites are a damn sight worse.” He gave a short laugh, took a healthy swallow of brandy, and breathed slow and deep for a moment. “Oh, God. Will you send me more of this for the hanging? They’ll give you brandy here, if you pay for it, but it’s swill. Rather die sober.”

“I’ll see what can be done,” Grey said. “What do you mean, the sodomites are worse?”

Bates’s eyes roamed over him, sardonic.

“The sodomites…They had me chummed for a bit with a decorator from Brighton, name of Keyes. Woke me in the middle of the night, jabbing his yard at my fundament like a goddamned woodpecker. Offered to smash his teeth in, he didn’t leave off thatbusiness, whereupon he has a go at myprivates, slobbering like a dog!” Bates looked both affronted and mildly amused, and Grey began to be convinced that Minnie’s opinion was correct.

“I take your point,” Grey said dryly. “You are not yourself a sodomite.”

“That’s right,” said Bates, leaning back in his chair. “Just your basic traitor. But that’s not what I’ll be hanged for.” For the first time, a tinge of bitterness entered his tone.

Grey inclined his head. Evidently Bates took it for granted that Grey knew the truth of the matter. How? he wondered, but his mind automatically supplied the answer—Minnie, of course, and her sympathetic acquaintance with Mrs. Tomlinson. So Hal didtalk to her.

“Yet you’ve chosen not to make that public,” Grey observed. “There are any number of journalists who would listen.” He’d been obliged to fight his way through a crowd of them outside the main gate, all hoping for the opportunity to get a private interview with one or more of the infamous conspirators.

“They’d listen if I told them what they want to hear,” the captain observed caustically. “The public has made up its mind, d’ye see. And there are too many voices from Whitehall whispering in Fleet Street’s ear these days; mine wouldn’t be heard past the door of this place. I’m a convicted sodomite conspirator, after all—obviously, I’d say anything.”

Grey let this pass; he was likely right.

“You sent for me,” he said.

“I did, and I thank you for coming.” Bates raised the flask ceremoniously to him, and drank, then leaned his head back, studying Grey with interest.

“Why?” Grey said after a moment.

“You’re an officer and a gentleman, aren’t you? Whatever else you may be.”

“What do you mean by that?” Grey kept his voice calm, though his heart leapt convulsively.

Bates looked at him for a long moment, a half smile on his face.

“One would never guess, to look at you,” he said conversationally.

“I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, sir,” Grey said politely.

“Yes, you do.” Bates waved a hand, dismissing it, and took another drink from the flask. “Not to worry. I wouldn’t say a word—and if I did, no one would believe me.” He spoke without rancor. “You know a man named Richard Caswell, I imagine. So do I.”

“In what capacity, may I ask?” Grey inquired, out of personal curiosity as much as duty. Caswell was the proprietor of Lavender House, an exclusive club for gentlemen who preferred gentlemen—but he undoubtedly had other irons in the fire. And if the suborning of treason was one of those…

“Moneylender,” Bates said frankly. “I gamble, d’ye see. That’s what’s brought me to this pass; need of money. My old granny said as the cards were the devil’s pasteboards, and they’d lead me straight to hell. I wonder if I shall get to see her and tell her she was right? Though if so, I suppose she’ll be in hell, too, won’t she? Serve her right, the prating old bizzom.”

Grey declined the offered distraction.

“And Richard Caswell mentioned my name to you? In what connexion, may I ask?” He was more than surprised to hear that Caswell had spoken of him, and in fact, doubted it. Dickie Caswell would have died a long time ago were he that careless with the secrets he held.

Bates gave him a long, shrewd look, then shook his head and laughed.

“Play cards, do you, Major?”

“Not often.”

“You should. I see you aren’t easily bluffed.” He shifted his feet, the irons clanking.

“No, Caswell didn’t mention your name. He had one of those beastly coughing fits of his and was obliged to rush into his chamber for his medicine. I took the opportunity to rummage his desk. His diary was all in code, the wily beast, but he’d written Lord John Greyon the margin of his blotter. Didn’t know who you were, but happened by chance to be at cards with Melton that night, and he spoke of his brother John. Susannah knew your brother’s wife, had heard the story of your title, and… voil а .” He smiled at Grey, all good-fellowship.

Grey felt the fist in his midsection relax by degrees. It clenched again at the captain’s next words.

“And then of course, Mr. Bowles’s assistant mentioned you in my hearing, sometime later.”

The word “Bowles” went through him like an electric shock. Followed by a slightly lesser one at the word “assistant.”