The Scottish Prisoner

“So sorry to inconvenience you,” Grey said, begi

“Quite the reverse, my lord. He served his country in the noblest fashion, working in secrecy and in danger to defeat her enemies.” For once, there was a note of warmth in that colorless voice, and, glancing down at his unwelcome companion, Grey realized that Bowles was himself angry—very angry.

“Why the devil did he not say something to me privately?”

“Why should he have trusted you, my lord?” Bowles riposted smartly. “You come from a family whose own background bears the shadow of treason—”

“It does not!”

“Perhaps not in fact but in perception,” Bowles agreed with a nod. “You did well in rooting out Bernard Adams and his fellow plotters, but even the clearing of your father’s name will not erase the stain—only time will do that. Time, and the actions of yourself and your brother.”

“What do you bloody mean by that, damn you?”

Bowles lifted one sloping shoulder but forbore to reply directly.

“And to speak of his activities to anyone—anyone at all, my lord—was for Edward Twelvetrees to risk the destruction of all his—all our—work. True, Major Siverly was dead, but—”

“Wait. If what you tell me is true, why did Edward Twelvetrees kill Siverly?”

“Oh, he didn’t,” Bowles said, as though this was a matter of no importance.

“What? Who did, then? I assure you, it wasn’t me!”

Bowles actually laughed at that, a small creaking noise that made his hunched back hunch further.

“Of course not, my lord. Edward told me that it was an Irishman—a thin man with curly hair—who struck down Gerald Siverly. He heard raised voices and, upon coming to see the cause, overheard an Irish voice in a passion, denouncing Major Siverly, saying that he knew Siverly had stolen the money.

“In any case, there was an argument, then the sounds of a scuffle. Twelvetrees did not wish to reveal himself but advanced cautiously toward the folly, whereupon he saw a man leap over the railing, spattered with blood, and rush into the wood. He pursued the man but failed to stop him. He saw you run past shortly thereafter and thus hid in the wood until you had passed, then left quietly in the other direction.

“He hadn’t seen the Irish gentleman before, though, and was unable to find anyone in the area who knew him. Under the circumstances, he was reluctant to make too many inquiries.” He looked up at Grey, mildly inquiring. “I do not suppose you know who he was?”

“His name is Tobias Qui

“Ah,” said Bowles, pleased. “Just so. You see, my lord, that is what I meant about you and your brother. You are in a position to acquire many useful bits of information.

“Captain Twelvetrees had in fact informed me that he thought Siverly was about to abscond with the funds to Sweden; we intended to allow this, as it would have crippled the Irish plan beyond repair. I ca

There was a brief pause, during which Bowles withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket—a silk one with lace edging, Grey saw—and blew his nose daintily.

“Do you know Mr. Qui

Grey rounded on him, furious.

“You are inviting me to spy for you, sir?”

“Certainly.” Bowles didn’t seem discomposed by Grey’s clenched fists. “But returning to the subject of Edward Twelvetrees—you must forgive me for seeming to harp upon it, but he really was a most valuable man—he could not say anything regarding his activities, even in private, for fear of those activities being revealed before our plans were complete.”

Realization was begi

“What … plans?”

“Why, the arrest of the Irish Brigade officers involved in the conspiracy. You know about that, I believe?”

“Yes, I do. How do you know about it?”

“Edward Twelvetrees. He brought me the outline of the plan but hadn’t yet collected a full list of those involved. ‘The Wild Hunt,’ they called themselves—most poetic, but what can you expect from the Irish? Edward’s untimely death”—a small note of irony was detectable in Mr. Bowles’s voice—“kept us from knowing the names of all the men involved. And while your brother’s worthy attempt to arrest the conspirators succeeded in bagging some of the prey, it alarmed others, who have either fled the country to cause trouble elsewhere or who have merely sunk into hiding.”

Grey opened his mouth, but could find nothing to say. The wound in his chest throbbed hotly with his heartbeat, but what was worse, what burned across his mind, was his memory of Reginald Twelvetrees’s face, set like granite, witnessing the destruction of his brother’s name.

“I thought you ought to know,” Bowles said, almost kindly. “Good day, my lord.”

HE’D ONCE SEEN Mi

He didn’t remember coming back to Argus House. Just suddenly found himself at the door, Nasonby blinking at him in consternation. The man said something; he waved a hand in vague dismissal and walked into the library— thank God Hal’s not here; I have to tell him, but, God, not now!—and out through the French doors, across the garden. His only thought was to find refuge, though he knew there could be none.

Behind the shed, he sat down carefully on the upturned bucket, put his elbows on his knees, and sank his head in his hands.

He could hear the watch ticking in his pocket, each tiny sound seeming to last forever, the stream of them endless. How impossibly long it would be before he died, for only that could put an end to the echo of Bowles’s words in the hollow of his mind.

He had no idea how long he sat there, eyes closed, listening to the reproach of his own heartbeat. He didn’t bother opening his eyes when footsteps came to a stop before him and the coolness of someone’s shadow fell on his hot face.

There was a brief sigh, then big hands took him by the arms and lifted him bodily to his feet.

“Come wi’ me,” Fraser said quietly. “Walk. It will be easier to say what’s happened, walking.”

He opened his mouth to protest but hadn’t the strength to resist. Fraser took his arm and propelled him firmly through the back gate. There was a narrow lane there, wide enough for barrows and tradesmen’s wagons, but at this hour of the day—it was late, he thought dimly, the whole of the lane was in shadow—there were only a few female servants loitering near the gates of the big houses, gossiping or waiting to walk out with a young man. These glanced at the two men sidelong but turned their heads away, lowering their voices as they continued their conversations. He wished passionately that he was one of those women, had a right still to engage in the ordinariness of life.

There was a lump in his throat, hard and round as a walnut. He didn’t see how words would ever find their way past it. But Fraser kept hold of his arm, guiding him out into the street, into Hyde Park.

It was nearly dark, save for the pinprick campfires of the tramps and gypsies who came into the park by night, and there were few of these. At the corner where pamphleteers, electioneers, and those possessed of strong opinions stood to speak, a larger fire was burning, dying down unattended, with a smell of charred paper. A figure hung from the branch of a nearby tree, an effigy that someone had tried to set on fire, but the fire had gone out, leaving the figure blackened and stinking, the pale square of paper pi