The Scottish Prisoner

Grey took down a copy of Abbй Prйvost’s Manon Lescaut, and thumbed casually through the pages, watching Beasley covertly as he did so. He knew better than to ask; Mr. Beasley was the soul of discretion, that being only one of the attributes that made him invaluable to Hal, as he had been to the first earl of Melton, their father and the founder of the regiment.

The disturbance was growing worse. Mr. Beasley made to dip his pen but instead allowed it to hover above the ink-stand and then slowly set it down. He had turned over a page; now he turned it back and studied something upon it, thin lips compressed almost into invisibility.

“Lord John,” he said at last, and removed his spectacles to blink nearsightedly up at Grey.

“Yes, Mr. Beasley.” He put down Manon Lescautat once and looked expectant.

“You have read these documents, I collect?”

“I have,” Grey said cautiously. “Perhaps not with the greatest attention to detail, but …”

“And His Grace has read them. What—if I may inquire—was his state of mind upon reading them?”

Grey considered. “Well, he didn’t break anything. He swore quite a bit in German, though.”

“Ah.” Mr. Beasley appreciated the significance of this point. He tapped spatulate fingertips upon his desk; he wasperturbed. “Do you—would you describe him as having flown into a horrid passion?”

“I would,” Grey said promptly.

“But he did not mention anything …  specific … with regard to these documents?” He glanced at the neat stack beside him.

“No …” Grey said slowly. Hal had certainly noted the Erse poem, if that’s what it was, but that sheet had not been given to Mr. Beasley; that couldn’t be what was disturbing the elderly clerk. He risked a question. “Have you noticed something?”

Mr. Beasley grimaced and turned the sheet around, facing Grey.

“There,” he said, placing a precise finger in the middle of the page. “Read that list of Major Siverly’s known associates, if you would be so kind.”

Grey obligingly sat down and bent his head over the sheet. Three seconds later his head snapped up and he stared at the clerk. “Jesus!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Beasley mildly. “I thought that, too. You don’t think he’s seen it?”

“I’m sure he hasn’t.”

They stared at each other for a moment, hearing the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Grey swallowed.

“Let me do it,” he said, and, taking the sheet, folded it hastily into his pocket, then rose to greet his brother.

HAL HAD A CARRIAGE waiting outside.

“We’re meeting Harry at Almack’s,” he said.

“What for? He’s not a member there, is he?” Harry was a clubbable man, but he was largely to be found at White’s Chocolate House, Hal’s own particular haunt in terms of coffeehouses, or at the Society for the Appreciation of the English Beefsteak, which was Grey’s favorite—a gentlemen’s club rather than a coffeehouse. There were occasional clashes between the patrons of White’s and those of Boodle’s or Almack’s; London coffeehouses inspired considerable loyalty.

“He’s not,” Hal said tersely. “But Bartholomew Halloran is.”

“And Bartholomew Halloran is …?”

“The adjutant of the Thirty-fifth.”

“Ah. And thus a source of information on Major Gerald Siverly, also of that regiment.”

“Quite. He’s a casual acquaintance of Harry’s; they play cards now and then.”

“I hope Harry’s wily enough to lose convincingly.” The carriage hit a pothole and lurched, flinging them heavily to the side. Hal saved himself by thrusting a foot hard into the opposite seat, between his brother’s legs. John, with equally good reflexes, grabbed the foot.

The coach swayed precariously for an instant but then righted itself, and they resumed their original positions.

“We should have walked,” Hal said, and made to stick his head out the window to call to the coachman. Grey seized him by the sleeve, though, and he looked at his brother in surprise.

“No. Just—no. Wait.”

Hal stared at him for a moment, but then lowered himself back to the seat.

“What is it?” he said. He looked wary but keen.

“This,” said Grey simply, and, reaching into his pocket, handed over the folded sheet. “Read the list of names in the middle.”

Hal took the sheet, frowning, and began to read. Grey counted in his head. Hal didn’t read quite as fast as he did.

Five … four … three … two … one …

“Jesus!”

“Well, yes.”

They looked at each other in silence for the length of several heartbeats.

“Of allthe men Siverly could have had dealings with—” Hal said, and shook his head violently, like a man trying to rid himself of flies.

“It has to be, of course,” Grey said. “I mean, there aren’t two of them, surely.”

“Would that there were. But I doubt it. Edward Twelvetrees is not that common a name.”

“Once upon a time, there were three brothers,” Grey said, half under his breath. Hal had closed his eyes and was breathing heavily. “Reginald, Nathaniel … and Edward.”

Hal opened his eyes. “It’s always the youngest who gets the princess, isn’t it?” He gave John a lopsided smile. “Younger brothers are the very devil.”

AT THIS HOUR of the morning, Almack’s public rooms were bustling. Harry Quarry was chatting amiably with a thin, worried-looking man whom Grey recognized as a stockbroker. On seeing them, Harry took his leave with a word and stood up, coming to meet them.

“I’ve bespoke a private cardroom,” Harry said, shaking hands with Grey and nodding to Hal. “Symington, Clifford, and Bingham will be joining us shortly.”

Grey nodded cordially, wondering what on earth Harry was about, but Hal gave no sign of surprise.

“Didn’t want it to get about that inquiries were being made,” Harry explained, peering out in the larger room before shutting the door to the cardroom. “We’ll have a few minutes to talk, then, once the others have come, we’ll have a few hands of picquet, you lot leave for another engagement, and I’ll stay on. No one will notice you’ve even been here.”

Harry looked so pleased at this stratagem for deflecting suspicion that Grey hadn’t the heart to point out that Harry might simply have come to Argus House to share whatever news he’d gained from Halloran. Hal didn’t look at John but nodded gravely at Harry.

“Very clever,” he said. “But if we’ve not much time—”

He was interrupted by a servant bringing in a tray of coffee dishes, a plate of biscuits, and several decks of cards, already separated into the talonsrequired for picquet.

“If we’ve not much time,” Hal repeated, with an edge in his voice, once the servant had departed, “perhaps you’d best tell us what Halloran had to say.”

“A fair amount,” Harry said, sitting down. “Coffee?”

Harry’s bluff, craggy face inspired confidence in men and a remarkable degree of sensual abandonment in women, which Grey considered one of the great mysteries of nature. On the other hand, he didn’t presume to know what women thought attractive. In the present instance, though, Adjutant Halloran appeared to have been taken in by Harry’s casual charm as easily as any society lady.

“Lot of talk, regimental gossip,” Harry said, dismissing all of this with a wave of one broad hand. He spilled coffee into his saucer and blew on it, making wisps of aromatic steam rise from the dark brew. “Got him round to Siverly eventually, though. He respects Siverly, doesn’t much like him. Reputation as a good soldier, good commander. Doesn’t waste men.… What?”

Both the Greys had made noises. Hal waved a hand at Harry.

“Tell you later. Go on. Did he say anything about the mutiny in Canada?”

“No.” Harry arched a brow. “But he wouldn’t, would he? It wasn’t brought to a general court-martial, and if it was a regimental affair …”