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Following this rather undignified departure, they found themselves in a coach, rattling up Meacham Street in a ma
“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’Co
“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, Joh
“Have I?” He peered downward, flicking at the offending particle. “There, is it gone?”
“Yes. Aunt Be
“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, Joh
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, Mi
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.