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“There he is, me lord,” Tom said, sounding breathless. “That’ll be him.”
“Tom! Tom, lad, is that you?”
A loud voice spoke incredulously behind them, and Grey swung round to see his valet engulfed in the embrace of a tall young man whose face revealed his kinship.
“Jack! I thought you was dead! Or a murderer.” Tom wriggled out of his brother’s hug, face glowing but anxious. “Are you a murderer, Jack?”
“I am not. What the devil do you mean by that, you pie-faced little snot?”
“Don’t you speak to me like that. I’m valet to his lordship, and you’re no but a footman, so there!”
“You’re what? No, you’re never!”
Grey would have liked to hear the developments of this conversation, but duty lay in the other direction. Heart thundering in his chest, he turned his back on the Byrds, and pushed his way past the ship’s officer, ignoring his objections.
The cabin was spacious, with stern windows that flooded the space with light, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. There were other people—he sensed them dimly—but his sole attention was fixed on Trevelyan.
Trevelyan was seated on a sea chest, coatless, with the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, one hand clamping a bloodstained cloth to his forearm.
“Good Christ,” Trevelyan said, staring at him. “Nemesis, as I live and breathe.”
“If you like.” Grey swallowed a rush of saliva and took a deep breath. “I arrest you, Joseph Trevelyan, for the murder of Reinhardt Mayrhofer, by the power of . . .” Grey put a hand into his pocket, but Tom Byrd still had his letter. No matter; it was near enough.
A trembling vibration rose under his feet before he could speak further, and the boards seemed to shift beneath him. He staggered, catching himself on the corner of a desk. Trevelyan smiled, a little ruefully.
“We are aweigh, John. That is the anchor chain you hear. And this is my ship.”
Grey drew another deep breath, realization of his error coming over him with a sense of fatality. He should have insisted upon seeing the captain, whatever the objection. He should have presented his letter and made sure that at all costs the ship was prevented from sailing—but in his haste to make sure of Trevelyan, his judgment had failed. He had been able to think of nothing but finding the man, cornering him, and bringing him to book at last. And now it was too late.
He was alone, save for Tom Byrd, and while Harry Quarry and Constable Magruder would know where he was, that knowledge would not save him—for now they were a-sail, heading away from England and help. And he doubted that Joseph Trevelyan meant ever to come back to face the King’s justice.
Still, they would not put him overboard in sight of land, he supposed. And perhaps he could yet reach the captain, or Tom Byrd could. It might be a blessing that Byrd still held his letter; Trevelyan could not destroy it immediately. But would any captain clap the owner of his ship in irons, or abort the sailing of such a juggernaut, on the power of a rather dubious letter of empowerment?
He glanced away from Trevelyan’s wry gaze, and saw, with no particular sense of surprise, that the man who stood in the corner of the cabin was Finbar Scanlon, quietly putting a case of instruments and bottles to rights.
“And where is Mrs. Scanlon?” he inquired, putting a bold face on it. “Also aboard, I assume?”
Scanlon shook his head, a slight smile on his lips.
“No, my lord. She is in Ireland, safe. I’d not risk her here, to be sure.”
Because of her condition, he supposed the man meant. No woman would choose to bear a child on board ship, no matter how large the vessel.
“A long voyage then, I take it?” In his muddled state, he had not even thought to ask Stapleton for the ship’s destination. Had he been in time, that would not have mattered. But now? Where in God’s name were they headed?
“Long enough.” It was Trevelyan who spoke, taking away the cloth from his arm and peering at the result. The tender skin of his i
Trevelyan turned to pick up a fresh cloth, and Grey caught sight of the bed beyond him. A woman lay behind the drapes of gauze net, unmoving, and he took the few steps that brought him to the bedside, unsteady on his feet as the ship shuddered and quickened, taking sail.
“This would be Mrs. Mayrhofer, I suppose?” he asked quietly, though she seemed in a sleep too deep to rouse from easily.
“Maria,” Trevelyan said softly at his elbow, wrapping his arm with a bandage as he looked down at her.
She was drawn and wasted by illness, and looked little like her portrait. Still, Grey thought she was likely beautiful, when in health. The bones of her face were too prominent now, but the shape of them graceful, and the hair that swept back from a high brow dark and lush, though matted by sweat. She had been let blood, too; a clean bandage wrapped the crook of her elbow. Her hands lay open on the coverlet, and he saw that she wore Trevelyan’s signet, loose on her finger—the emerald cabochon, marked with the Cornish chough.
“What is the matter with her?” he asked, for Scanlon had come to stand by his other side.
“Malaria,” the apothecary replied, matter-of-factly. “Tertian fever. Are you well, sir?”
So close, he could smell it, as well as see it; the woman’s skin was yellow, and a fine sweat glazed her temples. The strange musky odor of jaundice reached him through the veil of perfume that she wore—the same perfume he had smelt on her husband, lying dead in a blood-soaked dress of green velvet.
“Will she live?” he asked. Ironic, he thought, if Trevelyan had killed her husband in order to have her, only to lose her to a deadly disease.
“She’s in the hands of God now,” Scanlon said, shaking his head. “As is he.” He nodded at Trevelyan, and Grey glanced sharply at him.
“What do you mean by that?”
Trevelyan sighed, rolling down his sleeve over the bandage.
“Come and have a drink with me, John. There is time enough now; time enough. I’ll tell you all you wish to know.”
“I should prefer to be knocked straightforwardly on the head, rather than poisoned again—if it is all the same to you, sir,” Grey said, giving him an unfriendly eye. To his a
“I’d forgotten,” he said, a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do apologize, John. Though for what the explanation is worth,” he added, “I was not intending to kill you—only to delay you.”
“Perhaps it was not your intent,” Grey said coldly, “but I suspect you did not mind if you did kill me.”
“No, I didn’t,” Trevelyan agreed frankly. “I needed time, you see—and I couldn’t take the chance that you wouldn’t act, despite our bargain. You would not speak openly—but if you had told your mother, everyone in London would have known it by nightfall. And I could not be delayed.”
“And why should you trifle at my death, after all?” Grey asked, anger at his own stupidity making him rash. “What’s one more?”
Trevelyan had opened a cupboard and was reaching into it. At this, he stopped, turning a puzzled face to Grey.
“One more? I have killed no one, John. And I am pleased not to have killed you—I would have regretted that.”
He turned back to the cupboard, removing from it a bottle and a pair of pewter cups.
“You won’t mind brandy? I have wine, but it is not yet settled.”
Despite both anger and apprehension, Grey found himself nodding acceptance as Trevelyan poured the amber drink. Trevelyan sat down and took a mouthful from his cup, holding the aromatic liquid in his mouth, eyes half-closed in pleasure. After a moment, he swallowed, and glanced up at Grey, who still stood, glaring down at him.
With a slight shrug, he reached down and pulled open the drawer of the desk. He took out a small roll of grubby paper and pushed it across the desk toward Grey.