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“He was not a bad intriguer, Mayrhofer,” Trevelyan said, turning the cup gently in his hands so as to release the bouquet of the brandy. “He moved well in society, and had a nose for bits of information that meant little by themselves but that could be built up into something of importance—and either sold or, if of military importance, passed on to the Austrians.”
“It did not, of course, occur to you to mention this to anyone in authority? That istreason, after all.”
Trevelyan took a deep breath, inhaling the spice of his brandy.
“Oh, I thought I would just watch him for a bit,” he said blandly. “See exactly what he was up to, you know.”
“See whether he was doing anything that might be of benefit to you, you mean.”
Trevelyan pursed his lips, and shook his head slowly over the brandy.
“You have a very suspicious sort of mind, John—has anyone ever told you that?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on. “So when Hal came to me with his suspicions about your Sergeant O’Co
Hal had accepted his offer of Jack Byrd at once, and Trevelyan had set his most trusted servant the task of following the Sergeant. If O’Co
“It seemed desirable to discover what Mayrhofer might do with such a find; who he would go to, I mean.”
“Hmm,” Grey said skeptically. He eyed his own brandy suspiciously, but there was no sediment. He took a cautious sip, and found that it burned agreeably on his palate, obliterating the murky smells of sea, sickness, and sewage. He felt immeasurably better at once.
Trevelyan had left off his wig. He wore his hair polled close; it was flat and a nondescript sort of brown, but it quite altered his appearance. Some men—Quarry, for instance—were who they were, no matter how attired, but not Trevelyan. Properly wigged, he was an elegant gentleman; shirtsleeved and bareheaded, with the bloodstained bandage about his arm, he might have been a buccaneer plotting the downfall of a prey, narrow face alight with determination.
“So I set Jack Byrd to watch O’Co
“Hmm,” Grey said again, trying and failing notably to envision Iphigenia Stokes as a little anything.
“I told Byrd to try to get round the Stokes woman—see if she might be induced to wheedle O’Co
“Perhaps she actually loved Tim O’Co
“Anyway”—Trevelyan dismissed such considerations with a wave of the hand—“finally Jack Byrd reported to me that O’Co
“Known by whom?” Grey interrupted. “Not you, I don’t suppose.”
Trevelyan gave him a quick glance, wary but interested.
“No, not me. Do you know a man named Bowles, by any chance?”
“I do, yes. How the hell do you know him?”
Trevelyan smiled faintly.
“Government and commerce work hand in hand, John, and what affects one affects the other. Mr. Bowles and I have had an understanding for some years now, regarding the trade of small bits of information.”
He would have gone on with his story, but Grey had had a sudden flash of insight.
“An understanding, you say. This understanding—did it have something to do, perhaps, with an establishment known as Lavender House?”
Trevelyan stared at him, one brow raised.
“That’s very perceptive of you, John,” he said, looking amused. “Dickie Caswell said you were much more intelligent than you looked—not that you appear in any way witless,” he hastened to add, seeing the look of offense on Grey’s face. “Merely that Dickie is somewhat susceptible to male beauty, and thus inclined to be blinded to a man’s other qualities if he is the possessor of such beauty. But I do not employ him to make such distinctions, after all; merely to report to me such matters as might be of interest.”
“Good Lord.” Grey felt the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him again, and was obliged to close his eyes for a moment. Such matters as might be of interest.The mere fact that a man had visited Lavender House—let alone what he might have done there—would be a “matter of interest,” to be sure. With such knowledge, Mr. Bowles—or his agents—could bring pressure to bear on such men, the threat of exposure obliging them to undertake any actions suggested. How many men did the spider hold, enmeshed in his blackmailer’s web?
“So you employ Caswell?” he asked, opening his eyes and swallowing the metallic taste at the back of his throat. “You are the owner of Lavender House, then?”
“And of the brothel in Meacham Street,” Trevelyan said, his look of amusement deepening. “A great help in business. You have no idea, John, of the things that men will let slip when in the grip of lust or drunke
“Don’t I?” Grey said. He took a sparing sip of the brandy. “I am surprised, then, that Caswell should have revealed to me what he did, regarding your own activities. It was he who told me that you visited a woman there.”
“Did he?” Trevelyan looked displeased at that. “He didn’t tell me that.” He leaned back a little, frowning. Then he gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“Well, it’s as my old Nan used to say to me: ‘Lie down with pigs, and you’ll rise up mucky.’ I daresay it would have suited Dickie very well to have me arrested and imprisoned, or executed—and I suppose he thought the opportunity was ripe at last. He believes that Lavender House will go to him, should anything happen to me; I think it is that belief alone that’s kept him alive so long.”
“He believes it. It is not so?”
Trevelyan shrugged, suddenly indifferent.
“No matter now.” He rose, restless, and went to stand by the bed again. He could not keep from touching her, Grey saw; his fingers lifted a damp wisp of hair away from her cheek and smoothed it back behind her ear. She stirred in her sleep, eyelids fluttering, and Trevelyan took her hand, kneeling down to murmur to her, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.
Scanlon was watching, too, Grey saw. The apothecary had started brewing some potion over a spirit lamp; a bitter-smelling steam began to rise from the pot, fogging the windows. Glancing back toward the bed, he saw that England had fallen far behind by now; only a narrow hump of land was still visible through the windows, above the roiling sea.
“And you, Mr. Scanlon,” Grey said, rising, and moving carefully toward the apothecary, cup in hand. “How do you find yourself entangled in this affair?”
The Irishman gave him a wry look.
“Ah, and isn’t love a grand bitch, then?”
“I daresay. You would be referring to the present Mrs. Scanlon, I collect?”
“Francie, aye.” A warmth glowed in the Irishman’s eyes as he spoke his wife’s name. “We took up together, her and me, after her wretch of a husband left. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t marry, though she’d have liked it. But then the bastard comes back!”
The apothecary’s big clean hands curled up into fists at the thought.
“Waited until I was out, the shite. I come back from tending to an ague, and what do I find but my Francie on the floor, a-welter in her own blood and her precious face smashed in—” He stopped abruptly, trembling with recalled rage.
“There was a man bent over her; I thought he’d done it, and went for him. I’d have killed him, sure, had Francie not come round enough to wheeze out to me as it weren’t him but Tim O’Co