“Which is?”
“That she is an inamorata—rather than an inamorato.”
Grey stared at him for an instant, deciphering this.
“What? Trevelyan is meeting a woman? A real woman? Here?”
Caswell inclined his head, hands folded gravely at his waist like a butler.
“How do you know?” Grey demanded. “Are you sure?”
The candlelight danced like laughter in Caswell’s small black eyes.
“Ever smelt a woman? Close to, I mean.” Caswell shook his head, the loose folds of skin on his neck quivering with the movement. “Let alone a room where someone’s been swiving one of the creatures for hours on end. Of course I’m sure.”
“Of course you are,” Grey murmured, repelled by the mental image of Caswell nosing ratlike through sheets and pillows in the vacated rooms of his house, pilfering crumbs of information from the rubble left by careless love.
“She has dark hair,” Caswell offered helpfully. “Nearly black. Your cousin is fair, I believe?”
Grey didn’t bother answering that.
“And?” he asked tersely.
Caswell pursed his lips, considering.
“She wears considerable paint—but I cannot say, of course, whether that is her normal habit, or part of the guise she adopts when coming here.”
Grey nodded, taking the point. Those mollies who liked to dress as women normally were painted like French noblewomen; a woman hoping to be mistaken for one would likely do the same.
“And?”
“She wears a very expensive scent. Civet, vetiver, and orange, if I am not mistaken.” Caswell cast his eyes up toward the ceiling, considering. “Oh, yes—she has a taste for that German wine I gave you.”
“You said you kept it for a member. Trevelyan, I presume? How do you know it isn’t he alone who drinks it?”
Caswell’s hairy nostrils quivered with amusement.
“A man who drank as much as is brought up to this suite would be incapable for days. And judging from the evidence”—he nodded delicately at the bed—“our Mr. Trevelyan is far from incapable.”
“She arrives by sedan chair?” Grey asked, ignoring the allusion.
“Yes. Different bearers each time, though; if she keeps men of her own, she does not use them when coming here—which argues a high degree of discretion, does it not?”
A lady with a good deal to lose, were the affaire discovered. But the intricacy of Trevelyan’s arrangements was sufficient to tell him that already.
“And that is all I know,” Caswell said, in tones of finality. “Now, as to your part of the bargain, my lord?…”
His mind still reeling from the shock of revelation, Grey recalled his promise to Tom Byrd and gathered sufficient wits to ask one more question, pulled almost at random from the swirl of fact and speculation that presently inhabited his cranium.
“All you know about the woman. About Mr. Trevelyan, though—have you ever seen a man with him, a servant? Somewhat taller than myself, lean-faced and dark, with a missing eyetooth on the left side?”
Caswell looked surprised.
“A servant?” He frowned, ransacking his memory. “No. I … no, wait. Yes … yes, I believe I have seen the man, though I think he has come only once.” He looked up, nodding with decision.
“Yes, that was it; he came to fetch his master, with a note of some kind—some emergency to do with business, I think. I sent him down to the kitchens to wait for Trevelyan—he was comely enough, tooth or no, but I rather thought he was not disposed to such sport as he might encounter abovestairs.”
Tom Byrd would be relieved to hear that expert opinion, Grey thought.
“When was this? Do you recall?”
Caswell’s lips puckered in thought, causing Grey briefly to avert his glance.
“In late April, I think it was, though I cannot—oh. Yes, I can be sure.” He grinned, triumphantly displaying a set of decaying teeth. “That was it. He brought word of the Austrian defeat at Prague, arrived by special courier. The newspapers had it within days, but naturally Mr. Trevelyan would wish to know of it at once.”
Grey nodded. For a man with Trevelyan’s business interests, information like that would be worth its weight in gold—or even more, depending on its timeliness.
“One last thing, then. When he left so hastily—did the woman leave then, too? And did she go with him, rather than seeking separate transport?”
Caswell was obliged to ponder that one for a moment, leaning against the wall.
“Ye-es, they did leave together,” he said at last. “I seem to recall that the servant ran off to fetch a hired carriage, and they entered it together. She’d a shawl over her head. Quite small, though; I might easily have taken her for a boy—save that her figure was quite rounded.”
Caswell drew himself up straight then, and cast a last glance about the vacant room, as though to satisfy himself that it would yield no further secrets.
“Well, that’s my end of the bargain kept, my love. And yours?” His hand hovered over the candlestick, scrawny claw poised to pinch out the flame. Grey saw the polished obsidian eyes fix on him in invitation, and was all too conscious of the large bed, close behind him.
“Of course,” Grey said, moving purposefully toward the door. “Shall we adjourn to your office?”
Caswell’s expression might have been termed a pout, had he had the fullness of lip to achieve such a thing.
“If you insist,” he said with a sigh, and extinguished the candle in a burst of fragrant smoke.
Dawn was beginning to lighten over the housetops of London by the time Grey left Dickie Caswell’s sanctum, alone. He paused at the end of the corridor, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the casement, watching the City as it emerged by imperceptible degrees from its cloak of night. Muted by clouds that had thickened during the night, the light grew in shades of gray, relieved only by the faintest tinge of pink over the distant Thames. In his present state of mind, it reminded Grey of the last vestiges of life fading from a corpse’s cheeks.
Caswell had been delighted with his half of the bargain, as well he should be. Grey had held back nothing of his Medmenham adventures, save the name of the man who had actually killed George Everett. There, he said only that the man had been robed and masked; impossible to say for sure who it had been.
He felt no compunction in thus blackening George’s name; to his manner of thinking, George had accomplished that reasonably well for himself—and if a posthumous revelation of his actions could help to save the innocent, that might compensate in some small way for the innocent lives Everett had taken or ruined as the price of his ambition.
As for Dashwood and the others … let them look to themselves. He who sups wi’ the De’il, needs bring a lang spoon. Grey smiled faintly, hearing the Scots proverb in memory. Jamie Fraser had said it on the occasion of their first meal together—casting Grey as the Devil, he supposed, though he had not asked.
Grey was not a religious man, but he harbored a persistent vision: an avenging angel presiding over a balance on which the deeds of a man’s life were weighed—the bad to one side, the good to the other—and George Everett stood before the angel naked, bound and wide-eyed, waiting to see where the wavering balance might finally come to rest. He hoped this night’s work should be laid to George’s credit, and wondered briefly how long the accounting might go on, if it was true that a man’s deeds lived after him.
Jamie Fraser had told him once of purgatory, that Catholic conception of a place prior to final judgment, where souls remained for a time after death, and where the fate of a soul might still be affected by the prayers and Masses said for it. Perhaps it was true; a place where the soul waited, while each action taken during life played itself out, the unexpected consequences and complications following one another like a collapsing chain of dominoes down through the years. But that would imply that a man was responsible not only for his conscious actions, but for all the good and e
vil that might spring from them forever, unintended and unforeseen; a terrible thought.
He straightened, feeling at once drained and keyed up. He was exhausted, but completely awake—in fact, sleep had never seemed so far away. Every nerve was raw, and all his muscles ached with unrelieved tension.
The house lay silent around him, its inhabitants still sleeping the drugged sleep of wine and sated sensuality. Rain began to fall, the soft ping of raindrops striking the glass accompanied by a harsh, fresh scent that came cold through the cracks of the casement, cutting through the stale air of the house and through the fog that filled his brain.
“Nothing like a long walk home in a driving rain to clear the cobwebs,” he murmured to himself. He had left his hat somewhere—perhaps in the library—but felt no desire to go in search of it. He made his way to the stair, down to the second floor, and along the gallery toward the main staircase that would take him down to the door.
The door of one of the rooms on the gallery was open, and as he passed by, a shadow fell across the boards at his feet. He glanced up and met the eye of a young man who lounged in the doorway, clad in nothing but his shirt, dark curls loose upon his shoulders. The young man’s eyes, black and long-lashed, passed over him, and he felt the heat of them on his skin.
He made as though to go by, but the young man reached out and grasped him by the arm.
“Come in,” the young man said softly.
“No, I—”
“Come. For a moment only.”
The young man stepped out onto the gallery, his bare feet long and graceful, standing so close that his thigh pressed Grey’s. He leaned forward, and the warmth of his breath brushed Grey’s ear, the tip of his tongue touched the whorl of it with a crackling sound like the spark that springs from the fingers on a dry day when metal is touched.
“Come,” he murmured, and stepped backward, drawing Grey after him into the room.
It was clean and plainly furnished, but he saw nothing save the dark eyes, so close, and the hand that moved from his arm, sliding down to entwine its fingers with his own, the swarthiness of it startling by contrast with his own fairness, the palm broad and hard against his.
Then the young man moved away and, smiling at Grey, took hold of the hem of the shirt and drew it upward over his head.
Grey felt as though the cloth of his stock were choking him. The room was cool, and yet a dew of sweat broke out on his body, hot damp in the small of his back, slick in the creases of his skin.
“What will you, sir?” the young man whispered, still smiling. He put down one hand and stroked himself, inviting.
Grey reached slowly up and fumbled for a moment with the fastening of his stock, until it suddenly came free, leaving his neck exposed, bare and vulnerable. Cool air struck his skin as he shed his coat and loosened his shirt; he felt gooseflesh prickle on his arms and rush pell-mell down the length of his spine.
The young man knelt now on the bed. He turned his back and stretched himself catlike, arching, and the rain-light from the window played upon the broad flat muscle of thigh and shoulder, the groove of back and furrowed buttocks. He looked back over one shoulder, eyelids half-lowered, long and sleepy-looking.
The mattress gave beneath Grey’s weight, and the young man’s mouth moved under his, soft and wet.
“Shall I talk, sir?”
“No,” Grey whispered, closing his eyes, pressing down with hips and hands. “Be silent. Pretend … I am not here.”
Chapter 11
German Red
There were, Grey calculated, approximately a thousand wineshops in the City of London. However, if one considered only those dealing in wines of quality, the number was likely more manageable. A brief inquiry with his own wine merchant proving unfruitful, though, he decided upon consultation with an expert.
“Mother—when you had the German evening last week, did you by any chance serve German wine?”
The Countess was sitting in her boudoir reading a book, stockinged feet comfortably propped upon the shaggy back of her favorite dog, an elderly spaniel named Eustace, who opened one sleepy eye and panted genially in response to Grey’s entrance. She looked up at her son’s appearance, and shoved the spectacles she wore for reading up onto her forehead, blinking a little at the shift from the world of the printed page.
“German wine? Well, yes; we had a nice Rhenish one, to go with the lamb. Why?”
“No red wine?”
“Three of them—but not German. Two French, and a rather raw Spanish; crude, but it went well with the sausages.” Benedicta ran the tip of her tongue thoughtfully along her upper lip in recollection. “Captain von Namtzen didn’t seem to like the sausages; very odd. But then, he’s from Hanover. Perhaps I inadvertently had sausages done in the style of Saxony or Prussia, and he thought it an insult. I think Cook considers all Germans to be the same thing.”
“Cook thinks that anyone who isn’t an Englishman is a frog; she doesn’t draw distinctions beyond that.” Dismissing the cook’s prejudices for the moment, Grey unearthed a stool from under a heap of tattered books and manuscripts, and sat on it.
“I am in search of a German red—full-bodied, fruity nose, about the color of one of those roses.” He pointed at the vase of deep-crimson roses spilling petals over his mother’s mahogany secretary.
“Really? I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen a German red wine, let alone tasted one—though I suppose they do exist.” The Countess closed her book, keeping a finger between the pages to mark her place. “Are you planning your supper party? Olivia said you’d invited Joseph to dine with you and your friends—that was very kind of you, dear.”
Grey felt as though he’d received a sudden punch to the midsection. Christ, he’d forgotten all about his invitation to Trevelyan.
“Whyever do you want a German wine, though?” The Countess laid her head on one side, one fair brow lifted in curiosity.
“That is another matter, quite separate,” Grey said hastily. “Are you still getting your wine from Cannel’s?”
“For the most part. Gentry’s, now and then, and sometimes Hemshaw and Crook. Let me see, though …” She ran the tip of a forefinger slowly down the bridge of her nose, then pressed the tip, having arrived at the sought-for conclusion.
“There is a newish wine merchant, rather small, down in Fish Street. The neighborhood isn’t very nice, but they do have some quite extraordinary wines; things you can’t find elsewhere. I should ask there, if I were you. Fraser et Cie is the name.”
“Fraser?” It was a fairly common Scots name, after all. Still, the mere sound of it gave him a faint thrill. “I’ll ask there. Thank you, Mother.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, taking in her characteristic perfume: lily of the valley, mixed with ink—the latter fragrance more intense than usual, owing to the newness of the book in her lap.
“What’s that you’re reading?” he asked, glancing at it.
“Oh, young Edmund’s latest bit of light entertainment,” she said, closing the cover to display the title: A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, by Edmund Burke. “I don’t expect you’d like it—too frivolous by half.” Taking up her silver penknife, she neatly cut the next page. “I have a new printing of John Cleland’s Fanny Hill, though, if you find yourself in want of reading matter. You know, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure?”
“Very amusing, Mother,” he said tolerantly, scratching Eustace behind the ears. “Do you mean to read the Cleland thing, or do you intend merely to leave it artfully displayed in the salon, in order to drive off Lady Roswell in a state of shock?”
“Oh, what a good idea!” she said, giving him a look of approval. “I hadn’t thought of that. Unfortunately, it hasn’t got the title on the cover, and she’s much too stupidly incurious simply to pick up a book and open it.”
She reached over and rummaged through the stacked books on her secretary, pulling out a handsome calf-bound quarto volume, which she handed t
o him.
“It’s a special presentation edition,” she explained. “Blank spine, plain cover. So one can read it in dull company, I suppose, without arousing suspicion—as long as one doesn’t let the illustrations show, at least. Why don’t you take it, though? I read it when it first came out, and you’ll be needing some sort of present for Joseph’s bachelor party. That seems rather appropriate, if half what I hear of such parties is true.”
He had been about to rise, but stopped, holding the book.
“Mother,” he said carefully. “About Mr. Trevelyan. Do you think Livy is terribly in love with him?”
She looked at him with raised brows; then, very slowly, closed her book, took her feet off Eustace, and sat up straight.
“Why?” she asked, in a tone that managed to communicate all of the wariness and cynical suspicion regarding the male sex that was the natural endowment of a woman who had raised four sons and buried two husbands.
“I … have some reason to think that Mr. Trevelyan has … an irregular attachment,” he said carefully. “The matter is not yet quite certain.”
The Countess inhaled deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and regarded him with a pale, clear blue gaze of pragmatism, tinged only slightly with regret.
“He is a dozen years her senior; it would be not merely unusual, but most remarkable, if he had not had several mistresses. Men of your age do have affaires, after all.” Her lashes lowered briefly in delicate reference to the hushed-up scandal that had sent him to Ardsmuir.
“I could hope that his marriage would cause him to abandon any such irregular liaisons, but if it does not …” She shrugged, her shoulders sloping in sudden tiredness. “I trust he will be discreet.”
For the first time, it occurred to Grey to wonder whether either his father or her first husband, Captain DeVane … but this was not the time for such speculations.
“I think Mr. Trevelyan is highly discreet,” he said, clearing his throat a little. “I only wondered if … if Livy would be heartbroken, should … anything happen.” He liked his cousin, but knew very little about her; she had come to live with his mother after he himself had left to take up his first commission.
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