“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 annoyance, Trevelyan laughed, though he muted it at once, with a glance at the woman in the bed.
“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.
“Do sit down, John,” he said. “You look a trifle pale, if you will pardon my mentioning it.”
Feeling somehow foolish, and resenting both that feeling and the weakness of his knees, Grey lowered himself slowly onto the proffered stool, and picked up the roll of paper.
There were six sheets of rough paper, hard-used. Torn from a journal or notebook, they bore close writing on both sides. The paper had been folded, then unfolded and tightly rolled at some point; he had to flatten it with both hands in order to read it, but a glance was sufficient to tell him what it was.
He glanced up, to see Trevelyan watching him, with a slightly melancholy smile.
“That is what you have been seeking?” the Cornishman asked.
“You know that it is.” Grey released the papers, which curled themselves back into a cylinder. “Where did you get them?”
“From Mr. O’Connell, of course.”
The little cylinder of papers rolled gently to and fro with the motion of the ship, and the cloud-shattered light from the stern windows seemed suddenly very bright.
Trevelyan sat sipping his own drink, seeming to take no further notice of Grey, absorbed in his own thoughts.
“You said—you would tell me whatever I wished to know,” Grey said, picking up his own cup.
Trevelyan closed his eyes briefly, then nodded, and opened them, looking at Grey.
“Of course,” he said simply. “There is no reason why not—now.”
“You say you have killed no one,” Grey began carefully.
“Not yet.” Trevelyan glanced at the woman in the bed. “It remains to be seen whether I have killed my wife.”
“ Yourwife?” Grey blurted.
Trevelyan nodded, and Grey caught a glimpse of the fierce pride of five centuries of Cornish pirates, normally hidden beneath the suave facade of the merchant prince.
“Mine. We were married Tuesday evening—by an Irish priest Mr. Scanlon brought.”
Grey turned on his stool, gawking at Scanlon, who shrugged and smiled, but said nothing.
“I imagine my family—good Protestants that they’ve all been since King Henry’s time—would be outraged,” Trevelyan said, with a faint smile. “And it may not be completely legal. But needs must when the devil drives—and she is Catholic. She wished to be married, before . . .” His voice died away as he looked at the woman on the bed. She was restless now; limbs twitching beneath the coverlet, head turning uncomfortably upon her pillow.
“Not long,” Scanlon said quietly, seeing the direction of his glance.
“Until what?” Grey asked, suddenly dreading to hear the answer.
“Until the fever comes on again,” the apothecary replied. A faint frown creased his brow. “It is a tertian fever—it comes on, passes off, and then returns again upon the third day. And so again—and yet again. She was able to travel yesterday, but as you see . . .” He shook his head. “I have Jesuit bark for her; it may work.”
“I am sorry,” Grey said formally to Trevelyan, who inclined his head in grave receipt. Grey cleared his throat.
“Perhaps you would be good enough, then, to explain how Reinhardt Mayrhofer met his death, if not by your hand? And just how these papers came into your possession?”
Trevelyan sat for a moment, breathing slowly, then lifted his face briefly to the light from the windows, closing his eyes like a man savoring to the full the last moments of life before his execution.
“I suppose I must begin at the beginning, then,” he said at last, eyes still closed. “And that must be the afternoon when I first set eyes upon Maria. That occasion was the ninth of May last year, at one of Lady Bracknell’s salons.”
A faint smile flitted across his face, as though he saw the occasion pass again before his eyes. He opened them, regarding Grey with an easy frankness.
“I never go to such things,” he said. “Never. But a gentleman with whom I had business dealings had come to lunch with me at the Beefsteak, and we found we had more to speak of than would fit comfortably within the length of a luncheon. And so when he invited me to go with him to his further engagement, I did. And . . . she was there.”
He opened his eyes and glanced at the bed where the woman lay, still and yellow.
“I did not know such a thing was possible,” he remarked, sounding almost surprised. “If anyone h
ad suggested such a thing to me, I would have scoffed at them—and yet . . .”
He had seen the woman sitting in the corner and been struck by her beauty—but much more by her sadness. It was not like the Honorable Joseph Trevelyan to be touched by emotion—his own or others’—and yet the poignant grief that marked her features drew him as much as it disturbed him.
He had not approached her himself, but had not been able to take his eyes off her for long. His attention was noticed, and his hostess had obligingly told him that the woman was Frau Mayrhofer, wife of a minor Austrian noble.
“Do go and speak to her,” the hostess had urged, a worried kindness evident in her manner as she glanced at the lovely, sorrowful guest. “This is her first excursion into society since her sad loss—her first child, poor thing—and I am sure that a bit of attention would do her so much good!”
He had crossed the room with no notion what he might say or do—he had no knowledge of the language of condolence, no skill at social small talk; his metier was business and politics. And yet, when his hostess had introduced them and left, he found himself still holding the hand he had kissed, looking into soft brown eyes that drowned his soul. And without further thought or hesitation had said, “God help me, I am in love with you.”
“She laughed,” Trevelyan said, his own face lighting at the recollection. “She laughed, and said, ‘God help me, then!’ It transformed her in an instant. And if I had been in love with La Dolorosa, I was . . . ravished . . . by La Allegretta. I would have done anything to keep the sorrow from returning to her eyes.” He looked at the woman on the bed again, and his fists curled unconsciously. “I would have done anything to have her.”
She was Catholic, and a married woman; it had taken several months before she yielded to him—but he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. And her husband—
“Reinhardt Mayrhofer was a degenerate,” Trevelyan said, his narrow face hardening. “A womanizer and worse.”
And so their affair had begun.
“This would be before you became betrothed to my cousin?” Grey asked, a slight edge in his voice.
Trevelyan blinked, seeming slightly surprised.
“Yes. Had I had any hopes of inducing Maria to leave Mayrhofer, then of course I should never have contracted the betrothal. As it was, though, she was adamant; she loved me, but could not in conscience leave her husband. That being so . . .” He shrugged.
That being so, he had seen nothing wrong with marrying Olivia, thus enhancing his own fortunes and laying the foundation of his future dynasty with someone of impeccable family—while maintaining his passionate affair with Maria Mayrhofer.
“Don’t look so disapproving, John,” Trevelyan said, long mouth curling a little. “I should have made Olivia a good husband. She would have been quite happy and content.”
This was doubtless true; Grey knew a dozen couples, at least, where the husband kept a mistress, with or without his wife’s knowledge. And his own mother had said . . .
“I gather that Reinhardt Mayrhofer was not so complaisant?” he said.
Trevelyan uttered a short laugh.
“We were more than discreet. Though he would likely not have cared—save that it offered him a means of profit.”
“So,” Grey hazarded a guess, “he discovered the truth, and undertook to blackmail you?”
“Nothing quite so simple as that.”
Instead, Trevelyan had learned from his lover something of her husband’s interests and activities—and, interested himself by this information, had set out to gain more.
“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’Connell, it occurred to me to wonder whether I might possibly kill two birds with one stone, you see?”
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’Connell did have the Calais papers, then it might be arranged for Reinhardt Mayrhofer to hear about them.
“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’Connell, as Hal had asked—but the bugger didn’t do anything! Just went about his business, and when he wasn’t doing that, spent his time drinking and whoring, before going home to that little seamstress he’d taken up with.”
“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’Connell into action—but she was surprisingly indifferent to our Jack,” Trevelyan said, pursing his lips.
“Perhaps she actually loved Tim O’Connell,” Grey remarked, eliciting a pair of raised eyebrows and a puff of disbelief from Trevelyan. Love, evidently, was the exclusive province of the upper classes.
“Anyway”—Trevelyan dismissed such considerations with a wave of the hand—“finally Jack Byrd reported to me that O’Connell had scraped acquaintance with a man whom he met in a tavern. Unimportant in himself, but known to have vague connexions with parties sympathetic to France.”
“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 disti
nctions, 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 drunkenness.”
“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.
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