Meaning, Grey thought, that I now have “scapegoat” written on my forehead in illuminated capitals. If it all blows up, the blame can be safely pinned to my coat, and I can be shipped off to Scotland or Canada permanently, with no loss to society.

“Thank you,” Grey said, handling the compliment as though it were a dead rat. Harry snorted, and they took their leave.

Before they had quite reached the door, though, Mr. Bowles spoke again.

“Lord John. If you will accept a bit of well-meant advice, sir?” Grey turned. The vague blue eyes seemed focused at a spot over his left shoulder, and he had to steel himself not to turn and look to see whether there was in fact someone behind him.

“Of course, Mr. Bowles.”

“I think I should hesitate to allow Mr. Joseph Trevelyan to become a relation by marriage. Speaking only for myself, you understand.”

“I thank you for your kind interest, sir,” Grey said, and bowed, most correctly.

He followed Harry down the rickety stair and out of the noisome yard to the street, where they both stood for a moment, breathing deeply.

“Knouting?” Grey said.

“Russian flogging,” Quarry explained, tugging at his wilted stock. “With a whip made of hippopotamus hide. Saw it once; flayed the poor bugger to the bone in three strokes.”

“I see the appeal,” Grey agreed, feeling an unexpected kinship with his half-brother Edgar. “You haven’t got a spare knout you might lend me, before I go speak to Trevelyan?”

“No, but Maggie might have such a thing in her collection. Shall I ask?” Freed of Bowles’s oppressive den, Quarry’s natural exuberance was reasserting itself.

Grey made a dissentient motion of the hand.

“Don’t trouble.” He fell in beside Harry and they turned down the street, back toward the river.

“If the recent Mr. Bowles were to be dried and stuffed, he would make an excellent addition to that collection. What is he, do you know?”

“Not fish nor fowl, so I suppose he must be flesh,” Quarry said with a shrug. “Beyond that, I think it’s best not to inquire.”

Grey nodded understanding. He felt wrung out—and horribly thirsty.

“Stand you a drink at the Beefsteak, Harry?”

“Make it a cask,” Quarry said, clapping him on the back, “and I’ll stand supper. Let’s go.”

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Barber, Barber,
Shave a Pig

The wineshop of Fraser et Cie was small and dark, but cleanly kept—and the air inside was dizzyingly rich with the perfume of grapes.

“Welcome, sir, welcome. Will you have the kindness to give me your honest opinion of this vintage?”

A small man in a tidy wig and coat had popped up out of the gloom, appearing at his elbow with the suddenness of a gnome springing out of the earth, offering a cup with a small quantity of dark wine.

“What?” Startled, Grey took the cup by reflex.