Grey brushed bits of straw from his coat, taking deep breaths with pleasure; the air was perfumed with the intoxicating scents of tea, wine, and spice, gently larded with the more oleaginous tones of whale oil and candle wax, with a solid bottom note of honest tar. On a different occasion, Grey would have liked to poke about in the fascinating clutter, but not today, alas. With a last regretful lungful, he turned aside in pursuit of his duty.

He made his way through the bustle to a small enclosure of clerks, all seated on high stools and madly scribbling. Boys roamed among them like dairymaids through a herd of cows, milking them of their output and carrying off stacks of papers toward a door in the wall, where the foot of a staircase hinted at the presence of offices above.

His heart gave an unpleasant thump as he spotted Trevelyan himself, deep in conversation with an ink-stained functionary. Taking a deep breath of the scented air, he threaded his way through the maze of stools, and tapped Trevelyan on the shoulder. Trevelyan swung round at once, clearly accustomed to interruption, but halted, surprised, at sight of Grey.

“Why, John!” he said, and smiled. “Whatever brings you here?”

Slightly taken aback by the use of his Christian name, Grey bowed formally.

“A private matter, sir. Might we—?” He raised his brows at the ranks of laboring clerks, and nodded toward the stair.

“Of course.” Looking mildly puzzled, Trevelyan waved away a hovering assistant, and led the way up the stair and into his own office.

It was a surprisingly plain room; large, but simply furnished, the only ornaments an ivory-and-crystal inkwell and a small bronze statue of some many-armed Indian deity. Grey had expected something much more ornate, in keeping with Trevelyan’s wealth. On the other hand, he supposed that perhaps that was one reason why Trevelyan was wealthy.

Trevelyan waved him toward a chair, going to take his own seat behind the large, battered desk. Grey stood stiffly, though, the blood thumping softly in his ears.

“No, sir, I thank you. The matter will not take long.”

Trevelyan glanced at him in surprise. The Cornishman’s eyes narrowed, seeming for the first time to take in Grey’s stiffness.

“Is something the matter, Lord John?”

“I have come to inform you that your engagement to my cousin is at an end,” Grey said bluntly.

Trevelyan blinked, expressionless.

What would he do? Grey wondered. Say “Oh,” and leave it at that? Demand an explanation? Become furious and call him out? Summon servants to remove him from the premises?

“Do sit down, John,” Trevelyan said at last, sounding quite as cordial as he had before. He took his own chair and leaned back a little, gesturing in invitation.

Seeing no alternative, Grey sat, resting the walking stick across his knees.