Trevelyan was stroking his long, narrow chin, looking at Grey as though he were a particularly interesting shipment of Chinese pottery.

“I am of course somewhat surprised,” he said politely. “Have you spoken to Hal about this?”

“In my brother’s absence, I am the head of the family,” Grey said firmly. “And I have decided that under the circumstances, your betrothal to my cousin ought not to be continued.”

“Really?” Trevelyan went on looking polite, though he raised one eyebrow dubiously. “I do wonder what your brother is likely to say, upon his return. Tell me, is he not expected back fairly soon?”

Grey set the tip of his walking stick on the floor and leaned upon it, gripping hard. The devil with a sword, he thought, keeping a similar grip upon his temper. I should have brought a knout.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” he said, steel in his voice, “I have told you my decision. It is final. You will cease at once to pay addresses to Miss Pearsall. The wedding will not take place. Do I make myself clear?”

“No, I can’t say that you do, really.” Trevelyan steepled his fingers and placed them precisely below the tip of his nose, so that he looked at Grey over them. He was wearing a cabochon seal ring with the incised figure of a Cornish chough, and the green stone glowed as he leaned back. “Has something occurred that causes you to take this—I hope you will excuse my characterizing it as rather rash—step?”

Grey stared at him for a moment, considering. At last, he reached into his pocket and removed the oilcloth parcel. He laid it on the desk in front of Trevelyan, and flipped it open, releasing a crude stink of corruption that overwhelmed any hint of spice or straw.

Trevelyan stared down at the scrap of green velvet, still expressionless. His nostrils twitched slightly, and he took a deep breath, seeming to inhale something.

“Excuse me a moment, will you, John?” he said, rising. “I’ll just see that we are not disturbed.” He vanished onto the landing, allowing the door to close behind him.

Grey’s heart was still beating fast, but he had himself in better hand, now that it was begun. Trevelyan had recognized the scrap of velvet; there was no doubt of that.

This came as a considerable relief, on the one hand; there would be no need to address the matter of Trevelyan’s disease. It was grounds for great wariness, though; he needed to extract as much information from the Cornishman as he could. How? No way of knowing what would be effective; he must just trust to the inspiration of the moment—and if the man proved obdurate, perhaps a mention of the Scanlons would be beneficial.

It was no more than a few minutes, but seemed an age before Trevelyan returned, carrying with him a jug and a pair of wooden cups.