“I regret that I am unable to acquaint you with the particulars,” Grey said, grimly pleased. Two could play the game of ignorance. “But Sir John Fielding is a close friend of the family; he has a natural concern for my cousin’s happiness and reputation.” He shrugged delicately, implying that the magistrate had tipped him the wink, while withholding any number of sordidly incriminating details. “I thought it better to sever the betrothal, before anything of a scandalous nature should emerge. I am sure you—”

“That is—” Trevelyan wore no powder in the warehouse; his face was becoming blotched with emotion. “That is unspeakable! I have nothing to do with any murdered woman!”

That was true—but only because it hadn’t been a woman. To the truth, indeed!

“As I say, I am unable to deal in particulars,” Grey said. “However, I did hear a name, in connexion with the matter. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Scanlon, perhaps? An apothecary?” He took up his cup and sipped, feigning indifference, but watching carefully beneath his lashes.

Trevelyan was master of his face, but not his blood. He kept the expression of outraged bafflement firmly fixed—but his face had gone dead-white.

“I am not, sir,” he said firmly.

“Or an establishment called Lavender House?”

“I am not.” The bones stood out in Trevelyan’s narrow face, and his eyes gleamed dark. Grey thought that if they had been alone in some alley, the man would likely have attacked him.

They sat in silence for a moment. Trevelyan drummed his fingers on the desk, narrow mouth set tight as he thought. The blood began to come back into his face, and he picked up the jug and refilled Grey’s cup, without asking.

“See here, John,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I do not know to whom you have been speaking, but I can assure you that there is no truth whatever to any rumor you may have heard.”

“You would naturally say as much,” Grey remarked.

“So would any innocent man,” Trevelyan replied evenly.

“Or a guilty one.”

“Are you accusing me, John, of having done someone to death? For I will swear to you—on the Book, on your cousin’s life, your mother’s head, on whatever you like—that I have done no such thing.” A slightly different note had entered Trevelyan’s voice; he leaned forward and spoke with passion, eyes blazing. For a moment, Grey felt a slight qualm—either the man was a splendid actor, or he was telling the truth. Or part of it.

“I do not accuse you of murder,” he said, cautiously seeking another way past Trevelyan’s defenses. “However, for your name to be entangled in the matter is clearly a serious concern.”

Trevelyan gave a small grunt, settling back a little.

“Any fool can bandy a man’s name—many do, God knows. I should not have thought you so credulous, John.”