“I am here, Major.” A large hand planted itself firmly on his shoulder from the other side, and he turned to see the Hanoverian’s handsome face looking down at him, creased in a frown.

“You were poisoned, you say? Who is it that would do this thing?”

“A man called Trevelyan. I must go. Will you find me my clothes?”

“But, my lord—”

“But, Major, you have been—”

Grey gripped von Namtzen’s wrist, hard. His hand trembled, but he summoned what strength he could.

“I must go, and go at once,” he said hoarsely. “It is a matter of duty.”

The Hanoverian’s face changed at once, and he nodded, standing up.

“Quite so. I will go with you, then.”

His statement of intent had quite exhausted Grey’s meager reserve of strength, but fortunately von Namtzen took charge, dismissing the doctor, sending for his own coach, and summoning Tom Byrd, who went off at once to fetch Grey’s uniform—which had luckily been cleaned—and help him into it.

“I’m very glad as you’re alive, me lord, but I will say as you’re a man what is hard on his clothes,” Byrd said reproachfully. “And this your best uniform, too! Or was,” he added, critically examining a faint stain on the front of the waistcoat before holding it up for Grey to insert his arms therein.

Grey, having no energy to spare, said nothing until they were rattling down the road in von Namtzen’s coach. The Hanoverian was also wearing his full dress uniform, and had brought the plumed helmet, set upon the seat beside him in the coach. He had also brought a large china bowl of eggs, which he set neatly upon his knees.

“What—?” Grey nodded at the eggs, feeling too weak for more precise inquiry.

“The doctor says that you must have egg whites, frequently and in great quantity,” von Namtzen explained, matter-of-factly. “It is the antidote for the mercuric sulphide. And you must not drink water nor wine for two days, only milk. Here.” With admirable dexterity, considering the shaking of the coach, he removed an egg from the bowl, cracked it against the rim, and slopped the white into a small pewter cup. He handed this to Grey, thriftily gulped the leftover yolk, and tossed the fragments of eggshell out the window.

The pewter felt cool in his hand, but Grey viewed the egg white within with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Tom Byrd glared at him from the opposite seat.

“You swallow that,” he said, in tones of menace. “Me lord.”

Grey glared back, but grudgingly obeyed. It felt mildly unpleasant, but he was relieved to discover that the nausea had evidently left him for good.

“How long—?” he asked, glancing out the window. It had been late afternoon of the Thursday; now it was mid-morning—but of which morning?

“It is Friday,” von Namtzen said.