“We can’t say for sure—but given what transpired later, it is my supposition that he had not gone there in order to see his wife, but rather to seek a hiding place for the papers he had. I said that he had made contact with a petty spy.”

Jack Byrd had reported as much to Harry Quarry—and thus to Mr. Bowles—but, loyal servant that he was, had reported it also to his employer. This was his long-standing habit; in addition to his duties as footman, he was instructed to pick up such gossip in taverns as might prove of interest or value, to be followed up in such manner as Trevelyan might decide.

“So it is not merely Cornish tin or India spices that you deal in,” Grey said, giving Trevelyan a hard eye. “Did my brother know that you trade in information as well, when he asked your help?”

“He may have done,” Trevelyan replied blandly. “I have been able to draw Hal’s attention to a small matter of interest now and then—and he has done the same for me.”

It was not precisely a surprise to Grey that men of substance should regard matters of state principally in terms of their personal benefit, but he had seldom been brought so rudely face-to-face with the knowledge. But surely Hal would not have had any part in blackmail—He choked the thought off, returning doggedly to the matter at hand.

“So, O’Connell made some overture to this minor intrigant, and you learned of it. What then?”

O’Connell had not made it clear what information he possessed; only that he had something which might be worth money to the proper parties.

“That would fit with what the army suspected,” Grey said. “O’Connell wasn’t a professional spy; he merely recognized the importance of the requisitions and seized the chance. Perhaps he knew someone in France to whom he thought to sell them—but then the regiment was brought home before he had the chance to contact his buyer.”

“Quite.” Trevelyan nodded, impatient of the interruption. “I, of course, knew what the material was. But it seemed to me that, rather than simply retrieving the information, it might be more useful to discover who some of the parties interested in it might be.”

“It did not, of course, occur to you to share these thoughts with Harry Quarry or anyone else connected with the regiment?” Grey suggested politely.

Trevelyan’s nostrils flared.

“Quarry—that lump? No. I suppose I might have told Hal—but he was gone. It seemed best to keep matters in my own hands.”

It would, Grey thought cynically. No matter that the welfare of half the British army depended on those matters; naturally, a merchant would have the best judgment!

Trevelyan’s next words, though, made it apparent that things ran deeper than either money or military dispositions.

“I had learned from Maria that her husband dealt in secrets,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the bed. “I thought to use O’Connell and his material as bait, to draw Mayrhofer into some incriminating action. Once revealed as a spy . . .”