The coach turned, sending a piercing ray of light through Grey’s eyes and straight into the center of his brain. He emitted a low moan. What had Constable Magruder suggested? Housebreaking, horse-stealing, robbery from the person . . .

“Right,” he said, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, envisioning the Honorable Joseph Trevelyan under arrest for fire-setting or public riot. “I’ll do that.”

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Enter the Chairman

Grey came down late to breakfast on Monday. The Countess had long since finished her meal and departed; his cousin Olivia was at table, though, informally clad in a muslin wrapper with her hair in a plait down her back, opening letters and nibbling toast.

“Late night?” he said, nodding to her as he slid into his chair.

“Yes.” She yawned, covering her mouth daintily with a small fist. “A party at Lady Quinton’s. What about you?”

“Nothing so entertaining, I’m afraid.” After a long and blissfully restorative sleep, he had spent the Sunday evening at Bernard Sydell’s house, listening to interminable complaints about the lack of discipline in the modern army, the moral shortcomings of the younger officers, the miserliness of politicians who expected wars to be fought without adequate materials, the shortsightedness of the current government, lamentations for the departure of Pitt as Prime Minister—who had been just as roundly excoriated when in office—and further remarks in a similar vein.

At one point during these declamations, Malcolm Stubbs had leaned aside and murmured to Grey, “Why don’t someone just fetch a pistol and put him out of his misery?”

“Toss you a shilling for the honor,” Grey had murmured back, causing Stubbs to choke on the vile sherry Sydell thought appropriate to such gatherings.

Harry Quarry hadn’t been there. Grey hoped that Harry was busy with his “something in train,” rather than merely avoiding the sherry—for if something definite was not discovered soon regarding O’Connell’s death, it was likely to come to the attention not only of Sydell, but of people with the capacity to cause a great deal more trouble.

“What do you think of these two, John?” Olivia’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he withdrew his attention from the coddled egg before him to look across the table. She was frowning thoughtfully at two narrow lengths of lace, one draped across the silver coffeepot, another suspended from one hand.

“Mm.” Grey swallowed egg and tried to focus his attention. “For what?”

“Edging for handkerchiefs.”

“That one.” He pointed with his spoon at the sample on the coffeepot. “The other is too masculine.” In fact, the first one reminded him vividly—though not unpleasantly—of the lace trim on the gown worn by Magda, madam of the Meacham Street brothel.

Olivia’s face broke into a beaming smile.

“Exactly what I thought! Excellent; I want to have a dozen handkerchiefs made for Joseph—I’ll have an extra half-dozen made up for you as well, shall I?”