As though the small movement had broken some evil spell, Trevelyan blinked, his hand letting go the little bronze goddess. He continued to look at Grey, but now with an expression of concern.
“My dear John,” he said quietly. “My dear fellow.” He sat back, rubbing a hand across his brow, as though overcome.
He said nothing more, though, leaving Grey to sit there, the sound of his denunciation ringing in his ears.
“Have you nothing to say, Mr. Trevelyan?” he demanded at last.
“Say?” Trevelyan dropped his hand, and looked at him, mouth a little open. He closed it, shook his head slightly, and poured fresh sherry, pushing Grey’s cup across to him.
“What have I to say?” he repeated, staring into the depths of his own cup. “Well, I could deny it, of course—and I do. In your present state of mind, though, I am afraid that no statement would be adequate. Would it?” He glanced up, inquiringly.
Grey shook his head.
“Well, then,” Trevelyan said, almost kindly. “I do not know where you have acquired these remarkable notions, John. Of course, if you truly believe them, then you have no choice but to act as you are—I see that.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Trevelyan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Did you . . . seek counsel of anyone, before coming here?”
What the devil did the fellow mean by that?
“If you are inquiring whether anyone is cognizant of my whereabouts,” Grey said coldly, “they are.” In fact, they were not; no one knew he was at the warehouse. On the other hand, a dozen clerks and countless laborers had seen him downstairs; it would take a madman to try to do away with him here—and he didn’t think Trevelyan was mad. Dangerous, but not mad.
Trevelyan’s eyes widened.
“What? You thought I meant—good gracious.” He glanced away, rubbing a knuckle over his lips. He cleared his throat, twice, then looked up. “I merely meant to ask whether you had shared these incredible . . . delusions of yours with anyone. I think you have not. For if you had, surely anyone would have tried to persuade you not to pursue such a disastrous course.”
Trevelyan shook his head, an expression of worried dismay pursing his lips.
“Have you a carriage? No, of course not. Never mind; I shall summon mine. The coachman will see you safely to your mother’s house. Might I recommend Doctor Masonby, of Smedley Street? He has an excellent history with nervous disorders.”
Grey was so stricken with amazement that he scarcely felt outraged.
“Are you attempting to suggest that I am insane?”
“No, no! Of course not, certainly not.”
Still Trevelyan went on looking at him in that worried, pitying sort of way, and he felt the amazement melting away. He should perhaps be furious, but felt instead an urge to laugh incredulously.
“I am pleased to hear it,” Grey said dryly, and rose to his feet. “I shall bear your kind advice in mind. In the meantime, however—your betrothal is at an end.”
He had nearly reached the door when Trevelyan called out behind him.
“Lord John! Wait a moment!”
He paused and looked back, though without turning.
“Yes?”
The Cornishman had his lower lip caught in his teeth, and was watching Grey with the air of one judging a wild animal. Would it attack, or run? He beckoned, gesturing to the chair Grey had vacated.
“Come back a moment. Please.”
He stood, undecided, hearing the thrum of business below, longing to escape this room and this man and lose himself in comings and goings, once more a peaceful part of the clockwork, and not a grain of sand in the cogs. But duty dictated otherwise, and he walked back, stick held tight.
“Sit. Please.” Trevelyan waited for him to do so, then sat down slowly himself.
“Lord John. You say that your concern is for your cousin’s reputation. So is mine.” He leaned across the desk, eyes intent. “Such a sudden breach cannot but give rise to scandal—you know this, surely?”
Grey did, but forbore to nod, merely watching impassively. Trevelyan ignored his lack of response, and carried on, speaking more hurriedly.
“Well, then. If you are convinced of the wisdom of your intention, then plainly I cannot dissuade you. Will you give me a short time, though, to devise some reasonable grounds for the dissolution of the betrothal? Something that will discredit neither party?”
Grey drew breath, feeling the beginnings of something like relief. This was the resolution he had hoped for from the moment he had discovered the sore on Trevelyan’s prick. He realized that the situation now bore far more aspects than he had ever thought, and such a resolution would not touch most of them. Still, Olivia would be safe.
Trevelyan sensed his softening, and pushed the advantage.
“You know that merely to announce a severance will give rise to talk,” he said persuasively. “Some public reason, something plausible, must be offered to prevent it.”
Doubtless the man had an ulterior motive; perhaps he meant to flee the country? But then Grey felt again the vibrations beneath his feet, the boomings of rolling wine casks and thud of heaved crates, the muffled shouts of men in the warehouse below. Would a man of such substance readily abandon his interests, merely to avoid accusation?
Probably not; more likely he had it in mind to use the grace period to cover his tracks completely, or dispose of dangerous complications such as the Scanlons. If he hadn’t already done so, Grey thought suddenly.
But there was no good reason to refuse such a request. And he could alert Magruder and Quarry at once—have the man followed.
“Very well. You have three days.”
Trevelyan drew breath, as if to protest, but then nodded, accepting it.
“As you say. I thank you.” He took the jug and poured more sherry, slopping it a little. “Here—let us drink on the bargain.”
Grey had no wish to linger in the man’s company, and took no more than a token sip before pushing his cup away and rising. He took his leave, but turned back briefly at the door, to see Trevelyan looking after him, with eyes that would have burned a hole in the door to hell.
Chapter 15
One Man’s Poison
If Captain von Namtzen was surprised to see Grey and his valet, there was no evidence of it in his manner.
“Major Grey! How great a pleasure to see you again! Please, you will have some wine—a biscuit?” The tall Hanoverian clasped him by hand and forearm, beaming, and had Tom dispatched to the kitchen and Grey himself seated in the drawing room with refreshments before he could gracefully decline, let alone explain his objective in calling. Once he managed to do so, though, the Captain was helpfulness itself.
“But certainly, certainly! Let me see this list.”
He took the paper from Grey and carried it to the window for scrutiny. It was well past teatime, but so near to Midsummer Day, late-afternoon light still flooded in, haloing von Namtzen like a saint in a medieval painting.
He looked like one of those German saints, too, Grey thought a little abstractedly, admiring the cleanly ascetic lines of the German’s face, with its broad brow and wide, calm eyes. The mouth was not particularly sensitive, but it did show humor in the creases beside it.
“I know these names, yes. You wish me to tell you . . . what?”
“Anything that you can.” Tiredness dragged at him, but Grey rose and came to stand beside the Captain, looking at the list. “All I know of these people is that they have purchased a particular wine. I cannot say precisely what the connexion may be, but this wine seems to have something to do with . . . a confidential matter. I’m afraid I can say no more.” He shrugged apologetically.