The Scottish Prisoner (7 page)

HAL HAD A CARRIAGE
waiting outside.

“We’re meeting Harry at Almack’s,” he said.

“What for? He’s not a member there, is he?” Harry was a clubbable man, but he was largely to be found at White’s Chocolate House, Hal’s own particular haunt in terms of coffeehouses, or at the Society for the Appreciation of the English Beefsteak, which was Grey’s favorite—a gentlemen’s club rather than a coffeehouse. There were occasional clashes between the patrons of White’s and those of Boodle’s or Almack’s; London coffeehouses inspired considerable loyalty.

“He’s not,” Hal said tersely. “But Bartholomew Halloran is.”

“And Bartholomew Halloran is …?”

“The adjutant of the Thirty-fifth.”

“Ah. And thus a source of information on Major Gerald Siverly, also of that regiment.”

“Quite. He’s a casual acquaintance of Harry’s; they play cards now and then.”

“I hope Harry’s wily enough to lose convincingly.” The carriage hit a pothole and lurched, flinging them heavily to the side. Hal saved himself by thrusting a foot hard into the opposite seat, between his brother’s legs. John, with equally good reflexes, grabbed the foot.

The coach swayed precariously for an instant but then righted itself, and they resumed their original positions.

“We should have walked,” Hal said, and made to stick his head out the window to call to the coachman. Grey seized him by the sleeve, though, and he looked at his brother in surprise.

“No. Just—no. Wait.”

Hal stared at him for a moment, but then lowered himself back to the seat.

“What is it?” he said. He looked wary but keen.

“This,” said Grey simply, and, reaching into his pocket, handed over the folded sheet. “Read the list of names in the middle.”

Hal took the sheet, frowning, and began to read. Grey counted in his head. Hal didn’t read quite as fast as he did.

Five … four … three … two … one …

“Jesus!”

“Well, yes.”

They looked at each other in silence for the length of several heartbeats.

“Of
all
the men Siverly could have had dealings with—” Hal said, and shook his head violently, like a man trying to rid himself of flies.

“It has to be, of course,” Grey said. “I mean, there aren’t two of them, surely.”

“Would that there were. But I doubt it. Edward Twelvetrees is not that common a name.”

“Once upon a time, there were three brothers,” Grey said, half under his breath. Hal had closed his eyes and was breathing heavily. “Reginald, Nathaniel … and Edward.”

Hal opened his eyes. “It’s always the youngest who gets the princess, isn’t it?” He gave John a lopsided smile. “Younger brothers are the very devil.”

AT THIS HOUR
of the morning, Almack’s public rooms were bustling. Harry Quarry was chatting amiably with a thin, worried-looking man whom Grey recognized as a stockbroker. On seeing them, Harry took his leave with a word and stood up, coming to meet them.

“I’ve bespoke a private cardroom,” Harry said, shaking hands with Grey and nodding to Hal. “Symington, Clifford, and Bingham will be joining us shortly.”

Grey nodded cordially, wondering what on earth Harry was about, but Hal gave no sign of surprise.

“Didn’t want it to get about that inquiries were being made,” Harry explained, peering out in the larger room before shutting the door to the cardroom. “We’ll have a few minutes to talk, then, once the others have come, we’ll have a few hands of picquet, you lot leave for another engagement, and I’ll stay on. No one will notice you’ve even been here.”

Harry looked so pleased at this stratagem for deflecting suspicion that Grey hadn’t the heart to point out that Harry might simply have come to Argus House to share whatever news he’d
gained from Halloran. Hal didn’t look at John but nodded gravely at Harry.

“Very clever,” he said. “But if we’ve not much time—”

He was interrupted by a servant bringing in a tray of coffee dishes, a plate of biscuits, and several decks of cards, already separated into the
talons
required for picquet.

“If we’ve not much time,” Hal repeated, with an edge in his voice, once the servant had departed, “perhaps you’d best tell us what Halloran had to say.”

“A fair amount,” Harry said, sitting down. “Coffee?”

Harry’s bluff, craggy face inspired confidence in men and a remarkable degree of sensual abandonment in women, which Grey considered one of the great mysteries of nature. On the other hand, he didn’t presume to know what women thought attractive. In the present instance, though, Adjutant Halloran appeared to have been taken in by Harry’s casual charm as easily as any society lady.

“Lot of talk, regimental gossip,” Harry said, dismissing all of this with a wave of one broad hand. He spilled coffee into his saucer and blew on it, making wisps of aromatic steam rise from the dark brew. “Got him round to Siverly eventually, though. He respects Siverly, doesn’t much like him. Reputation as a good soldier, good commander. Doesn’t waste men.… What?”

Both the Greys had made noises. Hal waved a hand at Harry.

“Tell you later. Go on. Did he say anything about the mutiny in Canada?”

“No.” Harry arched a brow. “But he wouldn’t, would he? It wasn’t brought to a general court-martial, and if it was a regimental affair …”

Grey nodded; regimental courts-martial were usually kept private, no regiment wanting to wash its dirty linen in public. For that matter, the public wouldn’t be interested in such affairs,
which dealt with the daily crimes and trespasses of common soldiers, for the most part: drunkenness, theft, fighting, insubordination, lying out of barracks without leave, and selling their uniforms. General courts-martial were different, though Grey was unsure of just what the differences were, having never been involved in one. He thought there had to be a judge advocate involved.

“He hasn’t been brought before a general court-martial
yet
,” Hal said grimly.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, lips pursed as he sipped his coffee. It smelled good, and Grey reached for the pot.

“Really?” Harry said. “That’s what we have in mind, is it?” Hal had informed Harry, by note, of their interest in Siverly, asking him to find out what he could of the man’s particulars—but knowing Hal’s way with letters, Grey thought there had probably not been much detail given.

“Certainly,” Hal said. “So, what else?” He picked up one of the biscuits and examined it critically before popping it into his mouth.

“Siverly’s not wildly popular in the regiment, but not disliked,” Harry said. “Sociable, but not active. Invited in society, accepts occasionally. Has a wife, but doesn’t live with her. She brought him some money, not a great deal, but no great connections.”

“Has he any of his own?” Grey asked, mouth half full. The biscuits were ginger-nuts, and fresh, still warm from the kitchen. “Any family?”

“Ah,” said Harry, and glanced briefly at Hal. “No family connections to speak of. Father was a captain in the Eleventh Dragoons, killed at Culloden. Mother was the daughter of a wealthy Irish family, but from the country, no influence.”

“But?”
Hal said sharply, having caught the glance. “He has important friends?”

Harry took a breath that swelled his waistcoat and leaned back.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “The Duke of Cumberland important enough for you?”

“He’ll do to be going on with,” Hal said, brows raised. “What’s the connection there?”

“Hunting. Siverly has an estate in Ireland and has entertained His Grace there on occasion. Together with a few of the duke’s intimates.”

“An estate? Inherited?” Grey asked.

“No, bought. Fairly recently.”

Hal made a low humming noise that indicated satisfaction. Obviously Siverly hadn’t bought a large estate, even in Ireland, on his pay. From Carruthers’s accounts, Siverly’s ventures in Canada had netted him something in excess of thirty thousand pounds.

“Very good,” he said. “That would impress the board of a court-martial.”

“Well, it might,” Harry said, flicking crumbs off his stomach. “If you can get him in front of one.”

“If necessary, I’ll have him arrested and dragged there by force.”

Harry made a hmmphing noise, one implying doubt, which made Hal give him a narrow look.

“You don’t think I’d do it? This blackguard disgraces the name of his profession, as well as damaging the whole army by his gross behavior. Besides,” he added, as an afterthought, “John’s bound to see justice done, by his word of honor.”

“Oh, I think you’d do it,” Harry assured him. “And so would Grey. It’s just that Siverly’s in Ireland. Might complicate matters, eh?”

“Oh,” said Hal, looking rather blank.

“Why?” asked Grey, stopped in the act of pouring more coffee. “What’s he doing there?”

“Damned if I know. All Halloran said was that Siverly had asked for—and been granted—six months’ leave to attend to personal matters.”

“He didn’t resign his commission, though?” Grey leaned forward, anxious. He wasn’t sure but thought a court-martial couldn’t try someone who was not in the army. And going after Siverly in the civil courts would be a much more laborious undertaking.

Harry shrugged. “Don’t think so. Halloran only said he’d taken leave.”

“Well, then.” Hal put down his dish in a decided manner and turned to his brother. “You’ll just have to go to Ireland and bring him back.”

THE ARRIVAL OF
the picquet party put paid to further discussion, and Grey found himself paired with Leo Clifford, a pleasant young captain who had recently joined the regiment. Clifford was no particular hand at cards, though, which left a good bit of Grey’s mind free to brood on the recent conversation.

“Go to Ireland and bring him back.”
He supposed he should be flattered that Hal trusted him to do such a thing, but he knew his brother well enough to know it was merely expectation and not compliment.

Could you court-martial someone
in absentia
? he wondered. He’d have to ask Minnie. She had ferreted out records of court-martial for the crime of sodomy when their stepbrother, Percy Wainwright, had been arrested. The army had shipped Percy back to England from Germany to stand trial, so perhaps you
couldn’t
try someone not physically present.

“Repique,”
he said absently. Clifford sighed and wrote down the score.

He’d got over Percy. Or at least he thought so, most of the time. Every now and then, though, he’d catch sight of a slender young man with dark curly hair, and his heart would jerk.

It jerked now, a tiny bump at the sudden thought that it was the mention of Ireland, more than courts-martial, that had made him think of Percy. He’d arranged for Percy to escape to Ireland, though his erstwhile lover had made his way eventually to Rome. Surely he would have no reason to go back to Ireland …?

“Sixième!”
Clifford said, his voice full of joy. Grey smiled, despite the loss of points, gave the proper reply of “Not good,” meaning his own hand could not beat that, and put Percy firmly out of mind.

Harry had suggested that Grey and Hal might leave after the first game, but Grey was entirely aware that Harry knew this wouldn’t happen. Hal was a cutthroat cardplayer, and once his blood was up, there was no dragging him away from the table. As picquet was a game for two hands, obviously Grey couldn’t leave until Hal did, or the numbers would be unbalanced.

They therefore played in pairs, changing partners after each game, the two men with the highest scores to play the final game. Grey did his best to put everything out of his mind but the play. He succeeded to such an extent that he was startled when his brother—now opposing him—stiffened in his seat, head turning sharply toward the door.

There were voices raised in greeting in the outer room and the noise of several people coming in. In the midst of it, he caught the high, oddly prim voice of the Duke of Cumberland. He stared at Hal, who compressed his lips. Hal cordially disliked Cumberland—and vice versa—and the revelation that the duke
was an intimate of Siverly’s was unlikely to have improved this animus.