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’ttry 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 …?

“Sixiиme!”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.

Hal’s eye met his, and Grey knew what his brother was thinking: it would be necessary to proceed with the utmost secrecy. If Cumberland caught wind of the matter before the court-martial could be organized, he might well plant his fat arse right in the middle of it.

Then Grey caught the sound of another voice, deeper, gruff with age and tobacco, replying to something Cumberland had said.

“Scheisse!”Hal said, making everyone look at him curiously.

“Don’t you say carte blancheif you have a hand with no points?” Clifford whispered, leaning over to Grey.

“Yes, you do,” Grey replied, narrowing his eyes at Hal. He felt like saying something much worse himself, but it wouldn’t do to attract attention. Harry, on the other side of the room, had heard that voice, too, and pursed his lips, eyes fixed on his cards.

Grey hadn’t heard Reginald Twelvetrees’s voice in some time, but he had vivid memories of it. Colonel Reginald Twelvetrees had headed a board of inquiry into the explosion of a cannon, two years before, and had come uncomfortably close to ruining Grey’s career over it, out of the long-standing hostility that had existed between the Greys and the Twelvetrees family since Hal’s duel with Nathaniel, the colonel’s younger brother.