The man was Jack Byrd, who had followed O’Connell to the apothecary’s shop, and then, hearing the sounds of violence and a woman screaming, had rushed up the stairs, surprising Tim O’Connell and driving him away.

“Bless him, he was in time to save her life,” Scanlon said, crossing himself. “And I said to him, I did, that he was free of me and all I had, for what he’d done, though he’d take no reward for it.”

At this, Grey swung around to Trevelyan, who had risen from his own wife’s side and come to rejoin them.

“A very useful fellow, Jack Byrd,” Grey said. “It seems to run in the family.”

Trevelyan nodded.

“I gather so. That was Tom Byrd I heard in the corridor outside?”

Grey nodded in turn, but was impatient to return to the main story.

“Yes. Why on earth did O’Connell come back to his wife, do you know?”

Trevelyan and the apothecary exchanged glances, but it was Trevelyan who answered.

“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 . . .”

“He could be either banished or executed, thus leaving you a good deal more freedom with regard to his wife. Quite.”

Trevelyan glanced sharply at him, but chose not to take issue with his tone.

“Quite,” he said, matching Grey’s irony. “It was, however, a delicate matter to arrange things so that O’Connell and Mayrhofer should be brought together. O’Connell was a wary blackguard; he’d waited a long time to search out a buyer, and was highly suspicious of any overtures.”

Trevelyan, restless, got up and moved back to the bed.

“I was obliged to see O’Connell myself, posing as a putative middleman, in order to draw the Sergeant in and assure him that there was money available—but I went disguised, and gave him a false name, of course. Meanwhile, though, I had succeeded from the other end, in interesting Mayrhofer in the matter. Hedecided to cut me out—duplicitous bastard that he was!—and set one of his own servants to find O’Connell.”

Hearing Mayrhofer’s name from another source, and realizing that the man he spoke to was acting under an assumed identity, O’Connell had rather logically deduced that Trevelyan wasMayrhofer, negotiating incognito in hopes of keeping down the price. He therefore followed Trevelyan from the place of their last meeting—and tracked him with patience and skill to Lavender House.

Discerning the nature of the place from questions in the neighborhood, O’Connell had thought himself possessed of a marked advantage over the man he assumed to be Mayrhofer. He could confront the man at the scene of his presumed crimes, and then demand what he liked, without necessarily giving up anything in return.

He had, of course, been thwarted in this scheme when he found no one at Lavender House who had heard the name Mayrhofer. Baffled but persistent, O’Connell had hung about long enough to see Trevelyan depart, and had followed him back to the brothel in Meacham Street.

“I should never have gone directly to Lavender House,” Trevelyan admitted with a shrug. “But the business with O’Connell had taken longer than I thought—and I was in a hurry.” The Cornishman could not keep his eyes from the woman. Even from where he sat, Grey could see the flush of fever rising in her pallid cheeks.

“Normally, you would have gone to the brothel first, thence to Lavender House, and back again, in your disguise?” Grey asked.

“Yes. That was our usual arrangement. No one questions a gentleman’s going to a bordello—or a whore coming out of one, being taken to meet a customer.” Trevelyan said. “But Maria naturally could not meet me there. At the same time, no one would suspect a woman of entering Lavender House—no one who knew what sort of place it is.”

“An ingenious solution,” Grey said, with thinly veiled sarcasm. “One thing—why did you always employ a green velvet dress? Or dresses, as the case may be? Did you and Mrs. Mayrhofer both employ that disguise?”

Trevelyan looked uncomprehending for a moment, but then smiled.

“Yes, we did,” he said. “As for why green—” He shrugged. “I like green. It’s my favorite color.”

At the brothel, O’Connell had inquired doggedly for a gentleman in a green dress, possibly named Mayrhofer—only to have it strongly implied by Magda and her staff that he was insane. The result was naturally to leave O’Connell in some agitation of mind.

“He was not a practiced spy, as you note,” Trevelyan said, shaking his head with a sigh. “Already suspicious, he became convinced that some perfidy was afoot—”

“Which it was,” Grey put in, earning himself a brief glance of annoyance from Trevelyan, who nonetheless continued.

“And so I surmise that he decided he required some safer place of concealment for the papers he held—and thus returned to his wife’s lodgings in Brewster’s Alley.”

Where he had discovered his abandoned wife in an advanced state of pregnancy by another man, and with the irrationality of jealousy, proceeded to batter her senseless.