“I found it at a place called Markham’s,” Jack told him, displaying his find. “Pawned a month ago, by a lady. Young, the pawnbroker said, and summat of a pop-eyed look about her, though he didn’t remember nothing else.”

“It’s hers, isn’t it, me lord?” Tom chipped in anxiously.

Grey picked up the trinket—a cheap silver locket, inscribed with the letter “A.” He compared it for form’s sake to the sheet Barbara had given him, but there could be little doubt.

“Excellent!” he said. “You asked, of course, whether she had left an address.”

Jack nodded.

“No joy there, my lord. The only thing…” He glanced at his younger brother, who was, after all, Grey’s valet, and thus had rights.

“The feller didn’t want to sell it to us, me lord. He said he’d had other things from this lady, and there was a gent what would come by, asking particular for her things, and pay a very pretty price for ’em.”

“Aye, sir,” Jack said, nodding agreement. “I thought it wasn’t but a ruse to get more, and wouldn’t have paid, but Tom said as how we must. I hope that was all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Grey waved that aside. “The man—did the pawnbroker remember him?”

“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom said. His hair was nearly standing on end with excitement at what he had to impart. “He remembered himwell enough. Said it was a man what always wore a mask—a black silk mask.”

Grey felt a surge of excitement equal to the Byrds’.

“Christ!” he said. “Fanshawe!”

Tom nodded.

“I thought it must be, me lord. Is he looking for Miss Thackeray, too, d’ye suppose?”

“I can’t think what else he might intend—though surely he is not pursuing her with any great determination, if he has not yet discovered her lodgings.”

“Perhaps he has,” Jack Byrd suggested, “but he’s not got up his nerve to see her, what with the face an’ all—Tom told me what happened to him.” Jack shuddered reflexively at the thought.

Grey glanced at the window, black night showing through the half-drawn curtains.

“Well, we can do little about it tonight. I will write a note, though—if you will take it in the morning, Jack?”

“What, to Sussex?” Jack looked slightly nonplussed. “Well, of course, my lord, if you like, but—”

“No, I think we needn’t go that far,” Grey assured him. “Plainly, Captain Fanshawe visits London regularly. He is a member at White’s; leave the note there, to be delivered upon his arrival.”

The two Byrds bowed, for an instant looking absurdly alike, though they did not really resemble each other closely.

“Very good, me lord,” Tom said. “Will you have a bit of supper, then?”

Grey nodded and sat down to compose his note. He had just trimmed his quill when he became aware that neither Byrd had departed; both were standing on the opposite side of the room, viewing him with approval.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing, me lord,” Tom said, smiling beneficently. “I was just telling Jack, you aren’t looking quite so hag-rid as you was.”

“You mean haggard?”

“That, neither.”

Grey had finally fallen into an uneasy sleep, in which he hurried endlessly through stubbled fields with crows cawing overhead, sure that he must reach a distant red-brick building in order to prevent some unspeakable disaster, but never drawing closer.

One crow dived low, shrieking, and he ducked, covering his head, then sat up abruptly, realizing that the crow had said, “Wake up, me lord.”

“What?” he said blankly. He could not focus eyes or mind, but the terrible sense of urgency from his dream had not left him. “Who…what?”

“There’s a soldier come, me lord. I’d not have waked you, but he says it’s a man’s life.”

His eyes finally consenting to operate, he saw Tom Byrd, round face worried but alight with interest, shaking out his banyan before a hastily poked-up fire.

“Yes. Of course. He…did he…” He groped simultaneously for words and bedclothes. “Name?”

“Yes, me lord. Captain Jones, he says.”

Scrambling out of bed, Grey thrust his arms into the sleeves of his banyan, but did not wait for Tom to find his slippers, padding quick and barefoot through the cold to the darkened sitting room.

Jones was stirring up the fire, a black and burly demon whose silhouette was limned by sparks. He turned at Grey’s entrance, dropping the poker with a crash upon the hearth.

“Where is he?” He reached as though to seize Grey’s arm, but Grey stepped aside.

“Where is who?”

“Herbert Gormley, of course! What have you done with him?”

“Gormless?” Grey was so startled that the name popped out of him. “What’s happened to him?”

Jones’s clenched-fist expression, just visible by the glow of the fire, relaxed a trifle at that.

“Gormless? You call him that, too, do you?”

“Not to his face, certainly. Thank you, Tom.” Byrd, hurrying in, had placed his slippers on the floor, eyeing Jones with marked wariness.

“What has happened?” Grey repeated, thrusting his cold feet into the slippers and noting absently that they were warm; Tom had taken time to hold them over the bedroom fire.

“He’s disappeared, Major—and so has Tom Pilchard. And I want to know what you have to do with the matter.”

He stared at Jones, unable for a moment to take this in. Still half in the grip of nightmare, his brain produced a vision of Herbert Gormley absconding by night, the remains of a massive cannon tucked tidily under one arm. He shook his head to clear it of this nonsense, and gestured Jones to the sofa.

“Sit. I assure you, sir, I have nothing ‘to do’ with the matter—but I certainly wish to know who does. Tell me what you know.”

Jones’s face worked briefly—Grey had the notion that he was grinding his teeth—but he nodded shortly and sat down, though he remained poised upon the edge of the sofa, hands on his knees, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.

“He’s gone—Herbert. When I found the cannon gone, I went to find him, ask what—but he was nowhere to be found. I’ve been searching for him since the day before yesterday. Do you know where he is?”

Tom had been building up the fire; the flame was high enough now to show Jones’s heavy face, hollowed by worry and pouched with fatigue.

“No. You know where he lives?” Grey sat down himself, and scrubbed a hand over his face in an effort to rouse himself completely.

Jones nodded, massive fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously upon his thighs.

“He’s not been home in two days. The last anyone saw of him was Wednesday evening, when he left the laboratory. You’re quite sure he’s not been here?” Dark eyes flicked suspiciously at Grey.

“You are entirely welcome to search the place.” Grey waved a hand toward the room and the door through which Tom Byrd had disappeared, presumably toward the barracks kitchen in search of refreshment. “Why the devil would he come here?”

“For that bit of shrapnel.”

For a moment, Grey looked blank; then memory returned. His hand rose involuntarily toward his chest, but he altered the motion, pretending instead to stifle a yawn.

“The bit of iron from Tom Pilchard? The leopard’s head? What on earth would he—or you—want it for?”

Jones measured him for a long moment before replying, but answered at last, reluctant.

“With the cannon gone, that may be the only evidence.”

“Evidence of what,for God’s sake? And what do you mean, the cannon’s gone?” he added, belatedly realizing that he had overlooked the other bit of Jones’s statement. “Who in Christ’s name would steal a burst cannon?”

“It wasn’t stolen,” Jones answered shortly. “The foundrymen took it—and the others. It’s been melted down.”

This seemed an entirely reasonable thing to do, and Grey said as much, causing Jones’s face to work again. He wasgrinding his teeth; Grey could hear it.