A flimsy ladder of rope still hung from the side; as the doryman heaved to, keeping the boat skillfully away from the monster's side with one oar, Grey stood up, tossed the doryman his pay, and seized a rung. The dory was sucked out from under his feet by a falling wave, and he found himself clinging for dear life, rising and falling with the ship itself.
A small flotilla of turds drifted past below his feet, detritus from the ship's head. He set his face upward and climbed, stiff and slow, Tom Byrd pressing close behind lest he fall, and came at last to the top with his body slimed with cold sweat, the taste of blood like metal in his mouth.
"I will see the owner," he said to the merchant officer who came hurrying hugger-mugger from the confusion of masts and the webs of swaying ropes. "Now, by the order of His Majesty."
The man shook his head, not attending to what he said, only concerned that they not interfere. He was already turning away, beckoning with one hand for someone to come remove them.
"The captain is busy, sir. We are on the point of sailing. Henderson! Come and--"
"Not the captain," Grey said, closing his eyes briefly against the dizzying swirl of the cobweb ropes overhead. He reached into his coat, groping for his much-creased letter of appointment. "The owner. I will see Mr. Trevelyan--now."
The officer swung his head round, looking at him narrowly, and seemed in Grey's vision to sway like the dark mast beside him.
"Are you quite well, sir?" The words sounded as though they were spoken from the bottom of a rain barrel. Grey wetted his lips with his tongue, preparing to reply, but was eclipsed.
"Of course he ain't well, you starin' fool," Byrd said fiercely from his side. "But that's no matter. You take the Major where he says, and do it smart!"
"Who are you, boy?" The officer puffed up, glaring at Byrd, who was having none of it.
"That's no matter, either. He says he's got a letter from the King, and he does, so you hop it, mate!"
The officer snatched the paper from Grey's fingers, glanced at the Royal Seal, and dropped it as though it were on fire. Tom Byrd set his foot on it before it could blow away, and picked it up, while the officer backed away, muttering apologies--or possibly curses; Grey couldn't tell, for the ringing in his ears.
"Had you best sit down, me lord?" Byrd asked anxiously, trying to dust the footmark off the parchment. "There's a barrel over there that nobody's using just now."
"No, I thank you, Tom, I'm better now." He was; strength was returning after the effort of the climb, as the cold breeze dried the sweat and cleared his head. The ship was a great deal steadier underfoot than the dory. His ears still buzzed, but he clenched his belly muscles and glanced after the officer. "Did you see where that man went? Let us follow; it's best if Trevelyan is not given too much warning."
The ship seemed in complete confusion, though Grey supposed there was some method in it. Seamen scampered to and fro, dropping out of the rigging with the random suddenness of ripe fruit, and shouts rang through the air in such profusion that he did not see how anyone could make out one from another. One benefit of the bedlam, though, was that no one tried to stop them, or even appeared to notice their presence, as Tom Byrd led the way through a pair of half-height doors and down a ladder into the shadowed depths belowdecks. It was like going down a rathole, he thought dimly--are Tom and I the ferrets?
A short passageway, and another ladder--was Tom indeed tracking the officer by smell through the bowels of the ship?--and a turn, and sure enough: The officer stood by a narrow door from which light flooded into the cavernous belowdecks, talking to someone who stood within.
"There he is, me lord," Tom said, sounding breathless. "That'll be him."
"Tom! Tom, lad, is that you?"
A loud voice spoke incredulously behind them, and Grey swung round to see his valet engulfed in the embrace of a tall young man whose face revealed his kinship.
"Jack! I thought you was dead! Or a murderer." Tom wriggled out of his brother's hug, face glowing but anxious. "Are you a murderer, Jack?"
"I am not. What the devil do you mean by that, you pie-faced little snot?"
"Don't you speak to me like that. I'm valet to his lordship, and you're no but a footman, so there!"
"You're what? No, you're never!"
Grey would have liked to hear the developments of this conversation, but duty lay in the other direction. Heart thundering in his chest, he turned his back on the Byrds, and pushed his way past the ship's officer, ignoring his objections.
The cabin was spacious, with stern windows that flooded the space with light, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. There were other people--he sensed them dimly--but his sole attention was fixed on Trevelyan.
Trevelyan was seated on a sea chest, coatless, with the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, one hand clamping a bloodstained cloth to his forearm.
"Good Christ," Trevelyan said, staring at him. "Nemesis, as I live and breathe."
"If you like." Grey swallowed a rush of saliva and took a deep breath. "I arrest you, Joseph Trevelyan, for the murder of Reinhardt Mayrhofer, by the power of . . ." Grey put a hand into his pocket, but Tom Byrd still had his letter. No matter; it was near enough.
A trembling vibration rose under his feet before he could speak further, and the boards seemed to shift beneath him. He staggered, catching himself on the corner of a desk. Trevelyan smiled, a little ruefully.
"We are aweigh, John. That is the anchor chain you hear. And this is my ship."
Grey drew another deep breath, realization of his error coming over him with a sense of fatality. He should have insisted upon seeing the captain, whatever the objection. He should have presented his letter and made sure that at all costs the ship was prevented from sailing--but in his haste to make sure of Trevelyan, his judgment had failed. He had been able to think of nothing but finding the man, cornering him, and bringing him to book at last. And now it was too late.
He was alone, save for Tom Byrd, and while Harry Quarry and Constable Magruder would know where he was, that knowledge would not save him--for now they were a-sail, heading away from England and help. And he doubted that Joseph Trevelyan meant ever to come back to face the King's justice.
Still, they would not put him overboard in sight of land, he supposed. And perhaps he could yet reach the captain, or Tom Byrd could. It might be a blessing that Byrd still held his letter; Trevelyan could not destroy it immediately. But would any captain clap the owner of his ship in irons, or abort the sailing of such a juggernaut, on the power of a rather dubious letter of empowerment?
He glanced away from Trevelyan's wry gaze, and saw, with no particular sense of surprise, that the man who stood in the corner of the cabin was Finbar Scanlon, quietly putting a case of instruments and bottles to rights.
"And where is Mrs. Scanlon?" he inquired, putting a bold face on it. "Also aboard, I assume?"
Scanlon shook his head, a slight smile on his lips.
"No, my lord. She is in Ireland, safe. I'd not risk her here, to be sure."
Because of her condition, he supposed the man meant. No woman would choose to bear a child on board ship, no matter how large the vessel.
"A long voyage then, I take it?" In his muddled state, he had not even thought to ask Stapleton for the ship's destination. Had he been in time, that would not have mattered. But now? Where in God's name were they headed?
"Long enough." It was Trevelyan who spoke, taking away the cloth from his arm and peering at the result. The tender skin of his inner forearm had been scarified, Grey saw; blood still oozed from a rectangular pattern of small cuts.
Trevelyan turned to pick up a fresh cloth, and Grey caught sight of the bed beyond him. A woman lay behind the drapes of gauze net, unmoving, and he took the few steps that brought him to the bedside, unsteady on his feet as the ship shuddered and quickened, taking sail.
"This would be Mrs. Mayrhofer, I suppose?" he asked quietly, though she seemed in a sleep too deep to rouse from easily.
"Maria," Trevelyan said softly at his elbow, wrapping his arm with a bandage as he looked down at her.
She was drawn and wasted by illness, and looked little like her portrait. Still, Grey thought she was likely beautiful, when in health. The bones of her face were too prominent now, but the shape of them graceful, and the hair that swept back from a high brow dark and lush, though matted by sweat. She had been let blood, too; a clean bandage wrapped the crook of her elbow. Her hands lay open on the coverlet, and he saw that she wore Trevelyan's signet, loose on her finger--the emerald cabochon, marked with the Cornish chough.
"What is the matter with her?" he asked, for Scanlon had come to stand by his other side.
"Malaria," the apothecary replied, matter-of-factly. "Tertian fever. Are you well, sir?"
So close, he could smell it, as well as see it; the woman's skin was yellow, and a fine sweat glazed her temples. The strange musky odor of jaundice reached him through the veil of perfume that she wore--the same perfume he had smelt on her husband, lying dead in a blood-soaked dress of green velvet.
"Will she live?" he asked. Ironic, he thought, if Trevelyan had killed her husband in order to have her, only to lose her to a deadly disease.
"She's in the hands of God now," Scanlon said, shaking his head. "As is he." He nodded at Trevelyan, and Grey glanced sharply at him.
"What do you mean by that?"
Trevelyan sighed, rolling down his sleeve over the bandage.
"Come and have a drink with me, John. There is time enough now; time enough. I'll tell you all you wish to know."
"I should prefer to be knocked straightforwardly on the head, rather than poisoned again--if it is all the same to you, sir," Grey said, giving him an unfriendly eye. To his annoyance, Trevelyan laughed, though he muted it at once, with a glance at the woman in the bed.
"I'd forgotten," he said, a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I do apologize, John. Though for what the explanation is worth," he added, "I was not intending to kill you--only to delay you."
"Perhaps it was not your intent," Grey said coldly, "but I suspect you did not mind if you did kill me."
"No, I didn't," Trevelyan agreed frankly. "I needed time, you see--and I couldn't take the chance that you wouldn't act, despite our bargain. You would not speak openly--but if you had told your mother, everyone in London would have known it by nightfall. And I could not be delayed."
"And why should you trifle at my death, after all?" Grey asked, anger at his own stupidity making him rash. "What's one more?"
Trevelyan had opened a cupboard and was reaching into it. At this, he stopped, turning a puzzled face to Grey.
"One more? I have killed no one, John. And I am pleased not to have killed you--I would have regretted that."
He turned back to the cupboard, removing from it a bottle and a pair of pewter cups.
"You won't mind brandy? I have wine, but it is not yet settled."
Despite both anger and apprehension, Grey found himself nodding acceptance as Trevelyan poured the amber drink. Trevelyan sat down and took a mouthful from his cup, holding the aromatic liquid in his mouth, eyes half-closed in pleasure. After a moment, he swallowed, and glanced up at Grey, who still stood, glaring down at him.
With a slight shrug, he reached down and pulled open the drawer of the desk. He took out a small roll of grubby paper and pushed it across the desk toward Grey.
"Do sit down, John," he said. "You look a trifle pale, if you will pardon my mentioning it."
Feeling somehow foolish, and resenting both that feeling and the weakness of his knees, Grey lowered himself slowly onto the proffered stool, and picked up the roll of paper.
There were six sheets of rough paper, hard-used. Torn from a journal or notebook, they bore close writing on both sides. The paper had been folded, then unfolded and tightly rolled at some point; he had to flatten it with both hands in order to read it, but a glance was sufficient to tell him what it was.
He glanced up, to see Trevelyan watching him, with a slightly melancholy smile.
"That is what you have been seeking?" the Cornishman asked.
"You know that it is." Grey released the papers, which curled themselves back into a cylinder. "Where did you get them?"
"From Mr. O'Connell, of course."
The little cylinder of papers rolled gently to and fro with the motion of the ship, and the cloud-shattered light from the stern windows seemed suddenly very bright.
Trevelyan sat sipping his own drink, seeming to take no further notice of Grey, absorbed in his own thoughts.
"You said--you would tell me whatever I wished to know," Grey said, picking up his own cup.
Trevelyan closed his eyes briefly, then nodded, and opened them, looking at Grey.
"Of course," he said simply. "There is no reason why not--now."
"You say you have killed no one," Grey began carefully.
"Not yet." Trevelyan glanced at the woman in the bed. "It remains to be seen whether I have killed my wife."
"Your wife?" Grey blurted.
Trevelyan nodded, and Grey caught a glimpse of the fierce pride of five centuries of Cornish pirates, normally hidden beneath the suave facade of the merchant prince.
"Mine. We were married Tuesday evening--by an Irish priest Mr. Scanlon brought."
Grey turned on his stool, gawking at Scanlon, who shrugged and smiled, but said nothing.
"I imagine my family--good Protestants that they've all been since King Henry's time--would be outraged," Trevelyan said, with a faint smile. "And it may not be completely legal. But needs must when the devil drives--and she is Catholic. She wished to be married, before . . ." His voice died away as he looked at the woman on the bed. She was restless now; limbs twitching beneath the coverlet, head turning uncomfortably upon her pillow.
"Not long," Scanlon said quietly, seeing the direction of his glance.
"Until what?" Grey asked, suddenly dreading to hear the answer.
"Until the fever comes on again," the apothecary replied. A faint frown creased his brow. "It is a tertian fever--it comes on, passes off, and then returns again upon the third day. And so again--and yet again. She was able to travel yesterday, but as you see . . ." He shook his head. "I have Jesuit bark for her; it may work."
"I am sorry," Grey said formally to Trevelyan, who inclined his head in grave receipt. Grey cleared his throat.
"Perhaps you would be good enough, then, to explain how Reinhardt Mayrhofer met his death, if not by your hand? And just how these papers came into your possession?"
Trevelyan sat for a moment, breathing slowly, then lifted his face briefly to the light from the windows, closing his eyes like a man savoring to the full the last moments of life before his execution.
"I suppose I must begin at the beginning, then," he said at last, eyes still closed. "And that must be the afternoon when I first set eyes upon Maria. That occasion was the ninth of May last year, at one of Lady Bracknell's salons."
A faint smile flitted across his face, as though he saw the occasion pass again before his eyes. He opened them, regarding Grey with an easy frankness.
"I never go to such things," he said. "Never. But a gentleman with whom I had business dealings had come to lunch with me at the Beefsteak, and we found we had more to speak of than would fit comfortably within the length of a luncheon. And so when he invited me to go with him to his further engagement, I did. And . . . she was there."
He opened his eyes and glanced at the bed where the woman lay, still and yellow.
"I did not know such a thing was possible," he remarked, sounding almost surprised. "If anyone had suggested such a thing to me, I would have scoffed at them--and yet . . ."
He had seen the woman sitting in the corner and been struck by her beauty--but much more by her sadness. It was not like the Honorable Joseph Trevelyan to be touched by emotion--his own or others'--and yet the poignant grief that marked her features drew him as much as it disturbed him.
He had not approached her himself, but had not been able to take his eyes off her for long. His attention was noticed, and his hostess had obligingly told him that the woman was Frau Mayrhofer, wife of a minor Austrian noble.
"Do go and speak to her," the hostess had urged, a worried kindness evident in her manner as she glanced at the lovely, sorrowful guest. "This is her first excursion into society since her sad loss--her first child, poor thing--and I am sure that a bit of attention would do her so much good!"
He had crossed the room with no notion what he might say or do--he had no knowledge of the language of condolence, no skill at social small talk; his metier was business and politics. And yet, when his hostess had introduced them and left, he found himself still holding the hand he had kissed, looking into soft brown eyes that drowned his soul. And without further thought or hesitation had said, "God help me, I am in love with you."
"She laughed," Trevelyan said, his own face lighting at the recollection. "She laughed, and said, 'God help me, then!' It transformed her in an instant. And if I had been in love with La Dolorosa, I was . . . ravished . . . by La Allegretta. I would have done anything to keep the sorrow from returning to her eyes." He looked at the woman on the bed again, and his fists curled unconsciously. "I would have done anything to have her."
She was Catholic, and a married woman; it had taken several months before she yielded to him--but he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. And her husband--
"Reinhardt Mayrhofer was a degenerate," Trevelyan said, his narrow face hardening. "A womanizer and worse."
And so their affair had begun.
"This would be before you became betrothed to my cousin?" Grey asked, a slight edge in his voice.
Trevelyan blinked, seeming slightly surprised.
"Yes. Had I had any hopes of inducing Maria to leave Mayrhofer, then of course I should never have contracted the betrothal. As it was, though, she was adamant; she loved me, but could not in conscience leave her husband. That being so . . ." He shrugged.
That being so, he had seen nothing wrong with marrying Olivia, thus enhancing his own fortunes and laying the foundation of his future dynasty with someone of impeccable family--while maintaining his passionate affair with Maria Mayrhofer.
"Don't look so disapproving, John," Trevelyan said, long mouth curling a little. "I should have made Olivia a good husband. She would have been quite happy and content."