The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [15]
The elderly clerk was supposed to be making a list of the men indicted in the documents, those men whom Carruthers had known or suspected to have had dealings, financial or otherwise, with Major Gerald Siverly. Grey was supposed to be joining Hal and Harry Quarry—one of the regimental colonels and Hal’s oldest friend—for a discussion of strategy, but neither one had arrived yet, and Grey had wandered into Mr. Beasley’s clerk’s hole to borrow a book; the old man had a remarkable collection of French novels squirreled discreetly away in one of his cabinets.
Grey took down a copy of Abbé Prévost’s Manon Lescaut, and thumbed casually through the pages, watching Beasley covertly as he did so. He knew better than to ask; Mr. Beasley was the soul of discretion, that being only one of the attributes that made him invaluable to Hal, as he had been to the first earl of Melton, their father and the founder of the regiment.
The disturbance was growing worse. Mr. Beasley made to dip his pen but instead allowed it to hover above the ink-stand and then slowly set it down. He had turned over a page; now he turned it back and studied something upon it, thin lips compressed almost into invisibility.
“Lord John,” he said at last, and removed his spectacles to blink nearsightedly up at Grey.
“Yes, Mr. Beasley.” He put down Manon Lescaut at once and looked expectant.
“You have read these documents, I collect?”
“I have,” Grey said cautiously. “Perhaps not with the greatest attention to detail, but …”
“And His Grace has read them. What—if I may inquire—was his state of mind upon reading them?”
Grey considered. “Well, he didn’t break anything. He swore quite a bit in German, though.”
“Ah.” Mr. Beasley appreciated the significance of this point. He tapped spatulate fingertips upon his desk; he was perturbed. “Do you—would you describe him as having flown into a horrid passion?”
“I would,” Grey said promptly.
“But he did not mention anything … specific … with regard to these documents?” He glanced at the neat stack beside him.
“No …” Grey said slowly. Hal had certainly noted the Erse poem, if that’s what it was, but that sheet had not been given to Mr. Beasley; that couldn’t be what was disturbing the elderly clerk. He risked a question. “Have you noticed something?”
Mr. Beasley grimaced and turned the sheet around, facing Grey.
“There,” he said, placing a precise finger in the middle of the page. “Read that list of Major Siverly’s known associates, if you would be so kind.”
Grey obligingly sat down and bent his head over the sheet. Three seconds later his head snapped up and he stared at the clerk. “Jesus!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Beasley mildly. “I thought that, too. You don’t think he’s seen it?”
“I’m sure he hasn’t.”
They stared at each other for a moment, hearing the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Grey swallowed.
“Let me do it,” he said, and, taking the sheet, folded it hastily into his pocket, then rose to greet his brother.
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