The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [16]
The coach swayed precariously for an instant but then righted itself, and they resumed their original positions.
“We should have walked,” Hal said, and made to stick his head out the window to call to the coachman. Grey seized him by the sleeve, though, and he looked at his brother in surprise.
“No. Just—no. Wait.”
Hal stared at him for a moment, but then lowered himself back to the seat.
“What is it?” he said. He looked wary but keen.
“This,” said Grey simply, and, reaching into his pocket, handed over the folded sheet. “Read the list of names in the middle.”
Hal took the sheet, frowning, and began to read. Grey counted in his head. Hal didn’t read quite as fast as he did.
Five … four … three … two … one …
“Jesus!”
“Well, yes.”
They looked at each other in silence for the length of several heartbeats.
“Of all the men Siverly could have had dealings with—” Hal said, and shook his head violently, like a man trying to rid himself of flies.
“It has to be, of course,” Grey said. “I mean, there aren’t two of them, surely.”
“Would that there were. But I doubt it. Edward Twelvetrees is not that common a name.”
“Once upon a time, there were three brothers,” Grey said, half under his breath. Hal had closed his eyes and was breathing heavily. “Reginald, Nathaniel … and Edward.”
Hal opened his eyes. “It’s always the youngest who gets the princess, isn’t it?” He gave John a lopsided smile. “Younger brothers are the very devil.”
AT THIS HOUR of the morning, Almack’s public rooms were bustling. Harry Quarry was chatting amiably with a thin, worried-looking man whom Grey recognized as a stockbroker. On seeing them, Harry took his leave with a word and stood up, coming to meet them.
“I’ve bespoke a private cardroom,” Harry said, shaking hands with Grey and nodding to Hal. “Symington, Clifford, and Bingham will be joining us shortly.”
Grey nodded cordially, wondering what on earth Harry was about, but Hal gave no sign of surprise.
“Didn’t want it to get about that inquiries were being made,” Harry explained, peering out in the larger room before shutting the door to the cardroom. “We’ll have a few minutes to talk, then, once the others have come, we’ll have a few hands of picquet, you lot leave for another engagement, and I’ll stay on. No one will notice you’ve even been here.”
Harry looked so pleased at this stratagem for deflecting suspicion that Grey hadn’t the heart to point out that Harry might simply have come to Argus House to share whatever news he’d gained from Halloran. Hal didn’t look at John but nodded gravely at Harry.
“Very clever,” he said. “But if we’ve not much time—”
He was interrupted by a servant bringing in a tray of coffee dishes, a plate of biscuits, and several decks of cards, already separated into the talons required for picquet.
“If we’ve not much time,” Hal repeated, with an edge in his voice, once the servant had departed, “perhaps you’d best tell us what Halloran had to say.”
“A fair amount,” Harry said, sitting down. “Coffee?”
Harry’s bluff, craggy face inspired confidence in men and a remarkable degree of sensual abandonment in women, which Grey considered one of the great mysteries of nature. On the other hand, he didn’t presume to know what women thought attractive. In the present instance, though, Adjutant Halloran appeared to have been taken in by Harry’s casual charm as easily as any society lady.
“Lot of talk, regimental gossip,” Harry said, dismissing all of this with a wave of one broad hand. He spilled coffee into his saucer and blew on it, making wisps of aromatic steam rise from the dark brew. “Got him round to Siverly eventually, though. He respects Siverly, doesn’t much like him. Reputation as a good soldier, good commander. Doesn’t waste men.… What?”
Both the Greys had made noises. Hal waved a hand at Harry.
“Tell you later. Go on. Did he say anything about