1. SOMETIMES THEY’RE REALLY DEAD 가끔 그들은 정말로 죽기도 해

* 최초작성: 2023/07/19

** 현재 작업 중인 문서이며, 불시에 내용이 추가될 수 있습니다. 

 

PART ONE
A Troubling of the Waters 물의 흔들림

SOMETIMES THEY’RE REALLY DEAD
Wilmington, colony of North Carolina
July 1776

가끔 그들은 정말로 죽기도 해
노스캐롤라이나의 식민지 윌밍턴
1776년 7월

해적의 머리가 사라졌다.
윌리엄은 근처 부두에서 돌아다니던 무리의 사람들이 그 머리가 다시 보이지는 않을까 궁리하는 모습을 보았다.

레게머리를 한 혼혈남자가 고개를 저으며 말했다. “아냐, 그는 사라졌을거야,”
”악-어들은 그를 데려가지 않아, 물이 삼켰겠지.“
시골뜨기 하나가 반대의 의사를 내비치며 담배를 바꿔물고 물 속에 침을 뱉었다.
“아냐, 하루 정도는 더 괜찮아-어쩌면 이틀도. 그것들은 머리를 지탱하는 연골을 깨물어서 햇볕에 말리곤하지. 쇠처럼 단단해지지. 그렇게 된 사슴시체를 여럿 봤어.“

윌리엄은 멕켄지 부인이 부두 쪽으로 살짝 웃었다가 표정을 지우는 걸 보았다. 그의 생각에 그녀는 창백했기에, 몸을 살짝 움직여 그녀의 시야에서 남자들과 높은 조수의 갈색 물결을 차단시켰다. 그렇지만 파도가 워낙 높았기에 말뚝에 묶인 그 시체는 자연스럽게 보이지 않을 터였다. 그럴지만 그 말뚝은 - 범죄의 대가를 상기시켰다. 그 해적은 벌써 며칠 전에 익사당하게끔 진흙 위의 말뚝에 묶였지만 그의 썩어가는 시체의 존재는 공공연한 대화의 현재진행형 주제였다.

“젬!” 맥켄지씨가 날카롭게 외치며 그의 아들을 쫓아 윌리엄을 지나갔다. 그 어머니처럼 붉은 머리의 그 작은 소년은 사내들의 대화를 들으며 돌아다니다가 지금은 물 위로 몸을 기울이며 아주 위험하게 말뚝에 매달려 그 죽은 해적을 보려고 시도 중이었다.

맥켄지 씨는 소년의 목덜미를 잡아채 안으로 잡아당기며 그를 품 속으로 잡아끌었다. 소년은 반항하며 늪 같은 항구를 향해 몸을 비틀었다

“나는 왁-어가 그 해적을 먹는 걸 보고싶어요 아빠!”
구경꾼 무리가 웃었고, 심지어는 맥켄지조차 약간 웃었지만, 그 미소는 아내를 살피자마자 사라졌다. 그는 그녀의 옆에서 팔꿈치 아래 한 손을 받쳤다.

“우린 이제 가야겠구나,” 맥켄지는 고통의 흔적이 역력한 아내를 부축하기 위해 아들의 무게를 분산시켰다.
“랜섬 중위-아니, 로드 엘리스미어“ - 그가 윌리엄에게 사과하는 듯한 미소를 지으며 정정했다 - ”께서는 다른 약속이 있으실테니.“

이건 사실이었다. 윌리엄은 그의 부친과 저녁을 함께하기로 되어있었다. 하지만 아버지는 항구를 바로 저편에 있는 태번에서 그를 만나기로 했다. 그를 만나기란 아주 쉬웠다.

윌리엄은 그렇게 말하며 그들이 머물기를 고집했다. 그는 그들과 함께하는 것을 즐기고 있었다 - 특히 맥켄지 부인과 - 하지만 그녀는 유감스럽게 미소지었다. 그렇게 하자 그녀의 얼굴빛은 나아졌고, 품 속의 모자를 쓴 아기를 토닥거렸다.

“아냐, 우린 할 일이 있어요.” 그녀가 여전히 내려오려고 안간힘을 쓰는 아들을 향해 웃으며 말했다. 그리고 윌리엄은 그녀의 눈이 항구와 물결 위로 우뚝 솟은 막대기를 향해 깜박거리는 걸 보았다. 그녀는 단호하게 시선을 돌려 대신에 윌리엄의 얼굴을 눈에 담았다. “아기가 일어날 시간이 됐어요: 아마 배가 고플테죠. 그렇지만 당신을 만나서 정말 반가웠어요. 더 대화를 나눌 수 있었다면 좋았을걸.” 그녀는 정말 진심으로 그렇게 말했고, 그의 팔을 살짝 만져 그에게 뱃속에서부터 피어나는 기쁨의 감정을 가져다 주었다.

구경꾼들은 이제 익사한 해적의 재등장으로 도박을 시작하고 있었다.
하지만 그들 중 누구도 서로 다른 의견을 내지 않았다. 

“파도가 그치고 나면 거기 있을 거라는데 둘 걸지.”
“몸은 그 자리에 있지만 머리는 없을 거라는데 다섯. 난 네가 말하는 관절을 깨무는 거는 신경 안써, 렘, 그 머리는 이번에 마지막으로 파도가 들어올 때 구슬처럼 그냥 흔들거리고 있을거야.  다음 번엔 머리가 떼어질걸 분명,”

이 대화도 익사당하길 바라며, 윌리엄은 우아하게 작별을 고했다. 그가 할 수 있는 최대의 예의를 담아 맥켄지 부인의 손에 키스하고, 순간적인 영감에 힘입어, 그 작은 소녀의 손에도 키스해 모두를 웃음짓게 했다.


맥켄지 씨는 그에게 이상한 시선을 보냈지만 기분이 상한 것 같지는 않았고, 매우 격식을 차려 악수한 후에, 그의 아들을 내려놓고 그 작은 소년도 악수를 하게끔 하는 재치를 발휘했다.

“누구 죽여보신 적 있어요?“ 소년이 윌리엄의 예장용 검을 바라보며 흥미롭게 물었다.
”아니, 아직,“ 윌리엄이 웃으며 대답했다.
”제 조부는 2다즌의 남자를 죽였어요“
”제미!“ 그의 부모가 동시에 말했고, 그 작은 소년의 어깨가 귀에 닿을 듯 올라갔다.
”맞잖아요!“
”네 조부는 분명 대담하고 용감한 남자시겠구나,“ 윌리엄이 소년을 심각하게 말했다. “국왕 전하께서는 항상 그런 사람들을 필요로 하시지.”
“제 조부는 왕이 내 엉덩이에 키스할 수도 있겠지King can kiss his arse,” 라고 했어요,” 소년이 사실적으로 대답했다. 

“제미!”
맥켄지 씨는 과한 말을 하는 아들의 입을 막았다.
“네 할아버지는 그런 말을 하시지 않았잖아!” 맥켄지 부인이 말했다. 소년이 동의하듯 고개를 끄덕였고 그 아버지는 손을 뗐다.
“맞아요. 하지만 할머니는 그랬어요.”
“그래, 그게 좀 더 그럴 듯하구나,”
맥켄지 씨가 분명 웃지 않으려고 애를 쓰며 중얼거렸다. “하지만 그런 이야기를 군인들에게 하지 않는단다- 군인들은 국왕 전하를 위해 일하잖니.”
“오,” 제미가 명백하게 흥미를 잃고있으며 말했다. “이제 파도가 물러났어요?” 그가 다시 한번 항구를 향해 목을 꺾으며 바람을 담아 물었다. “아니,” 멕켄지 씨가 단호하게 말했다. “몇 시간 동안은 아니야. 네가 침대에 있을 때지.”

맥켄지 부인은 사과하듯 윌리엄을 향해 미소지었고, 그녀의 뺨은 쑥쓰럽게 붉어져 매력적이었다. 가족은 약간 서두르며 떠나 남겨진 윌리엄이 웃음과 당황 사이에서 갈팡질팡 하게끔 했다.

“어이, 랜섬!”
그는 자신의 이름을 부르는 소리에 고개를 돌려 그의 연대에 속한 두 소위, 해리 돕슨과 콜린 오스본을 발견했다. 그들은 분명 근무에서 벗어나 윌밍턴을 느끼지 못해 안달이었다. - 늘 그랬듯이.
“누구야?” 돕슨이 떠나는 사람들을 바라보며 흥미롭게 물었다.
“맥켄지 씨와 맥켄지 부인. 내 아버지의 친구들이지.”
“오, 결혼을 했나?” 돕슨이 여전히 여자를 바라보며 볼을 빨아들였다.

“음, 약간 더 힘들어지긴 하겠지만, 삶이란 게 원래 도전 아니겠어?”
“도전?” 윌리엄은 그의 몸집이 작은 친구에게 삐딱한 웃음을 지어보였다.

“그녀의 남편은 네 3배 정도 되는 거 같은데.”
오스본이 빨개진 얼굴로 웃었다. “여자는 2배 정도고! 너를 깔아뭉갤걸, Dobby.”

”왜 내가 아래에 있을 거라고 생각하는 거야?“
돕슨이 위엄을 담아 질문했다. 오스본은 아유했다. 

”넌 왜 키가 큰 여자에 집착하는거야?“ 윌리언이 물었다. 그는 거리의 끝에 다다라 이제 거의 시선 밖으로 나간 가족의 작아진 형상을 살폈다.

“저 여자는 거의 나만큼 키가 크다고!”
“당연히 그러겠지!”
5피트인 돕슨보다는 크지만 윌리엄보다 머리 하나는 작은 오스본이 그의 무릎을 향해 사악한 킥을 조준했다.

윌리엄은 그것을 피하고 오스본을 찰싹 때렸고, 오스본은 몸을 굽혀 그를 돕슨에게 밀었다. 

"신-샤들!"  Sergeant커터 하사의 위협적인 코크니(런던)억양이 그들 사이를 날카롭게 갈랐다. 그들은 하사관보다 계급이 높을지 몰랐으나, 그들 중 누구도 그 사실을 지적하고 싶지 않았다. 대대원 전체가 커터 하사에게 두려움을 가지고 있었다. 그는 신보다도 나이가 많고 돕슨 정도의 키였으나, 그 작은 체격 안에 커다란 화산과도 같은 광폭한 분노를 담고 있었다. 

"하사!" 엘즈미어의 백작이자 그룹에서 가장 나이가 많은 윌리엄 랜섬 중위가 그의 몸을 곧게 세우고 턱 끝을 그의 개머리판에 대고 눌렀다. 오스본과 돕슨은 부츠를 신은 발을 매우 흔들면서 급히 그를 따라했다. 

커터는 스토킹을 하는 표범과 같은 자세로 그들 앞뒤를 걸어다녔다. 저 채찍질하는 꼬리와 씹어먹기 전에 미리 준비하듯 핥는 모습을 보라지, 윌리엄이 생각했다. 물릴 것을 기다리는 것은 엉덩이에 물리는 그 자체만큼이나 나빴다.

"당신의 부대는 어디에 있죠," 커터가 으르렁거렸다. "경들?"

오스본과 돈습은 즉시 설명을 더듬기 시작했지만, 랜섬 중위는 -단번에- 천사들 옆에서 걷고 있는 기분이었다. 

"제 부하들은 콜슨 중위 아래서 총독각하의 궁을 지키고 있습니다. 저는 제 아버지와 함께 식사하도록 허가를 받았습니다, 하사. 피터 경께." 그가 예의바르게 말했다. 

피터 패커 경의 이름은 마법과도 같은 것이어서, 커터의 강도가 절반 정도로 줄어들었다. 그렇지만 윌리엄에게는 놀랍게도 이 반응을 이끌어낸 것은 피터 경의 이름이 아니었다.

"당신의 아버지?" 커터가 눈을 가늘게 뜨고 말했다. "존 그레이 경이시죠?"

"어...네," 윌리엄이 조심스럽게 대답했다. "그를...아십니까?"

커터가 대답할 수 있게 되기 전에, 근처 태번의 문이 열리고 윌리엄의 아버지가 밖으로 나왔다. 윌리엄은 이 시기적절한 등장에 환하게 웃어보였지만, 하사의 송곳같은 동공이 그에게 고정되자 빠르게 미소를 지웠다.

"바람난 원숭이 처럼 그렇게 웃지 마세요," 하사가 위험한 어조로 말했지만, 존 경의 손이 친숙하게 어깨를 두드렸다 - 세 명의 어린 중위들 중 누구도 큰 돈을 준다해도 하지 않을 일이었다. 

"커터!" 존 경이 따뜻하게 웃으며 말했다. "그 둔탁한 톤을 듣고 바로 생각했지, 이게 알로이시우스 커터 하사가 아니라면 또 누구겠어! 고양이를 삼킨 불독처럼 그렇게 말을 하는 다른 사람이 또 있을리가 없으니 말이야."

"알로이시우스?" 돕슨이 윌리엄을 향해 입을 뻐끔거렸지만 윌리엄은 그의 아버지가 그쪽 방향으로 고개를 돌리고 있어 어깨를 으쓱할 수 없었기에 그저 짧게 대답으로 신음했다. 

"윌리엄," 그가 진정어린 끄덕임과 함께 말했다. "정말 시간을 잘 지키는구나. 늦어서 미안하다; 나는 일이 있었어." 윌리엄이 무슨 말을 하거나 다른 사람들을 소개하기도 전에 존 경은 커터 병장과 함께 Wolfe 장군과 함께 Plains of Abraham 아브라함 평원에서 있었던 아주 오랜 날들을 회상하기 시작했다. 

이렇게 되자 세 명의 어린 장교들은 살짝 숨을 돌릴 수 있었고, 돕슨의 경우에는 좀 전에 생각하던 것으로 다시 돌아가는 것을 의미했다. 

"너 아까 그 빨간머리 귀염둥이가 네 아버지의 친구라고 했지," 그가 윌리엄에게 속삭였다. "아버지께 그녀가 어디서 묵는지 알아내, 어?" 

"바보," 오스본이 싯싯거렸다. "그녀는 이쁘지도 않다구! 그녀는 마치-마치-마치 윌리처럼 코가 길잖아!"

"그녀의 얼굴은 높아서 보지못했고," 돕슨이 히죽거리며 말했다. "그렇지만 그녀의 엉덩이는 눈높이와 맞았지, 그래서..."

"개자식!"

"쉬!" 오스본이 돕슨의 발을 밟아 존 경이 젊은 청년들에게 돌아섰을 때 그를 닥치게 했다. 

"네 친구들에게 나를 소개해주겠니, 윌리엄?" 존 경이 정중하게 물었다. 그의 아버지가 포병이었음에도 불구하고 날카로운 청력을 가지고 있다는 것을 - 윌리엄은 몸소 알고 있었다. 오스본과 돕슨은 약간 경외한 듯 고개를 숙였다. 그들은 윌리엄의 아버지가 누구인지 몰랐었고, 윌리엄은 그들이 감명을 받았다는 것에 약간 자부심을 느끼며, 또 동시에 그들이 존 경의 신분을 알아차렸다는 것에 약간 실망했다 - 이제 내일 저녁이 되기도 전에 대대 전체에 퍼질 것이다. 당연하게도 피터 경은 알고 있었지만, 그래도-

그는 아버지가 그와 떠날 준비를 하고 있다는 것을 알아차리고, 유머를 회복해 성급하지만 좋은 모양새로 커터 병장의 경례에 답례한 후 도비와 오스본을 그들의 운명에 순응하도록 내버려두고 떠났다. 

"네가 맥켄지 부부와 말하는 걸 봤단다," 존 경이 일상적으로 말했다. "그들 모두 잘 지내겠지?" 그는 부두 아래를 내려다보았지만, 맥켄지들은 시야에서 이미 오래 전에 사라진 뒤였다. 

"그런 것 같았어요," 윌리가 말했다. 그는 그들이 어디 머무는지 묻지 않을 생각이었지만, 그 젊은 여자에 대한 인상은 그에게도 남아있었다. 그는 그녀가 이쁜지 아닌지 말할 수 없었다; 그렇지만 그녀의 시선은 그에게 박혔다. 아름다운 딥블루 색의 눈이 긴 적갈색의 속눈썹과 함께 그에게 강렬하게 고정되어 그의 가슴 속에 따뜻한 주름을 남겼다. 물론 괴상하게도 키가 컸지만 그래도 - 내가 무슨 생각을 하고 있었던가? 그녀는 결혼했어, 애도 있다고! 그리고 더 말할 것도 없이 빨간머리지.

"그들을 - 어 - 오래 알고 계셨나요?" 윌리엄이 그 가족들 사이에 분명하게 있는 존재했던 놀라울 정도로 삐뚫어진 정치적 정서에 대해 생각하며 물었다.

"꽤 긴 시간이지. 그녀는 내 가장 오래된 친구들 중 한 명인 제임스 프레이저 씨의 딸이란다. 그러고 보니 그를 기억하니?" 윌리엄이 그 이름을 기억하지 못하고 얼굴을 찌푸렸다 - 그의 아버지에겐 친구가 매우 많았는데 그를 어떻게...

"오!" 그가 말했다. "영국인 친구가 아니군요. 아버지가 그 나그네쥐 때문에 아팠던 그 때에 우리가 산에서 방문했던 그 분이 프레이저 씨였죠?" 그때의 순전한 공포를 기억하자 그의 배 가장 아랫부분이 살짝 떨어지는 것 같았다. 

그는 정말 비참하고 몽롱한 상태로 산을 여행했었다; 그의 어머니가 죽은지 겨우 한 달이 지났을 때였다. 그때 존 경은 나그네 쥐에 물렸고, 윌리엄은 그의 아버지가 죽어, 그를 이 야생에 완전히 홀로 내버려둘지도 모른다고 생각했었다. 그 당시 그의 마음 속에는 두려움과 비탄을 제외하고는 아무 것도 없었고, 그는 그 방문에서 약간의 뒤섞인 감정들을 겨우 기억해냈을 뿐이었다. 윌리엄은 그를 낚시에 데려다주고 그에게 친절했던 프레이저 씨에 대해서는 희미한 기억을 약간 가지고 있었다.

"그래," 아버지가 곁눈질하는 미소와 함께 말했다. "감동받았는걸, 윌리. 나는 네가 그 때의 방문을 나보다도 더한 너의 불행으로 더 많이 기억할거라 생각했어."

"그-" 그 순간 기억이 그를 덮쳤고, 열기의 향연으로 축축한 여름 공기를 더 덥게 느껴지게 했다. "정말 감사하네요! 아버지가 언급하시기 전까지 저는 제 기억 속에서 완전히 잊어버리고 있었어요!"

그의 아버지가 숨기려는 시도조차 하지 않고 웃었다. 더 정확하게 말하자면 그는 거의 경련하고 있었다. 

"미안하다, 윌리," 그가 숨을 헐떡이고 손수건 끝으로 눈을 닦으며 말했다. "어찌할 수가 없네; 이건 가장 - 정말 가장 - 오 신이시여, 우리가 널 그 변소 밖으로 꺼냈을 때 네 모습이 어땠는지 난 평생 잊지 못할거야!"

"사고였다는 걸 아시잖아요," 윌리엄이 딱딱하게 말했다. 그의 뺨은 기억에 남은 굴욕감으로 타는 듯했다. 적어도 프레이저의 딸은 이 순간 그의 굴욕을 목격하지 못해 다행이었다. 

“Yes, of course. But—” His father pressed the handkerchief to his mouth, his shoulders shaking silently.

“Feel free to stop cackling at any point,” William said coldly. “Where the devil are we going, anyway?” They’d reached the end of the quay, and his father was leading them—still snorting like a grampus—into one of the quiet, tree-lined streets, away from the taverns and inns near the harbor.

“We’re dining with a Captain Richardson,” his father said, controlling himself with an obvious effort. He coughed, blew his nose, and put away the handkerchief. “At the house of a Mr. Bell.”

Mr. Bell’s house was whitewashed, neat, and prosperous, without being ostentatious. Captain Richardson gave much the same sort of impression: of middle age, well-groomed and well-tailored, but without any notable style, and with a face you couldn’t pick out of a crowd two minutes after seeing it.

The two Misses Bell made a much stronger impression, particularly the younger, Miriam, who had honey-colored curls peeping out of her cap, and big, round eyes that remained fixed on William throughout dinner. She was seated too far away for him to be able to converse with her directly, but he fancied that the language of the eyes was sufficient to indicate to her that the fascination was mutual, and if an opportunity for more personal communication should offer later … ? A smile, and a demure lowering of honey-colored lashes, followed by a quick glance toward a door that stood open to the side porch, for air. He smiled back.

“Do you think so, William?” his father said, loudly enough to indicate that it was the second time of asking.

“Oh, certainly. Um … think what?” he asked, since it was after all Papa, and not his commander. His father gave him the look that meant he would have rolled his eyes had they not been in public, but replied patiently.

“Mr. Bell was asking whether Sir Peter intends to remain long in Wilmington.” Mr. Bell, at the head of the table, bowed graciously—though William observed a certain narrowing of his eyes in Miriam’s direction. Perhaps he’d best come back to call tomorrow, he thought, when Mr. Bell might be at his place of business.

“Oh. I believe we’ll remain here for only a short time, sir,” he said respectfully to Mr. Bell. “I collect that the chief trouble is in the backcountry, and so we will no doubt move to suppress it without delay.”

Mr. Bell looked pleased, though from the corner of his eye, William saw Miriam pout prettily at the suggestion of his imminent departure.

“Good, good,” Bell said jovially. “No doubt hundreds of Loyalists will flock to join you along your march.”

“Doubtless so, sir,” William murmured, taking another spoonful of soup. He doubted that Mr. Bell would be among them. Not really the marching type, to look at. And not that the assistance of a lot of untrained provincials armed with shovels would be helpful in any case, but he could hardly say so.

William, trying to see Miriam without looking directly at her, instead intercepted the flicker of a glance that traveled between his father and Captain Richardson, and for the first time, began to wonder. His father had distinctly said they were dining with Captain Richardson—meaning that a meeting with the captain was the point of the evening. Why?

Then he caught a look from Miss Lillian Bell, who was seated across from him, next his father, and ceased thinking about Captain Richardson. Dark-eyed, taller and more slender than her sister—but really quite a handsome girl, now he noticed.

Still, when Mrs. Bell and her daughters rose and the men retired to the porch after dinner, William was not surprised to find himself at one end with Captain Richardson, while his father engaged Mr. Bell at the other in a spirited discussion of tar prices. Papa could talk to anyone about anything.

“I have a proposition to put before you, Lieutenant,” Richardson said, after the usual cordialities had been exchanged.

“Yes, sir,” William said respectfully. His curiosity had begun to rise. Richardson was a captain of light dragoons, but not presently with his regiment; that much he had revealed over dinner, saying casually that he was on detached duty. Detached to do what?

“I do not know how much your father has told you regarding my mission?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Ah. I am charged with the gathering of intelligence in the Southern Department. Not that I am in command of such operations, you understand”—the captain smiled modestly—“but a small part of them.”

“I … appreciate the great value of such operations, sir,” William said, groping for diplomacy, “but I—for myself, that is to say—”

“You have no interest in spying. No, of course not.” It was dark on the porch, but the dryness of the captain’s tone was evident. “Few men who regard themselves as soldiers do.”

“I meant no offense, sir.”

“None taken. I am not, however, recruiting you as a spy—that is a delicate occupation, and one involving some danger—but rather as a messenger. Though should you find opportunity to act the intelligencer along your way … well, that would be an additional contribution, and much appreciated.”

William felt the blood rise in his face at the implication that he was capable neither of delicacy nor danger, but kept his temper, saying only, “Oh?”

The captain, it seemed, had gathered significant information regarding local conditions in the Carolinas, and now required to send this to the commander of the Northern Department—General Howe, presently in Halifax.

“I will of course be sending more than one messenger,” Richardson said. “It is naturally somewhat quicker by ship—but I desire to have at least one messenger travel overland, both for safety’s sake and for the sake of making observations en route. Your father speaks very highly of your abilities, Lieutenant”—did he detect a hint of amusement in that dry-as-sawdust voice?—“and I collect that you have traveled extensively in North Carolina and Virginia. That is a valuable attribute. You will appreciate that I do not wish my messenger to disappear into the Dismal Swamp, never to be seen again.”

“Ha-ha,” said William, politely, perceiving this to be meant as a jest. Clearly, Captain Richardson had never been near the Great Dismal; William had, though he didn’t think anyone in his right mind would go that way a-purpose, save to hunt.

He also had severe doubts regarding Richardson’s suggestion—though even as he told himself that he shouldn’t consider leaving his men, his regiment … he was already seeing a romantic vision of himself, alone in the vast wilderness, bearing important news through storm and danger.

More of a consideration, though, was what he might expect at the other end of the journey.

Richardson anticipated his question, answering before he could speak.

“Once in the north, you would—it being agreeable—join General Howe’s staff.”

Well, now, he thought. Here was the apple, and a juicy red one, too. He was aware that Richardson meant “it being agreeable” to General Howe, rather than to William—but he had some confidence in his own capabilities, and rather thought he might prove himself useful.

He had been in North Carolina only a few days, but that was quite long enough for him to have made an accurate assessment of the relative chances for advancement between the Northern Department and the Southern. The entire Continental army was with Washington in the north; the southern rebellion appeared to consist of troublesome pockets of backwoodsmen and impromptu militia—hardly a threat. And as for the relative status of Sir Peter and General Howe as commanders …

“I would like to think on your offer, if I might, Captain,” he said, hoping eagerness didn’t show in his voice. “May I give my answer tomorrow?”

“Certainly. I imagine you will wish to discuss the prospects with your father—you may do so.”

The captain then deliberately changed the subject, and within a few moments, Lord John and Mr. Bell had joined them, the conversation becoming general.

William paid little heed to what was said, his own attention distracted by the sight of two slender white figures that hovered ghostlike among the bushes at the outer edge of the yard. Two capped white heads drew together, then apart. Now and then, one turned briefly toward the porch in what looked like speculation.

“ ‘And for his vesture, they cast lots,’ ” his father murmured, shaking his head.

“Eh?”

“Never mind.” His father smiled, and turned toward Captain Richardson, who had just said something about the weather.

Fireflies lit the yard, drifting like green sparks among the damp, lush growth of plants. It was good to see fireflies again; he had missed them, in England—and that peculiar softness of the southern air that molded his linen to his body and made the blood throb in his fingertips. Crickets were chirping all around them, and for an instant, their song seemed to drown out everything save the sound of his pulse.

“Coffee’s ready, gen’mun.” The soft voice of the Bells’ slave cut through the small ferment of his blood, though, and he went in with the other men, with no more than a glance toward the yard. The white figures had disappeared, but a sense of promise lingered in the soft, warm air.

An hour later, he found himself walking back toward his billet, thoughts in a pleasant muddle, his father strolling silent by his side.

Miss Lillian Bell had granted him a kiss among the fireflies at the end of the evening, chaste and fleeting, but upon the lips, and the thick summer air seemed to taste of coffee and ripe strawberries, despite the pervasive dank smell of the harbor.

“Captain Richardson told me of the proposal he made to you,” Lord John said casually. “Are you inclined?”

“Don’t know,” William replied, with equal casualness. “I should miss my men, of course, but …” Mrs. Bell had pressed him to come to tea, later in the week.

“Little permanence in a military life,” his father said, with a brief shake of the head. “I did warn you.”

William gave a brief grunt of assent, not really listening.

“A good opportunity for advancement,” his father was saying, adding offhandedly, “though of course there is some danger to the proposition.”

“What?” William scoffed, hearing this. “Riding from Wilmington to take ship at New York? There’s a road, nearly all the way!”

“And quite a number of Continentals on it,” Lord John pointed out. “General Washington’s entire army lies this side of Philadelphia, if the news I hear be correct.”

William shrugged.

“Richardson said he wanted me because I knew the country. I can make my way well enough without roads.”

“Are you sure? You have not been in Virginia for nearly four years.”

The dubious tone of this annoyed William.

“Do you think me incapable of finding my way?”

“No, not at all,” his father said, still with that note of doubt in his voice. “But there is no little risk to this proposition; I should not like to see you undertake it without due thought.”

“Well, I have thought,” said William, stung. “I’ll do it.”

Lord John walked in silence for a few steps, then nodded, reluctantly.

“It’s your decision, Willie,” he said softly. “I should be personally obliged if you would take care, though.”

William’s annoyance melted at once.

“Course I will,” he said gruffly. They walked on beneath the dark canopy of maple and hickory, not talking, close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then.

At the inn, William bade Lord John good night, but didn’t return at once to his own lodgings. Instead, he wandered out along the quay, restless, unready for sleep.

The tide had turned and was well out, he saw; the smell of dead fish and decaying seaweed was stronger, though a smooth sheet of water still covered the mudflats, quiet in the light of a quarter-moon.

It took a moment to locate the stake. For an instant, he thought it had gone, but no—there it was, a thin dark line against the glimmer of the water. Empty.

The stake no longer stood upright, but leaned sharply, as though about to fall, and a thin loop of rope trailed from it, floating like a hangman’s noose on the waning tide. William was conscious of some visceral uneasiness; the tide alone would not have taken the whole body. Some said there were crocodiles or alligators here, though he had not yet seen one himself. He glanced down involuntarily, as though one of these reptiles might suddenly lunge from the water at his feet. The air was still warm, but a small shiver went through him.

He shook this off, and turned away toward his lodgings. There would be a day or two before he must go, he thought, and wondered whether he might see the blue-eyed Mrs. MacKenzie again before he left.

LORD JOHN LINGERED for a moment on the porch of the inn, watching his son vanish into the shadows under the trees. He had some qualms; the matter had been arranged with more haste than he would have liked—but he did have confidence in William’s abilities. And while the arrangement clearly had its risks, that was the nature of a soldier’s life. Some situations were riskier than others, though.

He hesitated, hearing the buzz of talk from the taproom inside, but he had had enough of company for the night, and the thought of tossing to and fro under the low ceiling of his room, stifling in the day’s trapped heat, determined him to walk about until bodily exhaustion should ensure sleep.

It wasn’t just the heat, he reflected, stepping off the porch and setting off in the opposite direction to the one Willie had taken. He knew himself well enough to realize that even the apparent success of his plan would not prevent his lying awake, worrying at it like a dog with a bone, testing for weaknesses, seeking for ways of improvement. After all, William would not depart immediately; there was a little time to consider, to make alterations, should that be necessary.

“Good, good,” Bell said jovially. “No doubt hundreds of Loyalists will flock to join you along your march.”

“Doubtless so, sir,” William murmured, taking another spoonful of soup. He doubted that Mr. Bell would be among them. Not really the marching type, to look at. And not that the assistance of a lot of untrained provincials armed with shovels would be helpful in any case, but he could hardly say so.

William, trying to see Miriam without looking directly at her, instead intercepted the flicker of a glance that traveled between his father and Captain Richardson, and for the first time, began to wonder. His father had distinctly said they were dining with Captain Richardson—meaning that a meeting with the captain was the point of the evening. Why?

Then he caught a look from Miss Lillian Bell, who was seated across from him, next his father, and ceased thinking about Captain Richardson. Dark-eyed, taller and more slender than her sister—but really quite a handsome girl, now he noticed.

Still, when Mrs. Bell and her daughters rose and the men retired to the porch after dinner, William was not surprised to find himself at one end with Captain Richardson, while his father engaged Mr. Bell at the other in a spirited discussion of tar prices. Papa could talk to anyone about anything.

“I have a proposition to put before you, Lieutenant,” Richardson said, after the usual cordialities had been exchanged.

“Yes, sir,” William said respectfully. His curiosity had begun to rise. Richardson was a captain of light dragoons, but not presently with his regiment; that much he had revealed over dinner, saying casually that he was on detached duty. Detached to do what?

“I do not know how much your father has told you regarding my mission?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Ah. I am charged with the gathering of intelligence in the Southern Department. Not that I am in command of such operations, you understand”—the captain smiled modestly—“but a small part of them.”

“I … appreciate the great value of such operations, sir,” William said, groping for diplomacy, “but I—for myself, that is to say—”

“You have no interest in spying. No, of course not.” It was dark on the porch, but the dryness of the captain’s tone was evident. “Few men who regard themselves as soldiers do.”

“I meant no offense, sir.”

“None taken. I am not, however, recruiting you as a spy—that is a delicate occupation, and one involving some danger—but rather as a messenger. Though should you find opportunity to act the intelligencer along your way … well, that would be an additional contribution, and much appreciated.”

William felt the blood rise in his face at the implication that he was capable neither of delicacy nor danger, but kept his temper, saying only, “Oh?”

The captain, it seemed, had gathered significant information regarding local conditions in the Carolinas, and now required to send this to the commander of the Northern Department—General Howe, presently in Halifax.

“I will of course be sending more than one messenger,” Richardson said. “It is naturally somewhat quicker by ship—but I desire to have at least one messenger travel overland, both for safety’s sake and for the sake of making observations en route. Your father speaks very highly of your abilities, Lieutenant”—did he detect a hint of amusement in that dry-as-sawdust voice?—“and I collect that you have traveled extensively in North Carolina and Virginia. That is a valuable attribute. You will appreciate that I do not wish my messenger to disappear into the Dismal Swamp, never to be seen again.”

“Ha-ha,” said William, politely, perceiving this to be meant as a jest. Clearly, Captain Richardson had never been near the Great Dismal; William had, though he didn’t think anyone in his right mind would go that way a-purpose, save to hunt.

He also had severe doubts regarding Richardson’s suggestion—though even as he told himself that he shouldn’t consider leaving his men, his regiment … he was already seeing a romantic vision of himself, alone in the vast wilderness, bearing important news through storm and danger.

More of a consideration, though, was what he might expect at the other end of the journey.

Richardson anticipated his question, answering before he could speak.

“Once in the north, you would—it being agreeable—join General Howe’s staff.”

Well, now, he thought. Here was the apple, and a juicy red one, too. He was aware that Richardson meant “it being agreeable” to General Howe, rather than to William—but he had some confidence in his own capabilities, and rather thought he might prove himself useful.

He had been in North Carolina only a few days, but that was quite long enough for him to have made an accurate assessment of the relative chances for advancement between the Northern Department and the Southern. The entire Continental army was with Washington in the north; the southern rebellion appeared to consist of troublesome pockets of backwoodsmen and impromptu militia—hardly a threat. And as for the relative status of Sir Peter and General Howe as commanders …

“I would like to think on your offer, if I might, Captain,” he said, hoping eagerness didn’t show in his voice. “May I give my answer tomorrow?”

“Certainly. I imagine you will wish to discuss the prospects with your father—you may do so.”

The captain then deliberately changed the subject, and within a few moments, Lord John and Mr. Bell had joined them, the conversation becoming general.

William paid little heed to what was said, his own attention distracted by the sight of two slender white figures that hovered ghostlike among the bushes at the outer edge of the yard. Two capped white heads drew together, then apart. Now and then, one turned briefly toward the porch in what looked like speculation.

“ ‘And for his vesture, they cast lots,’ ” his father murmured, shaking his head.

“Eh?”

“Never mind.” His father smiled, and turned toward Captain Richardson, who had just said something about the weather.

Fireflies lit the yard, drifting like green sparks among the damp, lush growth of plants. It was good to see fireflies again; he had missed them, in England—and that peculiar softness of the southern air that molded his linen to his body and made the blood throb in his fingertips. Crickets were chirping all around them, and for an instant, their song seemed to drown out everything save the sound of his pulse.

“Coffee’s ready, gen’mun.” The soft voice of the Bells’ slave cut through the small ferment of his blood, though, and he went in with the other men, with no more than a glance toward the yard. The white figures had disappeared, but a sense of promise lingered in the soft, warm air.

An hour later, he found himself walking back toward his billet, thoughts in a pleasant muddle, his father strolling silent by his side.

Miss Lillian Bell had granted him a kiss among the fireflies at the end of the evening, chaste and fleeting, but upon the lips, and the thick summer air seemed to taste of coffee and ripe strawberries, despite the pervasive dank smell of the harbor.

“Captain Richardson told me of the proposal he made to you,” Lord John said casually. “Are you inclined?”

“Don’t know,” William replied, with equal casualness. “I should miss my men, of course, but …” Mrs. Bell had pressed him to come to tea, later in the week.

“Little permanence in a military life,” his father said, with a brief shake of the head. “I did warn you.”

William gave a brief grunt of assent, not really listening.

“A good opportunity for advancement,” his father was saying, adding offhandedly, “though of course there is some danger to the proposition.”

“What?” William scoffed, hearing this. “Riding from Wilmington to take ship at New York? There’s a road, nearly all the way!”

“And quite a number of Continentals on it,” Lord John pointed out. “General Washington’s entire army lies this side of Philadelphia, if the news I hear be correct.”

William shrugged.

“Richardson said he wanted me because I knew the country. I can make my way well enough without roads.”

“Are you sure? You have not been in Virginia for nearly four years.”

The dubious tone of this annoyed William.

“Do you think me incapable of finding my way?”

“No, not at all,” his father said, still with that note of doubt in his voice. “But there is no little risk to this proposition; I should not like to see you undertake it without due thought.”

“Well, I have thought,” said William, stung. “I’ll do it.”

Lord John walked in silence for a few steps, then nodded, reluctantly.

“It’s your decision, Willie,” he said softly. “I should be personally obliged if you would take care, though.”

William’s annoyance melted at once.

“Course I will,” he said gruffly. They walked on beneath the dark canopy of maple and hickory, not talking, close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then.

At the inn, William bade Lord John good night, but didn’t return at once to his own lodgings. Instead, he wandered out along the quay, restless, unready for sleep.

The tide had turned and was well out, he saw; the smell of dead fish and decaying seaweed was stronger, though a smooth sheet of water still covered the mudflats, quiet in the light of a quarter-moon.

It took a moment to locate the stake. For an instant, he thought it had gone, but no—there it was, a thin dark line against the glimmer of the water. Empty.

The stake no longer stood upright, but leaned sharply, as though about to fall, and a thin loop of rope trailed from it, floating like a hangman’s noose on the waning tide. William was conscious of some visceral uneasiness; the tide alone would not have taken the whole body. Some said there were crocodiles or alligators here, though he had not yet seen one himself. He glanced down involuntarily, as though one of these reptiles might suddenly lunge from the water at his feet. The air was still warm, but a small shiver went through him.

He shook this off, and turned away toward his lodgings. There would be a day or two before he must go, he thought, and wondered whether he might see the blue-eyed Mrs. MacKenzie again before he left.

LORD JOHN LINGERED for a moment on the porch of the inn, watching his son vanish into the shadows under the trees. He had some qualms; the matter had been arranged with more haste than he would have liked—but he did have confidence in William’s abilities. And while the arrangement clearly had its risks, that was the nature of a soldier’s life. Some situations were riskier than others, though.

He hesitated, hearing the buzz of talk from the taproom inside, but he had had enough of company for the night, and the thought of tossing to and fro under the low ceiling of his room, stifling in the day’s trapped heat, determined him to walk about until bodily exhaustion should ensure sleep.

It wasn’t just the heat, he reflected, stepping off the porch and setting off in the opposite direction to the one Willie had taken. He knew himself well enough to realize that even the apparent success of his plan would not prevent his lying awake, worrying at it like a dog with a bone, testing for weaknesses, seeking for ways of improvement. After all, William would not depart immediately; there was a little time to consider, to make alterations, should that be necessary.

The Howe brothers—one a general, one an admiral—were famously uncouth, both having the manners, aspect, and general aroma of boars in rut. Neither of them was stupid, though—God knew they weren’t timid—and Grey thought Willie fully capable of surviving rough manners and harsh words. And a commander given to spitting on the floor—Richard Howe had once spat on Grey himself, though this was largely accidental, the wind having changed unexpectedly—was possibly easier for a young subaltern to deal with than the quirks of some other military gentlemen of Grey’s acquaintance.

Though even the most peculiar of the brotherhood of the blade was preferable to the diplomats. He wondered idly what the term of venery might be for a collection of diplomats. If writers formed the brotherhood of the quill, and a group of foxes be termed a skulk … a stab of diplomats, perhaps? Brothers of the stiletto? No, he decided. Much too direct. An opiate of diplomats, more like. Brotherhood of the boring. Though the ones who were not boring could be dangerous, on occasion.

Sir George Germain was one of the rarer sorts: boring and dangerous.

He walked up and down the streets of the town for some time, in hopes of exhausting himself before going back to his small, stuffy room. The sky was low and sullen, with heat lightning flickering among the clouds, and the atmosphere was damp as a bath sponge. He should have been in Albany by now—no less humid and bug-ridden, but somewhat cooler, and near the sweet dark forests of the Adirondacks.

Still, he didn’t regret his hasty journey to Wilmington. Willie was sorted; that was the important thing. And Willie’s sister, Brianna—he stopped dead for a moment, eyes closed, reliving the moment of transcendence and heartbreak he had experienced that afternoon, seeing the two of them together for what would be their only meeting, ever. He’d scarcely been able to breathe, his eyes fixed on the two tall figures, those handsome, bold faces, so alike—and both so like the man who had stood beside him, unmoving, but by contrast with Grey, taking in great tearing gulps of air, as though he feared he might never breathe again.

Though even the most peculiar of the brotherhood of the blade was preferable to the diplomats. He wondered idly what the term of venery might be for a collection of diplomats. If writers formed the brotherhood of the quill, and a group of foxes be termed a skulk … a stab of diplomats, perhaps? Brothers of the stiletto? No, he decided. Much too direct. An opiate of diplomats, more like. Brotherhood of the boring. Though the ones who were not boring could be dangerous, on occasion.

Sir George Germain was one of the rarer sorts: boring and dangerous.

He walked up and down the streets of the town for some time, in hopes of exhausting himself before going back to his small, stuffy room. The sky was low and sullen, with heat lightning flickering among the clouds, and the atmosphere was damp as a bath sponge. He should have been in Albany by now—no less humid and bug-ridden, but somewhat cooler, and near the sweet dark forests of the Adirondacks.

Still, he didn’t regret his hasty journey to Wilmington. Willie was sorted; that was the important thing. And Willie’s sister, Brianna—he stopped dead for a moment, eyes closed, reliving the moment of transcendence and heartbreak he had experienced that afternoon, seeing the two of them together for what would be their only meeting, ever. He’d scarcely been able to breathe, his eyes fixed on the two tall figures, those handsome, bold faces, so alike—and both so like the man who had stood beside him, unmoving, but by contrast with Grey, taking in great tearing gulps of air, as though he feared he might never breathe again.

He’d seen men die in great numbers, usually unwillingly, occasionally with resignation. He’d never seen one go with such passionate gratitude in his eyes. Grey had no more than a passing acquaintance with Roger MacKenzie, but suspected him to be a remarkable man, having not only survived marriage to that fabulous and dangerous creature but actually having sired children upon her.

He shook his head and turned, heading back toward the inn. He could safely wait another two weeks, he thought, before replying to Germain’s letter—which he had deftly magicked out of the diplomatic pouch when he’d seen William’s name upon it—at which time he could truthfully say that, alas, by the time the letter had been received, Lord Ellesmere was somewhere in the wilderness between North Carolina and New York, and thus could not be informed that he was recalled to England, though he (Grey) was positive that Ellesmere would greatly regret the loss of his opportunity to join Sir George’s staff, when he learned of it—several months hence. Too bad.

He began to whistle “Lillibulero,” and strode back to the inn in good spirits.

He paused in the taproom, and asked for a bottle of wine to be sent up—only to be informed by the barmaid that “the gentleman” had already taken a bottle upstairs with him.

“And two glasses,” she added, dimpling at him. “So I don’t s’pose he meant to drink it all himself.”

Grey felt something like a centipede skitter up his spine.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Did you say that there is a gentleman in my room?”

“Yes, sir,” she assured him. “He said as he’s an old friend of yours…. Now, he did tell me his name …” Her brow furrowed for an instant, then cleared. “Bow-shaw, he said, or summat of the kind. Frenchy kind of name,” she clarified. “And a Frenchy kind of gentleman, too. Will you be wanting food at all, sir?”

“No, I thank you.” He waved her off, and went up the stairs, thinking rapidly whether he had left anything in his room that he shouldn’t have.

A Frenchman, named Bow-shaw … Beauchamp. The name flashed in his mind like the flicker of heat lightning. He stopped dead for an instant in the middle of the staircase, then resumed his climb, more slowly.

Surely not … but who else might it be? When he had ceased active service, some years before, he had begun diplomatic life as a member of England’s Black Chamber, that shadowy organization of persons charged with the interception and decoding of official diplomatic mail—and much less official messages—that flowed between the governments of Europe. Every one of those governments possessed its own Black Chamber, and it was not unusual for the inhabitants of one such chamber to be aware of their opposite numbers—never met, but known by their signatures, their initials, their unsigned marginal notes.

Beauchamp had been one of the most active French agents; Grey had run across his trail several times in the intervening years, even though his own days in the Black Chamber were well behind him. If he knew Beauchamp by name, it was entirely reasonable that the man knew him as well—but their invisible association had been years ago. They had never met in person, and for such a meeting to occur here … He touched the secret pocket in his coat, and was reassured by the muffled crackle of paper.

He hesitated at the top of the stair, but there was no point in furtiveness; clearly, he was expected. With a firm step, he walked down the hall and turned the white china knob of his door, the porcelain smooth and cool beneath his fingers.

A wave of heat engulfed him and he gasped for air, involuntarily. Just as well, as it prevented his uttering the blasphemy that had sprung to his lips.

The gentleman occupying the room’s only chair was indeed “Frenchy”—his very well-cut suit set off by cascades of snowy lace at throat and cuff, his shoes buckled with a silver that matched the hair at his temples.

“Mr. Beauchamp,” Grey said, and slowly closed the door behind him. His damp linen clung to him, and he could feel his pulse thumping in his own temples. “I fear you take me at something of a disadvantage.”

Perseverance Wainwright smiled, very slightly.

“I’m glad to see you, John,” he said.

GREY BIT HIS TONGUE to forestall anything injudicious—which description covered just about anything he might say, he thought, with the exception of “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” he said. He lifted an eyebrow in question. “Monsieur Beauchamp?”

“Oh, yes.” Percy got his feet under him, making to rise, but Grey waved him back and turned to fetch a stool, hoping the seconds gained by the movement would allow him to regain his composure. Finding that they didn’t, he took another moment to open the window, and stood for a couple of lungfuls of the thick, dank air, before turning back and taking his own seat.

“How did that happen?” he asked, affecting casualness. “Beauchamp, I mean. Or is it merely a nom de guerre?”

“Oh, no.” Percy took up his lace-trimmed handkerchief and dabbed sweat delicately from his hairline—which was beginning to recede, Grey noted. “I married one of the sisters of the Baron Amandine. The family name is Beauchamp; I adopted it. The relationship provided a certain entrée to political circles, from which …” He shrugged charmingly and made a graceful gesture that encompassed his career in the Black Chamber—and doubtless elsewhere, Grey thought grimly.

“My congratulations on your marriage,” Grey said, not bothering to keep the irony out of his voice. “Which one are you sleeping with, the baron or his sister?”

Percy looked amused.

“Both, on occasion.”

“Together?”

The smile widened. His teeth were still good, Grey saw, though somewhat stained by wine.

“Occasionally. Though Cecile—my wife—really prefers the attentions of her cousin Lucianne, and I myself prefer the attentions of the sub-gardener. Lovely man named Emile; he reminds me of you … in your younger years. Slender, blond, muscular, and brutal.”

To his dismay, Grey found that he wanted to laugh.

“It sounds extremely French,” he said dryly, instead. “I’m sure it suits you. What do you want?”

“More a matter of what you want, I think.” Percy had not yet drunk any of the wine; he took up the bottle and poured carefully, red liquid purling dark against the glasses. “Or perhaps I should say—what England wants.” He held out a glass to Grey, smiling. “For one can hardly separate your interests from those of your country, can one? In fact, I confess that you have always seemed to me to be England, John.”

Grey wished to forbid him the use of his Christian name, but to do so would merely emphasize the memory of their intimacy—which was, of course, what Percy intended. He chose to ignore it, and took a sip of his wine, which was good. He wondered whether he was paying for it—and if so, how.

“What England wants,” he repeated, skeptical. “And what is your impression of what England wants?”

Percy took a swallow of the wine and held it in his mouth, evidently savoring it, before finally swallowing.

“Hardly a secret, my dear, is it?”

Grey sighed, and stared pointedly at him.

“You’ve seen this ‘Declaration of Independency’ issued by the so-called Continental Congress?” Percy asked. He turned and, reaching into a leather bag he had slung over the back of the chair, withdrew a folded sheaf of papers, which he handed to Grey.

Grey had not in fact seen the document in question, though he’d certainly heard about it. It had been printed only two weeks previous, in Philadelphia, yet copies had spread like wind-borne weeds through the Colonies. Raising a brow at Percy, he unfolded the paper and skimmed it rapidly.

“The King is a tyrant?” he said, half-laughing at the outrageousness of some of the document’s more extreme sentiments. He folded the sheets back together and tossed them on the table.

“And if I am England, I suppose you are the embodiment of France, for the purposes of this conversation?”

“I represent certain interests there,” Percy replied blandly. “And in Canada.”

That rang small alarm bells. Grey had fought in Canada with Wolfe, and was well aware that while the French had lost much of their North American holdings in that war, they remained ferociously entrenched in the northern regions, from the Ohio Valley to Quebec. Close enough to cause trouble now? He thought not—but wouldn’t put anything past the French. Or Percy.

“England wants a quick end to this nonsense, plainly.” A long, knob-jointed hand waved toward the paper. “The Continental army—so-called—is a flimsy association of men with no experience and conflicting notions. What if I were prepared to provide you with information that might be used to … separate one of Washington’s chief officers from his allegiance?”

“What if you were?” Grey replied, making no effort to conceal the skepticism in his voice. “How would this benefit France—or your own interests, which I take leave to think are possibly not entirely identical?”

“I see that time has not softened your natural cynicism, John. One of your less attractive traits—I don’t know whether I ever mentioned that to you.”

Grey widened his stare slightly, and Percy sighed.

“Land, then,” he said. “The Northwest Territory. We want it back.”

Grey uttered a short laugh.

“I daresay you do.” The territory in question, a large tract northwest of the Ohio River Valley, had been ceded to Great Britain from France at the end of the French and Indian War. Britain had not occupied the territory, though, and had prevented the colonists’ expansion into it, owing to armed resistance from the natives and the ongoing negotiation of treaties with them. The colonists weren’t pleased about it, he understood. Grey had encountered some of said natives himself, and was inclined to think the British government’s position both reasonable and honorable.

“French traders had extensive ties with the aboriginals in that area; you have none.”

“The fur-trading merchants being some of the … interests … you represent?”

Percy smiled openly at that.

“Not the major interests. But some.”

Grey didn’t bother asking why Percy was approaching him—an ostensibly retired diplomat of no particular influence—in the matter. Percy knew the power of Grey’s family and connections from the days of their personal association—and “Monsieur Beauchamp” knew a great deal more about his present personal connections from the nexus of information that fed the Black Chambers of Europe. Grey could not act in the matter, of course. But he was well placed to bring the offer quietly to the attention of those who could.

He felt as though every hair on his body was standing on end like an insect’s antennae, alert for danger.

“We would require something more than the suggestion, of course,” he said, very cool. “The name of the officer in question, for example.”

“Not mine to share, at the moment. But once a negotiation in good faith is opened …”

Grey was already wondering to whom he should take this offer. Not Sir George Germain. Lord North’s office? That could wait, though.

“And your personal interests?” he asked, with an edge. He knew Percy Wainwright well enough to know that there would be some aspect of the affair to Percy’s personal benefit.

“Ah, that.” Percy sipped at his wine, then lowered the glass and gazed limpidly at Grey across it. “Very simple, really. I am commissioned to find a man. Do you know a Scottish gentleman named James Fraser?”

Grey felt the stem of his glass crack. He went on holding it, though, and sipped the wine carefully, thanking God, firstly, that he had never told Percy Jamie Fraser’s name and, secondly, that Fraser had left Wilmington that afternoon.

“No,” he said calmly. “What do you want with this Mr. Fraser?”

Percy shrugged, and smiled.

“Only a question or two.”

Grey could feel blood seeping from his lacerated palm. Holding the cracked glass carefully together, he drank the rest of his wine. Percy was quiet, drinking with him.

“My condolences upon the loss of your wife,” Percy said quietly. “I know that she—”

“You know nothing,” Grey said roughly. He leaned over and set the broken glass on the table; the bowl rolled crazily, the lees of wine washing the glass. “Not one thing. About my wife, or about me.”

Percy lifted his shoulders in the faintest of Gallic shrugs. As you like, it said. And yet his eyes—they were still beautiful, damn him, dark and soft—rested on Grey with what seemed a genuine sympathy.

Grey sighed. Doubtless it was genuine. Percy could not be trusted—not ever—but what he’d done had been done from weakness, not from malice, or even lack of feeling.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

“Your son—” Percy began, and Grey turned suddenly on him. He gripped Percy’s shoulder, hard enough that the man gave a little gasp and stiffened. Grey leaned down, looking into Wainwright’s—sorry, Beauchamp’s—face, so close that he felt the warmth of the man’s breath on his cheek and smelled his cologne. He was getting blood on Wainwright’s coat.

“The last time I saw you,” Grey said, very quietly, “I came within an inch of putting a bullet through your head. Don’t give me cause to regret my restraint.”

He let go and stood up.

“Stay away from my son—stay away from me. And if you will take a well-meant bit of advice—go back to France. Quickly.”

Turning on his heel, he went out, shutting the door firmly behind him. He was halfway down the street before he realized that he had left Percy in his own room.

“The devil with it,” he muttered, and stamped off to beg a billet for the night from Sergeant Cutter. In the morning, he would make sure that the Fraser family and William were all safely out of Wilmington.