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.