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knowledge. Grey gave Cherry an eye. Both Fettes and Cherry brightened perceptibly.
    For the moment, though, his own path lay clear. He needed to make a public appearance, as soon as possible, and to take such action as would make it apparent to the public that the situation was under control—and would make it apparent to the maroons that attention was being paid and that their destructive activities would no longer be allowed to pass unchallenged.
    He summoned one of his other captains after breakfast and arranged for an escort. Twelve men should make enough of a show, he decided.
    ‘And where will you be going, sir?’ Captain Lossey asked, squinting as he made mental calculations regarding horses, pack mules, and supplies.
    Grey took a deep breath and grasped the nettle.
    ‘A plantation called Twelvetrees,’ he said. ‘Twenty miles or so into the uplands above Kingston.’
    * * *
    Philip Twelvetrees was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and good-looking in a sturdy sort of way. He didn’t stir Grey personally, but nonetheless Grey felt a tightness through his body as he shook hands with the man, studying his face carefully for any sign that Twelvetrees recognised his name or attributed any importance to his presence beyond the present political situation.
    Not a flicker of unease or suspicion crossed Twelvetrees’s face, and Grey relaxed a little, accepting the offer of a cooling drink. This turned out to be a mixture of fruit juices and wine, tart but refreshing.
    ‘It’s called
sangria
,’ Twelvetrees remarked, holding up his glass so the soft light fell glowing through it. ‘Blood, it means. In Spanish.’
    Grey did not speak much Spanish but did know that. However, blood seemed as good a
point d’appui
as any, concerning his business.
    ‘So you think we might be next?’ Twelvetrees paled noticeably beneath his tan. He hastily swallowed a gulp of sangria and straightened his shoulders, though. ‘No, no. I’m surewe’ll be all right. Our slaves are loyal, I’d swear to that.’
    ‘How many have you? And do you trust them with arms?’
    ‘One hundred and sixteen,’ Twelvetrees replied automatically. Plainly he was contemplating the expense and danger of arming some fifty men—for at least half his slaves must be women or children—and setting them essentially at liberty upon his property. Not to mention the vision of an unknown number of maroons, also armed, coming suddenly out of the night with torches. He drank a little more sangria. ‘Perhaps … what did you have in mind?’ he asked abruptly, setting down his glass.
    Grey had just finished laying out his suggested plans, which called for the posting of two companies of infantry at the plantation, when a flutter of muslin at the door made him lift his eyes.
    ‘Oh, Nan!’ Philip put a hand over the papers Grey had spread out on the table and shot Grey a quick warning look. ‘Here’s Colonel Grey come to call. Colonel, my sister, Nancy.’
    ‘Miss Twelvetrees.’ Grey had risen at once and now took two or three steps towards her, bowing over her hand. Behind him, he heard the rustle as Twelvetrees hastily shuffled maps and diagrams together.
    Nancy Twelvetrees shared her brother’s genial sturdiness. Not pretty in the least, she had intelligent dark eyes—and these sharpened noticeably at her brother’s introduction.
    ‘Colonel Grey,’ she said, waving him gracefully back to his seat as she took her own. ‘Would you be connected with the Greys of Ilford, in Sussex? Or perhaps your family are from the London branch …?’
    ‘My brother has an estate in Sussex, yes,’ he said hastily. Forbearing to add that it was his half-brother Paul, who was not in fact a Grey, having been born of his mother’s first marriage. Forbearing also to mention that his elder full brother was the Duke of Pardloe, and the man who had shot one Nathaniel Twelvetrees twenty years before. Which would logically expose the fact that Grey himself …
    Philip