Read The Scottish Prisoner for Free Online Page B

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 Ersepoem, 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 hit a pothole and lurched, flinging them heavily to the side. Hal saved himself by thrusting a foot hard into the opposite seat, between his brother’s legs. John, with equally good reflexes, grabbed the foot.
    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