Lord John and the Private Matter by Diana Gabaldon Read Free Book Online

at the chamber pot.
    He had called on Trevelyan earlier in the day, with an invitation to supper and various libidinous “amusements” to bid a proper farewell to Trevelyan’s bachelorhood. Trevelyan had agreed with thanks to a cordial supper, but claimed to have promised his mother upon her deathbed to have nothing to do with prostitutes.
    Quarry’s shaggy brows shot up.
    “What sort of mother talks about whores on her deathbed? Your mother wouldn’t do that, would she?”
    “I have no idea,” Grey said. “The situation has fortunately not arisen. But I suppose,” he said, attempting to divert the conversation, “that surely there are men who do not seek such recreation. . . .”
    Quarry gave him a look of jaundiced doubt. “Damn few,” he said. “And Trevelyan ain’t one of ’em.”
    “You seem sure of it,” Grey said, slightly piqued.
    “I am.” Quarry settled back, looking pleased with himself. “Asked around a bit—no, no, I was quite discreet, no need to fret. Trevelyan goes to a house in Meacham Street. Good taste; been there meself.”
    “Oh?” Grey set aside his empty pie pan, and raised a brow in interest. “Why would he not wish to go with me, I wonder?”
    “Maybe afraid you’ll blab to Olivia, disillusion the girl.” Quarry lifted a massive shoulder in dismissal of Trevelyan’s possible motives. “Be that as it may—why not go round and speak to the whores there? Chap I talked to says he’s seen Trevelyan there at least twice a month—good chance whichever girl he took last can tell you if he’s poxed or not.”
    “Yes, perhaps,” Grey said slowly. Quarry took this for immediate agreement, and tossed back the remains of his final pint, belching slightly as he set it down.
    “Splendid. We’ll go round day after tomorrow, then.”
    “Day after tomorrow?”
    “Got to go to dinner at my brother’s house tomorrow—my sister-in-law is having Lord Worplesdon.”
    “Steamed, boiled, or baked en croûte ?”
    Quarry guffawed, his already ruddy face achieving a deeper hue under the stress of amusement.
    “Oh, a good one, Johnny! I’ll tell Amanda—come to think, shall I have her invite you? She’s fond of you, you know.”
    “No, no,” Grey said hastily. He was in turn fond of Quarry’s sister-in-law, Lady Joffrey, but was only too well aware that she regarded him not merely as a friend, but also as prey—a potential husband for one of her myriad sisters and cousins. “I am engaged tomorrow. But this brothel you’ve discovered—”
    “Well, no time like the present, I agree,” Harry said, pushing back his bench. “But you’ll need your rest tonight, if you’re going to look at bodies in the morning. Besides,” he added, swirling his cloak over his shoulders, “I’m never at me best in bed after eel pie. Makes me fart.”

Chapter 4
    A Valet Calls
    Next morning, Grey sat in his bedchamber, unshaven and attired in his nightshirt, banyan, and slippers, drinking tea and debating with himself whether the authoritative benefits conferred by wearing his uniform outweighed the possible consequences—both sartorial and social—of wearing it into the slums of London to inspect a three-day-old corpse. He was disturbed in this meditation by his new orderly, Private Adams, who opened the bedroom door and entered without ceremony.
    “A person, my lord,” Adams reported, and stood smartly to attention.
    Never at his best early in the day, Grey took a moody swallow of tea and nodded in acknowledgment of this announcement. Adams, new both to Grey and to the job of personal orderly, took this for permission and stood aside, gesturing the person in question into the room.
    “Who are you?” Grey gazed in blank astonishment at the young man who stood thus revealed.
    “Tom Byrd, me lord,” the young man said, and bowed respectfully, hat in hand. Short and stocky, with a head round as a cannonball, he was young enough still to sport freckles across fair, rounded cheeks and over