“Seduction?” he said, lips quirked in amusement. “I offered ye marriage.”
“You offered to rape me, as I recall,” I snapped. He had, in fact, offered to marry me—by force—after declining to help me in rescuing Jamie from Wentworth Prison the winter before. While his principal motive had been the possession of Jamie’s estate of Lallybroch—which would belong to me upon Jamie’s death—he hadn’t been at all averse to the thought of the minor emoluments of marriage, such as the regular enjoyment of my body.
“As for leaving Jamie in the prison,” he went on, ignoring me as usual, “there seemed no way to get him out, and no sense in risking good men in a vain attempt. He’d be the first to understand that. And it was my duty as his kinsman to offer his wife my protection, if he died. I was the lad’s foster father, no?” He tilted back his head and drained his glass.
I took a good gulp of my own, and swallowed quickly so as not to choke. The spirit burned down my throat and gullet, matching the heat that was rising in my cheeks. He was right; Jamie hadn’t blamed him for his reluctance to break into Wentworth Prison—he hadn’t expected me to do it, either, and it was only by a miracle that I had succeeded. But while I had told Jamie, briefly, of Dougal’s intention of marrying me, I hadn’t tried to convey the carnal aspects of that intention. I had, after all, never expected to see Dougal MacKenzie again.
I knew from past experience that he was a seizer of opportunities; with Jamie about to be hanged, he had not even waited for execution of the sentence before trying to secure me and my about-to-be-inherited property. If—no, I corrected myself, when—Colum died or became incompetent, Dougal would be in full command of clan MacKenzie within a week. And if Charles Stuart found the backing he was seeking, Dougal would be there. He had some experience in being a power behind the throne, after all.
I tipped up the glass, considering. Colum had business interests in France; wine and timber, mostly. These undoubtedly were the pretext for Dougal’s visit to Paris, might even be his major ostensible reason. But he had other reasons, I was sure. And the presence in the city of Prince Charles Edward Stuart was almost certainly one of them.
One thing to be said for Dougal MacKenzie was that an encounter with him stimulated the mental processes, out of the sheer necessity of trying to figure out what he was actually up to at any given moment. Under the inspiration of his presence and a good slug of Portuguese brandy, my subconscious was stirring with the birth of an idea.
“Well, be that as it may, I’m glad you’re here now,” I said, replacing my empty glass on the tray.
“You are?” The thick dark brows rose incredulously.
“Yes.” I rose and gestured toward the hall. “Fetch my cloak while I do up my laces. I need you to come to the commissariat de police with me.”
Seeing his jaw drop, I felt the first tiny upsurge of hope. If I had managed to take Dougal MacKenzie by surprise, surely I could stop a duel?
* * *
“D’ye want to tell me what you think you’re doing?” Dougal inquired, as the coach bumped around the Cirque du Mireille, narrowly avoiding an oncoming barouche and a cart full of vegetable marrows.
“No,” I said briefly, “but I suppose I’ll have to. Did you know that Jack Randall is still alive?”
“I’d not heard he was dead,” Dougal said reasonably.
That took me up short for a moment. But of course he was right; we had thought Randall dead only because Sir Marcus MacRannoch had mistaken the trampled body of Randall’s orderly for the officer himself, during Jamie’s rescue from Wentworth Prison. Naturally no news of Randall’s death would have gone round the Highlands, since it hadn’t occurred. I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.
“He isn’t dead,” I said. “But he is in Paris.”
“In Paris?” That got his attention; his brows went up, and then his eyes widened with the next thought.
“Where’s Jamie?” he asked sharply.
I was glad to see he appreciated the main point. While he didn’t know what had passed between Jamie and Randall in Wentworth Prison—no one was ever going to know that, save Jamie, Randall, and, to some extent, me—he knew more than enough about Randall’s previous actions to realize exactly what Jamie’s first impulse would be on meeting the man here, away from the sanctuary of England.
“I don’t know,” I said, looking out the window. We were passing Les Halles, and the smell of fish was ripe in my nostrils. I pulled out a scented handkerchief and covered my nose and mouth. The strong, sharp tang of the wintergreen with which I scented it was no match for the reek of a dozen eel-sellers’ stalls, but it helped a bit. I spoke through the spicy linen folds.
“We met Randall unexpectedly at the Duke of Sandringham’s today. Jamie sent me home in the coach, and I haven’t seen him since.”
Dougal ignored both the stench and the raucous cries of fishwives calling their wares. He frowned at me.
“He’ll mean to kill the man, surely?”
I shook my head, and explained my reasoning about the sword.
“I can’t let a duel happen,” I said, dropping the handkerchief in order to speak more clearly. “I won’t!”
Dougal nodded abstractedly.
“Aye, that would be dangerous. Not that the lad couldna take Randall with ease—I taught him, ye ken,” he added with some boastfulness, “but the sentence for dueling…”
“Got it in one,” I said.
“All right,” he said slowly. “But why the police? You dinna mean to have the lad locked up beforehand, do ye? Your own husband?”
“Not Jamie,” I said. “Randall.”
A broad grin broke out on his face, not unmixed with skepticism.
“Oh, aye? And how d’ye mean to work that one?”
“A friend and I were…attacked on the street a few nights ago,” I said, swallowing at the memory. “The men were masked; I couldn’t tell who they were. But one of them was about the same height and build as Jonathan Randall. I mean to say that I met Randall at a house today and recognized him as one of the men who attacked us.”
Dougal’s brows shot up and then drew together. His cool gaze flickered over me. Suddenly there was a new speculation in his appraisal.
“Christ, you’ve the devil’s own nerve. Robbery, was it?” he asked softly. Against my will, I could feel the rage rising in my cheeks.
“No,” I said, clipping the word between my teeth.
“Ah.” He sat back against the coach’s squabs, still looking at me. “Ye’ll have taken no harm, though?” I glanced aside, at the passing street, but could feel his eyes, prying at the neck of my gown, sliding over the curve of my hips.
“Not me,” I said. “But my friend…”
“I see.” He was quiet for a moment, then said meditatively, “Ever heard of ‘Les Disciples,’ have you?”
I jerked my head back around to him. He lounged in the corner like a crouching cat, watching me through eyes narrowed against the sun.
“No. What are they?” I demanded.
He shrugged and sat upright, peering past me at the approaching bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres, hovering gray and dreary above the glitter of the Seine.
“A society—of a sort. Young men of family, with an interest in things…unwholesome, shall we say?”
“Let’s,” I said. “And just what do you know about Les Disciples?”
“Only what I heard in a tavern in the Cité,” he said. “That the society demands a good deal from its members, and the price of initiation is high…by some standards.”
“That being?” I dared him with my eyes. He smiled rather grimly before replying.
“A maidenhead, for one thing. The nipples of a married woman, for another.” He shot a quick glance at my bosom. “Your friend’s a virgin, is she? Or was?”
I felt hot and cold by turns. I wiped my face with the handkerchief and tucked it into the pocket of my cloak. I had to try twice, for my hand trembled.
“She was. What else have
you heard? Do you know who’s involved with Les Disciples?”
Dougal shook his head. There were threads of silver in the russet hair over his temples, that caught the light of the afternoon.
“Only rumors. The Vicomte de Busca, the youngest of the Charmisse sons—perhaps. The Comte St. Germain. Eh! Are ye all right, lass?”
He leaned forward in some consternation, peering at me.
“Fine,” I said, breathing deeply through my nose. “Bloody fine.” I pulled out the handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat off my brow.
“We mean you no harm, mesdames.” The ironic voice echoed in the dark of my memory. The green-shirted man was medium-height and dark, slim and narrow-shouldered. If that description fit Jonathan Randall, it also fit the Comte St. Germain. Would I have recognized his voice, though? Could any normal man conceivably have sat across from me at dinner, eating salmon mousse and making genteel conversation, barely two hours after the incident in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?
Considered logically, though, why not? I had, after all. And I had no particular reason for supposing the Comte to be a normal man—by my standards—if rumor were true.
The coach was drawing to a halt, and there was little time for contemplation. Was I about to ensure that the man responsible for Mary’s violation went free, while I also ensured the safety of Jamie’s most loathed enemy? I took a deep, quivering breath. Damn little choice about it, I thought. Life was paramount; justice would just have to wait its turn.
The coachman had alighted and was reaching for the door handle. I bit my lip and glanced at Dougal MacKenzie. He met my gaze with a slight shrug. What did I want of him?
“Will you back my story?” I asked abruptly.
He looked up at the towering bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres. Brilliant afternoon light blazed through the open door.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” My mouth was dry.
He slid across the seat and extended a hand to me.
“Pray God we dinna both end in a cell, then,” he said.
* * *
An hour later, we stepped into the empty street outside the commissariat de police. I had sent the coach home, lest anyone who knew us should see it standing outside the Quai des Orfèvres. Dougal offered me an arm, and I took it perforce. The ground here was muddy underfoot, and the cobbles in the street made uncertain going in high-heeled slippers.
“Les Disciples,” I said as we made our way slowly along the banks of the Seine toward the towers of Notre Dame. “Do you really think the Comte St. Germain might have been one of the men who…who stopped us in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?” I was beginning to tremble with reaction and fatigue—and with hunger; I had had nothing since breakfast, and the lack was making itself felt. Sheer nerve had kept me going through the interview with the police. Now the need to think was passing, and with it, the ability to do so.
Dougal’s arm was hard under my hand, but I couldn’t look up at him; I needed all my attention to keep my footing. We had turned into the Rue Elise and the cobbles were shiny with damp and smeared with various kinds of filth. A porter lugging a crate paused in our path to clear his throat and hawk noisily into the street at my feet. The greenish glob clung to the curve of a stone, finally slipping off to float sluggishly onto the surface of a small mud puddle that lay in the hollow of a missing cobble.
“Mphm.” Dougal was looking up and down the street for a carriage, brow creased in thought. “I canna say; I’ve heard worse than that of the man, but I havena had the honor of meeting him.” He glanced down at me.
“You’ve managed brawly so far,” he said. “They’ll have Jack Randall in the Bastille within the hour. But they’ll have to let the man go sooner or later, and I wouldna wager much on the chances of Jamie’s temper cooling in the meantime. D’ye want me to speak to him—convince him to do nothing foolish?”
“No! For God’s sake, stay out of it!” The thunder of carriage wheels was loud on the cobbles, but my voice was rose high enough to make Dougal brows lift in surprise.
“All right, then,” he said, mildly. “I’ll leave it to you to manage him. He’s stubborn as a stone…but I suppose you have your ways, no?” This was said with a sidelong glance and knowing smirk.
“I’ll manage.” I would. I would have to. For everything I had told Dougal was true. All true. And yet so far from the truth. For I would send Charles Stuart and his father’s cause to the devil gladly, sacrifice any hope of stopping his headlong dash to folly, even risk the chance of Jamie’s imprisonment, for the sake of healing the breach Randall’s resurrection had opened in Jamie’s mind. I would help him to kill Randall, and feel only joy in the doing of it, except for the one thing. The one consideration strong enough to outweigh Jamie’s pride, loom larger than his sense of manhood, than his threatened soul’s peace. Frank.
That was the single idea that had driven me through this day, sustained me well past the point where I would have welcomed collapse. For months I had thought Randall dead and childless, and feared for Frank’s life. But for those same months I had been comforted by the presence of the plain gold ring on the fourth finger of my left hand.
The twin of Jamie’s silver ring upon my right, it was a talisman in the dark hours of the night, when doubts came on the heels of dreams. If I wore his ring still, then the man who had given it to me would live. I had told myself that a thousand times. No matter that I didn’t know how a man dead without issue could sire a line of descent that led to Frank; the ring was there, and Frank would live.
Now I knew why the ring still shone on my hand, metal chilly as my own cold finger. Randall was alive, could still marry, could still father the child who would pass life on to Frank. Unless Jamie killed him first.
I had taken what steps I could for the moment, but the fact I had faced in the Duke’s corridor remained. The price of Frank’s life was Jamie’s soul, and how was I to choose between them?
The oncoming fiacre, ignoring Dougal’s hail, barreled past without stopping, wheels passing close enough to splash muddy water on Dougal’s silk hose and the hem of my gown.
Desisting from a volley of heartfelt Gaelic, Dougal shook a fist after the retreating coach.
“Well, and now what?” he demanded rhetorically.
The blob of mucus-streaked spittle floated on the puddle at my feet, reflecting gray light. I could feel its cold slime viscid on my tongue. I put out a hand and grasped Dougal’s arm, hard as a smooth-skinned sycamore branch. Hard, but it seemed to be swaying dizzily, swinging me far out over the cold and glittering, fish-smelling, slimy water nearby. Black spots floated before my eyes.
“Now,” I said, “I’m going to be sick.”
* * *
It was nearly sunset when I returned to the Rue Tremoulins. My knees trembled, and it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other on the stairs. I went directly to the bedroom to shed my cloak, wondering whether Jamie had returned yet.
He had. I stopped dead in the doorway, surveying the room. My medicine box lay open on the table. The scissors I used for cutting bandages lay half-open on my dressing table. They were fanciful things, given to me by a knifemaker who worked now and then at L’Hôpital des Anges; the handles were gilt, worked in the shape of storks’ heads, with the long bills forming the silver blades of the scissors. They gleamed in the rays of the setting sun, lying amid a cloud of reddish gold silk threads.
I took several steps toward the dressing table, and the silky, shimmering strands lifted in the disturbed air of my movement, drifting across the tabletop.
“Jesus bloody Christ,” I breathed. He had been here, all right, and now he was gone. So was his sword.
The hair lay in thick, gleaming strands where it had fallen, littering dressing table, stool and floor. I plucked a shorn lock from the table and held it, feeling the fine, soft hairs separate between my fingers like the threads of embroidery silk. I felt a cold panic that started somewhere between my shoulder blades and pric
kled down my spine. I remembered Jamie, sitting on the fountain behind the Rohans’ house, telling me how he had fought his first duel in Paris.
“The lace that held my hair back broke, and the wind whipped it into my face so I could scarcely see what I was doing.”
He was taking no chance of that happening again. Seeing the evidence left behind, feeling the lock of hair in my hand, soft and alive-feeling still, I could imagine the cold deliberation with which he had done it; the snick of metal blades against his skull as he cut away all softness that might obscure his vision. Nothing would stand between him and the killing of Jonathan Randall.
Nothing but me. Still holding the lock of his hair, I went to the window and stared out, as though hoping to see him in the street. But the Rue Tremoulins was quiet, nothing moving but the flickering shadows of the poplar trees by the gates and the small movement of a servant, standing at the gate of the house to the left, talking to a watchman who brandished his pipe to emphasize a point.