That, coupled with the “iian person” designation, was enough to give me a clue as to the visitor’s identity, and it was with relatively little surprise that I entered the drawing room to find Charles Stuart standing by the window.
He swung about at my entrance, hat in his hands. He was plainly surprised to see me; his mouth dropped open for a second, then he caught himself and gave me a quick, brief bow of acknowledgment.
“Milord Broch Tuarach is not at home?” he inquired. His brows drew together in displeasure.
“No, he isn’t,” I said. “Will you take a little refreshment, Your Highness?”
He looked around the richly appointed drawing-room with interest, but shook his head. So far as I knew, he had been in the house only once before, when he had come over the rooftops from his rendezvous with Louise. Neither he nor Jamie had thought it appropriate for him to be invited to the dinners here; without official recognition by Louis, the French nobility scorned him.
“No. I thank you, Madame Fraser. I shall not stay; my servant waits outside, and it is a long ride to return to my lodgings. I wished only to make a request of my friend James.”
“Er…well, I’m sure that my husband would be happy to oblige Your Highness—if he can,” I answered cautiously, wondering just what the request was. A loan, probably; Fergus’s gleanings of late had included quite a number of impatient letters from tailors, bootmakers, and other creditors.
Charles smiled, his expression altering to one of surprising sweetness.
“I know; I cannot tell you, Madame, how greatly I esteem the devotion and service of your husband; the sight of his loyal face warms my heart amid the loneliness of my present surroundings.”
“Oh?” I said.
“It is not a difficult thing I ask,” he assured me. “It is only that I have made a small investment; a cargo of bottled port.”
“Really?” I said. “How interesting.” Murtagh had left for Lisbon that morning, vials of nettle juice and madder root in his pouch.
“It is a small thing,” Charles flipped a lordly hand, disdaining the investment of every cent he had been able to borrow. “But I wish that my friend James shall accomplish the task of disposing of the cargo, once it shall arrive. It is not appropriate, you know”—and here he straightened his shoulders and elevated his nose just a trifle, quite unconsciously—“for a—a person such as myself, to be seen to engage in trade.”
“Yes, I quite see, Your Highness,” I said, biting my lip. I wondered whether he had expressed this point of view to his business partner, St. Germain—who undoubtedly regarded the young pretender to the Scottish throne as a person of less consequence than any of the French nobles—who engaged in “trade” with both hands, whenever the chance of profit offered.
“Is Your Highness quite alone in this enterprise?” I inquired innocently.
He frowned slightly. “No, I have a partner; but he is a Frenchman. I should much prefer to entrust the proceeds of my venture to the hands of a countryman. Besides,” he added thoughtfully, “I have heard that my dear James is a most astute and capable merchant; it is possible that he might be able to increase the value of my investment by means of judicious sale.”
I supposed whoever had told him of Jamie’s capability hadn’t bothered to add the information that there was probably no wine merchant in Paris whom St. Germain more disliked. Still, if everything worked out as planned, that shouldn’t matter. And if it didn’t, it was possible that St. Germain would solve all of our problems by strangling Charles Stuart, once he found out that the latter had contracted delivery of half his exclusive Gostos port to his most hated rival.
“I’m sure that my husband will do his utmost to dispose of Your Highness’s merchandise to the maximum benefit of all concerned,” I said, with complete truth.
His Highness thanked me graciously, as befitting a prince accepting the service of a loyal subject. He bowed, kissed my hand with great formality, and departed with continuing protestations of gratitude to Jamie. Magnus, looking dourly unimpressed by the Royal visit, closed the door upon him.
In the event, Jamie didn’t come home until after I had fallen asleep, but I told him over breakfast of Charles’s visit, and his request.
“God, I wonder if His Highness will tell the Comte?” he said. Having ensured the health of his bowels by disposing of his parritch in short order, he proceeded to add a French breakfast of buttered rolls and steaming chocolate on top of it. A broad grin spread across his face in contemplation of the Comte’s reaction, as he sipped his cocoa.
“I wonder is it lèse-majesté to hammer an exiled prince? For if it’s not, I hope His Highness has Sheridan or Balhaldy close by when St. Germain hears about it.”
Further speculation along these lines was curtailed by the sudden sound of voices in the hallway. A moment later, Magnus appeared in the door, a note borne on his silver tray.
“Your pardon, milord,” he said, bowing. “The messenger who brought this desired most urgently that it be brought to your attention at once.”
Brows raised, Jamie took the note from the tray, opened and read it.
“Oh, bloody hell!” he said in disgust.
“What is it?” I asked. “Not word from Murtagh already?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s from the foreman of the warehouse.”
“Trouble at the docks?”
An odd mixture of emotions was visible on Jamie’s face; impatience struggling with amusement.
“Well, not precisely. The man’s got himself into a coil at a brothel, it seems. He humbly begs my pardon”—he waved ironically at the note—“but hopes I’ll see fit to come round and assist him. In other words,” he translated, crumpling his napkin as he rose, “will I pay his bill?”
“Will you?” I said, amused.
He snorted briefly and dusted crumbs from his lap.
“I suppose I’ll have to, unless I want to supervise the warehouse myself—and I havena time for that.” His brow creased as he mentally reviewed the duties of the day. This was a task that might take some little time, and there were orders waiting on his desk, ship’s captains waiting on the docks, and casks waiting in the warehouse.
“I’d best take Fergus wi’ me to carry messages,” he said, resigned. “He can maybe go to Montmartre wi’ a letter, if I’m too short of time.”
“Kind hearts are more than coronets,” I told Jamie as he stood by his desk, ruefully flipping through the impressive pile of waiting paperwork.
“Oh, aye?” he said. “And whose opinion is that?”
“Alfred, Lord Tennyson, I think,” I said. “I don’t believe he’s come along yet, but he’s a poet. Uncle Lamb had a book of famous British poets. There was a bit from Burns in there, too, I recall—he’s a Scot,” I explained. “He said, ‘Freedom and Whisky gang tegither.’ ”
Jamie snorted. “I canna say if he’s a poet, but he’s a Scot, at least.” He smiled then, and bent to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll be home to my supper, mo duinne. Keep ye well.”
* * *
I finished my own breakfast, and thriftily polished off Jamie’s toast as well, then waddled upstairs for my morning nap. I had had small episodes of bleeding since the first alarm, though no more than a spot or two, and nothing at all for several weeks. Still, I kept to my bed or the chaise as much as possible, only venturing down to the salon to receive visitors, or to the dining room for meals with Jamie. When I descended for lunch, though, I found the table laid for one.
“Milord has not come back yet?” I asked in some surprise. The elderly butler shook his head.
“No, milady.”
“Well, I imagine he’ll be back soon; make sure there’s food waiting for him when he arrives.” I was too hungry to wait for Jamie; the nausea tended to return if I went too long without eating.
After lunch, I lay down to rest again. Conjugal relations being temporarily in abeyance, there wasn’t that much one could do in bed, other than read or sleep, which meant
I did quite a lot of both. Sleeping on my stomach was impossible, sleeping on my back uncomfortable, as it tended to make the baby squirm. Consequently, I lay on my side, curling around my growing abdomen like a cocktail shrimp round a caper. I seldom slept deeply, but tended rather to doze, letting my mind drift to the gentle random movements of the child.
Somewhere in my dreams, I thought I felt Jamie near me, but when I opened my eyes the room was empty, and I closed them again, lulled as though I, too, floated weightless in a blood-warm sea.
I was wakened at length, somewhere in the late afternoon, by a soft tap on the bedroom door.
“Entrez,” I said, blinking as I came awake. It was the butler, Magnus, apologetically announcing more visitors.
“It is the Princesse de Rohan, Madame,” he said. “The Princesse wished to wait until you awakened, but when Madame d’Arbanville also arrived, I thought perhaps…”
“That’s all right, Magnus,” I said, struggling upright and swinging my feet over the side of the bed. “I’ll come down.”
I looked forward to the visitors. We had stopped entertaining during the last month, and I rather missed the bustle and conversation, silly as much of it was. Louise came frequently to sit with me and regale me with the latest doings of the Court, but I hadn’t seen Marie d’Arbanville in some time. I wondered what brought her here today.
I was ungainly enough to take the stairs slowly, my increased weight jarring upward from the soles of my feet on each step. The paneled door of the drawing room was closed, but I heard the voice inside clearly.
“Do you think she knows?”
The question, asked in the lowered tones that portended the juiciest of gossip, reached me just as I was about to enter the drawing room. Instead, I paused at the threshold, just out of sight.
It was Marie d’Arbanville who had spoken. Welcome everywhere because of her elderly husband’s position, and gregarious even by French standards, Marie heard everything worth hearing within the environs of Paris.
“Does she know what?” The reply was Louise’s; her high, carrying voice had the perfect self-confidence of the born aristocrat, who doesn’t care who hears what.
“Oh, you haven’t heard!” Marie pounced on the opening like a kitten, delighted to find a new mouse to play with. “Goodness! Of course, I only heard myself an hour ago.”
And raced directly over here to tell me about it, I thought. Whatever “it” was. I thought I stood a better chance of hearing the unexpurgated version from my position in the hallway.
“It is my lord Broch Tuarach,” Marie said, and I didn’t need to see her, to imagine her leaning forward, green eyes darting back and forth, snapping with enjoyment of her news. “Only this morning, he challenged an Englishman to a duel—over a whore!”
“What!” Louise’s cry of astonishment drowned out my own gasp. I grabbed hold of a small table and held on, black spots whirling before my eyes as the world came apart at the seams.
“Oh, yes!” Marie was saying. “Jacques Vincennes was there; he told my husband all about it! It was in that brothel down near the fish market—imagine going to a brothel at that hour of the morning! Men are so odd. Anyway, Jacques was having a drink with Madame Elise, who runs the place, when all of a sudden there was the most frightful outcry upstairs, and all kinds of thumping and shouting.”
She paused for breath—and dramatic effect—and I heard the sound of liquid being poured.
“So, Jacques of course raced to the stairs—well, that’s what he says, anyway; I expect he actually hid behind the sofa, he’s such a coward—and after more shouting and thumping, there was a terrible crash, and an English officer came hurtling down the stairs, half-undressed, with his wig off, staggering and smashing into the walls. And who should appear at the top of the stairs, looking like the vengeance of God, but our own petit James!”
“No! And I would have sworn he was the last…but go on! What happened then?”
A teacup chimed softly against its saucer, followed by Marie’s voice, released by excitement from the modulations of secrecy.
“Well—the man reached the foot of the stairs still on his feet, by some miracle, and he turned at once, and looked up at Lord Tuarach. Jacques says the man was very self-possessed, for someone who’d just been kicked downstairs with his breeches undone. He smiled—not a real smile, you know, the nasty sort—and said, ‘There’s no need for violence, Fraser; you could have waited for your turn, surely? I should have thought you get enough at home. But then, some men derive pleasure from paying for it.’ ”
Louise made shocked noises. “How awful! The canaille! But of course, it is no reproach to milord Tuarach—” I could hear the strain in her voice as friendship warred with the urge to gossip. Not surprisingly, gossip won.
“Milord Tuarach cannot enjoy his wife’s favors at the moment; she carries a child, and the pregnancy is dangerous. So of course he would relieve his needs at a brothel; what gentleman would do otherwise? But go on, Marie! What happened then?”
“Well.” Marie drew breath as she approached the high point of the story. “Milord Tuarach rushed down the stairs, seized the Englishman by the throat, and shook him like a rat!”
“Non! Ce n’est pas vrai!”
“Oh, yes! It took three of Madame’s servants to restrain him—such a wonderful big man, isn’t he? So fierce-looking!”
“Yes, but then what?”
“Oh—well, Jacques said the Englishman gasped for a bit, then straightened up and said to milord Tuarach, ‘That’s twice you’ve come near killing me, Fraser. Someday you may succeed.’ And then milord Tuarach cursed in that terrible Scottish tongue—I don’t understand a word, do you?—and then he wrenched himself free from the men holding him, struck the Englishman across the face with his bare hand”—Louise gasped at the insult—“and said, ‘Tomorrow’s dawn will see you dead!’ Then he turned about and ran up the stairs, and the Englishman left. John said he looked quite white—and no wonder! Just imagine!”
I imagined, all right.
“Are you well, Madame?” Magnus’s anxious voice drowned out Louise’s further exclamations. I put out a hand, groping, and he took it at once, putting his other hand under my elbow in support.
“No. I’m not well. Please…tell the ladies?” I waved weakly toward the drawing room.
“Of course, Madame. In a moment; but now let me see you to your chamber. This way, chère Madame…” He led me up the stairs, murmuring consolingly as he supported me. He escorted me to the bedroom chaise, where he left me, promising to send up a maid at once to attend me.
I didn’t wait for assistance; the first shock passing, I could navigate well enough, and I stood and made my way across the room to where my small medicine box sat on the dressing table. I didn’t think I was going to faint now, but there was a bottle of spirits of ammonia in there that I wanted handy, just in case.
I turned back the lid and stood still, staring into the box. For a moment, my mind refused to register what my eyes saw; the folded white square of paper, carefully wedged upright between the multicolored bottles. I noted rather abstractedly that my fingers shook as I took the paper out; it took several tries to unfold it.
I am sorry. The words were bold and black, the letters carefully formed in the center of the sheet, the single letter “J” written with equal care below. And below that, two more words, these scrawled hastily, done as a postscript of desperation: I must!
“You must,” I murmured to myself, and then my knees buckled. Lying on the floor, with the carved panels of the ceiling flickering dimly above, I found myself thinking that I had always heretofore assumed that the tendency of eighteenth-century ladies to swoon was due to tight stays; now I rather thought it might be due to the idiocy of eighteenth-century men.
There was a cry of dismay from somewhere nearby, and then helpful hands were lifting me, and I felt the yielding softness of the wool-stuffed mattress under me, and cool cloths on my brow and wrists, smelling of vinegar. br />
I was soon restored to what senses I had, but strongly disinclined to talk. I reassured the maids that I was in fact all right, shooed them out of the room, and lay back on the pillows, trying to think.
It was Jack Randall, of course, and Jamie had gone to kill him. That was the only clear thought in the morass of whirling horror and speculation that filled my mind. Why, though? What could have made him break the promise he had made me?
Trying to consider carefully the events Marie had related—third-hand as they were—I thought there had to have been something more than just the shock of an unexpected encounter. I knew the Captain, knew him a great deal better than I wanted to. And if there was one thing of which I was reasonably sure, it was that he would not have been purchasing the usual services of a brothel—the simple enjoyment of a woman was not in his nature. What he enjoyed—needed—was pain, fear, humiliation.
These commodities, of course, could also be purchased, if at a somewhat higher price. I had seen enough, in my work at L’Hôpital des Anges, to know that there were les putains whose chief stock in trade lay not between their legs, but in strong bones overlaid with expensive fragile skin that bruised at once, and showed the marks of whips and blows.