The question was still on my mind when Jamie woke me sometime later by sliding into bed and planting his large, ice-cold feet directly behind my knees.
"Don't scream like that," he said, "you'll wake the servants."
"What in hell was Charles Stuart doing running about the rooftops with monkeys?" I demanded, taking evasive action. "Take those bloody ice cubes off me."
"Visiting his mistress," said Jamie succinctly. "All right, then; stop kicking me." He removed the feet and embraced me, shivering, as I turned to him.
"He has a mistress? Who?" Stimulated by whiffs of cold and scandal, I was quickly waking up.
It's Louise de La Tour," Jamie explained reluctantly, in response to my prodding. His nose looked longer and sharper than usual, with the thick brows drawn together above it. Having a mistress was bad enough, in his Scottish Catholic view, but it was well known that royalty had certain privileges in this regard. The Princesse Louise de La Tour was married, however. And royalty or not, taking a married woman as one's mistress was positively immoral, his cousin Jared's example notwithstanding.
"Ha," I said with satisfaction. "I knew it!"
"He says he's in love with her," he reported tersely, yanking the quilts up over his shoulders. "He insists she loves him too; says she's been faithful only to him for the last three months. Tcha!"
"Well, it's been known to happen," I said, amused. "So he was visiting her? How did he get out on the roof, though? Did he tell you that?"
"Oh, aye. He told me."
Charles, fortified against the night with several glasses of Jared's best aged port, had been quite forthcoming. The strength of true love had been tried severely this evening, according to Charles, by his inamorata's devotion to her pet, a rather ill-tempered monkey that reciprocated His Highness's dislike and had more concrete means of demonstrating its opinions. Snapping his fingers under the monkey's nose in derision, His Highness had suffered first a sharp bite in the hand, and then the sharper bite of his mistress's tongue, exercised in bitter reproach. The couple had quarreled hotly, to the point that Louise, Princesse de Rohan, had ordered Charles from her presence. He had expressed himself only too willing to go—never, he emphasized dramatically, to return.
The Prince's departure, however, had been considerably hampered by the discovery that the Princesse's husband had returned early from his evening of gaming, and was comfortably ensconced in the anteroom with a bottle of brandy.
"So," said Jamie, smiling despite himself at the thought, "he wouldna stay with the lassie, but he couldna go out of the door—so he threw up the sash and jumped out on the roof. He got down almost to the street, he said, along the drainage pipes; but then the City guard came along, and he had to scramble back up to stay out of their sight. He had a rare time of it, he said, dodging about the chimneys and slipping on the wet slates, until it occurred to him that our house was only three houses down the row, and the rooftops close enough to hop them like lily pads."
"Mm," I said, feeling warmth reestablish itself around my toes. "Did you send him home in the coach?"
"No, he took one of the horses from the stable."
"If he's been drinking Jared's port, I hope they both make it to Montmartre," I remarked. "It's a good long way."
"Well, it will be a cold, wet journey, no doubt," said Jamie, with the smugness of a man virtuously tucked up in a warm bed with his lawfully wedded wife. He blew out the candle and pulled me close against his chest, spoon-fashion.
"Serve him right," he murmured. "A man ought to be married."
The servants were up before dawn, polishing and cleaning in preparation for entertaining Monsieur Duverney at a small, private supper in the evening.
"I don't know why they bother," I told Jamie, lying in bed with my eyes closed, listening to the bustle downstairs. "All they need do is dust off the chess set and put out a bottle of brandy; he won't notice anything else."
He laughed and bent to kiss me goodbye. "That's all right; I'll need a good supper if I'm to go on beating him." He patted my shoulder in farewell. "I'm going to the warehouse, Sassenach; I'll be home in time to dress, though."
In search of something to do that would take me out of the servants' way, I finally decided to have a footman escort me down to the Rohans'. Perhaps Louise could use a bit of solace, I thought, after her quarrel of the night before. Vulgar curiosity, I told myself primly, had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
When I returned in the late afternoon, I found Jamie slouched in a chair near the bedroom window with his feet propped on the table, collar undone and hair rumpled as he pored over a sheaf of scribbled papers. He looked up at the sound of the door closing, and the absorbed expression melted into a broad grin.
"Sassenach! There you are!" He swung his long legs down and came across to embrace me. He buried his face in my hair, nuzzling, then drew back and sneezed. He sneezed again, and let go of me to grope in his sleeve for the handkerchief he carried there, military style.
"What do ye smell like, Sassenach?" he demanded, pressing the linen square to his nose just in time to muffle the results of another explosive sneeze.
I reached into the bosom of my dress and plucked the small sachet from between my br**sts.
"Jasmine, roses, hyacinth, and lily of the valley.…ragweed, too, apparently," I added as he snorted and wheezed into the capacious depths of the handkerchief. "Are you all right?" I looked around for some means of disposal, and settled for dropping the sachet into a stationery box on my desk at the far side of the room.
"Aye, I'll do. It's the hya…hya…hyaCHOO!"
"Goodness!" I hastily flung the window open, and motioned to him. He obligingly stuck his head and shoulders out into the wet drizzle of the morning, breathing in gusts of fresh, hyacinth-free air.
"Och, that's better," he said with relief, pulling in his head a few minutes later. His eyes widened. "What are ye doing now, Sassenach?"
"Washing," I explained, struggling with the back laces of my gown. "Or getting ready to, at least. I'm covered with oil of hyacinth," I explained, as he blinked. "If I don't wash it off, you're liable to explode."
He dabbed meditatively at his nose and nodded.
"You've a point there, Sassenach. Shall I have the footman fetch up some hot water?"
"No, don't bother. A quick rinse should take most of it off," I assured him, unbuttoning and unlacing as quickly as possible. I raised my arms, reaching behind my head to gather my hair into a bun. Suddenly Jamie leaned forward and grasped my wrist, pulling my arm into the air.
"What are you doing?" I said, startled.
"What have you done, Sassenach?" he demanded. He was staring under my arm.
"Shaved," I said proudly. "Or rather, waxed. Louise had her servante aux petits soins—you know, her personal groomer?—there this morning, and she did me, too."
"Waxed?" Jamie looked rather wildly at the candlestick by the ewer, then back at me. "You put wax in your oxters?"
"Not that kind of wax," I assured him. "Scented beeswax. The grooming lady heated it, then spread the warm wax on. Once it's cooled, you just jerk it off," I winced momentarily in recollection, "and Bob's your uncle."
"My uncle Bob wouldna countenance any such goings-on," said Jamie severely. "What in hell would ye do that for?" He peered closely at the site, still holding my wrist up. "Didn't it hur…hurt…choof!" He dropped my hand and backed up rapidly.
"Didn't it hurt?" he asked, handkerchief to nose once more.
"Well, a bit," I admitted. "Worth it, though, don't you think?" I asked, raising both arms like a ballerina and turning slightly to and fro. "First time I've felt entirely clean in months."
"Worth it?" he said, sounding a little dazed. "What's it to do wi' clean, that you've pulled all of the hairs out from under your arms?"
A little belatedly, I realized that none of the Scottish women I had encountered employed any form of depilation. Furthermore, Jamie had almost certainly never been in sufficiently close contact with an upper-class Parisienne to know that many of them did. "Well," I said, suddenly realizing the difficulty an anthropologist faces in trying to interpret the more singular customs of a primitive tribe. "It smells much less," I offered.
"And what's wrong wi' the way ye smell?" he said heatedly. "At least ye smelt like a woman, not a damn flower garden. What d'ye think I am, a man or a bumblebee? Would ye wash yourself, Sassenach, so I can get within less than ten feet of ye?"
I picked up a cloth and began sponging my torso. Madame Laserre, Louise's groomer, had applied scented oil all over my body; I rather hoped it would come off easily. It was disconcerting to have him hovering just outside sniffing range, glaring at me like a wolf circling its prey.
I turned my back to dip the cloth into the bowl, and said offhandedly over my shoulder, "Er, I did my legs, too."
I stole a quick glance over my shoulder. The original shock was fading into a look of total bewilderment.
"Your legs dinna smell like anything," he said. "Unless you've been walkin' knee-deep in the cow-byre."