The door opened behind me, and Jamie stepped in. He still held the letter opener. He crossed deliberately to the large famille rose jar that stood by the hearth and dropped the paper knife into it with a clang, then turned to me, doing his best to smile.
"Well, as warnings go," he said, "that one was verra effective."
I shuddered briefly.
"Wasn't it, though?"
"Who do you think sent him?" Jamie asked. "Mother Hildegarde?"
"I expect so. She warned me, when we decoded the music. She said what you were doing was dangerous." The fact of just how dangerous had been lost upon me, until the hangman's visit. I hadn't suffered from morning nausea for some time, but I felt my gorge rising now. If the Jacobite lords knew what I was doing, they'd call it treason. And what steps might they take, if they did find out?
To all outward intents, Jamie was an avowed Jacobite supporter; in that guise, he visited Charles, entertained the Earl Marischal to dinner, and attended court. And so far, he had been skillful enough, in his chess games, his tavern visits, and his drinking parties, to undercut the Stuart cause while seeming outwardly to support it. Besides the two of us, only Murtagh knew that we sought to thwart a Stuart rising—and even he didn't know why, merely accepting his chief's word that it was right. That pretense was necessary, while operating in France. But the same pretense would brand Jamie a traitor, should he ever set foot on English soil.
I had known that, of course, but in my ignorance, had thought that there was little difference between being hanged as an outlaw, and executed as a traitor. Monsieur Forez's visit had taken care of that bit of naiveté.
"You're bloody calm about it," I said. My own heart was still thumping erratically, and my palms were cold, but sweaty. I wiped them on my gown, and tucked them between my knees to warm them.
Jamie shrugged slightly and gave me a lopsided smile.
"Well, there's the hell of a lot of unpleasant ways to die, Sassenach. And if one of them should fall to my lot, I wouldna like it much. But the question is: Am I scairt enough of the possibility that I would stop what I'm doing to avoid it?" He sat down on the chaise beside me, and took one of my hands between his own. His palms were warm, and the solid bulk of him next to me was reassuring.
"I thought that over for some time, Sassenach, in those weeks at the Abbey while I healed. And again, when we came to Paris. And again, when I met Charles Stuart." He shook his head, bent over our linked hands.
"Aye, I can see myself standing on a scaffold. I saw the gallows at Wentworth—did I tell ye that?"
"No. No, you didn't."
He nodded, eyes gone blank in remembrance.
"They marched us down to the courtyard; those of us in the condemned cell. And made us stand in rows on the stones, to watch an execution. They hanged six men that day, men I knew. I watched each man mount the steps—twelve steps, there were—and stand, hands bound behind his back, looking down at the yard as they put the rope around his neck. And I wondered then, how I would manage come my turn to mount those steps. Would I weep and pray, like John Sutter, or could I stand straight like Willie MacLeod, and smile at a friend in the yard below?"
He shook his head suddenly, like a dog flinging off drops of water, and smiled at me a little grimly. "Anyway, Monsieur Forez didna tell me anything I hadna thought of before. But it's too late, mo duinne." He laid a hand over mine. "Aye, I'm afraid. But if I would not turn back for the chance of home and freedom, I shallna do it for fear. No, mo duinne. It's too late."
24
THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE
Monsieur Forez's visit proved merely to be the first of a series of unusual disruptions.
"There is an Italian person downstairs, Madame," Magnus informed me. "He would not give me his name." There was a pinched look about the butler's mouth; I gathered that if the visitor would not give his name, he had been more than willing to give the butler a number of other words.
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."