Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

Family background: Gerard Grey, Earl of Melton, was given the Title Duke of Pardloe (with considerable Estates) in Reward for his raising of a Regiment (46th Foot, which served with distinction during the Jacobite Rebellions of 1715 and 1719, seeing Combat at Preston and Sheriffmuir). However, the Duke’s Allegiance to the Crown appeared to waver during the Reign of George II, and Gerard Grey was implicated in the Cornbury Plot. While he escaped Arrest at that time, a later Plot caused a Warrant for his Arrest on a Charge of Treason to be issued. Hearing of this, Pardloe shot himself in the Conservatory of his Country Estate before the Arrest could be made.

Pardloe’s eldest son, Harold Grey, succeeded to the Title at the Age of twenty-one, upon his Father’s Death. While the Title was not formally attainted, the younger Grey considered the Title stained with Treason and refused to adopt it, preferring to be known by the older Family Title, Earl of Melton. Married to Esmé Dufresne (a younger Daughter of the Marquis de Robillard) shortly before his Father’s Suicide.

The present Duke has publicly and violently rejected all Jacobite Associations (from necessity), but this does not mean such Associations have rejected him, nor that such Rejection reflects his true Inclination. There is considerable Interest in some Quarters as to the Duke’s political Leanings and Affiliations, and any Letters, known Meetings with Persons of interest (List attached), or Private Conversations that might give Indications of Jacobite Leanings would be valuable.





Précis: Sir Robert Abdy, Baronet


Succeeded to the Title at the Age of Three, and while living a personally (and regrettably) virtuous Life, became heavily involved in Jacobite Politics and, Last Year, was so injudicious as to sign his Name to a Petition sent to Louis of France, urging French Invasion of Britain in support of a Stuart Restoration. Needless to say, this is not generally known in Britain, and it would not be a good Idea to mention it directly to Sir Robert. Neither should you approach him, though he is active in Society and you may encounter him. If so, we are particularly interested in his present Associations—names only, for the Present. Don’t get too close.





Précis: Henry Scudamore, Duke of Beaufort


The fourth-richest Man in England, and likewise a Signatory to the French Petition. Very much seen in Society and makes little Secret of his political Inclinations.

His private Life is much less virtuous than Sir Robert’s, I’m afraid. Having adopted his Wife’s Surname by Act of Parliament, he sued last Year to divorce her on Grounds of Adultery (true: she was having an adulterous Relationship with William Talbot, Heir to Earl Talbot, and she wasn’t discreet about it). The Lady—her Name is Frances—promptly countersued on Grounds that the Duke was impotent. The Duke, who is no shrinking Violet, demonstrated before several Court-appointed Examiners that he was capable of having an Erection, won his Divorce, and is now presumably enjoying his Freedom.

Don’t get too close. Associates, Names only for the Present.





Précis: Mr. Robert Willimot


Lord Mayor of London until 1741. Presently associated with…





2





COLD HONEY AND SARDINES


London, May 1744

Argus House, Residence of the Duke of Pardloe

THE ROOM SMELLED OF dead flowers. It was raining heavily, but Hal seized the window sash and shoved, regardless. The action was regardless; the wood had swelled with the damp and the window remained shut. He tried twice more, then stood breathing heavily.

The chiming of the little carriage clock on the mantelpiece brought him to an awareness that he’d been standing in front of the closed window with his mouth half open, watching rain run down the glass, for a quarter of an hour, unable to make up his mind whether to call a footman to open the damn thing or just put his fist through it.

He turned away and, chilled, made his way by instinct toward the fire. He’d felt as though he were moving through cold honey ever since he’d forced himself out of bed, and now he collapsed joint by joint into his father’s chair.

His father’s chair. Blast. He closed his eyes, trying to summon the will to stand up and move. The leather was cold and stiff under his fingers, under his legs, hard against his back. He could feel the fire, a few feet away in its hearth, but the heat didn’t reach him.

“I’ve brought your coffee, my lord.” Nasonby’s voice cut through the cold honey, as did the smell of the coffee. Hal opened his eyes. The footman had already put the tray down on the little marquetry table and was setting out the spoons, unlidding the sugar bowl, placing the tongs just so, tenderly removing the napkin folded about the jug of warm milk—the cream was in its twin jug at the other side, keeping cold. He found the symmetry and Nasonby’s quiet, deft movements soothing.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, and made a small gesture indicating that Nasonby should see to the details. This Nasonby did, and the cup was placed in his limp, waiting hands. He took a mouthful—it was perfect, very hot but not so much as to burn his mouth, sweet and milky—and nodded. Nasonby vanished.

For a little while, he could just drink coffee. He didn’t have to think. Halfway through the cup, he briefly considered getting up and sitting in another chair, but by then the leather had warmed and molded to his body. He could almost imagine his father’s touch on his shoulder, the brief squeeze the duke had always used to express affection for his sons. Damn you. His throat closed suddenly, and he set the cup down.

How was John managing? he wondered. He’d be safe enough in Aberdeen, surely. Still, he ought to write to his brother. Cousin Kenneth and Cousin Eloise were incredible bores, so rigidly Presbyterian that they didn’t even countenance card-playing and disapproved of any activity on the Sabbath other than reading the Bible.

On the one occasion he and Esmé had stayed with them, Eloise had politely asked Esmé to read to them after the stodgy Sunday dinner of roast mutton and bashed neeps. Ignoring the text for the day, bookmarked with a handmade lace strip, Em had blithely thumbed through the book and settled on the story of Jephthah, who had sworn that if the Lord would grant him victory in battle against the sons of Ammon, then Jephthah would sacrifice to the Lord the first thing to greet him when he returned home.

“Really,” said Esmé, swallowing the “R” in a particularly fetching French way. She looked up, frowning. “What if it should have been his dog? What do you say, Mercy,” she said, addressing Hal’s twelve-year-old cousin, Mercy. “If your papa should come home one day and announce that he was going to kill Jasper there”—the spaniel looked up from his rug, hearing his name—“just because he’d told God he would, what would you do?”