Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

Harry ignored that.

“I’ll say what I know, of course—that it was a legitimate challenge and that Nathaniel Twelvetrees accepted it. But his second—that chap Buxton—was killed last month in a carriage accident near Smithfield. And no one else was on that croquet lawn. That’s doubtless what gave Reginald the notion of trying to nobble you this way—no independent witnesses.”

“Oh…hell.” The sardines were stirring in his guts.

Harry took a breath that strained the seams of his uniform and looked down at the table.

“I—forgive me. But…is there any proof?”

Hal managed a laugh, dry as sawdust.

“Of the affair? Do you think I’d have killed him if I hadn’t been sure?”

“No, of course not. I only mean—well…bloody hell…did she just…tell you? Or perhaps you…er…saw…”

“No.” Hal was feeling dizzy. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and tried a deep breath of his own. “No, I never caught them together. And she didn’t—didn’t quite tell me. There were—there were letters.”

She’d left them where she knew he’d find them. But why? That was one of the things that killed him, over and over again. She’d never told him why. Was it simple guilt? Had she grown tired of the affair but lacked the courage to end it herself? Worse—had she wanted him to kill Nathaniel?

No. Her face when he’d come back that day, when he told her what he’d done…

His face was resting on the white cloth and there were black and white spots swarming before his eyes. He could smell starch and spilled tea, sardines with their tang of the sea. Of Esmé’s birth waters. And her blood. Oh, God, don’t let me vomit….





3





IRISH ROVERS


London, May 1744

MINNIE LAY IN BED, the remains of breakfast on a tray beside her, and contemplated the shape of her first day in London. She’d arrived late the night before and had barely taken notice of the rooms her father had engaged for her—she had a suite in a townhouse on Great Ryder Street, “convenient to everything,” as he’d assured her, complete with a housemaid and meals provided from the kitchen in the basement.

She had been filled with an intoxicating sense of freedom from the moment she’d taken an affectionate leave of her father on the dock at Calais. She could still feel the pleasure of it, bubbling in the slow, pleasant fashion of a crock of fermenting cabbage under her stays, but her innate caution kept a lid on it.

She’d done small jobs on her own before, sometimes outside of Paris, but those had been simple things like calling on the relatives of a dead bibliophile and sympathetically relieving them of their burdensome inheritance—she’d noticed that almost no one felt that a library was much of a legacy—and even then she’d had an escort, usually a stout, middle-aged, long-married man still capable of hoisting boxes and deflecting nuisances but unlikely to make improper advances to a young woman of seventeen.

Monsieur Perpignan would not, of course, be a suitable escort for London. Aside from a tendency to seasickness, a fondness for his wife, and a disgust for British cooking, he didn’t speak English and had no sense of direction. She’d been a bit surprised that her father would let her stay in London entirely on her own—but of course he hadn’t. He had Made Arrangements: his specialty.

“I’ve arranged a chaperone for you,” her father had said, handing over a neat docket of notes, addresses, maps, and English money. “A Lady Buford, a widow of slender means but good connections. She’ll arrange a social life for you, introduce you to the right sorts of people, take you to plays and salons, that sort of thing.”

“What fun,” she’d said politely, and he laughed.

“Oh, I expect you’ll find some, my dear,” he said. “That’s why I’ve also arranged two…shall we call them bodyguards?”

“So much more tactful than minders, or wardens. Two?”

“Yes, indeed. They’ll run errands for you, as well as accompany you when you visit clients.” He reached into one of the pigeonholes of his desk and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed her. “This is a précis of what I told you about the Duke of Pardloe—and a few others. I didn’t mention him to Lady Buford, and you should be somewhat discreet about your interest in him. There’s a great deal of scandal attached to that family, and you—”

“Don’t touch pitch until you’re ready to set light to it,” she finished, with no more than a slight roll of the eyes.

“Travel safe, my dear.” He’d kissed her forehead and embraced her briefly. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Papa,” she murmured now, climbing out of bed. “But not that much.”

She glanced at the secretaire, where she’d put all the lists and documents. Time enough for the chaste Duke of Pardloe and the randy Duke of Beaufort when she came within sight of them. Lady Buford had left a card, saying that she would meet Minnie at Rumm’s Tea-Room in Piccadilly at four o’clock for tea. Wear something pretty, modest, and not over-elaborate, Lady Buford had added, with welcome practicality. The pink muslin, then, with the little jacket.

There were three appointments already scheduled for the early afternoon—routine book business—and the two bodyguards were meant to come and introduce themselves at eleven. She glanced at her little traveling clock, which showed half-eight. A quick wash, a simple dress, stout boots for walking, and London was hers—alone!—for two hours.



THEY’D LIVED IN London for a time, when she was much younger. And she’d come with her father twice for brief visits, when she was fourteen and fifteen. She had a general idea of the city’s shape but had never needed to find her own way.

She was accustomed to exploring a new place, though, and within the first hour had discovered a decent-looking ordinary for quick meals outside her rooms, a baker’s shop for cakes, and the nearest church. Her father had nothing to do with religion, and so far as she knew, she’d never even been christened—but it was as well to look the part you played, and pious, modest young women went to church on Sunday. Besides, she liked the music.

The day was bright, the air tangy with spring sap, and the streets were full of an exuberant bustle, quite different from Paris or Prague. There was really no place like London. Particularly as no other city contained her mother. But that small matter would need to wait for a bit; much as she longed to rush off to Parson’s Green at once and see this Mrs. Simpson, it was too important. She needed to reconnoiter, to calculate her approach. To be hasty or importunate might ruin everything.