Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

She headed toward Piccadilly, which housed a good many booksellers. On the way, though, were Regent and then Oxford Streets, charmingly studded with expensive shops. She must ask Lady Buford about dressmakers.

She had a little French watch pinned to her fichu—it didn’t do to be late for appointments—and when it told her in a tiny silver voice that it was now half-ten, she sighed and turned back toward Great Ryder Street. As she crossed the corner of Upper St. James’s Park, though, she began to have an odd feeling at the back of her neck.

She reached the corner, made as though to step into the street, then suddenly darted sideways, across a lane, and into the park itself. She whipped behind a large tree and stood in the shadow, frozen, watching. Sure enough, a young man came hurtling into the lane, looking sharp from side to side. He was roughly dressed, brown hair tied back with string—perhaps an apprentice or a laborer.

He halted for an instant, then walked fast down the lane, out of sight. She was just about to slide out of her shelter and run for the street when she heard him whistle loudly. An answering whistle came from the street, and she pressed herself against the tree, heart hammering.

Bloody, bloody hell, she thought. If I’m raped and murdered, I’ll never hear the end of it!

She swallowed and made up her mind. It would be somewhat harder for anyone to abduct her off a busy street than to winkle her out of her precarious hiding spot. A couple of gentlemen were coming along the path toward her, deep in conversation. As they passed, she stepped out on the path directly behind them, keeping so close that she was obliged to hear a very scabrous story concerning one man’s father-in-law and what had happened when he chose to celebrate his birthday in a bawdy house. Before the end was reached, though, the street was reached, and she stepped away, walking fast down Ryder Street, with a sense of relief.

She was perspiring, in spite of the cool morning, and the pin thrust through her straw hat had loosened. She paused, took off the hat, and was dabbing her face with a handkerchief when a male voice spoke in her ear.

“So here ye are!” it said triumphantly. “Jaysus God!” This last was the result of her having whipped the eight-inch hatpin from its moorings and aimed it at his breast.

“Who the blood helly are you, and what do you mean by following me?” Minnie demanded, glaring at him. Then she saw his eyes lift, noticing something over her shoulder, and the words “two bodyguards” dropped into her mind like pebbles dropped in water. Merde!

“Two,” she said flatly, and lowered the hatpin. “Mister O’Higgins, I presume? And…Mr. O’Higgins, as well?” she added, turning toward the other young man, who had come up behind her. He grinned at her and bowed extravagantly, sweeping off his cap.

“Raphael Thomas O’Higgins, me lady,” he said. “Blood helly? Would that be a French expression, at all?”

“If you like,” she said, still annoyed. “And you?” She swung back to face the first pursuer, who was also grinning from ear to ear.

“Michael Seamas O’Higgins, miss,” he said, with a bob of the head. “Mick, to me friends, and me brother there is Rafe. Ye were expecting us, I see?”

“Hmph. How long have you been following me?”

“Since ye left the house, sure,” Rafe said easily. “What was it spooked ye, would ye tell me? I thought we’d kept well back.”

“To be honest, I don’t know,” she said. The rush of fright and flight was fading from her blood, and her annoyance with it. “I just suddenly had a…feeling. Just something at the back of my neck. But I didn’t know someone was following me until I ran into the park and you”—nodding at Mick—“ran in after me.”

The brothers O’Higgins exchanged a glance with lifted brows but seemed to take this at face value.

“Aye, then,” Rafe said. “Well, we were to introjuice ourselves to ye at eleven o’ the clock, and I hear the bells sayin’ that’s just what it is now…so, miss, is there anything we can be doin’ for you today? Any errands to be run, parcels picked up, perhaps the little small quiet murder on the side…?”

“How much is my father paying you?” she asked, beginning to be amused. “I doubt it extends to procuring murder.”

“Oh, we come cheap,” Mick assured her, straight-faced. “Though if it was to be anything of a fancy nature—beheading, say, or hiding multiple bodies—well, I won’t say but what that might not run into money.”

“That’s all right,” she assured him. “Should it come to that, I have a bit of my own. And speaking of that”—the idea came to her as she re-pinned her hat—“I have several letters of credit, drawn on the Bankers on the Strand—you know the place? That’s what you can do today: come with me to the bank and back again. I’ll need cash in hand for one or two of my afternoon appointments.”





4





REGIMENTAL BUSINESS


WINSTEAD TERRACE WAS A small row of discreetly fine townhouses that faced a similar terrace on the other side of a private park, its privacy protected by a tall fence of black iron and a locked gate.

Hal reached through the iron bars of the fence and carefully broke a twig from one of the small trees that pressed against it.

“What are you doing?” Harry demanded, stopping in mid-stride. “Picking a posy for your buttonhole? I don’t think Grierson’s much of a dandy.”

“Nor am I,” said Hal equably. “I wanted to see if this is what I thought it was, but it is.”

“And what’s that, pray?” Harry came back a step to look at the twig in Hal’s hand. The foliage was cool on his fingers; it had rained a bit earlier and the leaves and flowers were still wet, water droplets sliding down his wrist, disappearing into the cloth of his frilled cuff.

He transferred the twig to his other hand and shook the water off, absently wiping his hand on his coat. He liked good linen and a well-fitting suit, but in fact he wasn’t a dandy. It was necessary to impress Donald Grierson favorably, though, and to that end, he and Harry were both wearing semi-dress uniform, with a discreet but visible amount of gold lace.

“Cockspur,” he said, showing Harry the two-inch thorns protruding from the twig. “It’s a hawthorn of sorts.”

“I thought hawthorns were hedges.” Harry jerked his head toward the terrace, and Hal nodded, coming along.

“They can be. Or shrubs or trees. Interesting plant—the leaves are said to taste like bread and cheese, though I haven’t tried.”

Harry looked amused.

“I’ll remember that, next time I’m in the country and not a pub in sight. Ready, are you?”