Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Well.” He looked her up and down in an effort at assessment, but she could have told him it was far too late for that. “Well…to be blunt, madam, I wish to employ you. In a matter of…some discretion.”


That gave her another small jolt. So he knew who—or rather what—she was. Still, that wasn’t really unusual. It was, after all, a business in which all connections were by word of mouth. And she was certainly known by now to at least three gentlemen in London who might move in the circles to which Colonel Quarry had access.

No point in beating round the bush or being coy; she was interested in him but more interested in his leaving. She gave him a small bow and looked inquiring. He nodded back and took a deep breath. Some discretion, indeed…

“The situation is this, madam: I have a good friend whose wife recently died in childbed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Minnie said quite honestly. “How very tragic.”

“Yes, it was.” Quarry’s face showed what he was thinking, and the trouble was clear in his eyes. “The more so, perhaps, in that my friend’s wife had been…well…having an affair with a friend of his for some months prior.”

“Oh, dear,” Minnie murmured. “And—forgive me—was the child…?”

“My friend doesn’t know.” Quarry grimaced but relaxed a little, indicating that the most difficult part of his business had been communicated. “Bad enough, you might say…”

“Oh, I would.”

“But the further difficulty—well, without going into the reasons why, we…I…would like to engage you to find proof of that affair.”

That confused her.

“Your friend—he isn’t sure that she was having an affair?”

“No, he’s positive,” Quarry assured her. “There were letters. But—well, I can’t really explain why this is necessary, but he requires proof of the affair for a…a…legal reason, and he will not countenance the idea of letting anyone read his wife’s letters, no matter that she is beyond the reach of public censure nor that the consequences to himself if the affair is not proved may be disastrous.”

“I see.” She eyed him with interest. Was there really a friend, or was this perhaps his own situation, thinly disguised? She thought not; he was clearly grieved and troubled but not flushed—not ashamed or angry in the least. And he hadn’t the look of a married man. At all.

As though her invisible thought had struck him on the cheek like a flying moth, he looked sharply at her, meeting her eyes directly. No, not a married man. And not so grieved or troubled that a spark didn’t show clearly in those deep-brown eyes. She looked modestly down for a moment, then up, resuming her businesslike manner.

“Well, then. Have you specific suggestions as to how the inquiry might proceed?”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed.

“Well…I thought…perhaps you could make the acquaintance of some of Esmé’s—that was her name, Esmé Grey, Countess Melton—some of her friends. And…er…perhaps some of…his…particular friends. The, um, man who…”

“And the man’s name?” Picking up the quill, she wrote Countess Melton, then looked up expectantly.

“Nathaniel Twelvetrees.”

“Ah. Is he a soldier, too?”

“No,” and here Quarry did blush, surprisingly. “A poet.”

“I see,” Minnie murmured, writing it down. “All right.” She put down the quill and came out from behind the desk, passing him closely so that he was obliged to turn toward her—and toward the door. He smelled of bay rum and vetiver, though he didn’t wear a wig or powder in his hair.

“I’m willing to undertake your inquiry, sir—though, of course, I can’t guarantee results.”

“No, no. Of course.”

“Now, I have a prior engagement at two o’clock”—he glanced at the clock, as did she: four minutes to the hour—“but if you would perhaps make a list of the friends you think might be helpful and send it round? Once I’ve assessed the possibilities, I can inform you of my terms.” She hesitated. “May I approach Mr. Twelvetrees? Very discreetly, of course,” she assured him.

He made a grimace, half shock and half amusement.

“Afraid not, Miss Rennie. My friend shot him. I’ll send the list,” he promised, and, with a deep bow, left her.

The door had barely closed behind him before there was another knock. The maid popped out of the boudoir, where she had been discreetly lurking, and glided silently over the thick red Turkey carpet.

Minnie felt her stomach lurch and her throat tighten, as though she’d been dropped out of a high window and caught by the neck at the last moment.

Voices. Men’s voices. Disconcerted, she hurried into the hall, to find the maid stolidly confronting a pair of what were not quite gentlemen.

“Madam is—” the maid was saying firmly, but one of the men spotted Minnie and brushed past the maid.

“Miss Rennie?” he inquired politely, and at her jerky nod bowed with surprising style for one dressed so plainly.

“We have come to escort you to Mrs. Simpson,” he said. And, turning to the maid, “Be so kind as to fetch the lady’s things, if you please.”

The maid turned, wide-eyed, and Minnie nodded to her. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh and her face felt numb.

“Yes,” she said. “If you please.” And her fingers closed on the paper in her pocket, damp with handling.

Do you think this is wise?



THERE WAS A coach outside, waiting. Neither of the men spoke, but one opened the door for her; the other took her by the elbow and helped her politely up into the conveyance. Her heart was pounding and her head full of her father’s warnings about dealing with unvouched-for strangers—these warnings accompanied by a number of vividly detailed accounts of things that had happened to incautious persons of his own acquaintance as a result of unwariness.

What if these men had nothing to do with her mother but knew who her father was? There were people who—

With phrases like “And they only found her head…” echoing in her mind, it was several moments before she could take notice of the two gentlemen, both of whom had entered the coach behind her and were now sitting on the squabs opposite, watching her like a pair of owls. Hungry owls.

She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her middle, as though to ease her stays. Yes, the small dagger was still reassuringly tucked inside her placket; the way she was sweating, it would be quite rusted by the time she had to use it. If, she corrected herself. If she had to use it…

“Are you all right, madam?” one of the men asked, leaning forward. His voice cracked sharply on “madam,” and she actually looked at him properly for the first time. Sure enough, he was a beardless boy. Taller than his companion, and pretty well grown, but a lad nonetheless—and his guileless face showed nothing but concern.

“Yes,” she said, and, swallowing, pulled a small fan from her sleeve and snapped it open. “Just…a little warm.”