Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

Lady Buford’s sharp eyes had softened slightly, looking into memory, and she shook her head, making the ring-necked dove on her hat bob precariously.

“It really was a tragedy,” she said, with evident regret.

And that, despite further discreet inquiry, was apparently that.



SHE MET COLONEL Quarry, by arrangement, at a concert of sacred music in St. Martin-in-the-Fields. There were enough people there that it was possible to sit inconspicuously in one of the galleries; she could see the back of Quarry’s head at the far end of the gallery, bent in apparent rapt attention to the music being performed below.

She normally enjoyed music of any kind, but as the vibration of the organ’s pipes ceased rumbling through the boards underfoot and a single high, pure voice rose from the silence in a Magnificat, she felt a sudden sense of acute sorrow, seeing in memory a room of shadows and candlelight, the dirty hem of a white habit, a bent head and a slender neck beneath a bell of hair as golden as clean straw.

Her throat was tight and she bent her own head, shielding her face from view with a spread fan; it was a warm day, and whenever the music paused, the air in the gallery whispered with the movement of fans. No one noticed.

At last it was over, and she stood with the others, lingering by the railing as people filed out in a buzz of conversation that rose above the last strains of the recessional.

Quarry came strolling toward her—exaggeratedly casual, but, after all, he likely wasn’t used to intrigue, and if someone did notice, “intrigue” (in the vulgar meaning of the term) was exactly what they’d think it was.

“Miss Rennie!” he said, as though surprised by her presence, and swept her a bow. “Your most obedient servant, ma’am!”

“Why, Colonel Quarry!” she said, fluttering her fan coquettishly. “What a surprise! I’d no notion that you enjoyed sacred music.”

“Can’t stand it,” he said amiably. “I’d have gone mad in another minute if they hadn’t stopped that caterwauling. What the devil have you found out?”

She told him without preamble what her researches had discovered—or, rather, had not discovered.

“Damn,” he said, then hunched his shoulders as two women going past gave him a shocked look.

“I mean,” he said, lowering his voice, “my friend is quite certain that it actually happened. The, um…”

“Affair. Yes, you said he had letters proving it but that he wouldn’t let anyone read them. Reasonably enough.” She wasn’t sure why she was interested in this business, but there was something oddly fascinating about it. She ought just to give him a bill for her time and leave it at that, but…

“Do you know where he keeps these letters?” she asked.

“Why…I suppose they’re in his father’s library desk. He usually keeps correspondence there. Wh—” He stopped abruptly, looking hard at her. She shrugged a little.

“I told you what the talk is, about your friend’s state of mind. And if the letters are the only proof that he had a reason—and an honorable one—for what he did…” She paused delicately. Quarry’s face darkened, and she felt the shift in his body as his hands curled.

“Are you suggesting that—that I take the—I could never do such a thing! It’s dishonorable, impossible! He’s my friend, dammit!” He looked aside, swallowing, and unclenched his fists.

“For God’s sake, if he found that I’d done such a thing, I…I think he’d—” He stopped, all too clearly envisioning the possible results of such a discovery. The blood was draining from his cheeks, and a wash of pale-blue light from a stained-glass window made him look suddenly corpse-like.

“I wasn’t suggesting that, sir,” Minnie said, as meekly as possible. “Not at all! Naturally a gentleman such as yourself, and a devoted friend, couldn’t—wouldn’t—ever do such a thing.” And if you did, she thought, watching his face, he’d know it the second he looked at you. You couldn’t lie your way out of a children’s tea party, poor sod.

“But,” she said, and glanced deliberately around, so that he could see they were now alone in the gallery, save for a group of women at the far side, leaning over the rail and waving to acquaintances in the nave below. “But,” she repeated in a low voice, “if the letters were simply to…be delivered anonymously to…?” She paused and cocked a brow.

He swallowed again, audibly, and looked at her for a long moment.

“The secretary at war,” he blurted, as though trying to get the words out before he thought better.

“I see,” she said, relaxing inwardly. “Well. That does seem very…drastic. Perhaps I can think of some other avenue of inquiry. There must be some intimate friend of the late countess that I haven’t yet discovered.” She put a hand very lightly on his arm.

“Leave the matter with me for another few days, Colonel. I’m sure something useful will occur to one of us.”





11





GARDEN PARTY


1 June, AD 1744

Paris

My Dearest,

Having heard nothing to the contrary, I assume that all is well with you. I’ve received a special Request, through a Friend; an English Collector by the Name of Mr. Bloomer wishes to discuss a special Commission. His Letter, with Details of his Requirements, a List of Resources with which to meet those Requirements, and a Note of acceptable Payment, will follow under separate Covers.

Your most affectionate Father,

R. Rennie





“MR. BLOOMER” HAD SPECIFIED His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales’s residence at Kew for their meeting, on the twenty-first of June—Midsummer’s Day. Minnie’s diary carried a sketch of various flowers and fruits to mark the occasion; the White House (as it was casually known) had notable gardens, and a private tea (Admission by Invitation Only) was being held in said gardens by Princess Augusta, in support of one of that lady’s favorite charities.

It was a little outré for an unmarried young woman to go alone to such an event, Minnie reflected, dressing for the occasion, but Mr. Bloomer had specified that the agent do just that, sending a single ticket of invitation with his letter. Of course, he probably hadn’t realized that the agent would be a young woman.

It was a fine day out, and Minnie stepped down from the hansom at the end of the long avenue that led along the riverbank and up to the—quite large, if not quite palatial—house.

“I’ll walk from here,” she said to Rafe O’Higgins, who had accompanied her. “You can watch ’til I get in to the house, if you think you really must.” A number of colored parasols, broad-brimmed hats, and belled silk skirts were swaying slowly along the walks that edged a huge reflecting pool in the distance, like a parade of animated flowers—very appropriate to a garden party, she thought, amused.