Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

Minnie waited with what patience she could summon for the necessary ceremony of pouring: the administration of three sugar lumps—Lady Buford had very few teeth left, and no wonder—a large dollop of cream, and the acquisition of exactly two ginger biscuits. Finally restored, Lady Buford patted her lips, stifled a soft belch, and sat up straight, ready for business.

“There’s tremendous talk about it, of course,” she said. “It’s not even four months since the countess’s death. And while I’m sure his mother is not planning to appear at this affair, choosing to celebrate her birthday is…audacious, but audacious without committing open scandal.”

“I should think the…er…his lordship has had quite enough of that,” Minnie murmured. “Um…what do you mean by ‘audacious,’ though?”

Lady Buford looked pleased; she enjoyed displaying her skills.

“Well. When someone—especially a man—does something unusual, you must always ask what it was they intended by the action. Whether or not that effect is achieved, the intent usually explains much.

“And in this instance,” she said, plucking another biscuit delicately from the plate and dunking it into her tea to soften, “I think that his lordship means to put himself on display, in order to prove to society at large that he is not insane—whatever else he might be,” she added thoughtfully.

Minnie wasn’t so sure about Lord Melton’s mental state but nodded obligingly.

“You see…” Lady Buford paused to nibble the edge of her softened biscuit, made an approving face, and swallowed. “You see, were he simply to host a rout or ball of the normal sort, he would seem light-minded and frivolous at best, cold and unfeeling at worst. He would also expose himself to considerable risk that no one would accept an invitation.”

“But as it is?” Minnie prompted.

“Well, there’s the factor of curiosity, which can never be overlooked.” Lady Buford’s rather pointed tongue darted out to capture a stray crumb, which was whisked out of sight. “But by making the occasion in honor of his mother, he more or less commands the loyalty of her friends—who are many—and also those who were friends of his late father but who couldn’t openly support him. And,” she added, leaning forward portentously, “there are the Armstrongs.”

“Who?” Minnie asked blankly. By this time she had quite an extensive social index of London but recognized no prominent person therein named Armstrong.

“The duke’s mother is an Armstrong by birth,” Lady Buford explained, “though her mother was English. But the Armstrongs are a very powerful Scottish family, from the Borders. And the rumor is that Lord Fairbairn—that’s the duke’s maternal grandfather, only a baron but very rich—is in London and will attend the…er…function.”

Minnie was beginning to think tea inadequate to the occasion and rose to fetch the decanter of Madeira from the sideboard. Lady Buford made no demur.

“Of course you must go,” Lady Buford said, having downed half a glassful at one gulp.

“Really?” Minnie was experiencing that sudden visceral emptiness that attends excitement, anticipation, and panic.

“Yes,” Lady Buford said, with determination, and downed the rest, setting her glass down with a thump. “Almost all of your choicest prospects will be there, and there is nothing like competition to make a gentleman declare himself.”

Now the sensation was one of unalloyed panic. What with one thing and another, Minnie had quite forgotten that she was meant to be husband-hunting. Just last week, she’d had two proposals, though luckily from fairly undistinguished suitors, and Lady Buford hadn’t objected to her refusing them.

She finished her own Madeira and poured another for them both.

“All right,” she said, feeling a slight spinning sensation. “What do you think I should wear?”

“Your very best, my dear.” Lady Buford raised her refilled glass in a sort of toast. “Lord Fairbairn is a widower.”





15





BURGLARY AND OTHER DIVERSIONS


THE CARTE D’INVITATION ARRIVED by messenger two days later, addressed to her simply as Mademoiselle Wilhelmina Rennie. Seeing her name—even a mistaken version of her assumed name—in black and white gave her a slight rippling sensation down the back. If she should be caught…

“Think about it, girl,” said her father’s logical voice, affectionate and slightly impatient. “What if you are caught? Don’t be afraid of unimagined possibilities; imagine the possibilities and then imagine what you’ll do about them.”

Her father was, as usual, right. She wrote down every possibility she could think of, from being refused admittance to Argus House, to being recognized at the ball by one of the clients she’d met this week, to being detected by a servant while returning the letters. And then she summoned the O’Higginses and told them what she wanted.



SHE’D COME LATE, smoothly inserting herself into a group of several giggly young women and their chaperones, avoiding the notice paid to guests who arrived singly and were announced to the crowd. The dancing had started; it was simple to find a place among the wallflowers, where she could watch without being seen.

She’d learned from Lady Buford the art of drawing men’s eyes. She’d already known the art of avoiding them. Despite having worn her best—the soft river-green eau-de-nil gown—so long as she kept her head modestly lowered, hung about on the edge of a group, and didn’t speak, she was unlikely to get a second glance.

Her eyes, though, knew just where to look. There were a number of soldiers in lavish uniform, but she saw Lord Melton instantly, as though there was no other man in the room. He stood by the enormous hearth, absorbed in conversation with a few other men; with no sense of surprise, she recognized Prince Frederick, bulging and amiable in puce satin, and Harry Quarry, fine in his own uniform. A small, fierce-looking man with an iron-gray wig and the features of a shrike stood at Melton’s elbow—that must be Lord Fairbairn, she thought.

She sensed someone behind her and turned to see the Duke of Beaufort beaming down at her. He swept her a deep bow.

“Miss Rennie! Your most humble servant, I do assure you!”

“Charmed, as always, Your Grace.” She batted her eyes at him over her fan. She’d known she was likely to meet people she knew—and she’d decided what to do about it. To wit, nothing special. She knew how to flirt and disengage, moving skillfully from one partner to another without causing offense. So she gave Sir Robert her hand, joined him for two dances, sent him for an ice, and disappeared to the ladies’ retiring room for a quarter of an hour—long enough for him to have given up and sought another partner.

When she came back, moving cautiously, her eyes went at once to the hearth and discovered that Lord Melton and his companions had vanished. A group of bankers and stockbrokers, many of whom she knew, had replaced them by the fire, deep in financial conversation by the look of them.