The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

Grey made the proper sounds of condolence, but had ceased to hear himself, for the confusion of thought and speculation that filled his mind.

  So much so, in fact, that when the princess’s special dessert—an enormous concoction of raspberries, brandy, sugar, and cream—arrived, he ate it all, despite the fact that raspberries made him itch.

  He continued to think, long after the ladies had left. He joined the card game, bet extensively, and played wildly—winning, with Luck’s usual perversity, though he paid no attention to his cards.

  Had he been entirely wrong? It was possible. All of Stephan’s gestures toward him had been within the bounds of normalcy—and yet …

  And yet it was by no means unknown for men such as himself to marry and have children. Certainly men such as von Namtzen, with a title and estates to bequeath, would wish to have heirs. That thought steadied him, and though he scratched occasionally at chest or neck, he paid more attention to his game—and finally began to lose.

  The card game broke up an hour later. Grey loitered a bit, in hopes that Stephan might seek him out, but the Hanoverian was detained in argument with Kaptain Steffens, and at last Grey went upstairs, still scratching.

  The halls were well lit tonight, and he found his own corridor without difficulty. He hoped Tom was still awake; perhaps the young valet could fetch him something for itching. Some ointment, perhaps, or—he heard the rustle of fabric behind him, and turned to find the princess approaching him.

  She was once again in nightdress—but not the homely woolen garment she had worn the night before. This time, she wore a flowing thing of diaphanous lawn, which clung to her bosom and rather clearly revealed her nipples through the thin fabric. He thought she must be very cold, in spite of the lavishly embroidered robe thrown over the nightgown.

  She had no cap, and her hair had been brushed out but not yet plaited for the night; it flowed becomingly in golden waves below her shoulders. Grey began to feel somewhat cold, too, in spite of the brandy.

  “My Lord,” she said. “John,” she added, and smiled. “I have something for you.” She was holding something in one hand, he saw; a small box of some sort.

  “Your Highness,” he said, repressing the urge to take a step backward. She was wearing a very strong scent, redolent of tuberoses—a scent he particularly disliked.

  “My name is Louisa,” she said, taking another step toward him. “Will you not call me by my name? Here, in private?”

  “Of course. If you wish it—Louisa.” Good God, what had brought this on? He had sufficient experience to see what she was about—he was a handsome man, of good family, and with money; it had happened often enough—but not with royalty, who tended to be accustomed to taking what they wanted.

  He took her outstretched hand, ostensibly for the purpose of kissing it; in reality, to keep her at a safe distance. What did she want? And why?

  “This is—to thank you,” she said, as he raised his head from her beringed knuckles. She thrust the box into his other hand. “And to protect you.”

  “I assure you, madam, no thanks are necessary. I did nothing.” Christ, was that it? Did she think she must bed him, in token of thanks—or rather, had convinced herself that she must, because she wanted to? She did want to; he could see her excitement, in the slightly widened blue eyes, the flushed cheeks, the rapid pulse in her throat. He squeezed her fingers gently and released them, then tried to hand back the box.

  “Really, madam—Louisa—I cannot accept this; surely it is a treasure of your family.” It certainly looked valuable; small as it was, it was remarkably heavy—made either of gilded lead or of solid gold—and sported a number of crudely cut cabochon stones, which he feared were precious.

  “Oh, it is,” she assured him. “It has been in my husband’s family for hundreds of years.”

  “Oh, well, then certainly—”

  “No, you must keep it,” she said vehemently. “It will protect you from the creature.”

  “Creature. You mean the—”

  “Der Nachtmahr,” she said, lowering her voice and looking involuntarily over one shoulder, as though fearing that some vile thing hovered in the air nearby.

  Nachtmahr. “Nightmare,” it meant. Despite himself, a brief shiver tightened Grey’s shoulders. The halls were better lighted, but still harbored drafts that made the candles flicker and shadows flow like moving water down the walls.

  He glanced down at the box. There were letters etched into the lid, in Latin, but of so ancient a sort that it would take close examination to work out what they said.

  “It is a reliquary,” she said, moving closer, as though to point out the inscription. “Of St. Orgevald.”

  “Ah? Er … yes. Most interesting.” He thought this mildly gruesome. Of all the objectionable popish practices, this habit of chopping up saints and scattering their remnants to the far ends of the earth was possibly the most reprehensible.

  She was very close, her perfume cloying in his nostrils. How was he to get rid of the woman? The door to his room was only a foot or two away; he had a strong urge to open it, leap in, and slam it shut, but that wouldn’t do.

  “You will protect me, protect my son,” she murmured, looking trustfully up at him from beneath golden lashes. “So I will protect you, dear John.”

  She flung her arms about his neck, and glued her lips to his in a passionate kiss. Sheer courtesy required him to return the embrace, though his mind was racing, looking feverishly for some escape. Where the devil were the servants? Why did no one interrupt them?

  Then someone did interrupt them. There was a gruff cough near at hand, and Grey broke the embrace with relief—a short-lived emotion, as he looked up to discover the Landgrave von Erdberg standing a few feet away, glowering under heavy brows.

  “Your pardon, Your Highness,” Stephan said, in tones of ice. “I wished to speak to Major Grey; I did not know anyone was here.”

  The princess was flushed, but quite collected. She smoothed her gown down across her body, drawing herself up in such a way that her fine bust was strongly emphasized.

  “Oh,” she said, very cool. “It’s you, Erdberg. Do not worry, I was just taking my leave of the major. You may have him now.” A small, smug smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. Quite deliberately, she laid a hand along Grey’s heated cheek, and let her fingers trail along his skin as she turned away. Then she strolled—curse the woman, she strolled!—away, switching the tail of her robe.

  There was a profound silence in the hallway.

  Grey broke it, finally.

  “You wished to speak with me, Captain?”

  Von Namtzen looked him over coldly, as though deciding whether to step on him.

  “No,” he said at last. “It will wait.” He turned on his heel and strode away, making a good deal more noise in his departure than had the princess.

  Grey pressed a hand to his forehead, until he could trust his head not to explode, then shook it, and lunged for the door to his room before anything else should happen.

  Tom was sitting on a stool by the fire, mending a pair of breeches that had suffered injury to the seams while Grey was demonstrating saber lunges to one of the German officers. He looked up at once when Grey came in, but if he had heard any of the conversation in the hall, he made no reference to it.

  “What’s that, me lord?” he asked instead, seeing the box in Grey’s hand.

  “What? Oh, that.” Grey put it down, with a faint feeling of distaste. “A relic. Of St. Orgevald, whoever he might be.”

  “Oh, I know him!”

  “You do?” Grey raised one brow.

  “Yes, me lord. There’s a little chapel to him, down the garden. Ilse—she’s one of the kitchen maids—was showing me. He’s right famous hereabouts.”

  “Indeed.” Grey began to undress, tossing his coat across the chair and starting on his waistcoat buttons. His fingers were impatient, slipping on the small buttons. “Famous for what?”

  “Stopping them killing the chi
ldren. Will I help you, me lord?”

  “What?” Grey stopped, staring at the young valet, then shook his head and resumed twitching buttons. “No, continue. Killing what children?”

  Tom’s hair was standing up on end, as it tended to do whenever he was interested in a subject, owing to his habit of running one hand through it.

  “Well, d’ye see, me lord, it used to be the custom, when they’d build something important, they’d buy a child from the gypsies—or just take one, I s’pose—and wall it up in the foundation. Specially for a bridge. It keeps anybody wicked from crossing over, see?”

  Grey resumed his unbuttoning, more slowly. The hair prickled uneasily on his nape.

  “The child—the murdered child—would cry out, I suppose?”

  Tom looked surprised at his acumen.

  “Yes, me lord. However did you know that?”

  “Never mind. So St. Orgevald put a stop to this practice, did he? Good for him.” He glanced, more kindly, at the small gold box. “There’s a chapel, you say—is it in use?”

  “No, me lord. It’s full of bits of stored rubbish. Or, rather—’tisn’t in use for what you might call devotions. Folk do go there.” The boy flushed a bit, and frowned intently at his work. Grey deduced that Ilse might have shown him another use for a deserted chapel, but chose not to pursue the matter.

  “I see. Was Ilse able to tell you anything else of interest?”

  “Depends upon what you call interesting, me lord.” Tom’s eyes were still fixed upon his needle, but Grey could tell from the way in which he caught his upper lip between his teeth that he was in possession of a juicy bit of information.

  “At this point, my chief interest is in my bed,” Grey said, finally extricating himself from the waistcoat, “but tell me anyway.”

  “Reckon you know the nursemaid’s still gone?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you know her name was Koenig, and that she was wife to the Hun soldier what the succubus got?”

  Grey had just about broken Tom of calling the Germans “Huns,” at least in their hearing, but chose to overlook this lapse.

  “I did not.” Grey unfastened his neckcloth, slowly. “Was this known to all the servants?” More importantly, did Stephan know?

  “Oh, yes, me lord.” Tom had laid down his needle, and now looked up, eager with his news. “See, the soldier, he used to do work here, at the Schloss.”

  “When? Was he a local man, then?” It was quite usual for soldiers to augment their pay by doing work for the local citizenry in their off hours, but Stephan’s men had been in situ for less than a month. But if the nurserymaid was the man’s wife—

  “Yes, me lord. Born here, the both of them. He joined the local regiment some years a-gone, and came here to work—”

  “What work did he do?” Grey asked, unsure whether this had any bearing on Koenig’s demise, but wanting a moment to encompass the information.

  “Builder,” Tom replied promptly. “Part of the upper floors got the woodworm, and had to be replaced.”

  “Hmm. You seem remarkably well informed. Just how long did you spend in the chapel with young Ilse?”

  Tom gave him a look of limpid innocence, much more inculpatory than an open leer.

  “Me lord?”

  “Never mind. Go on. Was the man working here at the time he was killed?”

  “No, me lord. He left with the regiment two years back. He did come round a week or so ago, Ilse said, only to visit his friends among the servants, but he didn’t work here.”

  Grey had now got down to his drawers, which he removed with a sigh of relief.

  “Christ, what sort of perverse country is it where they put starch in a man’s smallclothes? Can you not deal with the laundresses, Tom?”

  “Sorry, me lord.” Tom scrambled to retrieve the discarded drawers. “I didn’t know the word for starch. I thought I did, but whatever I said just made ’em laugh.”

  “Well, don’t make Ilse laugh too much. Leaving the maid-servants with child is an abuse of hospitality.”

  “Oh, no, me lord,” Tom assured him earnestly. “We was too busy talking to, er …”

  “To be sure you were,” Grey said equably. “Did she tell you anything else of interest?”

  “Mebbe.” Tom had the nightshirt already aired and hanging by the fire to warm; he held it up for Grey to draw over his head, the wool flannel soft and grateful as it slid over his skin. “Mind, it’s only gossip.”

  “Mmm?”

  “One of the older footmen, who used to work with Koenig—after Koenig came to visit, he was talkin’ with one of the other servants, and he said in Ilse’s hearing as how little Siegfried was growing up to be the spit of him. Of Koenig, I mean, not the footman. But then he saw her listening and shut up smart.”

  Grey stopped in the act of reaching for his banyan, and stared.

  “Indeed,” he said. Tom nodded, looking modestly pleased with the effect of his findings.

  “That’s the princess’s old husband, isn’t it, over the mantelpiece in the drawing room? Ilse showed me the picture. Looks a proper old bugger, don’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Grey, smiling slightly. “And?”

  “He ain’t had—hadn’t, I mean—any children more than Siegfried, though he was married twice before. And Master Siegfried was born six months to the day after the old fellow died. That kind of thing always causes talk, don’t it?”

  “I should say so, yes.” Grey thrust his feet into the proffered slippers. “Thank you, Tom. You’ve done more than well.”

  Tom shrugged modestly, though his round face beamed as if illuminated from within.

  “Will I fetch you tea, me lord? Or a nice syllabub?”

  “Thank you, no. Find your bed, Tom, you’ve earned your rest.”

  “Very good, me lord.” Tom bowed; his manners were improving markedly, under the example of the Schloss’s servants. He picked up the clothes Grey had left on the chair, to take away for brushing, but then stopped to examine the little reliquary, which Grey had left on the table.

  “That’s a handsome thing, me lord. A relic, did you say? Isn’t that a bit of somebody?”

  “It is.” Grey started to tell Tom to take the thing away with him, but stopped. It was undoubtedly valuable; best to leave it here. “Probably a finger or a toe, judging from the size.”

  Tom bent, peering at the faded lettering.

  “What does it say, me lord? Can you read it?”

  “Probably.” Grey took the box, and brought it close to the candle. Held thus at an angle, the worn lettering sprang into legibility. So did the drawing etched into the top, which Grey had to that point assumed to be merely decorative lines. The words confirmed it.

  “Isn’t that a …?” Tom said, goggling at it.

  “Yes, it is.” Grey gingerly set the box down.

  They regarded it in silence for a moment.

  “Ah … where did you get it, me lord?” Tom asked finally.

  “The princess gave it me. As protection from the succubus.”

  “Oh.” The young valet shifted his weight to one foot, and glanced sidelong at him. “Ah … d’ye think it will work?”

  Grey cleared his throat.

  “I assure you, Tom, if the phallus of St. Orgevald does not protect me, nothing will.”

  Left alone, he sank into the chair by the fire, closed his eyes, and tried to compose himself sufficiently to think. The conversation with Tom had at least allowed him a little distance, from which to contemplate matters with the princess and Stephan—save that they didn’t bear contemplation.

  He felt mildly nauseated, and sat up to pour a glass of plum brandy from the decanter on the table. That helped, settling both his stomach and his mind.

  He sat slowly sipping it, gradually bringing his mental faculties to bear on the less personal aspects of the situation.

  Tom’s discoveries cast a new and most interesting light on matters. If Grey had ever believed in the existence o
f a succubus—and he was sufficiently honest to admit that there had been moments, both in the graveyard and in the dark-flickering halls of the Schloss—he believed no longer.

  The attempted kidnapping was plainly the work of some human agency, and the revelation of the relationship between the two Koenigs—the vanished nursemaid and her dead husband—just as plainly indicated that the death of Private Koenig was part of the same affair, no matter what hocus-pocus had been contrived around it.

  Grey’s father had died when he was twelve, but had succeeded in instilling in his son his own admiration for the philosophy of reason. In addition to the concept of Occam’s razor, his father had also introduced him to the useful doctrine of cui bono.

  The plainly obvious answer there was the princess Louisa. Granting for the present that the gossip was true, and that Koenig had fathered little Siegfried … the last thing the woman could want was for Koenig to return and hang about where awkward resemblances could be noted.

  He had no idea of the German law regarding paternity. In England, a child born in wedlock was legally the offspring of the husband, even when everyone and the dog’s mother knew that the wife had been openly unfaithful. By such means, several gentlemen of his acquaintance had children, even though he was quite sure that the men had never even thought of sharing their wives’ beds. Had Stephan perhaps—

  He caught that thought by the scruff of the neck and shoved it aside. Besides, if the miniaturist had been faithful, Stephan’s son was the spitting image of his father. Though painters naturally would produce what image they thought most desired by the patron, in spite of the reality—

  He picked up the glass and drank from it until he felt breathless and his ears buzzed.

  “Koenig,” he said firmly, aloud. Whether the gossip was true or not—and having kissed the princess, he rather thought it was; no shrinking violet, she!—and whether or not Koenig’s reappearance might threaten Siggy’s legitimacy, the man’s presence must certainly have been unwelcome.

  Unwelcome enough to have arranged his death?

  Why, when he would be gone again soon? The troops were likely to move within the week—surely within the month. Had something happened that made the removal of Private Koenig urgent? Perhaps Koenig himself had been in ignorance of Siegfried’s parentage—and upon discovering the boy’s resemblance to himself on his visit to the castle, determined to extort money or favor from the princess?