The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  “Beyond that,” he said, licking a sticky drop from his lower lip, “the assumption that one of those three was involved in this matter would have explained their notably uncharitable behavior toward me in the course of the inquiry. Pinning responsibility for the death of Tom Pilchard to my coat would deflect any inquiry into other possible causes, and prevent the explosion being linked with the destruction of the other cannon, as well as having the salutary effect of discrediting one or both of my brothers. And any one of those three men could easily have influenced the other two, so as to guide the questioning as he desired.”

  “Hmph.” Quarry frowned at the amber liquid in his glass, drank it off as though it were water, and set the glass aside. “Well, if discrediting Melton were the principal motive of our wicked bugger, it would be Twelvetrees. Bad blood, there. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to pistols at dawn between him and Melton, one of these days.”

  “True,” Grey agreed. “And Hal would shoot him like a dog, with pleasure. But it wasn’t the principal motive. Twelvetrees is a sod, but an honorable sod. He’s not merely a soldier, nor yet a colonel—he’s a colonel of the Royal Artillery.”

  Quarry nodded, purse-lipped, taking the point. “Aye. Rob the army and take money from the naval bilge rat, to kill his own men? Never.”

  “Exactly. Because bloody Stoughton was right—it wasn’t treason, merely criminal. Ergo, the simplest motive is the most likely: money.”

  “And Marchmont wipes his arse with cloth of gold; he doesn’t need money. Whereas Oswald …”

  “Is a politician of no particular means,” Grey finished. “Thus by definition in constant need of money.”

  “Thus by definition without conscience or honor? Quite. Oh, sorry, your half brother’s one, too, isn’t he? Steward!”

  Mr. Bodley, well-acquainted with Quarry’s habits, was already bringing in more brandy and a small wooden box of Spanish cigars. Quarry selected two with care, clipped the end of one, and handed it to Grey, who held it for Mr. Bodley’s taper.

  He seldom smoked, and the rush of tobacco through his blood made his heart pound. He felt a slight twinge in his chest, but ignored it.

  Quarry blew a long, pleasurable stream of smoke through pursed lips.

  “Can you prove it?” he asked, offhanded. “I believe you implicitly, of course. But beyond that …”

  Grey squinted, trying to blow a smoke ring, but failed dismally.

  “I don’t suppose it would stand up in court,” he said. “But I found this, in Stoughton’s portmanteau. As I said, had Stoughton failed to reach the ship, he could expect no protection from the navy. If I were a villain, I’d want a bit of leverage upon my fellow villain, just in case.”

  He reached into his pocket and removed a small medal, attached to a silk ribbon.

  “I saw Oswald wearing this, at the inquiry. I don’t know whether he gave it to Stoughton as acknowledgment of their connexion, or whether Stoughton simply stole it. Oswald would claim the latter, I suppose.”

  Quarry frowned at the bit of metal, pretending that he did not require spectacles to make out the engraving, which he did.

  “It’s an army decoration, surely; Oswald’s never been a soldier,” he said, handing it back. “Could simply claim it isn’t his, couldn’t he?”

  “Hardly. His father’s name is engraved on the back. And Mortimer Montmorency Oswald—the Third, if you please—is not quite so common as ‘John Smith,’ I daresay.”

  Quarry laughed immoderately, taking back the medal and turning it over in his hand.

  “Montmorency, by God? So his father was in the army, was he? Decorated for valor?”

  “Well, no,” Grey said. “It’s a medal for good conduct. As to what I propose to do,” he added, stubbing out his cigar and rising to his feet, “I am going home to change my clothes. I have an engagement this evening—a masqued ball at Vauxhall.”

  Quarry blinked up at him through a cloud of smoke.

  “A masqued ball? What on earth do you propose to go as?”

  “Why, as the Hero of Crefeld,” Grey said, taking back the medal and pocketing it. “What else?”

  In fact, he went as himself. Not in uniform, but attired in an inconspicuous suit of dark blue, worn with a scarlet domino. Those whom he sought would know him by sight.

  They would have to, he thought, seeing the hordes of people streaming through the gates of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. If those with whom he sought interview were disguised in any effective way—and one of them at least would certainly be masked—he would have little hope of distinguishing them among the throng.

  “Oh,” breathed Tom, completely entranced at sight of the trees, largely leafless but strung with hundreds of glimmering lights. “It’s fairyland!”

  “Something like,” Grey agreed, smiling despite the beating of his heart. “Try not to be too enraptured by the local fairies, though; a good many of them would pick your pocket as soon as look at you, and the rest would give you fair value under a bush, with a dose of the clap thrown in for free.”

  He paid admission for himself and Tom, and they walked into the maze of pathways that spread along the bank of the Thames, leading from grottoes where musicians played, muffled to the eyes against the autumn chill, to arbors where tables of luscious viands were spread, supper boxes piled high behind laboring servants dressed in livery. The great Rotunda, where dancing was held, rose like a bubble in the center of the Gardens, and laughter ran through the night like currents in a river, catching up the merrymakers and carrying them along from adventure to adventure.

  “Enjoy yourself, Tom,” said Grey, handing Byrd some money. “Don’t stay too close; Oswald’s a wary bird.”

  “He won’t see me, me lord,” Tom assured him, straightening the black domino he wore. “But I’ll not be far off, don’t you worry!”

  Grey nodded, and parting company with his servant, chose a path at random and strolled in the direction of the strains of Handel.

  Sheltered by thick hedges and brick walls and thronged with bodies, it was scarcely cold in the gardens, despite the lateness of the season. The chill was pleasant, caressing face and hands—and any other bits of exposed flesh—enhancing the heat of the rest of the body by contrast.

  There was a great deal of flesh exposed, to be sure. It gleamed among the light and shadow, set off by the rich colors of the costumes—the scarlets, crimsons, and purples, greens and blues, the flaunting yellow of tropical birds. Here and there a woman—perhaps—who chose to dress in stark black and white by way of contrast. These came dramatic out of the shadows, seeming to emerge from the night itself. One gave him a languishing look as she passed, reached out a hand to him, and as he raised his own, involuntarily, took hold of it, drew one of his fingers into her mouth, and sucked hard.

  She drew it slowly free, her teeth—her teeth? He could not tell—exquisite on his skin, then dropped his hand, flashed him a brilliant smile, and ran away, light-footed down the path. He stood a moment looking after her—or him—and then walked on.

  He heard whoops of delight approaching, and stepped hastily aside in time to avoid being run down by a covey of girls, scantily clad and equipped with skates, these ingeniously mounted on tiny wheels, so that they whizzed down the path in a body, draperies flying, squealing with excitement. A clatter of applause made him glance aside; a series of spinning plates on rods appeared over a hedge—jugglers in an adjoining alcove.

  Music, smoke, food, wine, beer, rum punch, and spectacle—all combined to induce an atmosphere of indulgence, not to say license. The Pleasure Gardens were liberally equipped with dark spaces, alcoves, grottoes, and secluded benches; most of these were being fully employed by couples of all sorts.

  He was aware—as most of the merrymakers were not—of the mollies among the crowd. Some dressed as women, others in their own male garb surmounted by outlandish masks, finding each other by glance and grimace, by whatever alchemy of flesh enabled body to seek body, freed by disguise of t
heir usual constraints.

  More than one gay blade glanced at him, and now and then one jostled him in passing, a hand brushing his arm, his back, lingering an instant on his hip, the touch a question. He smiled now and then, but walked on.

  Feeling hungry, he turned in to a supper table, bought a box, and found a place on the nearby lawn to eat. As he finished a breast of roast fowl and tossed the bones under a bush, a man sat down beside him. Sat much closer than was usual.

  He glanced warily at the man, but did not know him, and deliberately looked away, giving no hint of invitation.

  “Lord John,” said the man, in a pleasant voice.

  It gave him a shock, and he choked, a bit of chicken caught in his throat.

  “Do I know you, sir?” he said, politely, when he had finished coughing.

  “Oh, no,” said the gentleman—for he was a gentleman, by his voice. “Nor will you, I’m afraid. My loss, I am sure. I come merely as a messenger.” He smiled, a pleasant smile beneath the mask of a great horned owl.

  “Indeed.” Grey wiped greasy fingers on his handkerchief. “On whose behalf are you come, then?”

  “Oh, on behalf of England. I beg you will forgive the melodrama of that statement,” he said, deprecating. “It is true, though.”

  “Is that so?” The man wore no weapon—these were firmly discouraged in Vauxhall, but the odd knife was common, now and then a pistol.

  “Yes. And the message, Lord John, is that you will abandon any efforts to expose Mortimer Oswald.”

  “Will I?” he said, maintaining a tone of skepticism, though his stomach had clenched hard with the words. “Are you from the navy, then?”

  “No, nor from the army, either,” said the man, imperturbable. “I am employed by the Ministry of War, if that information is of use to you. I doubt it will be.”

  Grey doubted it, too—but he didn’t doubt the man’s assertion. He felt a low, burning anger growing, but this was tinged with a certain sense of fatality. Somehow, he was not truly surprised.

  “So you mean Oswald to escape payment for his crimes?” he asked. “His actions have meant the death of several men, the maiming of several more, and the endangerment—the ongoing endangerment, I might add—of hundreds. This means nothing to the government?”

  The man turned to face him straight-on, the painted eyes of his owl mask huge and fierce, obliterating the puny humanity of the man’s own orbs.

  “It will not serve the interests of the country for Oswald to be openly accused—let alone convicted—of corruption. Do you not realize the effect? Such accusations, such a trial, would cause widespread public anger and alarm, discrediting both the army and the navy, endangering relationships with our German allies, giving heart to our enemies … No, my lord. You will not pursue Oswald.”

  “And if I do?”

  “That would be most unwise,” the man said softly. His own eyes were closed; Grey could see the pale lids through the holes of his mask. Suddenly he opened them; they were dark in the flickering light; Grey could not tell the color.

  “We will see that Mr. Oswald does no further harm, I assure you.”

  “And it would suit the War Office’s purposes so much better to have a member of Parliament who can be quietly blackmailed to vote as you like, rather than one being hanged in effigy and hounded in the broadsheets?” He had a grip on his anger now, and his voice was steady.

  The owl inclined his head gravely, without speaking, and the man gathered his feet under him, preparing to rise. Grey stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Do you know, I think I am not very wise?” he said conversationally.

  The man became very still.

  “Indeed?” he said, still polite, but noticeably less friendly.

  “If I were to speak openly of what I know—to a journalist, perhaps? I have proof, you know, and witnesses; not enough for a trial by jury, perhaps, but more than adequate for a trial in the press. A Question in the House of Lords?”

  “Your career means nothing to you?” A note of threat had entered the owl’s voice.

  “No,” Grey said, and took a deep breath, ignoring the harsh stab of pain in his chest. “My honor means something, though.”

  The man’s mouth drew in at the corners, lips pressed tight. It was a good mouth, Grey thought; full-lipped, but not crude. Would he know the man by his mouth alone, if he saw it again? He waited while the man thought, feeling oddly calm. He’d meant what he said, and had no regrets, whatever might come of it now. He thought they would not try to kill him; that would accomplish nothing. Ruin him, perhaps. He didn’t care.

  At last the owl allowed his mouth to relax, and turned his head away.

  “Oswald will resign quietly, for reasons of ill health. Your brother will be appointed to replace him for the remainder of his term. Will that satisfy you?”

  Grey wondered for an instant whether Edgar might do the country more harm than Oswald. But England had survived stupidity in government for centuries; there were worse things. And if the War Office thought Grey as corrupt as themselves, what did that matter?

  “Done,” he said, raising his voice a little, to be heard over the sound of violins from a strolling band of gypsies.

  The owl rose silently and vanished into the throng. Grey didn’t try to see where he went. All he would have to do was to remove the mask and tuck it under his arm to become invisible.

  “Who was that?” said a voice near his ear.

  He turned with no sense of surprise—it was that sort of night, where the unreality of the surroundings lent all experience a dreamlike air—to find Neil the Cunt seated beside him on the frosty grass, blue eyes glowing through the feathered mask of a fighting cock.

  “Bugger off, Mr. Stapleton,” he said mildly.

  “Oh, now, Mary, let us not bicker.” Stapleton leaned back on the heels of his hands, legs flung oh-so-casually apart, the better to display his very considerable assets.

  “You can tell me,” he coaxed. “He didn’t look as though he wished you well, you know. It might be useful to you to have a friend with your best interests at heart to watch your back.”

  “I daresay it would,” Grey said dryly. “That would not, however, be Hubert Bowles. Or you. Were you following me, or the gentleman who has just left us?”

  “If I’d been following him, I’d know who he was, wouldn’t I?”

  “Quite possibly you do know, Mr. Stapleton, and only wish to know whether I do.”

  Stapleton made a sound, almost a laugh, and edged closer, so that his leg touched Grey’s. Not for the first time, Grey was startled at the heat of Stapleton’s body; even through the layers of cloth between them, he glowed with a warmth that made the red and yellow feathers of his mask seem about to burst into flames.

  “Charming ensemble,” Neil drawled, eyes burning through his mask with a boldness far past flirtation. “You have always such exquisite taste in your dress.” He reached out to finger the lawn ruffle of Grey’s shirt, long fingers sliding slowly—very slowly—down the length of it, slipping between the buttons, his warm touch just perceptible on the bare, cool skin of Grey’s breast.

  Grey’s heart gave a sudden bump, pain stabbed him, and he stiffened. He felt as though his chest were transfixed by an iron rod, holding him immobile. Tried to breathe, but was stopped by the pain. Christ, was he going to die in public, in a pleasure garden, in the company of a sodomite spy dressed like a rooster? He could only hope that Tom was nearby, and would remove his body before anybody noticed.

  “What’s that?” Stapleton sounded startled, drawing back his fingers as though burned.

  Grey was afraid to move, but managed to bend his neck enough to look down. A spot of blood the size of a sixpence bloomed on his shirt.

  He had to breathe; he would suffocate. He drew a breath and winced at the resultant sensation—but didn’t die immediately. His hands and feet felt cold.

  “Leave me,” he gasped. “I’m unwell.”

  Stapleton’s
eyes darted to and fro, doubtful. His mouth compressed in the shadow of the rooster’s open beak, but after a long moment’s hesitation, he rose abruptly and disappeared.

  Grey essayed another breath, and found that his heart continued to beat, though each thump sent a jarring pain through his breast. He gritted his teeth and reached gingerly inside his shirt.

  A tiny nub of metal, like the end of a needle, protruded half an inch from the skin of his chest. Breathing as shallowly as he dared, he pinched it tight between finger and thumb, and pulled.

  Pulled harder, air hissing between his teeth, and it came, in a sudden, easing glide.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, and took a long, deep, unhindered breath. “Thank you.” His chest burned a little where it had come out, but his heart beat without pain. He sat for some time, fist folded about the metal splinter, his other hand pressing the fabric of his shirt against the tiny wound to stanch the bleeding.

  He didn’t know how long he sat there, simply feeling happy. Revelers went by in groups, in couples, here and there a solitary man on the prowl. Some of them glanced at him, but he gave no sign of acknowledgment or welcome, and they passed on.

  Then another solitary man came round the corner of the path, his shadow cast before him. Very tall, crowned with a mitre. Grey looked up.

  Not a bishop. A grenadier in a high peaked cap, with his bomb sack slung over one shoulder, the brass tube at his belt glowing, eerie with the light of a burning slow match. At least it wasn’t another frigging bird, Grey thought, but a feeling of cold moved down his spine.

  The grenadier was moving slowly, plainly looking for someone; his head turned from side to side, his features completely hidden by a full-length black-silk mask.

  “Captain Fanshawe.” Grey spoke quietly, but the blank face turned at once in his direction. The grenadier looked over his shoulder, but the path was vacant for the moment. He settled his sack more firmly on his shoulder and came toward Grey, who rose to meet him.

  “I had your note.” The voice was the same, colorless, precise.