Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [186]
“A society—of a sort. Young men of family, with an interest in things…unwholesome, shall we say?”
“Let’s,” I said. “And just what do you know about Les Disciples?”
“Only what I heard in a tavern in the Cité,” he said. “That the society demands a good deal from its members, and the price of initiation is high…by some standards.”
“That being?” I dared him with my eyes. He smiled rather grimly before replying.
“A maidenhead, for one thing. The nipples of a married woman, for another.” He shot a quick glance at my bosom. “Your friend’s a virgin, is she? Or was?”
I felt hot and cold by turns. I wiped my face with the handkerchief and tucked it into the pocket of my cloak. I had to try twice, for my hand trembled.
“She was. What else have you heard? Do you know who’s involved with Les Disciples?”
Dougal shook his head. There were threads of silver in the russet hair over his temples, that caught the light of the afternoon.
“Only rumors. The Vicomte de Busca, the youngest of the Charmisse sons—perhaps. The Comte St. Germain. Eh! Are ye all right, lass?”
He leaned forward in some consternation, peering at me.
“Fine,” I said, breathing deeply through my nose. “Bloody fine.” I pulled out the handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat off my brow.
“We mean you no harm, mesdames.” The ironic voice echoed in the dark of my memory. The green-shirted man was medium-height and dark, slim and narrow-shouldered. If that description fit Jonathan Randall, it also fit the Comte St. Germain. Would I have recognized his voice, though? Could any normal man conceivably have sat across from me at dinner, eating salmon mousse and making genteel conversation, barely two hours after the incident in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?
Considered logically, though, why not? I had, after all. And I had no particular reason for supposing the Comte to be a normal man—by my standards—if rumor were true.
The coach was drawing to a halt, and there was little time for contemplation. Was I about to ensure that the man responsible for Mary’s violation went free, while I also ensured the safety of Jamie’s most loathed enemy? I took a deep, quivering breath. Damn little choice about it, I thought. Life was paramount; justice would just have to wait its turn.
The coachman had alighted and was reaching for the door handle. I bit my lip and glanced at Dougal MacKenzie. He met my gaze with a slight shrug. What did I want of him?
“Will you back my story?” I asked abruptly.
He looked up at the towering bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres. Brilliant afternoon light blazed through the open door.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” My mouth was dry.
He slid across the seat and extended a hand to me.
“Pray God we dinna both end in a cell, then,” he said.
* * *
An hour later, we stepped into the empty street outside the commissariat de police. I had sent the coach home, lest anyone who knew us should see it standing outside the Quai des Orfèvres. Dougal offered me an arm, and I took it perforce. The ground here was muddy underfoot, and the cobbles in the street made uncertain going in high-heeled slippers.
“Les Disciples,” I said as we made our way slowly along the banks of the Seine toward the towers of Notre Dame. “Do you really think the Comte St. Germain might have been one of the men who…who stopped us in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?” I was beginning to tremble with reaction and fatigue—and with hunger; I had had nothing since breakfast, and the lack was making itself felt. Sheer nerve had kept me going through the interview with the police. Now the need to think was passing, and with it, the ability to do so.
Dougal’s arm was hard under my hand, but I couldn’t look up at him; I needed all my attention to keep my footing. We had turned into the Rue Elise and the cobbles were shiny with damp and smeared with various kinds of filth. A porter lugging a crate paused in our path to clear his throat and hawk noisily into the street at my feet. The greenish glob clung to the curve of a stone, finally slipping off to float sluggishly onto the surface of a