Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [214]
Charles smiled, his expression altering to one of surprising sweetness.
“I know; I cannot tell you, Madame, how greatly I esteem the devotion and service of your husband; the sight of his loyal face warms my heart amid the loneliness of my present surroundings.”
“Oh?” I said.
“It is not a difficult thing I ask,” he assured me. “It is only that I have made a small investment; a cargo of bottled port.”
“Really?” I said. “How interesting.” Murtagh had left for Lisbon that morning, vials of nettle juice and madder root in his pouch.
“It is a small thing,” Charles flipped a lordly hand, disdaining the investment of every cent he had been able to borrow. “But I wish that my friend James shall accomplish the task of disposing of the cargo, once it shall arrive. It is not appropriate, you know”—and here he straightened his shoulders and elevated his nose just a trifle, quite unconsciously—“for a—a person such as myself, to be seen to engage in trade.”
“Yes, I quite see, Your Highness,” I said, biting my lip. I wondered whether he had expressed this point of view to his business partner, St. Germain—who undoubtedly regarded the young pretender to the Scottish throne as a person of less consequence than any of the French nobles—who engaged in “trade” with both hands, whenever the chance of profit offered.
“Is Your Highness quite alone in this enterprise?” I inquired innocently.
He frowned slightly. “No, I have a partner; but he is a Frenchman. I should much prefer to entrust the proceeds of my venture to the hands of a countryman. Besides,” he added thoughtfully, “I have heard that my dear James is a most astute and capable merchant; it is possible that he might be able to increase the value of my investment by means of judicious sale.”
I supposed whoever had told him of Jamie’s capability hadn’t bothered to add the information that there was probably no wine merchant in Paris whom St. Germain more disliked. Still, if everything worked out as planned, that shouldn’t matter. And if it didn’t, it was possible that St. Germain would solve all of our problems by strangling Charles Stuart, once he found out that the latter had contracted delivery of half his exclusive Gostos port to his most hated rival.
“I’m sure that my husband will do his utmost to dispose of Your Highness’s merchandise to the maximum benefit of all concerned,” I said, with complete truth.
His Highness thanked me graciously, as befitting a prince accepting the service of a loyal subject. He bowed, kissed my hand with great formality, and departed with continuing protestations of gratitude to Jamie. Magnus, looking dourly unimpressed by the Royal visit, closed the door upon him.
In the event, Jamie didn’t come home until after I had fallen asleep, but I told him over breakfast of Charles’s visit, and his request.
“God, I wonder if His Highness will tell the Comte?” he said. Having ensured the health of his bowels by disposing of his parritch in short order, he proceeded to add a French breakfast of buttered rolls and steaming chocolate on top of it. A broad grin spread across his face in contemplation of the Comte’s reaction, as he sipped his cocoa.
“I wonder is it lèse-majesté to hammer an exiled prince? For if it’s not, I hope His Highness has Sheridan or Balhaldy close by when St. Germain hears about it.”
Further speculation along these lines was curtailed by the sudden sound of voices in the hallway. A moment later, Magnus appeared in the door, a note borne on his silver tray.
“Your pardon, milord,” he said, bowing. “The messenger who brought this desired most urgently that it be brought to your attention at once.”
Brows raised, Jamie took the note from the tray, opened and read it.
“Oh, bloody hell!” he said in disgust.
“What is it?” I asked. “Not word from Murtagh already?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s from the foreman of the warehouse.”
“Trouble at the docks?”
An odd mixture of