Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [59]
But the little official was backing away, hands held out before him as though in self-defense.
“Non, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, “Je le regrette, mais c’est impossible.…It cannot be done. Too many people know about it already. The news will be all over the docks by now.” He glanced helplessly at Jamie and Jared, then waved vaguely at the warehouse door, where the featureless heads of spectators showed in silhouette, the late afternoon sun rimming them with gold halos.
“No,” he said again, his pudgy features hardening with resolve. “You will excuse me, Monsieur—and Madame,” he added belatedly, as though noticing me for the first time. “I must go and institute proceedings for the destruction of the ship.”
The captain uttered another choked howl at this, and clutched at his sleeve, but he pulled away, and hurried out of the building.
The atmosphere following his departure was a trifle strained, what with Monsieur le Comte and his captain both glaring at me, Jamie glowering menacingly at them, and the dead man staring sightlessly up at the ceiling forty feet above.
The Comte took a step toward me, eyes glittering. “Have you any notion what you have done?” he snarled. “Be warned, Madame; you will pay for this day’s work!”
Jamie moved suddenly in the Comte’s direction, but Jared was even faster, tugging at Jamie’s sleeve, pushing me gently in the direction of the door, and murmuring something unintelligible to the stricken captain, who merely shook his head dumbly in response.
“Poor bugger,” Jared said outside, shaking his head. “Phew!” It was chilly on the quay, with a cold gray wind that rocked the ships at anchor, but Jared mopped his face and neck with a large, incongruous red sailcloth handkerchief pulled from the pocket of his coat. “Come on, laddie, let’s find a tavern. I’m needing a drink.”
Safely ensconced in the upper room of one of the quayside taverns, with a pitcher of wine on the table, Jared collapsed into a chair, fanning himself, and exhaled noisily.
“God, what luck!” He poured a large dollop of wine into his cup, tossed it off, and poured another. Seeing me staring at him, he grinned and pushed the pitcher in my direction.
“Well, there’s wine, lassie,” he explained, “and then there’s stuff you drink to wash the dust away. Toss it back quick, before you have time to taste it, and it does the job handily.” Taking his own advice, he drained the cup and reached for the pitcher again. I began to see exactly what had happened to Jamie the day before.
“Good luck or bad?” I asked Jared curiously. I would have assumed the answer to be “bad,” but the little merchant’s air of jovial exhilaration seemed much too pronounced to be due to the red wine, which strongly resembled battery acid. I set down my own cup, hoping the enamel on my molars was intact.
“Bad for St. Germain, good for me,” he said succinctly. He rose from his chair and peered out the window.
“Good,” he said, sitting down again with a satisfied air. “They’ll have the wine off and into the warehouse by sunset. Safe and sound.”
Jamie leaned back in his chair, surveying his cousin with one eyebrow raised, a smile on his lips.
“Do we take it that Monsieur le Comte St. Germain’s ship also carried spirits, Cousin?”
An ear-to-ear grin in reply displayed two gold teeth in the lower jaw, which made Jared look still more piratical.
“The best aged port from Pinhão,” he said happily. “Cost him a fortune. Half the vintage from the Noval vineyards, and no more available for a year.”
“And I suppose the other half of the Noval port is what’s being unloaded into your warehouse?” I began to understand his delight.
“Right, my lassie, right as rain!” Jared chortled, almost hugging himself at the thought. “D’ye know what that will sell for in Paris?” he demanded, rocking forward and banging his cup down on the table. “A limited supply, and me with the monopoly? God, my profit’s made for the year!