Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [66]
“The parlormaid says that His Highness Prince Charles has been paying calls on the Princesse Louise de La Tour de Rohan,” I said, plucking a single eel off the fork and chewing slowly. They were delicious, but felt rather disconcerting if swallowed whole, as though the creature were still alive. I swallowed carefully. So far, so good.
“In the absence of the lady’s husband,” I added delicately.
Jamie looked amused, Jared horrified.
“The Princesse de Rohan?” Jared said. “Marie-Louise-Henriette-Jeanne de La Tour d’Auvergne? Her husband’s family are very close to the King.” He rubbed his fingers across his lips, leaving a buttery shine around his mouth. “That could be very dangerous,” he muttered, as though to himself. “I wonder if the wee fool…but no. Surely he’s more sense than that. It must be only inexperience; he’s not been so much in society, and things are different in Rome. Still…” He left off muttering and turned to Jamie with decision.
“That will be your first task, lad, in the service of His Majesty. You’re much of an age with His Highness, but you have the experience and the judgment of your time in Paris—and my training, I flatter myself.” He smiled briefly at Jamie. “You can befriend his Highness; smooth his path as much as may be with those men that will be of use to him; you’ve met most of them by now. And explain to His Highness—as tactfully as ye can—that gallantry in the wrong direction may do considerable damage to the aims of his father.”
Jamie nodded absently, plainly thinking of something else.
“How does our parlormaid come to know about His Highness’s vists, Sassenach?” he asked. “She doesna leave the house more than once a week, to go to Mass, does she?”
I shook my head, and swallowed the next mouthful in order to reply.
“So far as I’ve worked it out, our kitchenmaid heard it from the knife-boy, who heard it from the stable-lad, who got it from the groom next door. I don’t know how many people there are in between, but the Rohan house is three doors down the street. I’d imagine the Princesse knows all about us, too,” I added cheerfully. “At least she does, if she talks to her kitchenmaid.”
“Ladies do not gossip with their kitchenmaids,” Jared said coldly. He narrowed his eyes at Jamie in a silent adjuration to keep his wife in better order.
I could see the corner of Jamie’s mouth twitching, but he merely sipped his Montrachet and changed the subject to a discussion of Jared’s latest venture; a shipment of rum, on its way from Jamaica.
When Jared rang the bell for the dishes to be cleared and the brandy brought out, I excused myself. One of Jared’s idiosyncrasies was the enjoyment of long black cheroots with his brandy, and I had the distinct feeling that, carefully chewed or not, the eels I had eaten wouldn’t benefit from being smoked.
I lay on my bed and tried, with limited success, not to think about eels. I closed my eyes and tried to think of Jamaica—pleasant white beaches under tropical sun. But thoughts of Jamaica led to thoughts of the Wilhelmina and thought of ships made me think of the sea, which led directly back to images of giant eels, coiling and writhing through the heaving green waves. I greeted the distraction of Jamie’s appearance with relief, sitting up as he came in.
“Phew!” He leaned against the closed door, fanning himself with the loose end of his jabot. “I feel like a smoked sausage. I’m fond of Jared, but I shall be verra pleased when he’s taken his damned cheroots to Germany.”
“Well, don’t come near me, if you smell like a cheroot,” I said. “The eels don’t like smoke.”
“I dinna blame them a bit.” He took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. “I think it’s a plan, ye ken,” he confided, tossing his head toward the door as he took his shirt off. “Like the bees.”
“Bees?”
“How ye move a hive of bees,” he explained, opening the window and hanging his