The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [139]
The thought of explaining things to Hal made him queasier still, but there was no help for it.
They reached Argus House near sunset, and Minnie, hearing the noise of their arrival, came hurrying down the stairs to greet them. A quick, appalled glance at them having told her all she wanted to know, she forbade them to speak, rang for footmen and chambermaids, and ordered brandy and baths all round.
“Hal …?” Grey asked, glancing warily toward the library.
“He’s in the House, making a speech about tin mining. I’ll send a note to bring him back.” She took a step away, holding her nose with one hand and gesturing him toward the stairs with the other. “Shoo, John.”
CLEAN AND STILL relatively sober, despite a lavish application of brandy, Grey made his way down to the larger drawing room, where his nose told him tea was being served. He heard the soft rumble of Jamie Fraser’s voice, talking to Minnie, and found them cozily ensconced on the blue settee; they looked up at his entrance with the slightly startled air of conspirators.
He had no time to wonder about this before Hal arrived, dressed for the House of Lords and flushed from the heat of the day. The duke collapsed into a chair with a groan and pried his red-heeled shoes off, dropping them into Nasonby’s hands with a sigh of relief. The butler bore them off as though they were made of fine china, leaving Hal to examine a hole in his stocking.
“The press of carriages and wagons was so great, I got out and walked,” he said, as though he’d last seen his brother at breakfast, rather than weeks before. He glanced up at Grey. “I’ve got a blister on my heel the size of a pigeon’s egg, and it looks better than you do. What the devil’s happened?”
With this introduction, it proved easier than Grey had thought to lay things out. This he did as succinctly as possible, referring to Fraser now and then to provide details.
Hal’s lips twitched a bit at the part about Siverly’s attack upon Jamie Fraser, but he sobered immediately upon hearing of Grey’s two visits to Siverly’s estate.
“Good God, John.” Tea had now appeared, and he absently took a slice of fruitcake, which he held uneaten in one hand while stirring sugar into his tea. “So you escaped from Athlone Castle and fled Ireland, suspected of murder. You do realize that the justiciar will recognize you from your description?”
“I hadn’t time to worry about it,” Grey retorted, “and I don’t plan to start now. We have more important things to think of.”
Hal leaned forward and set down the fruitcake, very carefully.
“Tell me,” he said.
Grey obliged, bringing out the half-charred pages they had retrieved from Twelvetrees’s bonfire. Finally, he deposited the smudged and crumpled sheet of poetry, with the list of names on the back, and explained what he thought these signified.
Hal picked it up, whistled between his teeth, and said something scabrous in German.
“Nicely put,” said Grey. His throat was raw from seasickness and talking. He took up his cup of tea and inhaled it thankfully. “I see one man on that list who holds a commission; if any of the others are in the army, it should be possible to locate them fairly easily.”
Hal put the singed pages carefully on the table.
“Well. I think it behooves us to proceed carefully, but quickly. I’ll put Harry on to these names; he knows everyone and can find out who they are, if they’re in the army, and what their history may be. Plainly most are Irish; I think we ought to have a very cautious look at the Irish Brigades—don’t want to offend them unduly. As for Twelvetrees …” He noticed the fruitcake, picked it up, and took a bite, chewing absently as he thought.
“He already knows he’s under suspicion of something,” Grey pointed out, “whether he knows what or not. Do we approach him directly or just follow him about London to see who he talks to?”
Hal’s face lighted in a smile, as he looked his younger brother up and down.
“You going to black your face and follow