The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [159]
“He also pointed out,” Fraser went on, “that I was under no obligation to keep the money myself; he would be pleased to pay it out to anyone I specified. And, after all, there were still folk who were under my protection, were there not?”
Grey sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Hal hadn’t been an ass.
“Indeed there are,” Grey said. “Who do you propose to help?”
Fraser narrowed his eyes a bit but had plainly been thinking about it.
“Well, there’s my sister and her husband. They’ve the six bairns—and there are my tenants—” He caught himself, lips compressed for a moment “Families who were my tenants,” he corrected.
“How many?” Grey asked, curious.
“Maybe forty families—maybe not so many now. But still …”
Hal must have come well up to scratch on the reward, Grey thought.
Grey didn’t wish to dwell on the matter. He coughed and rang the bell for a footman to bring him a drink. His chances of getting anything stronger than barley water in his bedroom were slim, and he wasn’t fond of sherry.
“Returning to my brother,” he said, having given his order for brandy, “I wondered whether he has said anything to you regarding the court-martial or the progress of … er … the, um, military operation.” The arrest of the incriminated officers of the Irish Brigades, he meant.
The frown returned, this time troubled and somewhat fierce.
“He has,” Fraser replied shortly. “The court-martial is set for Friday. He wished me to remain, in case my testimony is required.”
Grey was shaken; he hadn’t thought Hal would have Fraser testify. If Jamie did, he would be a marked man. The testimony of a general court-martial became by law part of the public record of the Judge Advocate’s court; it would be impossible to hide Fraser’s part in the investigation of Siverly’s affairs or the revelation of Twelvetrees’s treachery. Even if there were no direct linkage made to the quashing of the Irish Brigades’ plot, Jacobite sympathizers—and there were still many, even in London—would draw conclusions. The Irish as a race were known to be vengeful.
A lesser emotion was one of dismay at the thought that Hal might send Fraser back to Helwater so quickly—though in justice there was no reason to keep him in London. He’d done what Hal required of him, however unwillingly.
Was that what Hal was thinking? That if Fraser testified, he could then be quickly sent back to the remote countryside to resume a hidden life as Alexander MacKenzie, safe from retribution?
“As to the … military operation …” The broad mouth compressed in a brief grimace. “I believe it is satisfactory. I am naturally not in His Grace’s entire confidence, but I heard Colonel Quarry telling him that there had been several significant arrests made yesterday.”
“Ah,” Grey said, trying to sound neutral. The arrests couldn’t help but cause Fraser pain, even though he had agreed with the necessity. “Was … er … was Mr. Quinn’s name among them?”
“No.” Fraser looked disturbed at this. “Are they hunting Quinn?”
Grey shrugged a little and took a sip of his brandy. It burned agreeably going down.
“They know his name, his involvement,” he said, a little hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “And he is a loose cannon. He quite possibly knows who some members of the Wild Hunt are. Do you not think he would make an effort to warn them, if he knows they are exposed?”
“He would, aye.” Fraser rose suddenly and went to look out the window, leaning on the frame, his face turned away.
“Do you know where he is?” Grey asked quietly, and Fraser shook his head.
“I wouldna tell ye if I did,” he said, just as quietly. “But I don’t.”
“Would you warn him—if you could?” Grey asked. He oughtn’t, but was possessed by curiosity.
“I would,” Fraser replied without hesitation. He turned round now and looked