The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [38]
Justice.
Jamie drew a breath and held it for a moment, to ensure against hasty speech.
“What assistance?”
The duke blew a thoughtful cloud of blue-tinged smoke, and Jamie realized suddenly what the sweet, pungent odor was. It wasn’t tobacco; the duke was drinking hemp smoke. He’d smelled it once or twice before; a doctor in Paris had prescribed it to an acquaintance who suffered from a lung complaint. Was the duke ill? He didn’t look it.
He didn’t sound like it, either.
“Siverly has taken leave from his regiment and disappeared. We think he has gone to his estate in Ireland. I want him found and brought back.” Pardloe’s voice was level, and so was his gaze. “My brother is going to Ireland on this mission, but he will require help. He—”
“Did he bloody tell you to fetch me here?” Jamie’s fists had doubled. “Does he think that I—”
“I don’t know what he thinks, and, no, he has no idea that I’ve brought you here,” Pardloe said. “I doubt he’ll be pleased,” he added thoughtfully, “but as I said—whatever disagreements you and he may have do not concern me.” He laid the pipe aside and folded his hands, looking at Jamie straight on.
“I dislike doing this,” he said. “And I regret the necessity.”
Jamie stared at Pardloe, feeling his chest tighten. “I’ve been fucked up the arse by an Englishman before,” he said flatly. “Spare me the kiss, aye?”
Pardloe drew breath through his nose and laid both hands flat on the desk.
“You will accompany Lieutenant-Colonel Grey to Ireland and there render him every assistance in locating Major Siverly and compelling his return to England, as well as obtaining evidence to aid in his prosecution.”
Jamie sat like stone. He could hear the rasp of his own breath.
“Or your parole will be revoked. You will be taken to the Tower—today—and there committed to imprisonment at His Majesty’s pleasure.” The duke paused. “Do you require a moment to consider the situation?” he asked politely.
Jamie stood up abruptly. Pardloe stiffened, barely saving himself from jerking backward.
“When?” Jamie asked, and was surprised at the calmness in his voice.
Pardloe’s shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptibly.
“In a few days.” For the first time, his eyes left Jamie’s face, surveying him from head to toe. “You’ll need clothes. You’ll travel as the gentleman you are. Under parole, of course.” He paused, gaze returning to Jamie’s face. “And I will consider myself in your debt, Mr. Fraser.”
Jamie looked at him with contempt and turned on his heel.
“Where are you going?” Pardloe said. He sounded startled.
“Out,” Jamie said, and reached for the doorknob. He glared back over his shoulder. “Under parole. Of course.” He jerked the door open.
“Supper’s at eight,” said the duke’s voice behind him. “Don’t be late, will you? It puts Cook out.”
9
Eros Rising
IT HAD COME ON TO RAIN, AND THE GUTTERS WERE STREAMING. John Grey was soaked to the skin and was steaming. He stamped down Monmouth Street, oblivious to pelting rain, ankle-deep puddles, and the soggy skirts of his coat flapping about his thighs.
He’d been walking for what seemed hours, thinking that the exercise would burn away his anger, make it possible for him to speak to his brother without striking him. It hadn’t. If anything, he grew more infuriated with each step.
Even for Hal, to whom high-handedness was as natural as breathing, this was raw. Not only to have ignored John’s plainly stated position with regard to Jamie Fraser but to have decided without a word or a by-your-leave to have Fraser brought to London—and to have bloody done it without a word to him, overriding his authority as Fraser’s legal parole officer … and then—then!—to have compounded the crime by informing John—not asking him, oh, no, commanding him!—to go to Ireland in Fraser’s company.… He wanted urgently to wring Hal’s neck.
The only thing stopping him was the presence of James Fraser at Argus House.
He couldn’t in justice blame Fraser