The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [42]
This unsettled him, as there was nothing in his relationship—or feelings—regarding von Namtzen to which this could apply, and he realized quite well that it had to do with the presence of Jamie Fraser at Argus House.
Will you bloody go away? he thought fiercely. I’m not ready.
The room seemed very warm, and sweat gathered round his hairline. Luckily, the arrival of the salmagundi and the kerfuffle of serving it diverted the company’s attention from verse, and he lost himself thankfully in the glories of short-crust pastry and the luscious mingled juices of game, duck, and truffles.
“WHAT’S BROUGHT YOU to London, sir?” Harry asked von Namtzen over the salad. It was plainly meant merely to break the digestive silence caused by the salmagundi, but the Hanoverian’s face became shadowed, and he looked down into the plate of greens and vinegar.
“I am purchasing some properties for the captain,” Mr. Frobisher put in hurriedly, with a glance at von Namtzen. “Papers to sign, you know …” He waved a hand, indicating vast reams of legal requirement.
Grey looked curiously at von Namtzen—who was not only captain of his own regiment but the Graf von Erdberg, as well. He knew perfectly well that the graf had a man of business in England; all wealthy foreigners did, and he had in fact met von Namtzen’s property agent once.
Whether von Namtzen had noticed his curiosity or merely felt that more explanation was necessary, he raised his head and expelled an explosive breath.
“My wife died,” he said, and paused to swallow. “Last month. I—my sister is in London.” Another swallow. “I have brought the … my children … to her.”
“Oh, my dear sir,” said Harry, putting a hand on von Namtzen’s arm and speaking with the deepest sympathy. “I am so sorry.”
“Danke,” von Namtzen muttered, and then suddenly rose to his feet and blundered out of the room, with what might have been a word of excuse or a muffled sob.
“Oh, dear,” said Frobisher, dismayed. “Poor fellow. I’d no idea he felt it so deeply.”
Neither had Grey.
After an awkward pause, they resumed eating their salads, Grey gesturing to the steward to remove von Namtzen’s plate. Frobisher had no details regarding the captain’s sad loss, and the conversation switched to a desultory discussion of politics.
Grey, having less than no interest in the subject, was left to consider Stephan von Namtzen and supply automatic noises of interest or agreement as the rhythm of the talk demanded.
He did spare a thought for Louisa von Lowenstein, the extremely vivacious—not that he couldn’t think of better words, but the woman was dead—Saxon princess who had married von Namtzen three years before. God rest her soul, he thought, and meant it—but his real concern was for Stephan.
If asked, he would have sworn that the marriage had been one of mutual convenience. He would also have sworn that Stephan’s tastes lay in other directions. There had been passages between himself and von Namtzen that … well, true, there had been nothing explicit, no declarations—not that sort of declaration, at least—and yet he couldn’t have been altogether mistaken. The sense of feeling between them …
He recalled the evening in Germany when he had helped Stephan to remove his shirt outdoors, had examined—and kissed—the stump of his recently amputated left arm, and how the man’s skin had glowed in the magic of the dusky light. His face grew hot and he bent his head over his plate.
Still. Stephan might have been sincerely attached to Louisa, no matter what the true nature of their marriage had been. And there were men who enjoyed the physical attractions of both sexes. For that matter, Grey himself knew several women whose deaths would distress him greatly, though he had no relation with them beyond that of friendship.
Von Namtzen reappeared as the cheese plates were being taken away, his normal equanimity seeming quite restored, though his eyes were red-rimmed. The conversation over port and brandy changed smoothly to a discussion of horse racing, thence to