The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [58]
“Aye? What sort of establishment is this club?” A slight crease showed between Fraser’s heavy brows.
“It’s not a bawdy house,” Grey assured him, with an edge. “Just an ordinary gentleman’s club.” It occurred to him that perhaps Fraser had never been in a gentleman’s club? Certainly he’d never been in London, but …
Fraser gave him a marked look. “I meant, what is the nature of the gentlemen who are members of this particular club? You say we are to meet Captain von Namtzen; is it a club patronized largely by soldiers?”
“Yes, it is,” Grey said, somewhat puzzled. “Why?”
Fraser’s lips compressed for an instant.
“If there is a possibility of my encountering men whom I knew during the Rising, I should like to know it.”
“Ah.” That possibility had not struck Grey. “I think it is not likely,” he said slowly. “But it would be as well, perhaps, to arrange a … er …”
“A fiction?” Fraser said, an edge in his voice. “To account for my recent whereabouts and current situation?”
“Yes,” Grey said, ignoring both the edge and the return of that simmering air of resentment. He bowed politely. “I will leave that to you, Mr. Fraser. You can inform me of the details on our way to the Beefsteak.”
JAMIE FOLLOWED GREY into the Beefsteak with a sense of wary curiosity. He’d never been in a London gentleman’s club, though he’d experienced a wide range of such establishments in Paris. Given the basic differences of personality and outlook between Frenchmen and Englishmen, though, he supposed that their social behavior might be different, as well. The food was certain to be.
“Von Namtzen!” Grey had caught sight of a tall, fair-haired man in a German uniform coming out of a room down the hall, and hurried toward him. This must be Stephan von Namtzen, the Graf von Erdberg, and the gentleman they had come to see.
The big man’s face lighted at sight of Grey, whom he greeted with a warm kiss on both cheeks, in the continental style. Grey appeared used to this and smiled, though he did not return the embrace, stepping back to introduce Jamie.
The graf was missing one arm, the sleeve of his coat pinned up across his chest, but shook Jamie’s hand warmly with his remaining one. He had shrewd gray eyes, the graf, and struck Jamie at once as both affable and competent—a good soldier. He relaxed a little; the graf presumably knew both who and what he was; there would be no need for fictions.
“Come,” said von Namtzen, with a cordial inclination of his head. “I have a private room reserved for us.” He led the way down the hall with Grey beside him, Jamie following more slowly, glancing aside into the various rooms they passed. The club was old and had an atmosphere of discreet, comfortable wealth. The dining room was laid with white napery and gleaming heavy silver, the smoking room furnished with well-aged leather chairs, sagging slightly in the seat and redolent of good tobacco. The runner under his feet was an aged Turkey carpet, worn nearly to the threads in the middle, but a good one, with medallions of scarlet and gold.
There was a low hum about the place, of conversation and service; he could hear the clinking of pots and spoons and crockery from a distant kitchen, and the scent of roasting meat perfumed the air. He could see why Grey liked the place; if you belonged here, it would embrace you. He himself did not belong here but, for a moment, rather wished he did.
Grey and von Namtzen had paused to exchange greetings with a friend; Jamie took the opportunity for a discreet inquiry of the steward.
“Turn right at the end of the hallway, sir, and you’ll find it just to your left,” the man said, with a courteous inclination of the head.
“Thank you,” he said, and gave Grey a brief lift of the chin, indicating his destination.