The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [63]
He leaned forward a little, intent now.
“Moving them where? And where do they come from?”
“They’re going to Ireland. I don’t know where they’re coming from.”
He turned that over in his mind for a moment.
“Why are ye telling me this?”
She hesitated, and he could feel her calculation but didn’t know the exact nature of it. Not how much to trust him, he didn’t think—only a fool would trust him with dangerous information, and he was sure the duchess was no fool. How much to tell him, though …
“I love my husband, Mr. Fraser,” she said at last, softly. “I don’t want him—or John, for that matter—to find himself in a position where the Twelvetrees family might do him harm.
“I want you, if at all possible, to see that that doesn’t happen. If your inquiries in Ireland should lead you into contact with Edward Twelvetrees, I implore you, Mr. Fraser: try to keep him away from John, and try to see that whatever he’s doing with Major Siverly doesn’t intrude into the matter you’re dealing with.”
He’d followed her train of thought reasonably well, he thought, and ventured a question to check.
“Ye mean, whatever the money’s about—even if it’s going to, or through, Major Siverly—it’s not to do wi’ the matters covered by the court-martial your husband wants. And, therefore, ye want me to try to keep Lord John from following up any such trail, should he stumble over it?”
She gave a little sigh.
“Thank you, Mr. Fraser. I assure you, any entanglement with Edward Twelvetrees cannot help but lead to disaster.”
“For your husband, his brother—or your father?” he asked softly, and heard the sharp intake of her breath. After the briefest instant, though, the low gurgle of her laughter came again.
“Father always said you were the best of the Jacobite agents,” she said approvingly. “Are you still … in touch?”
“I am not,” he said definitely. “But it had to be your father who told ye about the money. If either Pardloe or Grey knew that, they would have mentioned it when we were making plans with Colonel Quarry.”
There was a small puff of amusement, and the duchess rose, a white blur against the darkness. She brushed down her robe and turned to go, but paused at the door.
“If you keep my secrets, Mr. Fraser, I will keep yours.”
HE RESUMED HIS BED cautiously; it smelt of her scent—and her body—and while not at all unpleasant, both were unsettling to him. So was her last remark—though upon due contemplation, he thought it had been mere persiflage. He had no secrets that needed keeping anymore—save the one, and there was little chance that she even knew of William’s existence, still less that she knew the truth of his paternity.
He could hear a church bell in the distance, striking the hour—a single, mellow bong. One o’clock, and the solitude of the deep night began to settle around him.
He thought briefly about what the duchess had told him about the money Twelvetrees was moving into Ireland, but there was nothing he could do with the information, and he was worn out with the strain of being constantly on his guard in this nest of English. His thoughts stretched and frayed, tangled and dissolved, and before the clock struck the half hour, he was asleep.
JOHN GREY HEARD THE BELL of St. Mary Abbot strike one and put down his book, rubbing his eyes. There were several more in an untidy pile beside him, along with the muddy dregs of the coffee that had been keeping him awake during his researches. Even coffee had its limits, though.
He had been reading through several versions of the Wild Hunt tale, as collected and recounted by various authorities. While undeniably fascinating, none of these matched with either the language or the events given in Carruthers’s version, nor did they shed any particular light upon it.
If he hadn’t known Charlie, hadn’t seen the passion and precision with which he had prepared