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In wine there is truth
~ Pliny the Elder
He had the dream again last night. The same dream plaguing him for over thirty years. The dream that left him shaking, dripping with sweat, waiting for the phantom pain and all too real terror to disappear. God, would it never end?
Lord John Grey sighed, took a slightly firmer grip on the fine leaded crystal glass in his sweaty hand containing something Hal’s doughty old butler called punch but which contained nothing packing a punch that John could find, and looked with great longing toward the French doors leading out onto the night-washed terrace of Argus House.
Perspiration ran down the back of his neck, soaking the fine linen of his neckcloth and shirt as it made its inexorable passage down his spine to finally be absorbed by his smallclothes. Thank goodness he’d taken Lady Mumford’s advice all those years ago and always purchased fine cotton for those particular garments.
She’d been talking about India at the time, recalling happier days before both her husband and her son were killed in battle. John, aware he’d have a new posting within a few weeks time, but not knowing where he’d be posted, or the climate of said unknown region, decided to err on the side of over caution when assembling his personal wardrobe.
Over the years, he had reason to be grateful to the lady. He could always add layers in a cold climate, and cotton was the most comfortable fabric he’d found when dealing with heat. He’d learned the hard way to spare no expense when it came to fabric in direct contact with his most sensitive parts.
However, on this particular evening, given the unexpectedly hot London temperatures combined with the total lack of any late evening breeze blowing through the floor-to-ceiling draperies pulled back from the open windows in the main salon, the layers of silk brocade and linen he wore, and the number of bodies packed into the room, even cotton didn’t help. Every part of him was experiencing some degree of dampness. And none of it was brought on by anything even remotely pleasurable. It was too hot to even think about pleasure, despite the come-hither side glances he received from some of the guests, both male and female.
At least, thank the gods, he’d been able to talk Minnie out of her insistence that the men should wear formal wigs. Powder was bad enough as it caked in his sweat-soaked hair. If he’d worn a wig he was certain he’d be fit to burst into flames at any moment, igniting the draperies and ruining the party. And that would make Minnie very, very unhappy.
He loved Minnie, he mused, looking across the room to where she stood next to Hal. She’d been kind to John from the instant they’d met. Most new young wives wouldn’t want their husband’s almost-fifteen-year-old brother suddenly moving in with them and their infant son, but she was different. From their first meeting, she’d accepted him as her little brother, too. In fact, it was at Minnie’s insistence, more than the complaining letters from the relatives in Aberdeen, that convinced Hal to bring him back to London after a three-year exile.
It warmed his heart to see the glow on her face while looking up at her husband. Their marriage was a true love match, something rare and wonderful among the upper echelon of London society. There was no denying that Minnie had been in her sixth month of pregnancy by the time Hal tracked her down in Amsterdam and insisted they marry, but knowing them both as he did, John knew the marriage wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t both wanted it.
She was so happy to have Hal home. And judging by the look on Hal’s face every time his gaze slid to his petite wife, he was just as happy to be back with her. The long separation caused by the war in the American colonies was hard on both of them. It hadn’t taken much persuasion to convince Hal to return to England.
The war could go on very nicely without him, John argued to his older brother. And the chance of meeting Ben, or Bleeker, on the battlefield, was nonexistent if the 46th Regiment of Foot and its Colonel were in England. He himself was returning, ostensibly to aid William who’d made a decision about both Ellesmere and Helwater and now needed to spend time with each estate’s solicitors to bring those plans to fruition.
His son also needed assistance only his uncle, the duke, could provide if he was to petition the king to relieve him of Ellesmere’s title and responsibilities without revealing his bastardy. Pardloe also had connections at the Old Bailey who could be tapped for support, if necessary.
It would be tricky. Legally, William was Ellesmere’s son, but the young man wanted nothing related to his mother’s husband and divesting himself of the estate while keeping the secret of his true parentage and not besmirching either the Dunsany or Grey families would require legal chicanery beyond either John’s or Hal’s not-insignificant abilities.
Then there was the unspoken reason for returning Hal to England—the problem of Ben. The young man could never return to England after turning his coat. He’d be hanged for treason if he did. There was also the matter of Trevor, Ben’s son by Amaranthus Cowden. John didn’t know if the two were legally married or not, but as things stood now, Ben was still Hal’s heir and Trevor was Ben’s.
John thought the simplest solution might be to quietly disinherit both Ben and any heirs he might produce. Hal could still see to his son’s welfare by setting up monied trusts, as their father had done for John, and the titles and entailments could then pass on to Adam without any fuss. It was a tangle best solved by barristers and solicitors and those who knew their way around the legal jungle of inheritance laws of the peerage.
Casting an eye around the room, John saw William engaged in conversation with Claire Fraser. The Frasers decided to accompany the Greys to England, primarily to get Jamie away from the fighting. Claire wanted to make sure there was no way that General Washington or any of his associates, could conscript the reluctant retired general back into the fight.
It was also an excuse for William and Jamie to spend time together and get to know each other better. Their first meeting was explosive and subsequent time spent in each other’s company didn’t always go well. It had taken quite a bit of time, and every ounce of John’s considerable diplomatic skills to effect a tentative reconciliation between the two.
He knew it would take more time, but he also knew Frasers. They were passionate, headstrong people, and William was doubly blessed, or cursed, with not only Jamie for a father but with the equally passionate and headstrong Geneva Dunsany for a mother. But he was learning to control his feelings, perhaps living with the cool-headed Greys gave William the balance he needed. Once the initial explosion was over, he could be counted upon to let his more rational side take over. And if all else failed, William knew he could always turn to his Papa for aid and counsel.
Long before they left for England, the young man made it quite clear to his stepfather, that regardless of the seed from which he’d sprung, Lord John Grey was the man William thought of and loved as his father. And that would never change.
John smiled, watching his tall son maneuver his way through the crowd of single young ladies. William wasn’t ready for any attachment. He had to get his own life squared away first. Besides, once it was known that he was eschewing the Ellesmere title and inheritance, his value on the marriage mart would decline considerably. He’d still be Helwater’s heir, but that was insignificant in comparison to one of the wealthiest Earldoms in Britain.
The dinner party for eighty-or-so of their closest friends to welcome the Duke home was finally starting to wind down. People were slowly taking their leave and soon the room would be blessedly cooler without the extra heat generated by so many bodies.
It only remained to be seen which would collapse first, John’s immaculately starched and most fashionably tied neckcloth or the man himself. At the moment, he wasn’t entirely sure. All he really wanted to do was take his growing headache upstairs to his room for a cool bath and then go to bed naked beneath the light cover. At this moment, the thought of putting on more clothes after stripping away the damp ones, was second only to burial alive on his list of fun things to do of an evening.
After extricating himself from a fractious discussion about Mr. Swift’s A Modest Proposal and sensing an opening for escape, John sidled along the wall to the room’s exit. A quick scan showed Hal and Minnie surrounded by guests and William pigeon-holed by the two Misses Stanhope, frequent shoppers at the marriage market who were dangerously close to being on the shelf and each looking for a rich, titled husband. He saw William throw him a ‘help me’ look, and shook his head, displaying what he hoped was fatherly regret at being unable to answer the young man’s silent plea.
Turning away with a grin, he stepped headlong into Jamie Fraser’s brocade covered chest. “Oof, terribly sorry, I.. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
The tall Scot peered down his nose at John. “Distracted were ye… my lord?”
The twinkle in Fraser’s blue eyes immediately set John’s mind to ease. Their relationship, while still a bit prickly, especially when it involved Claire, was considerably better than it was when Jamie first returned from Scotland to discover his wife married to the Englishman. Anger and jealousy, especially on Jamie’s end, John thought, drove a wedge between the two men that looked to last forever.
It may well have, had William not appeared heartsick and frantic at Fraser’s Ridge pleading for help to rescue his Papa. John never knew what went through Jamie’s mind as William poured out his story, but whatever it was, it was enough. Jamie aided in John’s rescue and the two men gradually found their way back to friendship.
“It looks like we all had the same idea,” Claire Fraser said, taking both men by an elbow each and walking them out the double door into the hallway. “To get away from that crush.”
“Aye. Too many people in too small a room makes me itch.” Jamie shook himself in a fair imitation of his nephew Ian’s dog Rollo to get rid of the feeling. He cast a sidelong glance toward John, murmuring under his breath. “Reminds me a bit too much of the cells back at Ardsmuir. People packed in everywhere ye care to look.”
There was no good comment for that, John thought, turning toward the long curving staircase up to the second floor where his bedroom awaited. He could almost hear the cool bedsheets calling to him like the sirens luring Odysseus to their island.
A roar of drunken laughter came down the hall from Hal’s private study. “Who the bloody hell is in there?” John muttered, wondering at the temerity of anyone daring to invade the duke’s sacred domain. The loud guffaw came again and recognition quickly followed. “Speaking of Ardsmuir, Mr. Fraser, care to renew an old acquaintance…. and possibly make him squirm a bit?”
Jamie looked to Claire as if for permission. “Go ahead, gentlemen,” she said fluttering her lace fan in a small effort to remove the dampness from her face and neck. “I’m off for a quick cool sponge and then bed.”
She curtsied to them then turned on her heel, leaving them standing together in the hall.
Jamie raised an eyebrow to John. “An old acquaintance, ye said?”
“Unless I very much mistake, that drunken laugh can only belong to Harry Quarry.”
“Fat Harry? He’s here?”
Jamie looked a bit startled. Given the number of people in Argus House and all the fancy clothes, wigs, and powdered hair; it was no wonder, John thought, that Jamie hadn’t noticed his old adversary.
Quarry was a long-time and now retired member of Pardloe’s regiment. He and Hal were lifelong friends and John, although not as close, also counted the boisterous man as a friend. Quarry had likewise served as Governor of Ardsmuir and was John’s immediate predecessor in the position. It was Quarry who urged Grey to try to have a civil relationship with Red Jamie in the interest of making life in that crumbling old fortress at the arse-end of Scotland a bit more bearable.
“Why d’ye think I’d want to go in there?” Jamie indicated the room. “With a man who kept me in chains?”
“Because that’s where Hal keeps the very best brandy and you look like you could do with a drink.”
“Aye,” Jamie sighed. “Ye have the right of it, but I dinna think it a good idea to mix brandy with all the whiskey I’ve drunk tonight. I’ll still accompany ye. It might be fun to see how long it takes old Harry to recognize me in all my finery.”
.
.
“.… and that little Frenchie was possibly one of the best pieces of arse, I’d ever had.” Quarry’s boisterous tone greeted them as they walked into the room. He was sitting behind Hal’s desk, crystal brandy balloon in hand, round face florid from drink, talking and laughing with three other men.
John recognized them as former members of the army. They’d all retired as high-ranking officers with fine pensions and medals. None of them was involved in the current war with the Colonies and they were all very, very drunk. Obviously sharing old war stories as old soldiers were wont to do.
“Remembering the bad old days, Harry?” John asked, pouring a measure of brandy into a delicately carved crystal balloon and extending it to Jamie just in case the man had changed his mind. Fraser declined with a small shake of his head and Grey downed the fiery drink himself.
“Ah, Johnny,” Quarry belched, picking up the brandy bottle and quickly pouring another drink into John’s glass. “It’s good to see you back in England where you belong. Can’t for the life of me see the charm of the Americas.” He peered through slitted eyes at Jamie. “And who’ve you brought into our little den of soldiers?”
“Do ye nae remember me, Colonel Quarry?”
John couldn’t recall ever hearing Jamie’s accent so thick.
“Remember? Who the devil?” Quarry stood, leaning forward over the desk to get a closer look. “Damn me, is that Red Jamie Fraser you’ve brought us, John?” Turning to the others in the room, he laughed. “Now here’s a fellow can likely tell us a story or two about a good buggery.”
John’s breath caught in his throat. What the hell was Harry talking about?
“I beg yer pardon, sir?” Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “What do ye mean by that?”
“Oh, no offense man, no offense.” Harry poured himself another glass, downed it in one swallow, and continued. “We’re sharing some very private war stories.” Sweeping out an arm, he indicated the other men in the room.
“Let’s be honest here,” he said, lowering his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “You know what men do when there’re no women around. You were in prison. We’ve all been months on the battlefield on campaign. A man gets lonely and tired of having just his hand for company. Pretty soon, a slender lad starts to look quite enticing. One thing leads to another. We’ve all done it. It’s just most don’t admit it.”
John’s eyes locked with Jamie. He could see the storm clouds forming over the tall redhead. The fury in Jamie’s eyes warred with the triphammer beating of Grey’s own heart. How to get Harry to shut up before he said one word too many and all hell broke loose?
“Don’t be shy, Fraser. A lusty big man like you must have some stories to share. No need to be reticent.”
“Stop Harry; you’re drunk.” John stepped forward, trying to catch Quarry’s attention and turn the conversational tide to other things.
“Ah, Johnny, I’m sure you’ve got a few enticing tales to share. With your looks and that body, you can’t say you’ve never been invited to have a go. Have you ever, eh?”
Shocked speechless, John couldn’t move.
“In fact,” Quarry went on, oblivious to John’s reaction or the rising discomfort of the others in the room. “You remind me of a bit I had just after Culloden. Came up on him in the dark, hooked him around the neck, got him down on the ground, and the next thing you know I was splitting that fine young arse with all my might.”
John couldn’t breathe. Glass exploded suddenly, jolting every man in the room. His hand stung fiercely. Dumbly he looked down. The brandy balloon had shattered in his hand, jagged shards and slivers of crystal impaling the fair skin. Rivulets of blood soaked through the fine Alençon lace of his cuff, then continued their course, dripping down onto his breeches and pattering on the Aubusson carpet.
Hal’s going to be annoyed at the mess, he thought abstractedly as the room tilted slightly. He stumbled back against the desk, not feeling Jamie’s tight grip on his forearm.
“Get help!” Fraser yelled at the men scattering from the room. Even Quarry managed to stagger out the door, mumbling under his breath.
Reaching up with one hand, Jamie ripped the neckcloth from his throat, wrapping it loosely over John’s hand. He was afraid to apply any pressure for fear of driving the shards deeper.
John sat frozen, confusion and pain vying for precedence on his expressive face. “Why?” he whispered, peering into Jamie’s eyes. “Why?”
“John? John, can ye hear me?” Jamie glanced anxiously at the doorway. It was only a few yards to the crowded salon, yet no one had come in. Had any of the men bothered to get help or were they all just running to put distance between themselves and the event? Where was Quarry? John was his friend.
Finally, he had no choice but to let go of John’s arm. “Stay. Dinna move. D’ye hear me?” Three quick steps took him to the doorway. “Claire!” he bellowed into the hall, hoping his voice would carry up to her room. “Claire, I need ye!”
Footsteps sounded and a liveried servant approached. “Get His Grace,” Jamie ordered. “Now!” Not waiting for an acknowledgement, he raced back to the injured man. John hadn’t moved, but his eyes were wide with shock and his breathing ragged. “Stay still, man. I’ve got ye. Help’s on the way.”
“Dear God, Johnny!” Hal burst into the room, Minnie quick on his heels. “What happened?”
Jamie ignored the question. “Get Claire. She went up to her room. Tell her to bring her medical box.”
Minnie nodded. “I’ll go.” She pushed her husband farther into the room. “You stay with John.”
Hal’s eyes widened and he felt his chest tighten. Not now, damnit. John needs me. He couldn’t quite grasp what he saw. John sat swaying slightly on the edge of the desk. Fractured crystal shards sparkled on his sleeve and breeches, and a bloody cloth wrapped his hand. Fraser was holding his brother’s hand tilted slightly upward while blood dripped in a steady flow over them both and onto the floor.
“John.” Hal stepped up, placing a shaking hand over John’s cheek. “Can you hear me?” His eyes cut to Fraser. “What happened?”
“Hal?” John’s voice was barely a whisper. “What happened? Why are you here?”
“Sit still, Johnny. Help’s on the way.” Hal sat on John’s other side, supporting his brother.
He turned, looking quizzically at Hal. “The last time you called me Johnny was at Krefeld, after…. You only call me Johnny when you think I’m dying,” he rasped. “Am I dying Hal?”
“No, of course not.” The words shook Hal to his very bones. Was it true? Did he never call his brother by an affectionate nickname except when his life was in imminent danger? What kind of man did that make him?
“What the bloody hell happened here?” Claire demanded bursting into the room with Minnie and William at her heels.
“Papa!” William shouted, pushing Jamie aside and taking John’s hand gently in his own.
“Step aside please, William and let me see.” Claire unwrapped the bloody cloth and looked at John’s hand. Two large crystal shards were embedded in his palm along with a few splinters, all of them bleeding. Several small cuts were also bleeding freely, and his hand and wrist sparkled in the candlelight from the fine crystal dust.
“John? John can you hear me?” He turned stiffly in her direction and Claire didn’t like what she saw. He had almost no reaction to her being there. He didn’t even seem to feel pain as she examined his hand. “Let’s get him seated behind the desk and bring me some small lamps. Jamie, get a bottle of brandy and keep it nearby.”
Within a few seconds, John was seated with his arm stretched out and his hand flattened palm up on the desk. “Jamie, hold his arm steady,” she ordered. “Hal, do not have an asthma attack now. I don’t have time to treat you.
“Your Grace,” she said to Minnie, ”You’re in charge of your husband. Go sit on that couch and don’t move until I’m done.
“William, tell the servants to get John’s room ready. Once I’m finished, we’ll want to get him into bed. Have cook make some beef tea, he’ll need fluids to replace the blood he’s losing.”
Moving efficiently, Claire poured the brandy over her hands, then setting the small lamps directly on either side of John’s hand, she set to work with a long thin tweezer from her medical box. It took longer than she would have liked, but she removed every single shard and splinter she could find, laid some stitches into the deepest of the cuts, and then rinsed the hand twice with brandy before wrapping it tightly.
Through it all, John never moved, never changed expression and that worried her more than his injury. The best thing for now was to get him upstairs and into bed. She’d dose him with willowbark as a preventive against inflammation and then deal with the rest in the morning. He was clearly in some kind of shock, although his vital signs were all within normal range for having sustained an injury.
While Hal ordered two footman to help John up to his room and Minnie raced ahead to see the bed was prepared, Claire turned to Jamie. “What the hell happened?”
“I dinna know.” Jamie shook his head slowly, using a brandy soaked handkerchief to wipe the blood from his hands. “Harry Quarry, a friend of the Greys, was spouting some god-awful shite about a war-time activity I will nae discuss with you. All of a sudden, John’s glass shattered in his hand. There must ha’ been a flaw in the crystal.”
“Maybe,” Claire said softly. “And maybe not. John’s reaction wasn’t normal just now. Something else is going on.”
“Aye, I noticed it, too. But we canna solve the mystery tonight.”
“Agreed.” Moving with practiced efficiency, Claire repacked her medical kit then turned to a footman who’d just entered. “Tell the maids to be careful when cleaning this mess.” She indicated the desk. “Have them burn the bloody cloths and wipe the surface with alcohol if at all possible.”
“Very good, madam.” The footman bowed toward the Frasers. “Her Grace says Lord John is safely tucked in bed. He took a small bit of tea, and is sleeping now.”
“Thank you,” Claire responded. “Tell Their Graces that I’ll check on His Lordship later. For now, the best thing is to just let him sleep.”
***************
John Grey opened his eyes, peering into the darkness of his bedchamber. He’d feigned sleep to get Hal, Minnie, and the others out of the room. But the last thing he wanted to do now was close his eyes. He wouldn’t sleep. He knew that. The nightmare would return. It was time, finally, to end it.
He lay quietly for a while, turning things over in his mind and waiting for the household to settle down for the night. After an hour of patience, he arose from his bed. The dizziness surprised him, but he knew from past experience that it would soon pass. Eyeing it with some distaste, he lifted the cup of cold tea from his bedside table and downed the remaining contents.
He followed the tea with almost all the water in the pitcher by the washbasin, saving only a small amount he used to wet a cloth and scrub at his face. The cloth snagged at the light stubble on his jaw, but he declined to bother with it. No one would notice, and his appearance was unimportant to his mission. The few flecks of dried blood remaining on his injured hand, he left alone as a reminder of his task yet to come.
Slipping out of Argus House unnoticed was simplicity itself and he smiled, proud that his talent for evasion was as strong as ever. He’d always prided himself on his ability to slip in and out without notice of whatever home the Greys occupied.
As a boy, it left him with an unmeasurable feeling of freedom. That is until slipping back into the orangery on the morning after his twelfth birthday irrevocably changed his world. As a man, the skill aided him in completing any number of tasks requiring extreme discretion lest he be caught. It’s probably what made him a successful intelligencer during those few years he worked for the Black Chamber.
Tonight, he mused, walking swiftly away from Argus House, it would serve him well again. He had an appointment to keep. An appointment over thirty years in the making. His hand throbbed and he smiled grimly. He needed no reminder of the pain from all those long years ago, but he welcomed it anyway. It helped him to focus, to hone his anger into a weapon sharp enough to eviscerate any who got in his way.
Twenty minutes of walking took him to his destination. He stood breathing heavily outside the brick building, seeing but not seeing the ornately carved edifices decorating the front facade and the heavy brass lion’s head knocker. His gaze focused on a lit window on the ground floor at the far side of the front. He knew exactly which room that was. Good, he’s still awake. Even I might have a scruple or two about confronting the man in his bed.
Taking the key he knew was kept hidden under the small concrete statue of a cat to the left of the door, he slipped it silently into the lock and gently slid the door open. He was careful his boots made no sound as he crossed the tiled foyer and made his way down the hallway off to the right of the curving staircase.
The door to the room he sought stood slightly open and he inhaled the twin scents of whiskey and cigar smoke. Slipping like a specter through the opening, he leaned against the wall watching his prey from the shadow. Drawing in one last steadying breath, John clenched his injured hand and stepped into the small circle of light cast by the single lamp on the desk.
“Hello, Harry.”
Quarry sat up with a jerk, the glass in his hand sloshing whiskey across his desk. “John! John what the devil are you doing here at this hour? Should you even be up and about? Your hand….”
“Shut up, Harry.” John looked down at the man behind the desk. This was a man he thought was his friend. A man he’d known since he was a boy. Hal’s closest friend and second-in-command. Honorary uncle to John’s precious nephews and niece. Honorary uncle to William, the most precious person in John’s life.
He clenched and unclenched his hands, wanting nothing so much as to place one on either side of Harry Quarry’s neck and squeeze until the life flowed out of him like a river. Like blood and semen and tears ran out of the riven body of a sixteen-year-old boy that April night in Scotland in 1746.
“John? I don’t understand; what are you doing here at this hour? It’s nearly dawn, and I’ve been up all night” Yawning hugely, he downed the remainder of the whiskey in one swallow. “Surely whatever it is could wait a few more hours until after we’ve had some sleep?”
“No, Harry. It’s waited long enough.” Leaning forward John put his hands on the desk, his whispering voice harsh. “Do you remember, Harry? That story you were telling earlier this evening in Hal’s study?”
Quarry leaned back in his chair, his fingers sliding the whiskey glass in half circles on the desk blotter. “It was a good evening, eh?. Mrs. Hudson outdid herself in the kitchen and It’s good to have Hal back home at last.” He peered up with bloodshot eyes. “You’ll have to help me, John. I’m afraid I was rather in my cups by the time you came in. Which story was it?”
“The one about the boy you caught a few nights after Culloden. Do you even remember?”
“Boy? After Culloden you say?” He splashed more whiskey into his glass then lifted it to his lips, taking a long swallow. “Sorry, can’t exactly remember.” Holding out the glass he stared for a moment into the amber liquid. “Probably made something up, couldn’t let that prat Simmons get in the last word.”
“No. You didn’t make it up. You don’t make things up when you drink, Harry. That’s always been when I’ve found you to be the most honest. In vino veritas, remember?
“Whazzat? Truth in wine? It was Brandy, not wine. What the hell are you talking about John?” Harry’s body slumped forward, resting his head on the desk.
“Culloden. I’m talking about Culloden and the boy.” John flexed and then clenched his wounded fist so hard, he felt Claire’s stitches tear. There’d be hell to pay when she saw what he’d done to her handiwork. Well, she’d just have to get in line. It was someone else’s turn to pay hell now.
Quarry raised his head, using his arms to push himself up in the chair. “That was a long time ago. Why bring it up now for God’s sake? Why bring it up at all?” The blubbery lips twisted into a drunken leer. “Or do you want to hear more? Is that it?
“You know that feeling after a battle, Johnny, the fire in your blood. The way the old cock just stands at attention and you can’t wait to stick it in the first available hole?”
Fumes of whiskey and old cigars rolled over Grey from Quarry’s mouth and he thought he’d vomit. Whether from the stench or the memories roiling his gut, he didn’t know.
Harry belched, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Come to think of it, I do remember the lad. Couldn’t really see much of him in the dark, didn’t matter though, eh? He wasn’t the first one I’d taken on that moor, nor the last over the years. Why do you care?
“Or is it you like the story? Are you jealous of my conquests?” He laughed, an ugly drunken laugh. “I always thought there was something a bit off about you Johnny. Did my story excite you?”
The sickness started clawing its way up John’s throat. Conquests. There were others. How many others over the years? Had Harry always been like this? How did he not see it before now?
It was all he could do not to pull out his dagger, the dagger he was never without since that night, and drive it into Quarry’s black heart. “No, Harry, excite is not the word.
“That boy, the one you left crumpled in the dirt behind a wagon. That boy you ripped open without a thought for anything but your own sick pleasure. That boy with, how did you put it earlier, the fine young arse?”
“Do you remember it Harry? That fine young arse!?” He sobbed in a quick breath, lest he choke on his own rage. Taking a staggering step back toward the door, he looked at Quarry feeling nothing but contempt and the cold hard fist of betrayal clenching his gut.
Quarry looked up, meeting his eyes. “Yes, damn you, I remember. What of it?”
“It was mine.”
**************************
Breakfast at Argus House, was never a formal affair. Coffee, tea, racks of toast and a plate of scones were on the table along with pots of jam and a dish of butter. A sideboard laden with eggs, bacon, slices of ham, and potatoes stood against one wall, and once the food and drink were set down, everyone served him or herself. It was a time for just family, with exceptions made only for the very closest of friends, and with no hovering servants listening unobtrusively by the door.
The clatter of fine china and silver accompanied by a myriad of voices and heavenly smells beckoned John down the hall. He’d managed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep after returning unnoticed from his before-dawn sojourn and awoke, if not refreshed, at least feeling capable enough to make it downstairs to the breakfast room.
Shaving wasn’t an option, not with his hand bandaged, but he’d managed a reasonable job of brushing his hair, ridding it of the last vestiges of the hated powder, although tying it back with a velvet ribbon he found in the pocket of his banyan was beyond his one-handed abilities. Either Minnie would have to tie it back or they’d just have to deal with him sitting at table as he was. At least he had enough dexterity to keep it from falling forward into his food.
He thought that as long as he was decently covered and had proper footwear, in this case a pair of elaborately embroidered slippers courtesy of his niece and goddaughter Dorothea, Minnie should have no objections to his presence. Claire Fraser, on the other hand, might have something else to say in the matter.
And, of course, she did.
“Just what do you think you’re doing out of bed, John?” Claire stood up from the breakfast table intent on examining her patient here and now. She grabbed his hand before he could hide it away in his pocket. The look she gave him at the sight of the bloody bandage would have turned an ordinary man to stone. But he wasn’t an ordinary man and she didn’t intimidate him any more.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Fraser,” he said loudly enough for everyone at the table to hear. “And I feel well enough to sit at table and manage some toast and coffee without making a complete arse out of myself. So if you don’t mind….” Jerking his bandaged extremity from her grasp, he stepped neatly around her and managed to get into the empty chair next to Minnie without falling.
“No need to be rude, John,” Minnie admonished while pouring coffee for Hal seated on her other side.
It was astounding, really, he thought, how his sister-by-law could make an almost fifty-year-old man feel like a naughty boy. Still, she was right. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fraser.” He smiled genuinely at Claire. “Forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven,” Claire smiled back, “as long as you promise to go straight back up to bed when you’ve finished and allow me to properly examine your hand.”
“After I’ve eaten, I promise I shall return instantly to my bed, where you are free to properly examine any part of me you wish, my dear.” John almost choked keeping down the smile threatening to break across his face at Jamie Fraser’s glare in his direction.
William turned bright red. Claire gave John her best don’t-poke-the-angry-bear look and turned her attention to her own plate. Hal stared at him, eyebrows raised at the innuendo. Minnie filled his coffee cup, passed a plate of warm scones, and breakfast continued unhindered.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Shipley, the first under-butler entered the breakfast room. His face was its usual blank self, but his skin was a few shades paler than its normal color. “There’s a police constable at the door. He’s asking for you directly, Your Grace.”
“Does he say what he wants?” Minnie asked, as always, standing between Hal and any perceived trouble.
“No, Your Grace. Just asked for His Grace and wouldn’t say another word.”
Sighing, Hal put his napkin beside his plate, swallowed the last bit of coffee in his cup, and strode to the door. “Excuse me all. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.” He flapped a hand at the cluttered table and sideboard. “Please, continue without me.”
“Isn’t it funny,” Claire mused aloud, “how he manages to make the most pleasant request sound like a direct order?”
They all laughed and returned to the meal and light conversation.
Ten minutes later, the Duke of Pardloe reentered the room. His face was dead white and his hands trembled as he closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it. “Harry Quarry shot himself earlier this morning. He’s dead.”
Seated amongst the horrified gasps and exclamations of denial, John Grey lowered his mouth into his coffee cup and smiled. Burn in hell, Harry. Burn in everlasting hell.
~fin~