The Scottish Prisoner

“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 beenin 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 pi

“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 ru

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. It had been a long trip from Newmarket, and God knew what might happen over di

GREY NODDED at Fraser’s mute gesture, and continued his conversation with Mordecai Weston, a Captain in the Buffs, who knew von Namtzen as well. He expected Fraser to return momentarily, but after five minutes began to wonder whether something was wrong and excused himself.

He came round the corner in time to see Fraser just outside the privy closet, in conversation with Edward Twelvetrees. Yes, it wasbloody Twelvetrees. No mistaking that pale, long-nosed face, the beady little ferret-black eyes. The surprise stopped him dead, but close enough to hear Twelvetrees demand to know what Grey’s business was with Fraser—and to hear Fraser decline to say.

Fraser disappeared into the privy closet with a firm shutting of the door; Grey took advantage of the sound to walk quietly up behind Twelvetrees, who was glaring at the closed door, evidently waiting for Fraser to come out and face further interrogation. Grey tapped Twelvetrees on the shoulder, and was immensely gratified when the man gave a cry of alarm and flung himself round, hands raised.

“I am so sorry to startle you, sir,” he said, with extreme politeness. “Did I hear you asking after me?”

Twelvetrees’s startlement changed in an instant to rage, and his hand slapped his side, reaching for the sword he fortunately wasn’t wearing.

“You bloody meddler!”

Grey felt blood swell in his temples, but kept his voice light and civil.

“If you have business with me, sir, I suggest that you speak to me directly, rather than seek to harass my friends.”

Twelvetrees’s lip curled, but he’d got control of himself.

“Friends,” he repeated, in a tone indicating astonishment that Grey should think he had any. “I suppose I should not be amazed that you make a friend of traitors. But I wonder, sir, that you should so far forget yourself as to bring such a man as that into this place.”

Grey’s heart had given a bump at the word “traitors,” but he replied coolly, “You are fortunate that you did not use that word to the gentleman in question. While I take the liberty of offense on his behalf, he might be inclined to take action, whereas I would not sully my sword with your blood.”

Twelvetrees’s eyes grew brighter and blacker.

“Wouldn’t you?” he said, and gave a short laugh. “Believe me, sir, I await your pleasure. In the meantime, I shall complain to the Committee regarding your choice of guests.”

He shouldered his way past Grey, pushing him roughly aside, and walked down the hallway to the back stair, head held high.

Grey made his way back toward the dining-room, wondering how the devil Twelvetrees happened to know Jamie Fraser. But perhaps he didn’t, he thought. If he’d inquired Fraser’s name, Fraser would have told him it, as well as informing him that he was Grey’s guest. And he supposed it wasn’t beyond the stretch of reason that Twelvetrees should recall Fraser’s name from the Rising—particularly when linked with his Scottish accent.

Yes, that might be mere chance. He was somewhat more concerned that Twelvetrees had exhibited interest in his own actions—and that Twelvetrees had called him a meddler. Meddling in what? Surely Twelvetrees couldn’t know that he appeared in Carruthers’s document, let alone that the Greys were in pursuit of Gerald Siverly. He hesitated for a moment, but this was not the time nor the place to speak with Twelvetrees. He shrugged and went back to von Namtzen.

“I HAVE BROUGHT a … gentleman of my acquaintance,” the graf was saying, with a half-apologetic glance at Grey. “Since you tell me it is a matter of Irish.” Lowering his voice, he said in rapid German, “I have of course said nothing to him of your matter; only that there is a poem written in his tongue and you want to know if the translation you have is accurate.”