Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(150)
Monsieur Perpignan would not, of course, be a suitable escort for London. Aside from a tendency to seasickness, a fondness for his wife, and a disgust for British cooking, he didn’t speak English and had no sense of direction. She’d been a bit surprised that her father would let her stay in London entirely on her own—but of course he hadn’t. He had Made Arrangements: his specialty.
“I’ve arranged a chaperone for you,” her father had said, handing over a neat docket of notes, addresses, maps, and English money. “A Lady Buford, a widow of slender means but good connections. She’ll arrange a social life for you, introduce you to the right sorts of people, take you to plays and salons, that sort of thing.”
“What fun,” she’d said politely, and he laughed.
“Oh, I expect you’ll find some, my dear,” he said. “That’s why I’ve also arranged two…shall we call them bodyguards?”
“So much more tactful than minders, or wardens. Two?”
“Yes, indeed. They’ll run errands for you, as well as accompany you when you visit clients.” He reached into one of the pigeonholes of his desk and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed her. “This is a précis of what I told you about the Duke of Pardloe—and a few others. I didn’t mention him to Lady Buford, and you should be somewhat discreet about your interest in him. There’s a great deal of scandal attached to that family, and you—”
“Don’t touch pitch until you’re ready to set light to it,” she finished, with no more than a slight roll of the eyes.
“Travel safe, my dear.” He’d kissed her forehead and embraced her briefly. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Papa,” she murmured now, climbing out of bed. “But not that much.”
She glanced at the secretaire, where she’d put all the lists and documents. Time enough for the chaste Duke of Pardloe and the randy Duke of Beaufort when she came within sight of them. Lady Buford had left a card, saying that she would meet Minnie at Rumm’s Tea-Room in Piccadilly at four o’clock for tea. Wear something pretty, modest, and not over-elaborate, Lady Buford had added, with welcome practicality. The pink muslin, then, with the little jacket.
There were three appointments already scheduled for the early afternoon—routine book business—and the two bodyguards were meant to come and introduce themselves at eleven. She glanced at her little traveling clock, which showed half-eight. A quick wash, a simple dress, stout boots for walking, and London was hers—alone!—for two hours.
THEY’D LIVED IN London for a time, when she was much younger. And she’d come with her father twice for brief visits, when she was fourteen and fifteen. She had a general idea of the city’s shape but had never needed to find her own way.
She was accustomed to exploring a new place, though, and within the first hour had discovered a decent-looking ordinary for quick meals outside her rooms, a baker’s shop for cakes, and the nearest church. Her father had nothing to do with religion, and so far as she knew, she’d never even been christened—but it was as well to look the part you played, and pious, modest young women went to church on Sunday. Besides, she liked the music.
The day was bright, the air tangy with spring sap, and the streets were full of an exuberant bustle, quite different from Paris or Prague. There was really no place like London. Particularly as no other city contained her mother. But that small matter would need to wait for a bit; much as she longed to rush off to Parson’s Green at once and see this Mrs. Simpson, it was too important. She needed to reconnoiter, to calculate her approach. To be hasty or importunate might ruin everything.
She headed toward Piccadilly, which housed a good many booksellers. On the way, though, were Regent and then Oxford Streets, charmingly studded with expensive shops. She must ask Lady Buford about dressmakers.
She had a little French watch pinned to her fichu—it didn’t do to be late for appointments—and when it told her in a tiny silver voice that it was now half-ten, she sighed and turned back toward Great Ryder Street. As she crossed the corner of Upper St. James’s Park, though, she began to have an odd feeling at the back of her neck.
She reached the corner, made as though to step into the street, then suddenly darted sideways, across a lane, and into the park itself. She whipped behind a large tree and stood in the shadow, frozen, watching. Sure enough, a young man came hurtling into the lane, looking sharp from side to side. He was roughly dressed, brown hair tied back with string—perhaps an apprentice or a laborer.
He halted for an instant, then walked fast down the lane, out of sight. She was just about to slide out of her shelter and run for the street when she heard him whistle loudly. An answering whistle came from the street, and she pressed herself against the tree, heart hammering.
Bloody, bloody hell, she thought. If I’m raped and murdered, I’ll never hear the end of it!
She swallowed and made up her mind. It would be somewhat harder for anyone to abduct her off a busy street than to winkle her out of her precarious hiding spot. A couple of gentlemen were coming along the path toward her, deep in conversation. As they passed, she stepped out on the path directly behind them, keeping so close that she was obliged to hear a very scabrous story concerning one man’s father-in-law and what had happened when he chose to celebrate his birthday in a bawdy house. Before the end was reached, though, the street was reached, and she stepped away, walking fast down Ryder Street, with a sense of relief.