Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(157)

Fours were capable and persistent but not swift thinkers, and, once again, she was surprised at just how often the numbers turned out to be right.

“Indeed,” he said, and cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed but undeniably pleased.

At this point, she heard the subdued ticking of the longcase clock behind her and a bolt of apprehension shot through her. She needed to get rid of him, and promptly.

“But I doubt that a desire to learn the science of numerology accounts for the pleasure of your visit, sir.”

“Well.” He looked her up and down in an effort at assessment, but she could have told him it was far too late for that. “Well…to be blunt, madam, I wish to employ you. In a matter of…some discretion.”

That gave her another small jolt. So he knew who—or rather what—she was. Still, that wasn’t really unusual. It was, after all, a business in which all connections were by word of mouth. And she was certainly known by now to at least three gentlemen in London who might move in the circles to which Colonel Quarry had access.

No point in beating round the bush or being coy; she was interested in him but more interested in his leaving. She gave him a small bow and looked inquiring. He nodded back and took a deep breath. Some discretion, indeed…

“The situation is this, madam: I have a good friend whose wife recently died in childbed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Minnie said quite honestly. “How very tragic.”

“Yes, it was.” Quarry’s face showed what he was thinking, and the trouble was clear in his eyes. “The more so, perhaps, in that my friend’s wife had been…well…having an affair with a friend of his for some months prior.”

“Oh, dear,” Minnie murmured. “And—forgive me—was the child…?”

“My friend doesn’t know.” Quarry grimaced but relaxed a little, indicating that the most difficult part of his business had been communicated. “Bad enough, you might say…”

“Oh, I would.”

“But the further difficulty—well, without going into the reasons why, we…I…would like to engage you to find proof of that affair.”

That confused her.

“Your friend—he isn’t sure that she was having an affair?”

“No, he’s positive,” Quarry assured her. “There were letters. But—well, I can’t really explain why this is necessary, but he requires proof of the affair for a…a…legal reason, and he will not countenance the idea of letting anyone read his wife’s letters, no matter that she is beyond the reach of public censure nor that the consequences to himself if the affair is not proved may be disastrous.”

“I see.” She eyed him with interest. Was there really a friend, or was this perhaps his own situation, thinly disguised? She thought not; he was clearly grieved and troubled but not flushed—not ashamed or angry in the least. And he hadn’t the look of a married man. At all.

As though her invisible thought had struck him on the cheek like a flying moth, he looked sharply at her, meeting her eyes directly. No, not a married man. And not so grieved or troubled that a spark didn’t show clearly in those deep-brown eyes. She looked modestly down for a moment, then up, resuming her businesslike manner.

“Well, then. Have you specific suggestions as to how the inquiry might proceed?”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed.

“Well…I thought…perhaps you could make the acquaintance of some of Esmé’s—that was her name, Esmé Grey, Countess Melton—some of her friends. And…er…perhaps some of…his…particular friends. The, um, man who…”

“And the man’s name?” Picking up the quill, she wrote Countess Melton, then looked up expectantly.

“Nathaniel Twelvetrees.”

“Ah. Is he a soldier, too?”

“No,” and here Quarry did blush, surprisingly. “A poet.”

“I see,” Minnie murmured, writing it down. “All right.” She put down the quill and came out from behind the desk, passing him closely so that he was obliged to turn toward her—and toward the door. He smelled of bay rum and vetiver, though he didn’t wear a wig or powder in his hair.

“I’m willing to undertake your inquiry, sir—though, of course, I can’t guarantee results.”

“No, no. Of course.”

“Now, I have a prior engagement at two o’clock”—he glanced at the clock, as did she: four minutes to the hour—“but if you would perhaps make a list of the friends you think might be helpful and send it round? Once I’ve assessed the possibilities, I can inform you of my terms.” She hesitated. “May I approach Mr. Twelvetrees? Very discreetly, of course,” she assured him.

He made a grimace, half shock and half amusement.

“Afraid not, Miss Rennie. My friend shot him. I’ll send the list,” he promised, and, with a deep bow, left her.

The door had barely closed behind him before there was another knock. The maid popped out of the boudoir, where she had been discreetly lurking, and glided silently over the thick red Turkey carpet.

Minnie felt her stomach lurch and her throat tighten, as though she’d been dropped out of a high window and caught by the neck at the last moment.