Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(169)
She took a cautious sniff and recoiled.
“And why on earth would an orchid want to smell like rotting meat?” she demanded.
He gave her a slightly queer look but smiled.
“Flowers put on the color and scent they require to attract the insects that pollinate them. Our friend the Satyrium there”—he nodded at the green things—“depends upon the services of carrion flies. Come, this one smells of coconut—have you ever smelt a coconut?”
They took their time in the orchid house—they could hardly do otherwise, given the slow-moving crowd—and despite Minnie’s regret at leaving the exotic loveliness, she was relieved to pass into the last glasshouse in the row and find it nearly deserted. It was also cool, by contrast with the tropical heat created by so many bodies, and she breathed deep. The scents in here were subtle and modest by contrast, the plants small and ordinary-seeming, and quite suddenly she realized Mr. Bloomer’s strategy.
The orchid house served as a sieve or barrier. Here they were quite alone, though standing in the open, where they could easily see anyone coming in time to alter their conversation to innocuous chat.
“To business, then?” she said, and Mr. Bloomer smiled again.
“Just so. You first or me?”
“You.” It would be an exchange rather than a sale, but her half of the bargain was concrete, and his was not. “Tell it to me,” she said, focusing her concentration on his face—rather narrow but not displeasing; she could see humor in the creases near his mouth.
“You’re quite sure you can remember?” he said dubiously.
“Certainly.”
He drew breath, gave a short nod of his own, and began to talk.
Once more she took his arm, and they paced the aisles of the glasshouse, walking through patches of sun and shadow, while he told her various bits of information. She memorized these, repeating them back to him, now and again asking for clarification or repetition.
Most of the information had to do with financial matters, banking and the Exchange, the movement of money—between persons and between countries. A few tidbits of political gossip, but not many.
That surprised her; the information he was dealing for was all political in nature, and quite specific. Mr. Bloomer was hunting Jacobites. Particularly in England and Paris.
I can’t think why, her father had remarked in the margin of his list. It’s true, Charles Stuart has come to Paris, but that’s common Knowledge, and besides, everyone knows he’ll never get anywhere; the Man’s an Idiot. Still, you don’t make Money by refusing to sell People what they want….
She was relieved when Mr. Bloomer finished. It hadn’t been a long nor yet a complicated account, and she was sure that she had all the names and the necessary numbers securely fixed in mind.
“All right,” she said, and took her own list—sealed—from the secret pocket sewn inside her jacket. She handed it over, making sure to meet his eyes as she did so. Her heart was beating fast and her palm was slightly moist, but he didn’t appear suspicious.
Not that there was really anything wrong with what she’d done—she wasn’t cheating Mr. Bloomer. Not exactly. Everything on her list was just as her father had specified…save that when she’d written it out fair, she’d left out James Fraser’s name and the bits of information regarding his movements and interactions with Charles Stuart and his followers. She felt rather possessive, not to say protective, of Mr. Fraser.
Mr. Bloomer wasn’t a fool; he opened the document and read it through, at least twice. Then he folded it up and smiled at her.
“Thank you, my dear. A pleasure to—”
He stopped suddenly and drew back a little. She turned to see what had struck him and saw the soldier, the bantam cock, coming in from the passage that led from the orchid house. He was alone, but his scarlet and gold made him glow like a tropical parrot as he stepped through a patch of sun.
“Someone you know?” she asked, low-voiced. And someone you don’t want to meet, I daresay.
“Yes,” Mr. Bloomer replied, and retired into the shadows of a tree fern. “Will you do me a service, my dear? Go engage His Grace there in conversation for a few moments, while I take my leave.”
He nodded encouragingly toward the advancing soldier, and as she took a hesitant step in that direction, he blew her a kiss and stepped round behind the tree fern.
There wasn’t time to think what to say.
“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling and bowing to the officer. “Isn’t it pleasant in here, after all that crush?”
“Crush?” he said, looking faintly puzzled, and then his eyes cleared, focusing on her for the first time, and she realized that he hadn’t actually seen her until she spoke to him.
“In the orchid house,” she said, nodding toward the doorway he’d just come through. “I thought perhaps you’d come in here as I did, for refuge from the Turkish bath.”
He was in fact sweating visibly in his heavy uniform, a bead of perspiration rolling down his temple. He wore his own hair—dark, she saw, in spite of the remnants of rice powder clinging to it. He seemed to realize that he’d been socially remiss, for he made her a deep bow, hand to his heart.
“Your servant, ma’am. I beg your pardon; I was…” Straightening, he trailed off with a vague gesture at the plants around them. “It is cooler here, is it not?”