Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(173)

“Go,” he said, his voice very low, and let go her hand. She drew a deep breath and curtsied.

“I—all right. I’m…very happy to have made your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

His face changed like lightning, startling her terribly. Just as fast, he got it—whatever “it” was—under control and was once more the civil king’s officer. For that split second, though, he’d been pure rooster, an enraged cock ready to throw himself at an enemy.

“Don’t call me that. Please,” he added, and bowed formally. “I have not taken my father’s title.”

“I—yes, I see,” she said, still shaken.

“I doubt it,” he said quietly. “Goodbye.”

He turned his back on her, took a few steps toward the Chinese bowls and their mysterious flowers, and stood still, gazing down at them.

Minnie seized her fallen fan and parasol, and fled.





12





WERY WENGEFUL


Dear Miss Rennie,

May I beg the Honour of an Appointment with you at your earliest convenience? I wish to propose a Commission that I think very well suited to your considerable Talents.

Your Most Humble Servant,

Edward Twelvetrees





MINNIE FROWNED AT THE note. It was commendably brief but odd. This Twelvetrees spoke of her “talents” in a most familiar sort of way; clearly he knew what those talents were—and yet he gave no introduction, supplied no reference from one of her existing clients or connections. It made her uneasy.

Still, there was no sense of threat in the note, and she was in business. No harm in seeing him, she supposed. She’d be under no obligation to accept his commission if it, or he, seemed fishy.

She hesitated over whether to allow him to come to her rooms—but, after all, he had sent the note here; plainly he knew where she lived. She wrote back, offering to see him next day at three o’clock but making a mental note to tell one of the O’Higginses to come a bit early and hide in the boudoir, just in case.



“OH,” SHE SAID, opening the door. “So that’s it. I thought there was something a trifle odd about your note.”

“If you feel yourself offended, Miss Rennie, I willingly apologize.” Mr. Bloomer—alias Edward Twelvetrees, evidently—stepped in, not waiting for invitation, and obliging her to take a step back. “But I imagine a woman of your undoubted sense and experience might be willing to overlook a bit of professional subterfuge?”

He smiled at her, and, despite herself, she smiled back.

“I might,” she said. “A professional, are you?”

“It takes one to know one,” he said, with a small bow. “Shall we sit down?”

She shrugged slightly and gave Eliza a nod, indicating that she might bring in a tray of refreshments.

Mr. Twelvetrees accepted a cup of tea and an almond biscuit but left the latter lying on his saucer and the former steaming away unstirred.

“I shan’t waste your time, Miss Rennie,” he said. “When I left you in the princess’s glasshouse, I abandoned you—rather cavalierly, I’m afraid—to the company of His Grace, the Duke of Pardloe. Given the scandal attached to his family, I assumed at the time that you knew who he was, but from your manner when I observed you speaking with him, I revised this opinion. Was I right in thinking that you did not know him?”

“I didn’t,” Minnie said, keeping her composure. “But it was quite all right. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I left.” Just how long were you watching us? she wondered.

“Ah.” He’d been watching her face intently but at this broke off his inspection long enough to add cream and sugar to his tea and stir it. “Well, then. The commission for which I wish to engage your services has to do with this gentleman.”

“Indeed,” she said politely, and picked up her own cup.

“I wish you to abstract certain letters from the duke’s possession and deliver them to me.”

She nearly dropped the cup but tightened her hold just in time.

“What letters?” she asked sharply. Now she knew what it was about his note that had struck her oddly. Twelvetrees. That was the name of the Countess of Melton’s lover: Nathaniel Twelvetrees. All too plainly, this Edward was some relation.

And she heard in memory Colonel Quarry’s words when she’d asked if she might speak with Nathaniel: “Afraid not, Miss Rennie. My friend shot him.”

“Correspondence between the late Countess Melton and my brother Nathaniel Twelvetrees.”

She sipped her tea, feeling Edward’s gaze as hot on her skin as the breath from her cup. She set the cup down carefully and looked up. His face had an expression she’d seen on the faces of hawks fixing on their prey. But it wasn’t she who was the prey here.

“That might be possible,” she said coolly, though her heart had sped up noticeably. “Forgive me, though—are you sure such correspondence exists?”

He uttered a short laugh, quite without humor.

“It did exist, I’m sure of that.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said politely. “But if the correspondence is of the nature I surmise you mean—I have heard certain speculations—would the duke not have burned any such letters, following the death of his wife?”