Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(182)

She finished her own Madeira and poured another for them both.

“All right,” she said, feeling a slight spinning sensation. “What do you think I should wear?”

“Your very best, my dear.” Lady Buford raised her refilled glass in a sort of toast. “Lord Fairbairn is a widower.”





15





BURGLARY AND OTHER DIVERSIONS


THE CARTE D’INVITATION ARRIVED by messenger two days later, addressed to her simply as Mademoiselle Wilhelmina Rennie. Seeing her name—even a mistaken version of her assumed name—in black and white gave her a slight rippling sensation down the back. If she should be caught…

“Think about it, girl,” said her father’s logical voice, affectionate and slightly impatient. “What if you are caught? Don’t be afraid of unimagined possibilities; imagine the possibilities and then imagine what you’ll do about them.”

Her father was, as usual, right. She wrote down every possibility she could think of, from being refused admittance to Argus House, to being recognized at the ball by one of the clients she’d met this week, to being detected by a servant while returning the letters. And then she summoned the O’Higginses and told them what she wanted.



SHE’D COME LATE, smoothly inserting herself into a group of several giggly young women and their chaperones, avoiding the notice paid to guests who arrived singly and were announced to the crowd. The dancing had started; it was simple to find a place among the wallflowers, where she could watch without being seen.

She’d learned from Lady Buford the art of drawing men’s eyes. She’d already known the art of avoiding them. Despite having worn her best—the soft river-green eau-de-nil gown—so long as she kept her head modestly lowered, hung about on the edge of a group, and didn’t speak, she was unlikely to get a second glance.

Her eyes, though, knew just where to look. There were a number of soldiers in lavish uniform, but she saw Lord Melton instantly, as though there was no other man in the room. He stood by the enormous hearth, absorbed in conversation with a few other men; with no sense of surprise, she recognized Prince Frederick, bulging and amiable in puce satin, and Harry Quarry, fine in his own uniform. A small, fierce-looking man with an iron-gray wig and the features of a shrike stood at Melton’s elbow—that must be Lord Fairbairn, she thought.

She sensed someone behind her and turned to see the Duke of Beaufort beaming down at her. He swept her a deep bow.

“Miss Rennie! Your most humble servant, I do assure you!”

“Charmed, as always, Your Grace.” She batted her eyes at him over her fan. She’d known she was likely to meet people she knew—and she’d decided what to do about it. To wit, nothing special. She knew how to flirt and disengage, moving skillfully from one partner to another without causing offense. So she gave Sir Robert her hand, joined him for two dances, sent him for an ice, and disappeared to the ladies’ retiring room for a quarter of an hour—long enough for him to have given up and sought another partner.

When she came back, moving cautiously, her eyes went at once to the hearth and discovered that Lord Melton and his companions had vanished. A group of bankers and stockbrokers, many of whom she knew, had replaced them by the fire, deep in financial conversation by the look of them.

She drifted inconspicuously around the room, watching, but Hal—Lord Melton, she corrected herself firmly—was nowhere to be found. Nor was the prince, Harry Quarry, or the ferocious Scottish grandfather. Clearly the conversation had reached a stage where privacy was required.

Well enough. But she couldn’t get on with her own job until the bloody man came back into sight. If he was having private discussions, chances were good that he was doing it in the library; she daren’t risk walking in on him.

“Miss Rennie! What a vision you are! Come and dance with me, I insist!”

She smiled and raised her fan.

“Of course, Sir Robert. Charmed!”

It was more than half an hour before the men came back. The prince reappeared first, strolling to one of the refreshment tables with a look of pleased accomplishment on his face. Then Lord Fairbairn, who popped out of a door on the far side of the ballroom and stood against the wall, looking on with as amiable an expression as his forbidding features could manage.

And then Lord Melton and Harry emerged from the door that opened into the main hallway, chatting to each other with a casualness that failed entirely to cover their excitement. So, whatever Hal’s business was with the prince, it had come to a successful conclusion.

Good. He’d stay here, then, celebrating.

She put down the half-finished glass of champagne and faded discreetly away in the direction of the retiring room.

She’d noted what she could—the locations of doors, mostly, and the quickest path should she need to get out fast. The library was down a side corridor, second door on the right.

The door stood open; the room warm and inviting, a good fire lit in the hearth and candles blazing, softly upholstered furniture in blue and pink against a wallpaper of wine-striped damask. She breathed deep, burped slightly, and felt the bubbles of champagne rise up the back of her nose, and, with a quick look up and down the hallway, stepped into the library and quietly closed the door behind her.

The desk was on the left side of the hearth, just as Mick had told her.