Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(190)

Harry sniffed the fragrant air drifting in from the kitchen and closed his eyes in anticipatory bliss. The Beefsteak made their eel pies with the usual onion, butter, and parsley but also with nutmeg and dry sherry.

“Oh, God, yes.”

Hal’s mouth watered a bit at the thought—but the thought also brought a tightening of his body. Harry opened his eyes and looked surprised.

“What’s the matter, old man?”

“Matter? Nothing.” Mr. Bodley had freed the cork from its lead seal and now loosed it deftly with a soft burp and a hiss of rising bubbles. “Thank you, Mr. Bodley. Yes, eel pies by all means!

“Eel pies,” he repeated, as Mr. Bodley faded discreetly toward the kitchen. “The mention just reminded me of Kettrick’s…and that young woman.”

The thought of her—God damn it, why had he not even thought to make her tell him her real name? Lady Bedelia Houghton, for God’s sake—caused its usual frisson of mixed emotions. Lust, curiosity, annoyance…longing? He didn’t know if he’d put it that strongly, but he did have an intense desire to see her again, if only to find out what the devil she’d actually been doing. A desire now greatly intensified by his meeting with the secretary.

“Kettrick’s?” Harry said, looking blank. “Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House, you mean? And what young woman?”

Hal caught something in Harry’s voice and gave his friend a sharp look.

“The girl I caught magicking the drawer of my desk, the night of the ball.”

“Oh, that girl,” Harry murmured, and buried his nose in his glass.

Hal looked harder at Harry. He hadn’t told Harry everything—not by a long chalk, by God—but he had told him that he was satisfied with what she’d told him (actually, a long way from satisfied, but…) and that he’d sent her home in a coach and requested her address, which she’d given.

Only to discover that said address didn’t exist, and when he’d tracked down the coach driver, an Irish rapscallion, the man had told him that the girl had professed to be starving—she was; he’d heard her stomach growling when he…oh, Jesus—and had asked him to put her down for a moment at Kettrick’s. He had, and the girl had promptly walked through the house, out the back, and legged it down an alley, never to be seen again.

Which, Hal thought, was a sufficiently interesting story as to have stuck in Harry’s mind. To say nothing of the fact that he’d several times mentioned the girl, as well as his efforts to find her, to Harry.

“Hmph,” he said, drank more, and shook his head to clear it. “Well, regardless…there was a bit of cordial conversation, quite cordial, though all through it there was something…odd…in Sir William’s manner. Rather grave—that’s why I thought he was working up to a refusal—but then…sympathetic.”

“Really?” Harry’s thick brows shot up. “Why, do you suppose?”

Hal shook his head again, baffled.

“I don’t know. Only…at the end, when he’d given me the certificate and congratulated me, he shook my hand and held on to it for a moment, and…he gave me a brief word of condolence on my…my loss.” He’d thought he had his emotions well in check, but the pang was sharp as ever and he was obliged to clear his throat.

“Only being decent, surely,” Harry said gruffly. Hal saw, to his fascination, that the blood was rising up Harry’s neck and into his cheeks.

“Yes,” he said, and leaned back, casual, glass in hand, but an eye on Harry. “At the time, I was so elated that I wouldn’t have cared if he’d told me that a crocodile had hold of my foot, but with more-sober thought…”

Harry hooted slightly at that but then settled into his glass, eyes on the tablecloth. The flush had spread to his nose, now faintly glowing.

“I wondered—actually, just now—whether perhaps it was some sort of oblique reference to that bloody petition. You know, the one Reginald Twelvetrees brought, claiming that I’d assassinated his brother while off my head.”

“He—didn’t actually mention the petition?”

Hal shook his head. “No.”

The eel pies arrived at this moment, smoking and savory, and no more was said for a bit.

Hal wiped the last bit of juice out of the dish with a sop of bread, chewed blissfully, swallowed, then opened his eyes and gave Harry a straight look.

“What the devil do you know about that petition, Harry?”

He’d known Harry Quarry since Harry was two and himself five. Harry could lie, if given warning and enough time to prepare, but he couldn’t lie to Hal and knew it.

Harry sighed, closed his eyes, and thought for a bit, then opened one eye cautiously. Hal raised both brows and laid his hands flat on the table, in demonstration of the fact that he wasn’t about to either hit Harry or strangle him. Harry looked down and bit his lip.

“Harry,” Hal said softly. “Whatever you did, I forgive you. Just bloody tell me, all right?”

Harry looked up, nodded, drew a deep breath, and did.

“Irrumabo,” Hal said, more in astonishment than anger. “But you told her not to take the letters, you say….”

“Yes. I swear I did, Hal.” The flush had diffused and was beginning to fade. “I mean—I knew what you felt—about—”