Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade(30)
Author: Diana Gabaldon

Meanwhile, attention had shifted to Hal, who was explaining that he was not stopping, as he was summoned to a meeting at Whitehall, but had merely paused on his way there in order to deliver Percy Wainwright’s commission papers, now officially countersigned and sealed with the Royal seal. These he produced with a flourish and handed over to general applause.

Percy flushed up like a peony, to Grey’s amusement, and bowed to the company, papers held to his chest.

“I thank you, my lord,” he said to Hal. “And I’m sure I will hope to be a credit to you and to the regiment.”

“Oh, you will be,” Hal said, smiling. “If it kills you.”

There was laughter at Percy’s faint look of alarm, and his concern faded into an answering smile.

“You think I’m joking, don’t you?” Hal said, still smiling. “Ask my brother. In the meantime—congratulations, sir, and welcome to our company!” He bowed briskly, and with a wave of farewell, strode out to his waiting coach.

“You’ll track mud everywhere, John,” the countess said, returning her disapproving attention to Grey’s state. “Do step into the drawing room and take your clothes off; I’ll send Tom down to take care of you.”

“I’ll keep you company.” Percy, tucking his commission papers away in his coat, opened the door for Grey, who limped through, clutching his whisky. What with one thing and another, lust was the last thing on his mind at the moment, but he was nonetheless glad to be alone with Percy, if only for a short time.

“You know,” Percy said, closing the door and eyeing him. “I begin to be convinced that you do this on purpose, to avoid my company.”

Grey leaned against the mantelpiece with a faint groan, unable to sit down on any of the furniture.

“Believe me,” he said, “I should prefer the company of an organ-grinder’s monkey, let alone yours, to that of the persons I was obliged to consort with this afternoon.”

“Were you really run down by a coach?” Wainwright asked, peering curiously at him.

“Why do you ask?” Grey parried.

“Because I’ve seen people run down by coaches,” Percy replied bluntly. “If you’d been only knocked aside and rolled in the gutter, you’d be bruised and filthy—but you look as though you’ve been beaten within an inch of your life. If you’ll pardon my frankness.” He smiled, to indicate that no offense was meant by this, before going on.

“And if you’d actually been run over by a mail coach, you’d be dead, or close to it. You’d certainly have broken bones. To say nothing of wheel marks on your clothes.”

Grey laughed, despite himself. There was no need to shelter Percy from the truth, after all—and it was dawning on him that, in fact, there were aspects of the situation that he could share with Percy Wainwright that he couldn’t tell even his brother.

“You’re right,” he said, and proceeded to give Percy an abbreviated, but truthful, version of his afternoon’s activities. Percy listened with the greatest attention and sympathy, refilling Grey’s glass when it got low.

“So you were beaten by a mob who objected to your going to the help of a gentleman whom they thought a sodomite—who in fact wasn’t,” Wainwright observed, at the end of it. “Rather ironic, isn’t it?”

“Bates was a brave man, and he died very horribly,” Grey said shortly. “I am not inclined to find humor in the situation.”

Wainwright’s expression sobered at once.

“You are right; I do apologize. I meant no offense, either to you or to Captain Bates.”

“No, of course not.” Grey softened his tone. “And in all justice, the captain himself would doubtless have appreciated the irony. He was that sort of man.”

“You liked him,” Wainwright observed, with no hint of surprise.

“I did.” Grey hesitated. He did not yet know Wainwright very well, for all he was about to become a member of the family. And yet…“Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked abruptly.

Wainwright blinked, surprised.

“Once. Several years ago.”

Grey considered for an instant longer—but the man could always say no, after all.

“The captain entrusted me with a particular errand, of importance and delicacy. I have promised to see it done, but—well, let me tell you.”

By the time he had finished his explanation, Wainwright’s mobile face was a study: shock, sympathy, curiosity, and—no doubt about it—a desire to laugh.

“You have the greatest talent for awkward situations,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Have you any idea why the captain should have selected you for this particular enterprise?”

Grey hesitated again, but answered honestly.

“Yes, I do. He thought I could be blackmailed.”

All humor vanished from Wainwright’s face. He lowered his voice, though they were quite alone.

“Has he blackmailed you? You are in danger of exposure if you do not perform his errand?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Grey said hurriedly. “He did not know—that is—no.” Nothing would induce him to utter the name of Hubert Bowles, even if it were possible to explain how he had come to know the man, which it wasn’t.

“It was nothing to do with…that,” he said. “Another matter, which I am not at liberty to explain. But the end of it is that I did agree to perform the captain’s request. I did like him,” he added, half-apologizing. “And yet I cannot leave London at present; I have duties to the regiment, and for me to ask leave would cause a great deal of attention and comment. I must find someone suitably discreet to accompany Mrs. Tomlinson to Ireland—and do so quickly, before her husband discovers the plan or has a chance to injure her further.”

Wainwright rubbed a thoughtful finger below his lip, and glanced at Grey.

“Would you trust me to do it? I am commissioned, but my service does not become effective with the regiment for ten days yet; I presume you could give me leave?” He smiled, eyes dancing. “And I can assure you of my discretion.”

Grey’s heart lightened at once, though he protested.

“I cannot ask such a thing of you. The danger—”

“Oh, I don’t see how you can expect me to resist such an opportunity.” Percy’s smile grew wider. “After all, if there is one thing I never expected to do in life, it’s to abscond with a man’s wife!”

His laughter was infectious, and Grey couldn’t help smiling, though it reopened the cut in his lip. Before he could take up his handkerchief to blot it, Percy had whipped out his own, and pressed it to Grey’s mouth. He had stopped laughing, but still smiled, his fingers warm even through the linen cloth.

“I shall undertake your errand with pleasure, John,” he said. “Though I would appreciate it very much if you can contrive not to be beaten to a pudding again before I come back.”

Grey would have replied, but at this point, there was a discreet knock at the door, which opened to reveal Tom Byrd, a banyan and towel over his arm, who nodded to Wainwright before turning a minatory eye on Grey.

“You’d best undress, me lord. Your bath is getting cold.”

Chapter 16

In Which an Engagement Is Broken

Despite his injuries, Grey slept like the dead, and rose late. He was enjoying a leisurely and solitary breakfast in banyan and slippers when Tom Byrd appeared in the dining-room doorway, his face registering an excited alarm that made Grey drop a slice of buttered toast and rise to his feet.

“What?” he said sharply.

“It’s the general, me lord.”

“Which general? Sir George, do you mean?”

“Yes, me lord.” With a hasty glance behind him, Tom stepped in and shut the door.

“What on earth—”

“Brunton doesn’t know what to do, me lord,” Tom interrupted, in a hoarse whisper. “He daren’t let the general in, but he daren’t turn him away, neither. He asked him to wait a moment, and sent me to run fetch you, fast.”

“Why the devil would Brunton not let him in?” Grey was already heading for the door, brushing crumbs from his sleeves.

“Because the countess told him not to, I reckon,” Tom said helpfully.

Grey stopped in his tracks, unable to believe his ears.

“What? Why should she do such a thing?”

Tom bit his lip.

“She, um, broke the engagement, me lord. And Sir George, he says he wants to know why.”

What can she mean by this, Lord John?” Sir George, rescued from the stoop, was a study in agitation, wig awry and his waistcoat misbuttoned. “She gives no reason, no reason whatever!”

“She wrote to break off your understanding?”

“Yes, yes, she sent a note this morning….” Sir George fumbled at his pockets, searching, and eventually produced a crumpled bit of paper, which indeed said nothing beyond a simple statement that the countess regretted that she found their marriage impossible.

“I am not a handsome man,” Sir George said, peering rather pathetically into the looking glass above the sideboard, and making a vain attempt to straighten his wig. “I know I am nothing to look at. I have money, but of course she does not need that. I had quite expected that she would refuse my proposal, but having accepted me…I swear to you, Lord John, I have done nothing—nothing—that might be considered reprehensible. And if I have somehow offended her, of course I should apologize directly, but how can I do that, if I have no notion of my offense, and she will not see me?”

Grey found himself in sympathy with Sir George, and baffled by his mother’s behavior.

“If you will allow me, sir?” He gently turned the general toward him, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and rebuttoned it neatly. “They, um, do say that women are changeable. Given to fits of irrational behavior.”

“Well, yes, they do,” the general agreed, appearing a little calmer. “And I have known a good many women who are, to be sure. Had one of them sent me such a note, I should merely have waited for a day or two, in order to allow her to regain her composure, then come round to call with an armful of flowers, and all would be well.” He smiled bleakly.

“But your mother is not like that. Not like that at all,” he repeated, shaking his head in helpless confusion. “She is the most logical woman I have ever met. To a point that some would consider unwomanly, in fact. Not myself,” he added hastily, lest Grey suppose this to be an insult. “Not at all!”

This was true—his mother was both logical and plainspoken about it—and gave Grey fresh grounds for bemusement.

“Has something…happened, quite recently?” he asked. “For that is the only circumstance I can conceive of which might explain her taking such an action.”

Sir George thought fiercely, his upper lip caught behind his lower teeth, but was obliged to shake his head.

“There is nothing,” he said helplessly. “I have been involved in no scandal. No affaire, no duello. I have not appeared the worse for drink in public—why, I have not even published a controversial letter in a newspaper!”