Lord John and the Private Matter 3.2 by Diana Gabaldon

Author:Diana Gabaldon
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery, Seven Years' War, Historical, Gay, Mystery & Detective, Traitors, London (England) - History - 18th century, 1756-1763, Prostitution, General, Romance, Fantasy, Mystery Fiction, Adult, Historical Fiction, Soldiers, Nobility, Fiction, London (England), Adventure
ISBN: 0440241480
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Published: 2003-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Along Came a Spider

There was unfortunately not time to visit Fraser et Cie before his appointment with Quarry, whom he found waiting in front of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, as advertised.

“Are we attending a wedding or a funeral?” he asked, stepping down from the coach that had brought him.

“Must be a wedding—I see you’ve brought a present. Or is that for me?” Quarry nodded at the book beneath his arm.

“You may have it, if you like.” Grey surrendered the presentation copy of Fanny Hill with some relief; he had been obliged to leave the house with it, as Olivia had come upon him as he passed through the hall and then had accompanied him to the door, flourishing further samples of lace beneath his nose while asking his opinion.

Quarry opened the book, blinked, then looked up at Grey, leering.

“Why, Johnny. Didn’t know you cared!”

“What?” Seeing Quarry’s grin, he snatched the book back, discovering only then that there was an inscription on the title page. Evidently the Countess had been in ignorance of it, too—or at least he hoped so.

It was a fairly explicit verse from Catullus, inscribed to the Countess, and signed with the initial “J.”

“Too bad my name’s not Benedicta,” Quarry remarked. “Looks quite an interesting volume!”

Gritting his teeth and hastily reviewing a mental list of his mother’s acquaintance for persons beginning with “J,” Grey carefully tore the title page from the book, stuffed it in his pocket, and handed the volume firmly back to Quarry.

“Who are we going to see?” he inquired. He had, as instructed, come in his oldest uniform, and picked critically at an unraveling thread at his cuff. Tom Byrd was an excellent barber, but his skill at valeting left something to be desired.

“Someone,” Quarry said vaguely, looking at one of the illustrations. “Don’t know his name. Richard put me onto him; said he knew all about the Calais business; might be helpful.” Richard was Lord Joffrey, Quarry’s elder half-brother, and a force in politics. While not directly involved with army or navy, he knew everyone of consequence who was, and generally was informed of any brewing scandals weeks before they erupted in public.

“Something in government, then, this person?” Grey asked, because they were turning into Whitehall Street, which contained little else.

Quarry closed the book and gave him a wary look.

“Don’t know, exactly.”

Grey gave up asking questions, but hoped that the business wouldn’t take too long. He had had a frustrating day; the morning spent in futile inquiries, the afternoon in being fitted for a suit that he was increasingly sure would never be worn at the wedding for which it was intended. He was, all in all, in the mood for a hearty tea and a stiff drink—not interviews with nameless persons holding nonexistent positions.

He was a soldier, though, and knew duty when it called.

Whitehall Street was architecturally undistinguished, bar the remnants of the Palace and the great Banqueting Hall, left over from a previous century. Their destination was neither of these,

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