Read Online Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diana Gabaldon
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these might include snuffboxes, stockings, or condoms was not made clear.
Glancing casually at the new crop of postings as they made their way to the door, though, Grey’s eye caught a familiar name in the headline of a fresh broadsheet. DEATH DISCOVERED, read the large type.
He stopped short, the name
Ffoulkes
leaping out of the smaller newsprint at him.
“What?” Percy had perforce halted, too, and was looking curiously from Grey to the newspaper.
“Nothing. A name I recognized.” Grey’s elation dimmed a little, though he was too excited to be quelled completely. “Are you familiar with a barrister named Ffoulkes? Melchior Ffoulkes?” he asked Percy.
The latter looked blank and shook his head.
“I am afraid I know no one, much,” he said apologetically. “Should I have heard of Mr. Ffoulkes?”
“Not at all.” Grey would just as soon have dismissed Ffoulkes from his own mind, but felt obliged to see whether anything of what Hal had told him had made it into the public press. He tossed a silver ha’penny to the proprietor and took the broadsheet, folding it and stuffing it into his pocket. Time enough for such things later.
Outside, the chisping had stopped, but the sky hung low and heavy, and there was a sense of stillness in the air, the earth awaiting more snow. Alone, away from the buzz of the coffeehouse, there was a sudden small sense of intimacy between them.
“I must apologize,” Percy said, as they turned toward Hyde Park.
“For what?”
“For my unfortunate gaffe yesterday, in regard to your brother. The general
had
told me that I must not under any circumstance address him as ‘Your Grace,’ but he had not time to explain why—at the time.”
Grey snorted.
“Has he told you since?”
“Not in great detail.” Percy glanced at him, curious. “Only that there was a scandal of some sort, and that your brother in consequence has renounced his title.”
Grey sighed. Unavoidable, he’d known that. Still, he would have preferred to keep this first meeting for themselves, with no intrusions from either past or present.
“Not exactly,” he said. “But something like it.”
“Your father
was
a duke, though?” Wainwright cast him a wary glance.
“He was. Duke of Pardloe.” The title felt strange on his tongue; he hadn’t spoken it in…fifteen years? More. So long. He felt an accustomed hollowness of the bone at thought of his father. But if there was to be anything between himself and Percy Wainwright…
“But your brother is
not
now Duke of Pardloe?”
Despite himself, Grey smiled, albeit wryly.
“He is. But he will not use the title, nor have it used. Hence the occasional awkwardness.” He made a small gesture of apology. “My brother is a very stubborn man.”
Wainwright raised one brow, as though to suggest that he thought Melton might not be the only one in the Grey family to display such a trait.
“You need not tell me,” he said, though, touching Grey’s arm briefly. “I’m sure the matter is a painful one.”
“You will hear it sooner or later, and you have some right to know, as you are becoming allied with our family. My father shot himself,” Grey said abruptly. Percy blinked, shocked.
“Oh,” he said, low-voiced, and touched his arm again, very gently. “I am so sorry.”
“So am I.” Grey cleared his throat. “Cold, isn’t it?” He pulled on his gloves, and rubbed a hand beneath his nose. “It—you have heard of the Jacobites? And the South Sea Bubble?”
“I have, yes. But what have they to do with each other?” Percy asked, bewildered. Grey felt his lips twitch, not quite a smile.
“Nothing, so far as I know. But they had both to do with the—the scandal.”
Gerard Grey, Earl of Melton, had been a clever man. Of an ancient and honorable family, well educated, handsome, wealthy—and of a restless, curious turn of mind. He had also been a very fine soldier.
“My father came to the title as quite a young man, and was not
Glancing casually at the new crop of postings as they made their way to the door, though, Grey’s eye caught a familiar name in the headline of a fresh broadsheet. DEATH DISCOVERED, read the large type.
He stopped short, the name
Ffoulkes
leaping out of the smaller newsprint at him.
“What?” Percy had perforce halted, too, and was looking curiously from Grey to the newspaper.
“Nothing. A name I recognized.” Grey’s elation dimmed a little, though he was too excited to be quelled completely. “Are you familiar with a barrister named Ffoulkes? Melchior Ffoulkes?” he asked Percy.
The latter looked blank and shook his head.
“I am afraid I know no one, much,” he said apologetically. “Should I have heard of Mr. Ffoulkes?”
“Not at all.” Grey would just as soon have dismissed Ffoulkes from his own mind, but felt obliged to see whether anything of what Hal had told him had made it into the public press. He tossed a silver ha’penny to the proprietor and took the broadsheet, folding it and stuffing it into his pocket. Time enough for such things later.
Outside, the chisping had stopped, but the sky hung low and heavy, and there was a sense of stillness in the air, the earth awaiting more snow. Alone, away from the buzz of the coffeehouse, there was a sudden small sense of intimacy between them.
“I must apologize,” Percy said, as they turned toward Hyde Park.
“For what?”
“For my unfortunate gaffe yesterday, in regard to your brother. The general
had
told me that I must not under any circumstance address him as ‘Your Grace,’ but he had not time to explain why—at the time.”
Grey snorted.
“Has he told you since?”
“Not in great detail.” Percy glanced at him, curious. “Only that there was a scandal of some sort, and that your brother in consequence has renounced his title.”
Grey sighed. Unavoidable, he’d known that. Still, he would have preferred to keep this first meeting for themselves, with no intrusions from either past or present.
“Not exactly,” he said. “But something like it.”
“Your father
was
a duke, though?” Wainwright cast him a wary glance.
“He was. Duke of Pardloe.” The title felt strange on his tongue; he hadn’t spoken it in…fifteen years? More. So long. He felt an accustomed hollowness of the bone at thought of his father. But if there was to be anything between himself and Percy Wainwright…
“But your brother is
not
now Duke of Pardloe?”
Despite himself, Grey smiled, albeit wryly.
“He is. But he will not use the title, nor have it used. Hence the occasional awkwardness.” He made a small gesture of apology. “My brother is a very stubborn man.”
Wainwright raised one brow, as though to suggest that he thought Melton might not be the only one in the Grey family to display such a trait.
“You need not tell me,” he said, though, touching Grey’s arm briefly. “I’m sure the matter is a painful one.”
“You will hear it sooner or later, and you have some right to know, as you are becoming allied with our family. My father shot himself,” Grey said abruptly. Percy blinked, shocked.
“Oh,” he said, low-voiced, and touched his arm again, very gently. “I am so sorry.”
“So am I.” Grey cleared his throat. “Cold, isn’t it?” He pulled on his gloves, and rubbed a hand beneath his nose. “It—you have heard of the Jacobites? And the South Sea Bubble?”
“I have, yes. But what have they to do with each other?” Percy asked, bewildered. Grey felt his lips twitch, not quite a smile.
“Nothing, so far as I know. But they had both to do with the—the scandal.”
Gerard Grey, Earl of Melton, had been a clever man. Of an ancient and honorable family, well educated, handsome, wealthy—and of a restless, curious turn of mind. He had also been a very fine soldier.
“My father came to the title as quite a young man, and was not
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