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Authors: Diana Gabaldon
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thank God! -- but rather of a soft and luminous brown.
Grey's mouth had gone dry. To his relief, Quarry offered refreshment, and upon Gerald's agreement, snapped his fingers for the steward and steered the three of them to an armchaired corner where the haze of tobacco smoke hung like a sheltering curtain over the less-convivial members of the Beefsteak.
"Who was that I heard in the corridor?" Quarry demanded, as soon as they were settled. "Bubb-Dodington, surely? The man's a voice like a coster-monger."
"I -- he -- yes, it was." Mr. Gerald's pale skin, not quite recovered from its earlier excitement, bloomed afresh, to Quarry's evident amusement.
"Oho! And what perfidious proposal has he made you, young Bob?"
"Nothing. He -- an invitation I did not wish to accept, that is all. Must you shout so loudly, Harry?" It was chilly at this end of the room, but Grey thought he could warm his hands at the fire of Gerald's smooth cheeks.
Quarry snorted with amusement, looking around at the nearby chairs.
"Who's to hear? Old Cotterill's deaf as a post, and the General's half dead. And why do you care in any case, if the matter's so innocent as you suggest?" Quarry's eyes swiveled to bear on his cousin by marriage, suddenly intelligent and penetrating.
"I did not say it was innocent," Gerald replied dryly, regaining his composure. "I said I declined to accept it. And that, Harry, is all you will hear of it, so desist this piercing glare you turn upon me. It may work on your subalterns, but not on me."
Grey laughed, and after a moment, Quarry joined in. He clapped Gerald on the shoulder, eyes twinkling.
"My cousin is the soul of discretion, Lord John. But that's as it should be, eh?"
"I have the honour to serve as junior secretary to the Prime Minister," Gerald explained, seeing incomprehension on Grey's features. "While the secrets of government are dull indeed -- at least by Harry's standards --" he shot his cousin a malicious grin, "-- they are not mine to share."
"Oh, well, of no interest to Lord John in any case," Quarry said philosophically, tossing back his third glass of aged claret with a disrespectful haste more suited to porter. Grey saw the senior steward close his eyes in quiet horror at the act of desecration, and smiled to himself -- or so he thought, until he caught Mr. Gerald's soft brown eyes upon him, a matching smile of complicity upon his lips.
"Such things are of little interest to anyone save those most intimately concerned," Gerald said, still smiling at Grey. "The fiercest battles fought are those where very little lies at stake, you know. But what interests you, Lord John, if politics does not?"
"Not lack of interest," Grey responded, holding Robert Gerald's eyes boldly with his. No, not lack of interest at all. "Ignorance, rather. I have been absent from London for some time; in fact, I have quite lost... touch."
Without intent, one hand closed upon his glass, the thumb drawing slowly upward, stroking the smooth, cool surface as though it were another's flesh. Hastily, he set the glass down, seeing as he did so the flash of blue from the sapphire ring he wore. It might have been a lighthouse beacon, he reflected wryly, warning of rough seas ahead.
And yet the conversation sailed smoothly on, despite Quarry's jocular inquisitions regarding Grey's most recent posting in the wilds of Scotland, and his speculations as to his brother officer's future prospects. As the former was terra prohibita and the latter terra incognita, Grey had little to say in response, and the talk moved on to other things; horses, dogs, regimental gossip and other such comfortable masculine fare.
Yet now and again, Grey felt the brown eyes rest on him, with an expression of speculation that both modesty and caution forbade him to interpret. It was with no sense of surprise, though, that upon departure from the club, he found himself alone in the vestibule with Gerald, Quarry having been detained by an acquaintance met in
Grey's mouth had gone dry. To his relief, Quarry offered refreshment, and upon Gerald's agreement, snapped his fingers for the steward and steered the three of them to an armchaired corner where the haze of tobacco smoke hung like a sheltering curtain over the less-convivial members of the Beefsteak.
"Who was that I heard in the corridor?" Quarry demanded, as soon as they were settled. "Bubb-Dodington, surely? The man's a voice like a coster-monger."
"I -- he -- yes, it was." Mr. Gerald's pale skin, not quite recovered from its earlier excitement, bloomed afresh, to Quarry's evident amusement.
"Oho! And what perfidious proposal has he made you, young Bob?"
"Nothing. He -- an invitation I did not wish to accept, that is all. Must you shout so loudly, Harry?" It was chilly at this end of the room, but Grey thought he could warm his hands at the fire of Gerald's smooth cheeks.
Quarry snorted with amusement, looking around at the nearby chairs.
"Who's to hear? Old Cotterill's deaf as a post, and the General's half dead. And why do you care in any case, if the matter's so innocent as you suggest?" Quarry's eyes swiveled to bear on his cousin by marriage, suddenly intelligent and penetrating.
"I did not say it was innocent," Gerald replied dryly, regaining his composure. "I said I declined to accept it. And that, Harry, is all you will hear of it, so desist this piercing glare you turn upon me. It may work on your subalterns, but not on me."
Grey laughed, and after a moment, Quarry joined in. He clapped Gerald on the shoulder, eyes twinkling.
"My cousin is the soul of discretion, Lord John. But that's as it should be, eh?"
"I have the honour to serve as junior secretary to the Prime Minister," Gerald explained, seeing incomprehension on Grey's features. "While the secrets of government are dull indeed -- at least by Harry's standards --" he shot his cousin a malicious grin, "-- they are not mine to share."
"Oh, well, of no interest to Lord John in any case," Quarry said philosophically, tossing back his third glass of aged claret with a disrespectful haste more suited to porter. Grey saw the senior steward close his eyes in quiet horror at the act of desecration, and smiled to himself -- or so he thought, until he caught Mr. Gerald's soft brown eyes upon him, a matching smile of complicity upon his lips.
"Such things are of little interest to anyone save those most intimately concerned," Gerald said, still smiling at Grey. "The fiercest battles fought are those where very little lies at stake, you know. But what interests you, Lord John, if politics does not?"
"Not lack of interest," Grey responded, holding Robert Gerald's eyes boldly with his. No, not lack of interest at all. "Ignorance, rather. I have been absent from London for some time; in fact, I have quite lost... touch."
Without intent, one hand closed upon his glass, the thumb drawing slowly upward, stroking the smooth, cool surface as though it were another's flesh. Hastily, he set the glass down, seeing as he did so the flash of blue from the sapphire ring he wore. It might have been a lighthouse beacon, he reflected wryly, warning of rough seas ahead.
And yet the conversation sailed smoothly on, despite Quarry's jocular inquisitions regarding Grey's most recent posting in the wilds of Scotland, and his speculations as to his brother officer's future prospects. As the former was terra prohibita and the latter terra incognita, Grey had little to say in response, and the talk moved on to other things; horses, dogs, regimental gossip and other such comfortable masculine fare.
Yet now and again, Grey felt the brown eyes rest on him, with an expression of speculation that both modesty and caution forbade him to interpret. It was with no sense of surprise, though, that upon departure from the club, he found himself alone in the vestibule with Gerald, Quarry having been detained by an acquaintance met in
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