Read Online Lord John and the Hell-Fire Club by Diana Gabaldon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diana Gabaldon
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passing.
"I impose intolerably, sir," Gerald said, moving close enough to keep his low-voiced words from the ears of the servant who kept the door. "I would ask your favor, though, if it be not entirely unwelcome?"
"I am completely at your command, I do assure you," Grey said, feeling the warmth of claret in his blood succeeded by a rush of deeper heat.
"I wish -- that is, I am in some doubt regarding a circumstance of which I have become aware. Since you are so recently come to London -- that is, you have the advantage of perspective, which I must necessarily lack by reason of familiarity. There is no one..." he fumbled for words, then turned eyes grown suddenly and deeply unhappy on Lord John. "I can confide in no one!" he said, in a sudden passionate whisper. He gripped Lord John's arm, with surprising strength. "It may be nothing, nothing at all. But I must have help."
"You shall have it, if it be in my power to give." Grey's fingers touched the hand that grasped his arm; Gerald's fingers were cold. Quarry's voice echoed down the corridor behind them, loud with joviality.
"The 'Change, near the Arcade," Gerald said rapidly. "Tonight, just after full dark." The grip on Grey's arm was gone, and Gerald vanished, the soft fall of his hair vivid against his blue cloak.
Grey's afternoon was spent in necessary errands to tailors and solicitors, then in making courtesy calls upon long-neglected acquaintance, in an effort to fill the empty hours that loomed before dark. Quarry, at loose ends, had volunteered to accompany him, and Lord John had made no demur. Bluff and jovial by temper, Quarry's conversation was limited to cards, drink, and whores. He and Grey had little in common, save the regiment. And Ardsmuir.
When he had first seen Quarry again at the club, he had thought to avoid the man, feeling that memory was best buried. And yet... could memory be truly buried, when its embodiment still lived? He might forget a dead man, but not one merely absent. And the flames of Robert Gerald's hair had kindled embers he had thought safely smothered.
It might be unwise to feed that spark, he thought, freeing his soldier's cloak from the grasp of an importunate beggar. Open flames were dangerous, and he knew that as well as any man. And yet... hours of buffeting through London's crowds and hours more of enforced sociality had filled him with such unexpected longing for the quiet of the North that he found himself filled suddenly with the desire to speak of Scotland, if nothing more.
They had passed the Royal Exchange in the course of their errands; he had glanced covertly toward the Arcade, with its gaudy paint and tattered posters, its tawdry crowds of hawkers and strollers, and felt a soft spasm of anticipation. It was autumn; the dark came early.
They were near the river, now; the noise of clamoring cockle-sellers and fish-mongers rang in the winding alleys, and a cold wind filled with the invigorating stench of tar and wood-shavings bellied out their cloaks like sails. Quarry turned and waved above the heads of the intervening throng, gesturing toward a coffee-house; Grey nodded in reply, lowered his head and elbowed his way toward the door.
"Such a press," Lord John said, pushing his way after Quarry into the relative peace of the small, spice-scented room. He took off his tricorne and sat down, tenderly adjusting the red cockade, knocked askew by contact with the populace. Two inches shorter than the common height, Grey found himself at a disadvantage in crowds.
"I had forgot what a seething anthill London is." He took a deep breath; grasp the nettle, then, and get it over. "A contrast with Ardsmuir, to be sure."
"I'd forgot what a misbegotten lonely hellhole Scotland is," Quarry replied, "until you turned up at the Beefsteak this morning to remind me of my blessings. Here's to anthills!" He lifted the steaming glass which had appeared as by magic at his elbow, and bowed ceremoniously to Grey. He drank, and
"I impose intolerably, sir," Gerald said, moving close enough to keep his low-voiced words from the ears of the servant who kept the door. "I would ask your favor, though, if it be not entirely unwelcome?"
"I am completely at your command, I do assure you," Grey said, feeling the warmth of claret in his blood succeeded by a rush of deeper heat.
"I wish -- that is, I am in some doubt regarding a circumstance of which I have become aware. Since you are so recently come to London -- that is, you have the advantage of perspective, which I must necessarily lack by reason of familiarity. There is no one..." he fumbled for words, then turned eyes grown suddenly and deeply unhappy on Lord John. "I can confide in no one!" he said, in a sudden passionate whisper. He gripped Lord John's arm, with surprising strength. "It may be nothing, nothing at all. But I must have help."
"You shall have it, if it be in my power to give." Grey's fingers touched the hand that grasped his arm; Gerald's fingers were cold. Quarry's voice echoed down the corridor behind them, loud with joviality.
"The 'Change, near the Arcade," Gerald said rapidly. "Tonight, just after full dark." The grip on Grey's arm was gone, and Gerald vanished, the soft fall of his hair vivid against his blue cloak.
Grey's afternoon was spent in necessary errands to tailors and solicitors, then in making courtesy calls upon long-neglected acquaintance, in an effort to fill the empty hours that loomed before dark. Quarry, at loose ends, had volunteered to accompany him, and Lord John had made no demur. Bluff and jovial by temper, Quarry's conversation was limited to cards, drink, and whores. He and Grey had little in common, save the regiment. And Ardsmuir.
When he had first seen Quarry again at the club, he had thought to avoid the man, feeling that memory was best buried. And yet... could memory be truly buried, when its embodiment still lived? He might forget a dead man, but not one merely absent. And the flames of Robert Gerald's hair had kindled embers he had thought safely smothered.
It might be unwise to feed that spark, he thought, freeing his soldier's cloak from the grasp of an importunate beggar. Open flames were dangerous, and he knew that as well as any man. And yet... hours of buffeting through London's crowds and hours more of enforced sociality had filled him with such unexpected longing for the quiet of the North that he found himself filled suddenly with the desire to speak of Scotland, if nothing more.
They had passed the Royal Exchange in the course of their errands; he had glanced covertly toward the Arcade, with its gaudy paint and tattered posters, its tawdry crowds of hawkers and strollers, and felt a soft spasm of anticipation. It was autumn; the dark came early.
They were near the river, now; the noise of clamoring cockle-sellers and fish-mongers rang in the winding alleys, and a cold wind filled with the invigorating stench of tar and wood-shavings bellied out their cloaks like sails. Quarry turned and waved above the heads of the intervening throng, gesturing toward a coffee-house; Grey nodded in reply, lowered his head and elbowed his way toward the door.
"Such a press," Lord John said, pushing his way after Quarry into the relative peace of the small, spice-scented room. He took off his tricorne and sat down, tenderly adjusting the red cockade, knocked askew by contact with the populace. Two inches shorter than the common height, Grey found himself at a disadvantage in crowds.
"I had forgot what a seething anthill London is." He took a deep breath; grasp the nettle, then, and get it over. "A contrast with Ardsmuir, to be sure."
"I'd forgot what a misbegotten lonely hellhole Scotland is," Quarry replied, "until you turned up at the Beefsteak this morning to remind me of my blessings. Here's to anthills!" He lifted the steaming glass which had appeared as by magic at his elbow, and bowed ceremoniously to Grey. He drank, and
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