One of his friends darted forward and seized him by the arm, shouting urgently, "Up! Up! It's La Dame Blanche! Run!"
Still sunk in the frenzy of rape, the man stared stupidly and tried to turn back to Mary, who was frantically writhing and twisting, trying to free the folds of her skirts from the weight that held her trapped. Both Green-shirt and Spotted-shirt were now pulling on her assailant's arms, and succeeded in getting him to his feet. His torn breeches drooped about his thighs, the blood-smeared rod of his erection trembling with mindless eagerness between the dangling shirttails.
The clatter of running feet approaching seemed finally to rouse him. His two helpers, hearing the sound, dropped his arms and fled precipitately, leaving him to his fate. With a muffled curse, he made his way down the nearest alley, hopping and hobbling as he tried to yank his breeches up around his waist.
"Au secours! Au secours! Gendarmes!" A breathless voice was shouting down the alleyway for help, as its owner fumbled his way in our direction, stumbling over rubbish in the dark. I hardly thought a footpad or other miscreant would be staggering down an alleyway shouting for the gendarmerie, though in my present state of shock, almost nothing would have surprised me.
I was surprised, though, when the black shape that flapped out of the alley proved to be Alexander Randall, swathed in black cape and slouch hat. He glanced wildly around the small cul-de-sac, from Murtagh, masquerading as a bag of rubbish, to me, standing frozen and gasping against a wall, to the huddled shape of Mary, nearly invisible among the other shadows. He stood helpless for a moment, then whirled and clambered up the iron gate from which our assailants had emerged. From the top of this, he could just reach the lantern suspended from the rafter above.
The light was a comfort; pitiful as was the sight it revealed, at least it banished the lurking shadows that threatened at any moment to turn into new dangers.
Mary was on her knees, curled into herself. Head buried in her arms, she was shaking, in total silence. One shoe lay on its side on the cobbles, silver buckle winking in the swaying light of the lantern.
Like a bird of ill omen, Alex swooped down beside her.
"Miss Hawkins! Mary! Miss Hawkins! Are you all right?"
"Of all the damn-fool questions," I said with some asperity as she moaned and shrank away from him. "Naturally she isn't all right. She's just been raped." With a considerable effort, I pried myself from the comforting wall at my back, and started toward them, noting with clinical detachment that my knees were wobbling.
They gave way altogether in the next moment as a huge, batlike shape swooped down a foot in front of me, landing on the cobbles with a substantial thud.
"Well, well, look who's dropped in!" I said, and started to laugh in an unhinged sort of way. A large pair of hands grabbed me by the shoulders and administered a good shake.
"Be quiet, Sassenach," said Jamie, blue eyes gleaming black and dangerous in the lanternlight. He straightened up, the folds of his blue velvet cloak falling back over his shoulders as he stretched his arms toward the roof from which he had jumped. He could just grasp the edge of it, standing on his toes.
"Well, come down, then!" he said impatiently, looking up. "Put your feet over the edge onto my shoulders, and ye can slide down my back." With a grating of loose roof slates, a small black figure wriggled its way cautiously backward, then swarmed down the tall figure like a monkey on a stick.
"Good man, Fergus." Jamie clapped the boy casually on the shoulder, and even in the dim light I could see the glow of pleasure that rose in his cheeks. Jamie surveyed the landscape with a tactician's eye, and with a muttered word, sent the lad down the alley to keep watch for approaching gendarmes. The essentials taken care of, he squatted down before me once more.
"Are ye all right, Sassenach?" he inquired.
"Nice of you to ask," I said politely. "Yes, thanks. She's not so well, though." I waved vaguely in Mary's direction. She was still rolled into a ball, shuddering and quaking like a jelly, oozing away from Alex's fumbling efforts to pat her.
Jamie spared no more than a glance at her. "So I see. Where in hell is Murtagh?"
"Over there," I answered. "Help me up."
I staggered over to the gutter, where the sack that held Murtagh was heaving to and fro like an agitated caterpillar, emitting a startling mixture of muffled profanities in three languages.
Jamie drew his dirk, and with what seemed to be a rather callous disregard for the contents, slit the sack from end to end. Murtagh popped out of the opening like a Jack out of its box. Half his spiky black hair was pasted to his head by whatever noisome liquid the bag had rested in. The rest stood on end, lending a fiercer cast to a face rendered already sufficiently warlike by a large purple knot on the forehead and a rapidly darkening eye.
"Who hit me?" he barked.
"Well, it wasn't me," answered Jamie, raising one eyebrow. "Come along, man, we havena got all night."
"This is never going to work," I muttered, stabbing pins decorated with brilliants at random through my hair. "She ought to have medical care, for one thing. She needs a doctor!"
"She has one," Jamie pointed out, lifting his chin and peering down his nose into the mirror as he tied his stock. "You." Stock tied, he grabbed a comb and pulled it hurriedly through the thick, ruddy waves of his hair.
"No time to braid it," he muttered, holding a thick tail behind his head as he rummaged in a drawer. "Have ye a bit of ribbon, Sassenach?"
"Let me." I moved swiftly behind him, folding under the ends of the hair and wrapping the club in a length of green ribbon. "Of all the bloody nights to have a dinner party on!"
And not just any dinner party, either. The Duke of Sandringham was to be guest of honor, with a small but select party to greet him. Monsieur Duverney was coming, with his eldest son, a prominent banker. Louise and Jules de La Tour were coming, and the d'Arbanvilles. Just to make things interesting, the Comte St. Germain had also been invited.
"St. Germain!" I had said in astonishment, when Jamie had told me the week before. "Whatever for?"
"I do business with the man," Jamie had pointed out. "He's been to dinner here before, with Jared. But what I want is to have the opportunity of watching him talk to you over dinner. From what I've seen of him in business, he's not the man to hide his thoughts." He picked up the white crystal that Master Raymond had given me and weighed it thoughtfully in his palm.
"It's pretty enough," he had said. "I'll have it set in a gold mounting, so you can wear it about your neck. Toy with it at dinner until someone asks ye about it, Sassenach. Then tell them what it's for, and make sure to watch St. Germain's face when ye do. If it was him gave ye the poison at Versailles, I think we'll see some sign of it."
What I wanted at the moment was peace, quiet, and total privacy in which to shake like a rabbit. What I had was a dinner party with a duke who might be a Jacobite or an English agent, a Comte who might be a poisoner, and a rape victim hidden upstairs. My hands shook so that I couldn't fasten the chain that held the mounted crystal; Jamie stepped behind me and snicked the catch with one flick of his thumb.
"Haven't you got any nerves?" I demanded of him. He grimaced at me in the mirror and put his hands over his stomach.
"Aye, I have. But it takes me in the belly, not the hands. Have ye some of that stuff for cramp?"
"Over there." I waved at the medicine box on the table, left open from my dosing of Mary. "The little green bottle. One spoonful."
Ignoring the spoon, he tilted the bottle and took several healthy gulps. He lowered it and squinted at the liquid within.
"God, that's foul stuff! Are ye nearly ready, Sassenach? The guests will be here any minute."
Mary was concealed for the moment in a spare room on the second floor. I had checked her carefully for injuries, which seemed limited to bruises and shock, then dosed her quickly with as large a slug of poppy syrup as seemed feasible.
Alex Randall had resisted all Jamie's attempts to send him home, and instead had been left to stand guard over Mary, with strict instructions to fetch me if she woke.
"How on earth did that idiot happen to be there?" I asked, scrabbling in the drawer for a box of powder.
"I asked him that," Jamie replied. "Seems the poor fool's in love with Mary Hawkins. He's been following her to and fro about the town, drooping like a wilted flower because he knows she's to wed Marigny."
I dropped the box of powder.
"H-h-he's in love with her?" I wheezed, waving away the cloud of floating particles.
"So he says, and I see nay reason to doubt it," Jamie said, brushing powder briskly off the bosom of my dress. "He was a bit distraught when he told me."
"I should imagine so." To the conflicting welter of emotions that filled me, I now added pity for Alex Randall. Of course he wouldn't have spoken to Mary, thinking the devotion of an impoverished secretary nothing compared to the wealth and position of a match with the House of Gascogne. And now what must he feel, seeing her subjected to brutal attack, virtually under his nose?
"Why in hell didn't he speak up? She would have run off with him in a moment." For the pale English curate, of course, must be the "spiritual" object of Mary's speechless devotion.
"Randall's a gentleman," Jamie replied, handing me a feather and the pot of rouge.
"You mean he's a silly ass," I said uncharitably.
Jamie's lip twitched. "Well, perhaps," he agreed. "He's also a poor one; he hasna the income to support a wife, should her family cast her off—which they certainly would, if she eloped with him. And his health is feeble; he'd find it hard to find another position, for the Duke would likely dismiss him without a character."
"One of the servants is bound to find her," I said, returning to an earlier worry in order to avoid thinking about this latest manifestation of tragedy.
"No, they won't. They'll all be busy serving. And by the morning, she may be recovered enough to go back to her uncle's house. I sent round a note," he added, "to tell them she was staying the night with a friend, as it was late. Didna want them searching for her."
"Yes, but—"
"Sassenach." His hands on my shoulders stopped me, and he peered over my shoulder to meet my eyes in the mirror. "We canna let her be seen by anyone, until she's able to speak and to act as usual. Let it be known what's happened to her, and her reputation will be ruined entirely."
"Her reputation! It's hardly her fault she was raped!" My voice shook slightly, and his grip on my shoulders tightened.
"It isna right, Sassenach, but it's how it is. Let it be known that she's a maid no more, and no man will take her—she'll be disgraced, and live a spinster to the end of her days." His hand squeezed my shoulder, left it, and returned to help guide a pin into the precariously anchored hair.
"It's all we can do for her, Claire," he said. "Keep her from harm, heal her as best we can—and find the filthy bastards who did it." He turned away and groped in my casket for his stick pin. "Christ," he added softly, speaking into the green velvet lining, "d'ye think I don't know what it is to her? Or to him?"
I laid my hand on his groping fingers and squeezed. He squeezed back, then lifted my hand and kissed it briefly.
"Lord, Sassenach! Your fingers are cold as snow." He turned me around to look earnestly into my face. "Are you all right, lass?"
Whatever he saw in my face made him mutter "Christ" again, sink to his knees, and pull me against his ruffled shirtfront. I gave up the pretense of courage, and clung to him, burying my face in the starchy warmth.
"Oh, God, Jamie. I was so scared. I am so scared. Oh, God, I wish you could make love to me now."
His chest vibrated under my cheek with his laugh, but he hugged me closer.
"You think that would help?"
"Yes."
In fact, I thought that I would not feel safe again, until I lay in the security of our bed, with the sheltering silence of the house all about us, feeling the strength and the heat of him around and within me, buttressing my courage with the joy of our joining, wiping out the horror of helplessness and near-rape with the sureness of mutual possession.
He held my face between his hands and kissed me, and for a moment, the fear of the future and the terror of the night fell away. Then he drew back and smiled. I could see his own worry etched in the lines of his face, but there was nothing in his eyes but the small reflection of my face.
"On account, then," he said softly.
We had reached the second course without incident, and I was beginning to relax slightly, though my hand still had a tendency to tremble over the consommé.
"How perfectly fascinating!" I said, in response to a story of the younger Monsieur Duverney's, to which I wasn't listening, my ears being tuned for any suspicious noises abovestairs. "Do tell me more."
I caught Magnus's eye as he served the Comte St. Germain, seated across from me, and beamed congratulations at him as well as I could with a mouthful of fish. Too well trained to smile in public, he inclined his head a respectful quarter-inch and went on with the service. My hand went to the crystal at my neck, and I stroked it ostentatiously as the Comte, with no sign of perturbation on his saturnine features, dug into the trout with almonds.
Jamie and the elder Duverney were close in conversation at the other end of the table, food ignored as Jamie scribbled left-handed figures on a scrap of paper with a stub of chalk. Chess, or business? I wondered.
As guest of honor, the Duke sat at the center of the table. He had enjoyed the first courses with the gusto of a natural-born trencherman, and was now engaged in animated conversation with Madame d'Arbanville, on his right. As the Duke was the most obviously prominent Englishman in Paris at the time, Jamie had thought it worthwhile cultivating his acquaintance, in hopes of uncovering any rumors that might lead to the sender of the musical message to Charles Stuart. My attention, though, kept straying from the Duke to the gentleman seated across from him—Silas Hawkins.
I had thought I might just die on the spot and save trouble all round when the Duke had walked through the door, gesturing casually over his shoulder, and saying, "I say, Mrs. Fraser, you do know Hawkins here, don't you?"
The Duke's small, merry blue eyes had met mine with a look of guileless confidence that his whims would be accommodated, and I had had no choice but to smile and nod, and tell Magnus to be sure another place was set. Jamie, seeing Mr. Hawkins as he came through the door of the drawing room, had looked as though he were in need of another dose of stomach medicine, but had pulled himself together enough to extend a hand to Mr. Hawkins and start a conversation about the quality of the inns on the road to Calais.
I glanced at the carriage clock over the mantelpiece. How long before they would all be gone? I mentally tallied the courses already served, and those to come. Nearly to the sweet course. Then the salad and cheese. Brandy and coffee, port for the men, liqueurs for the ladies. An hour or two for stimulating conversation. Not too stimulating, please God, or they would linger 'til dawn.
Now they were talking of the menace of street gangs. I abandoned the fish and picked up a roll.
"And I have heard that some of these roving bands are composed not of rabble, as you would expect, but of some of the younger members of the nobility!" General d'Arbanville puffed out his lips at the monstrousness of the idea. "They do it for sport—sport! As though the robbery of decent men and the outraging of ladies were nothing more than a cockfight!"
"How extraordinary," said the Duke, with the indifference of a man who never went anywhere without a substantial escort. The platter of savouries hovered near his chin, and he scooped half a dozen onto his plate.
Jamie glanced at me, and rose from the table.
"If you'll excuse me, mesdames, messieurs," he said with a bow, "I have something rather special in the way of port that I would like to have His Grace taste. I'll fetch it from the cellar."
"It must be the Belle Rouge," said Jules de La Tour, licking his lips in anticipation. "You have a rare treat in store, Your Grace. I have never tasted such a wine anywhere else."
"Ah? Well, you soon will, Monsieur le Prince," the Comte St. Germain broke in. "Something even better."
"Surely there is nothing better than Belle Rouge!" General d'Arbanville exclaimed.
"Yes, there is," the Comte declared, looking smug. "I have found a new port, made and bottled on the island of Gostos, off the coast of Portugal. A color rich as rubies, and a flavor that makes Belle Rouge taste like colored water. I have a contract for delivery of the entire vintage in August."
"Indeed, Monsieur le Comte?" Silas Hawkins raised thick, graying brows toward our end of the table. "Have you found a new partner for investment, then? I understood that your own resources were.…depleted, shall we say? following the sad destruction of the Patagonia." He took a cheese savoury from the plate and popped it delicately into his mouth.
The Comte's jaw muscles bulged, and a sudden chill descended on our end of the table. From Mr. Hawkins's sidelong glance at me, and the tiny smile that lurked about his busily chewing mouth, it was clear that he knew all about my role in the destruction of the unfortunate Patagonia.
My hand went again to the crystal at my neck, but the Comte didn't look at me. A hot flush had risen from his lacy stock, and he glared at Mr. Hawkins with open dislike. Jamie was right; not a man to hide his emotions.
"Fortunately, Monsieur," he said, mastering his choler with an apparent effort, "I have found a partner who wishes to invest in this venture. A fellow countryman, in fact, of our gracious host." He nodded sardonically toward the doorway, where Jamie had just appeared, followed by Magnus, who bore an enormous decanter of the Belle Rouge port.
Hawkins stopped chewing for a moment, his mouth unattractively open with interest. "A Scotsman? Who? I didn't think there were any Scots in the wine business in Paris besides the house of Fraser."
A definite gleam of amusement lit the Comte's eyes as he glanced from Mr. Hawkins to Jamie. "I suppose it is debatable whether the investor in question could be considered Scottish at the moment; nonetheless, he is milord Broch Tuarach's fellow countryman. Charles Stuart is his name."
This bit of news had all the impact the Comte might have hoped for. Silas Hawkins sat bolt upright with an exclamation that made him choke on the remnants of his mouthful. Jamie, who had been about to speak, closed his mouth and sat down, regarding the Comte thoughtfully. Jules de La Tour began to spray exclamations and globules of spit, and both d'Arbanvilles made ejaculations of amazement. Even the Duke took his eyes off his plate and blinked at the Comte in interest.
