It is true that the French …
No, wait. He paused, frowning at the half-written sentence. What if someone who was not James Fraser happened to get their hands on this missive? And here he was, putting unequivocally sensitive information directly into the hands of the rebels.
“Well, that won’t do …”
“What won’t do? And why aren’t you dressed?” Hal had come in, unnoticed, and was peering at himself in the large looking glass that reflected the French doors at the far side of the study. “Why am I bleeding?” He sounded rather startled.
John took a moment to obliterate the line about the French with a quick swath of ink, then rose to inspect his brother, who was in fact oozing blood from a deep scrape just in front of his left ear. He was trying to stop the blood getting onto his stock, but didn’t appear to have a handkerchief available for the purpose. John reached into the pocket of his banyan and gave Hal his.
“It doesn’t look like a shaving cut. Were you fencing without a mask?” This was intended to be a joke—Hal had never even tried one of the new wire masks, as he seldom used a sword these days unless he meant to kill someone with it, and thought it would be rank cowardice to fight a duel hiding behind a mask.
“No. Oh … I recall. I was just turning in to the street when a young lad shot out of the alley, and two soldiers just behind him shouting, ‘Stop, thief!’ One of them knocked into me and I hit the corner of that church. Didn’t realize I’d hurt myself.” He pressed the handkerchief to his face.
The scrape must have been painful—but he believed Hal hadn’t felt it. Hal was Hal—which meant that he either was oblivious to physical circumstance in times of stress, or pretended to be, to much the same effect. And he was most assuredly under stress these days.
John took the handkerchief back, dipped it into the cup of wine he’d been sipping, and pressed it to the wound again. Hal grimaced slightly, but took hold of the cloth himself.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Claire Fraser,” John replied, with a shrug. His ex-wife’s notions of medicine occasionally made sense, and even army surgeons would wash a wound with wine, now and then.
“Ah.” Hal had experienced Claire Fraser’s medical attentions at close range, and merely nodded, pressing the stained handkerchief to his cheek.
“Why ought I to be dressed?” John asked, glancing sidelong at his unfinished letter. He was debating whether to tell Hal what he intended. His brother had an unusually penetrating mind, when he was in the mood, and he knew Jamie Fraser quite well. On the other hand, there were things in John’s own relationship—such as it was—with Jamie Fraser that he would just as soon not have his brother penetrate.
“I’m meant to be meeting Prévost and his staff in half an hour, and you’re meant to be with me. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No. Is my function purely ornamental, or shall I go armed?”
“Armed. Prévost wants to discuss bringing Maitland’s troops up from Beaufort,” Hal said.
“You expect this discussion to be acrimonious?”
“No, but I may add my own bit of acrimony to the meeting. I don’t like the men sitting about here with nothing to occupy them save drink and the local whores.”
“Oh.” John felt a momentary tightness in his chest at mention of whores, but Hal’s face showed no sign that the word had brought Jane Pocock to mind. John dug his dagger, pistol, and shot pouch out of his chest and laid them on the bed, next to his clean white stockings. “Very well, then.”
He dressed, more or less efficiently, and handed Hal his leather stock, turning round so his brother could fasten it at the back. His hair hadn’t yet grown past his shoulders; Hal brushed the stubby tail that passed for a queue irritably aside.
“Haven’t you found a new valet yet?”
“Haven’t time to train one.” He could feel Hal’s warm breath and cool fingers on the back of his neck, and found the touch soothing.
“What’s keeping you so busy?” Hal’s voice was sharp; he was under strain.
“Your daughter-in-law, my son, my presumed son, your son, and, you know, minor bits of regimental business.” He turned round to face Hal, dropping the chain of his gorget over his head. Hal had the grace to look slightly abashed, though he snorted.
“You need a valet. I’ll find you one. Come on.”
Prévost’s headquarters were in a large mansion on the edge of St. James Square, no more than a ten-minute walk, and the day was fine. It was warm and sunny, with a light breeze blowing toward the sea, and it was also Market Day. The brothers Grey made their way along Bay Street toward the City Market, through a throng of people and the bracing smells of vegetables and fresh fish.