Their tribute paid, Marcus and John got stuck in traffic （one of the chief hazards of London life） and proceeded on foot to Sweetings Alley. It was narrow and dank and smelled like a piss pot. They found Baldwin in New Jonathan’s, trading futures and cashing in his chits with the rest of the stockjobbers and bankers.
“Baldwin.” Marcus took off his hat. He had stopped bowing, but when faced with one of the elder de Clermonts, it was impossible for him not to make some sign of respect.
“There you are. What kept you?” his uncle replied.
Baldwin Montclair was the last surviving full-blooded son of Philippe de Clermont. He was ginger-headed, with a temper to match, and underneath his forest-green stockbroker’s suit he had the muscular, athletic body of a soldier. Whether marching across Europe or marching across bank accounts, Baldwin was a formidable opponent. Fanny had warned Marcus never to underestimate his uncle—and he had no intention of ignoring this piece of advice.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Baldwin,” John said, his voice dripping with insincerity.
Baldwin looked John over from the tip of his fur-trimmed cap to the heels of his boots and made no reply. He returned his attention to his table, which was covered with empty wine jugs, inkpots, account books, and scraps of paper.
“We’ve heard about the queen’s execution,” Marcus said in an effort to capture his uncle’s attention. “Do you have any more news from France?”
“No,” Baldwin said shortly. “You must focus on the work to be done here. The brotherhood’s estates in Hertfordshire are in need of attention. There are two probate cases to settle, and the surveys are years out of date. You will go at once, and see to them.”
“I don’t understand why Philippe bothered to send me to Edinburgh to study medicine,” Marcus grumbled. “All I do is write reports and draw up writs and affidavits.”
“Father is breaking you in,” Baldwin said. “Like a new horse, or a shoe. A de Clermont must be adaptable and ready for any need that arises.”
Russell made a rude gesture, which thankfully Baldwin missed as his nose was buried in a ledger.
Baldwin noticed an entry in the account book. “Ah. I wish I caught this before Gallowglass left for France.”
“Gallowglass was here?” John asked.
“Yes. You just missed him.” Baldwin sighed and scribbled some notes in his book. “He arrived from America last night. It really is too bad he left so soon. Matthew might have made use of this debt in his efforts to blackmail Robespierre.”
“Matthew’s in the Netherlands,” Marcus said.
“No, he is in Paris. Father needed another set of eyes in France,” Baldwin said.
“Christ’s bones,” John said. “Paris is the last place on earth I’d want to see. How many deaths can one man witness before he goes mad?”
“We can’t all bury our heads in the sand and pretend the world isn’t coming apart, Russell.” Baldwin was nothing if not direct. “As usual, that means the de Clermonts must step to the fore and take charge. It is our duty.”
“Good of your family to always think of others before yourselves.” John didn’t like Baldwin’s sanctimony any more than Marcus did, but where Marcus was expected to remain silent and obedient, John was free to speak his mind. Sadly, Baldwin had no ear for sarcasm and took his words as a genuine compliment.
“Indeed,” Baldwin replied. “Your mail is on the table, Marcus. Gallowglass brought some newspapers for you, as well as a letter that looks as though it was written by a madman.”
Marcus picked up a copy of the Federal Gazette from the last days of August.
“Gallowglass usually makes better time coming from Philadelphia,” Marcus noted, flipping through the pages.
“He stopped in Providence on the way here to take in supplies,” Baldwin said, “on account of the fever.”
Marcus began flipping through the paper.
. . . services at this alarming and critical period . . .
Words leaped out at him from the smudged newsprint.
Nothing so good to stop the progress of the yellow fever as the firing of cannon.
“Christ, no,” Marcus said. Yellow fever was a terrible disease. It spread like wildfire in the city, especially in summer. People turned jaundiced, and spit up black and bloody vomit as the fever poisoned their bellies.
The College of Physicians having declared that they conceive FIRES to be very ineffectual, if not dangerous means of checking the progress of the prevailing fever . . .