Lord John and Private Matter
by Diana Gabaldon
To Margaret Scott Gabaldon and Kay Fears Watkins,
my children’s wonderful grandmothers
Chapter 1
When First We Practice
to Deceive
London, June 1757
The Society for the Appreciation of
the English Beefsteak, a Gentlemen’s Club
It was the sort of thing one hopes momentarily that one has not really seen—because life would be so much more convenient if one hadn’t.
The thing was scarcely shocking in itself; Lord John Grey had seen worse, could see worse now, merely by stepping out of the Beefsteak into the street. The flower girl who’d sold him a bunch of violets on his way into the club had had a half-healed gash on the back of her hand, crusted and oozing. The doorman, a veteran of the Americas, had a livid tomahawk scar that ran from hairline to jaw, bisecting the socket of a blinded eye. By contrast, the sore on the Honorable Joseph Trevelyan’s privy member was quite small. Almost discreet.
“Not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a door,” Grey muttered to himself. “But it will suffice. Damn it.”
He emerged from behind the Chinese screen, lifting the violets to his nose. Their sweetness was no match for the pungent scent that followed him from the piss-pots. It was early June, and the Beefsteak, like every other establishment in London, reeked of beer and asparagus-pee.
Trevelyan had left the privacy of the Chinese screen before Lord John, unaware of the latter’s discovery. The Honorable Joseph stood across the dining room now, deep in conversation with Lord Hanley and Mr. Pitt, the very picture of taste and sober elegance. Shallow in the chest, Grey thought uncharitably—though the suit of puce superfine was beautifully tailored to flatter the man’s slenderness. Spindle-shanked, too; Trevelyan shifted weight, and a shadow winked on his left leg, where the pad of the downy-calf he wore had shifted under a clocked silk stocking.
Lord John turned the posy critically in his hand, as though inspecting it for wilt, watching the man from beneath lowered lashes. He knew well enough how to look without appearing to do so. He wished he were not in the habit of such surreptitious inspection—if not, he wouldn’t now be facing this dilemma.
The discovery that an acquaintance suffered from the French disease would normally be grounds for nothing more than distaste at worst, disinterested sympathy at best—along with a heartfelt gratitude that one was not oneself so afflicted. Unfortunately, the Honorable Joseph Trevelyan was not merely a club acquaintance; he was betrothed to Grey’s cousin.
The steward murmured something at his elbow; by reflex, he handed the posy to the man and flicked a hand in dismissal.
“No, I shan’t dine yet. Colonel Quarry will be joining me.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Trevelyan had rejoined his companions at a table across the room, his narrow face flushed with laughter at some jest by Pitt.
Grey couldn’t stand there glowering at the man; he hesitated, unsure whether to go across to the smoking room to wait for Quarry, or perhaps down the hall to the library. In the event, though, he was prevented by the sudden entry of Malcolm Stubbs, lieutenant of his own regiment, who hailed him with pleased surprise.
“Major Grey! What brings you here, eh? Thought you was quite the fixture at White’s. Got tired of the politicals, have you?”
Stubbs was aptly named, no taller than Grey himself, but roughly twice as wide, with a broad cherubic face, wide blue eyes, and a breezy manner that endeared him to his troops, if not always to his senior officers.
“Hallo, Stubbs.” Grey smiled, despite his inner disquiet. Stubbs was a casual friend, though their paths seldom crossed outside of regimental business. “No, you confuse me with my brother Hal. I leave the whiggery-pokery up to him.”
Stubbs went pink in the face, and made small snorting noises.
“Whiggery-pokery! Oh, that’s ripe, Grey, very ripe. Must remember to tell it to the Old One.” The Old One was Stubbs’s father, a minor baronet with distinct whiggish leanings, and likely a familiar of both White’s Club and Lord John’s brother.
“So, you a member here, Grey? Or a guest, like me?” Stubbs, recovering from his attack of mirth, waved a hand round the spacious confines of the white-naped dining room, casting an admiring glance at the impressive array of decanters being arranged by the steward at a sideboard.
“Member.”
Trevelyan was nodding cordially to the Duke of Gloucester, who returned the salutation. Christ, Trevelyan really did know everyone. With a small effort, Grey returned his attention to Stubbs.
“My godfather enrolled me for the Beefsteak at my birth. Starting at the age of seven, which is when he assumed reason began, he brought me here every Wednesday for luncheon. Got out of the habit while abroad, of course, but I find myself coming back, whenever I’m in Town.”
The wine steward was leaning down to offer Trevelyan a decanter of port; Grey recognized the embossed gold tag at its neck—San Isidro, a hundred guineas the cask. Rich, well-connected . . . and infected. Damn, what was he going to do about this?
“Your host not here yet?” He touched Stubbs’s elbow, turning him toward the door. “Come, then—let’s have a quick one in the library.”
They strolled down the pleasantly shabby carpet that lined the hall, chatting inconsequently.
“Why the fancy-dress?” Grey asked casually, flicking at the braid on Stubbs’s shoulder. The Beefsteak wasn’t a soldier’s haunt; though a few officers of the regiment were members, they seldom wore full dress uniform here, save when on their way to some official business. Grey himself was only uniformed because he was meeting Quarry, who never wore anything else in public.
“Got to do a widow’s walk later,” Stubbs replied, looking resigned. “No time to go back for a change.”
“Oh? Who’s dead?” A widow’s walk was an official visit, paid to the family of a recently deceased member of the regiment, to offer condolences and make inquiry as to the widow’s welfare. In the case of an enlisted man, such a visit might include the handing over of a small amount of cash contributed by the man’s intimates and immediate superiors—with luck, enough to bury him decently.
“Timothy O’Connell.”
“Really? What happened?” O’Connell was a middle-aged Irishman, surly but competent; a lifelong soldier who had risen to sergeant by dint of his ability to terrify subordinates—an ability Grey had envied as a seventeen-year-old subaltern, and still respected ten years later.
“Killed in a street brawl, night before last.”
Grey’s brows went up at that. “Must have been set on by a mob,” he said, “or taken by surprise; I’d have given long odds on O’Connell in a fight that was even halfway fair.”
“Didn’t hear any details; I’m meant to ask the widow.”
Taking a seat in one of the Beefsteak’s ancient but comfortable library wing chairs, Grey beckoned to one of the servants.
“Brandy—you, too, Stubbs? Yes, two brandies, if you please. And tell someone to fetch me when Colonel Quarry comes in, will you?”
“Thanks, old fellow; come round to my club and have one on me next time.” Stubbs unbuckled his dress sword and handed it to the hovering servant before making himself comfortable in turn.
“Met your cousin the other day, by the bye,” he remarked, wriggling his substantial buttocks deeply into the chair. “Out ridin’ in the Row—handsome girl. Nice seat,” he added judiciously.