Beauchamp froze. Fergus nodded approvingly.
“Just so. And so, gentlemen … say for the sake of argument that persons less discerning than I might accept the truth of this document. What did you propose to do, had I been willing to do that? Plainly, you had something in mind—something that Monsieur le Comte’s heir might accomplish for you, eh?”
Color was coming back into Beauchamp’s face, and the lawyer lost a little of his stuffing; they exchanged glances and some decision was made.
“All right.” Percival Beauchamp sat up straight and touched a linen napkin to his port-stained lips. “This is the situation.”
The situation, as explained by Beauchamp with minor interruptions from the lawyer, was that the Comte St. Germain, a very wealthy man, had owned—well, still did own, technically—a majority of the stock of a syndicate investing in land in the New World. The main asset of this syndicate was a large piece of land in the very large area known as the Northwest Territory.
Fergus managed to look as though he knew exactly what this was, and quite possibly he did, but it rang only faint bells of recognition for Roger. It was a lot of land in the far north and was part of what the French and Indian War had been fought over. And the British had won, he was pretty sure of that.
Evidently the French—or some portion of the French, whom Beauchamp referred to obliquely as “our interests”—were not so sure.
And now that France had officially entered the war in alliance with the Americans, Beauchamp’s “interests” had it in mind to take the first steps toward securing at least a foothold on the Territory.
“By establishing Mr. Fraser’s claim to it?” Roger hadn’t said anything to this point, but sheer astonishment compelled him. The lawyer gave him an austere look, but Beauchamp inclined his head gracefully.
“Yes. But the claim of an individual alone would not likely stand against the rapacity of the Americans. Therefore, our interests will assist Mr. Fraser in establishing colonists upon his land—French-speaking colonists, who would thus provide substance for a claim by France, once the war is over.
“Whereupon,” Beauchamp concluded, “our interests would purchase the land from you—for a significant sum.”
“If the Americans win,” Fergus said, sounding skeptical. “If they don’t, I fear your ‘interests’ will be in a precarious position. As would I.”
“They’ll win.” The lawyer hadn’t spoken since greeting them, and his voice gave Roger a start. It was deep, and assured, in contrast with Beauchamp’s light charm.
“You’re a rebel, are you not, Mr. Fraser?” The lawyer raised a brow at Fergus. “That is certainly the impression given by your newspaper. Have you no faith in your own cause?”
Fergus raised his hook and scratched delicately behind one ear.
“I assume you have noticed that the streets are filled with Continental soldiers, sir. Should I put my family in danger by advocating their confusion in print?”
He didn’t wait for an answer to this question, but rose suddenly to his feet.
“Bonjour, messieurs,” he said. “You have given me much to think about.”
ROGER FELT A strong inclination to be somewhere else, and thus didn’t question Fergus’s plunging suddenly into a narrow alley between two houses, running down it, and zigging through a gate into the backyard of what appeared to be a brothel, judging from the laundry hanging limply in the humid air. He was somewhat surprised when Fergus, with a cordial word to two black maidservants folding sheets, went up the back steps and entered the house without knocking.
“Mr. Fergus!” cried a young lady, running down the hall toward him. The girl—God, she couldn’t be more than twelve, could she?—flung herself affectionately into Fergus’s arms, kissed him on the cheek, and then turned her head coquettishly toward Roger.
“Oo, you’ve brought a friend!”
“Allow me to introduce my brother, the Reverend, mademoiselle. Reverend—Mademoiselle Marigold.”
“Of course she is,” Roger said, collecting his wits just in time to bow to the lady, who received his homage with a demure downward sweep of her shadowed eyelids.
“We get quite a number of Reverend gentlemen, sir,” she assured him, laughing gaily. “Don’t be shy. Remember, we’ve all seen one before.”
“One …” he began, rather stunned.
“Why, one clergyman,” she said, dimpling. “At least!”
She was dressed rather sedately—for a brothel, his mind amended. Which is to say, she was covered, even to her feet, which were clad in smart leather boots. He didn’t have time to consider what her function in the establishment might be—too expensively dressed to be a maid—before Fergus set her gently but firmly on her feet.
“Is the second-floor parlor available, chérie?”
Roger had a moment to notice that the girl was black, of a pale coffee color and with hair like smooth coils of molasses taffy. She was also somewhat older than he’d thought—perhaps in her late teens, and with a shrewd glint behind the playful air.
“If you don’t need it more than an hour,” she said. “Someone’s coming at four o’clock.”
“That will be sufficient,” Fergus assured her. “We only require a place to sit down and collect ourselves. Though I suppose a glass of wine might not be out of the question?”
She looked at him for a moment, head on one side like a bird estimating whether that fallen leaf might hide a juicy worm, but then nodded, matter-of-factly.
“I’ll send Barbara up with it. Adieu, mon brave,” she said, and, kissing her fingertips, applied them briefly to Roger’s surprised cheek before skipping off down the hall—which, he saw, was not unlike that of the house they had just come from, though the art on display was considerably better.
“Come,” Fergus murmured, touching his arm.
The second-floor parlor was a small, charming room, with French doors opening onto a small balcony, and long lace curtains that barely stirred in the heavy air when they stepped in.
“I am a son of the house, so to speak,” Fergus said, sitting down with a brief wave of the hand toward the door.
“I didn’t ask,” Roger murmured, and Fergus laughed.
“You needn’t ask if Marsali knows about this place, either,” he assured Roger. “I won’t say I have no secrets from my wife—I think every man must require a few secrets—but this is not one of them.”
Roger’s heart was beginning to slow down, and he fished out a semi-clean handkerchief with which to mop his face. He found himself avoiding the tiny patch Miss Marigold’s fingers had touched, and scrubbed it briefly before putting the hankie away.
“The men we have just left,” Fergus said, dabbing his own face. “I recognize them.”
“Yes?”
“The fop—this is Percival Beauchamp, though I believe he used another name—perhaps more than one. He has approached me more than once with a similar taradiddle—that I was the son of a highborn man, had title to land—” He made a very French grimace of disdain, and Roger, already entertained by his pronunciation of “taradiddle,” made a similar grimace in order to keep from laughing.