He was peculiarly disinterested in the method and means of that disposal, content to await developments. What he wanted solitude for was a contemplation of Percy Wainwright’s presence, motives, and possible action. With La Fayette, he’d said. Adviser. John shuddered to think what sort of advice might be given by that . . . and what about his interests in Fergus Fraser?
He glanced at said printer, presently engaged in argument with his precocious offspring.
“You did it!” Germain glowered up at his father, face flushed red with righteous indignation. “Ye told me so yourself, a dozen times or more! How you went to war with Grand-père, and stabbed a man in the leg, and rode on a cannon when the soldiers dragged it back from Prestonpans—and ye weren’t even as old as I am now when ye did all that!”
Fergus paused for an instant, regarding his offspring through narrowed eyes, obviously regretting his previous prolixity. He breathed steadily through his nose for a moment, then nodded.
“That was different,” he said evenly. “I was milord’s employee at the time, not his son. I had a duty to attend him; he had no responsibility to prevent me doing so.”
Germain blinked, frowning uncertainly.
“You weren’t his son?”
“Of course not,” Fergus said, exasperated. “If I told you about Prestonpans, surely I have told you that I was an orphan in Paris when I met your grand-père. He hired me to pick pockets for him.”
“He did?” John hadn’t meant to interrupt, but couldn’t help it. Fergus glanced at him, startled; evidently he hadn’t really noticed John’s presence, focused as he was on Germain. He bowed.
“He did, my lord. We were Jacobites, you understand. He required information. Letters.”
“Oh, indeed,” John murmured, and took a sip from his flask. Then, recalling his manners, offered it to Fergus, who blinked in surprise, but then accepted it with another bow and took a healthy gulp. Well, it must be thirsty work, pursuing an errant child through an army. He thought briefly of Willie, and thanked God his son was safe—or was he?
He’d known that William would of course have left Philadelphia when Clinton withdrew the army—perhaps as a non-fighting aide-de-camp to a senior officer. But he hadn’t thought about that supposition in conjunction with the apparent present fact that General Washington was now in hot pursuit of Clinton and might just possibly catch up with him. In which case, William . . .
These thoughts had distracted him from the ongoing tête-à-tête, and he was jerked out of them by a question directed to him by Germain.
“Me? Oh . . . sixteen. I might have gone to the army earlier,” John added apologetically, “had my brother’s regiment been formed, but he only raised it during the Jacobite Rising.” He looked at Fergus with new interest. “You were at Prestonpans, were you?” That should have been his own first battle, too—and would have been, save for his happening to meet one Red Jamie Fraser, notorious Jacobite, in a mountain pass two nights before.
“Did you kill anybody?” Germain demanded.
“Not at Prestonpans. Later, at Culloden. I wish I hadn’t.” He stretched out a hand for the flask. It was nearly empty, and he drained it.
A moment later, he was glad of his celerity; had he not drained the flask already, he might have choked. The tent flap folded back, and Percy Wainwright/Beauchamp stuck his head in, then froze in surprise, dark eyes darting from one to another of the tent’s inhabitants. John had an impulse to throw the empty flask at him, but thought better of it, instead saying coldly, “I beg your pardon, sir; I am engaged.”
“So I see.” Percy didn’t look at John “Mr. Fergus Fraser,” he said softly, coming into the tent, hand outstretched. “Your servant, sir. Comment ça va?”
Fergus, unable to avoid him, shook his hand with reserve and bowed slightly but said nothing. Germain made a small growling noise in his throat, but desisted when his father gave him a sharp glance.
“I am so pleased finally to have encountered you in private, Monsieur Fraser,” Percy said, still speaking French. He smiled as charmingly as possible. “Monsieur—do you know who you are?”
Fergus regarded him thoughtfully.
“Few men know themselves, monsieur,” he said. “For my part, I am entirely content to leave such knowledge to God. He can deal with it far better than I could. And having come to this conclusion, I believe that is all I have to say to you. Pardonnez-moi.” With that, he shouldered past Percy, taking him off-guard and knocking him off-balance. Germain turned at the tent flap and stuck out his tongue.
“Damned frog!” he said, then disappeared with a small yelp as his father jerked him through the flap.
Percy had lost one of his silver-buckled shoes in trying to stay upright. He brushed dirt and vegetable matter from the bottom of his stocking and screwed his foot back into the shoe, lips compressed and a rather attractive flush showing across his cheekbones.
“Oughtn’t you to be with the army?” John inquired. “Surely you want to be there, if Washington does meet Clinton. I imagine your ‘interests’ would want a full report by an eyewitness, wouldn’t they?”
“Shut up, John,” Percy said briefly, “and listen. I haven’t got much time.” He sat down on the stool with a thump, folded his hands on his knee, and looked intently at John, as though evaluating his intelligence. “Do you know a man—a British officer—called Richardson?”