“There’s always talk of it,” he had said. “In the houses, mostly, not the taverns. And that’s why nothing’s come of it. When it gets to the taverns, you’ll know it’s serious.”

“Tell me,” I said, watching him brush the dust from his coat, “are all Scots born knowing about politics, or is it just you?”

He laughed, but quickly sobered as he opened the huge armoire and hung up the coat. It looked worn and rather pathetic, hanging by itself in the enormous, cedar-scented space.

“Well, I’ll tell ye, Sassenach, I’d as soon not know. But born as I was, between the MacKenzies and the Frasers, I’d little choice in the matter. And ye don’t spend a year in French society and two years in an army without learning how to listen to what’s being said, and what’s being meant, and how to tell the difference between the two. Given these times, though, it isna just me; there’s neither laird nor cottar in the Highlands who can stand aside from what’s to come.”

“What’s to come.” What was to come? I wondered. What would come, if we were not successful in our efforts here, was an armed rebellion, an attempt at restoration of the Stuart monarchy, led by the son of the exiled king, Prince Charles Edward (Casimir Maria Sylvester) Stuart.

“Bonnie Prince Charlie,” I said softly to myself, looking over my reflection in the large pier glass. He was here, now, in the same city, perhaps not too far away. What would he be like? I could think of him only in terms of his usual historical portrait, which showed a handsome, slightly effeminate youth of sixteen or so, with soft pink lips and powdered hair, in the fashion of the times. Or the imagined paintings, showing a more robust version of the same thing, brandishing a broadsword as he stepped out of a boat onto the shore of Scotland.

A Scotland he would ruin and lay waste in the effort to reclaim it for his father and himself. Doomed to failure, he would attract enough support to cleave the country, and lead his followers through civil war to a bloody end on the field of Culloden. Then he would flee back to safety in France, but the retribution of his enemies would be exacted upon those he left behind.

It was to prevent such a disaster that we had come. It seemed incredible, thinking about it in the peace and luxury of Jared’s house. How did one stop a rebellion? Well, if risings were fomented in taverns, perhaps they could be stopped over dinner tables. I shrugged at myself in the mirror, blew an errant curl out of one eye, and went down to cozen the cook.

The staff, at first inclined to view me with frightened suspicion, soon realized that I had no intention of interfering with their work, and relaxed into a mood of wary obligingness. I had thought at first, in my blur of fatigue, that there were at least a dozen servants lined up in the hallway for my inspection. In fact, there were sixteen of them, counting the groom, the stable-lad and the knife-boy, whom I hadn’t noticed in the general scrum. I was still more impressed at Jared’s success in business, until I realized just how little the servants were paid: a new pair of shoes and two livres per year for the footmen, a trifle less for the housemaids and kitchenmaids, a little more for such exalted personages as Madame Vionnet, the cook, and the butler, Magnus.

While I explored the mechanics of the household and stored up what information I could glean at home from the gossip of the parlormaids, Jamie was out with Jared every day, calling upon customers, meeting people, preparing himself to “assist His Highness” by making those social connections that might prove of value to an exiled prince. It was among the dinner guests that we might find allies – or enemies.

“St. Germain?” I said, suddenly catching a familiar name in the midst of Marguerite’s chatter as she polished the parquet floor. “The Comte St. Germain?”

“Oui, Madame.” She was a small, fat girl, with an oddly flattened face and popeyes that made her look like a turbot, but she was friendly and eager to please. Now she pursed her mouth up into a tiny circle, portending the imparting of some really scandalous tidbit. I looked as encouraging as possible.

“The Comte, Madame, has a very bad reputation,” she said portentously.

Since this was true – according to Marguerite – of virtually everyone who came to dinner, I arched my brows and waited for further details.

“He has sold his soul to the Devil, you know,” she confided, lowering her voice and glancing around as though that gentleman might be lurking behind the chimney breast. “He celebrates the Black Mass, at which the blood and flesh of innocent children are shared amongst the wicked!”

A fine specimen you picked to make an enemy of, I thought to myself.

“Oh, everyone knows, Madame,” Marguerite assured me. “But it does not matter; the women are mad for him, anyway; wherever he goes, they throw themselves at his head. But then, he is rich.” Plainly this last qualification was at least sufficient to balance, if not to outweigh, the blood-drinking and flesh-eating.

“How interesting,” I said. “But I thought that Monsieur le Comte was a competitor of Monsieur Jared; doesn’t he also import wines? Why does Monsieur Jared invite him here, then?”

Marguerite looked up from her floor-polishing and laughed.

“Why, Madame! It is so that Monsieur Jared can serve the best Beaune at dinner, tell Monsieur le Comte that he has just acquired ten cases, and at the conclusion of the meal, generously offer him a bottle to take home!”

“I see,” I said, grinning. “And is Monsieur Jared similarly invited to dine with Monsieur le Comte?”

She nodded, white kerchief bobbing over her oil-bottle and rag. “Oh, yes, Madame. But not as often!”

The Comte St. Germain was fortunately not invited for this evening. We dined simply en famille, so that Jared could rehearse Jamie in the few details left to be arranged before his departure. Of these, the most important was the King’s lever at Versailles.

Being invited to attend the King’s lever was a considerable mark of favor, Jared explained over dinner.

“Not to you, lad,” he said kindly, waving a fork at Jamie. “To me. The King wants to make sure I’m coming back from Germany – or Duverney, the Minister of Finance, does, at least. The latest wave of taxes hit the merchants hard, and a good many of the foreigners left – with the ill effects on the Royal Treasury you can imagine.” He grimaced at the thought of taxes, scowling at the baby eel on his fork.

“I mean to be gone by Monday-week. I’m waiting only for word that the Wilhelmina’s come in safe to Calais; then I’m off.” Jared took another bite of eel and nodded at Jamie, talking around the mouthful of food. “I’m leaving the business in good hands, lad; I’ve no worry on that score. We might talk a bit before I go about other matters, though. I’ve arranged with the Earl Marischal that we’ll go with him to Montmartre two days hence, for you to pay your respects to His Highness, Prince Charles Edward.”

I felt a sudden thump of excitement in the pit of my stomach, and exchanged a quick glance with Jamie. He nodded at Jared, as though this were nothing startling, but his eyes sparkled with anticipation as he looked at me. So this was the start of it.

“His Highness lives a very retired life in Paris,” Jared was saying as he chased the last eels, slick with butter, around the edge of the plate. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to appear in society, until and unless the King receives him officially. So His Highness seldom leaves his house, and sees few people, save those supporters of his father who come to pay their respects.”

“That isn’t what I’ve heard,” I interjected.

“What?” Two pairs of startled eyes turned in my direction, and Jared laid down his fork, abandoning the final eel to its fate.