“No. I thank you, Madame Fraser. I shall not stay; my servant waits outside, and it is a long ride to return to my lodgings. I wished only to make a request of my friend James.”

“Er… well, I’m sure that my husband would be happy to oblige Your Highness – if he can,” I answered cautiously, wondering just what the request was. A loan, probably; Fergus’s gleanings of late had included quite a number of impatient letters from tailors, bootmakers, and other creditors.

Charles smiled, his expression altering to one of surprising sweetness.

“I know; I cannot tell you, Madame, how greatly I esteem the devotion and service of your husband; the sight of his loyal face warms my heart amid the loneliness of my present surroundings.”

“Oh?” I said.

“It is not a difficult thing I ask,” he assured me. “It is only that I have made a small investment; a cargo of bottled port.”

“Really?” I said. “How interesting.” Murtagh had left for Lisbon that morning, vials of nettle juice and madder root in his pouch.

“It is a small thing,” Charles flipped a lordly hand, disdaining the investment of every cent he had been able to borrow. “But I wish that my friend James shall accomplish the task of disposing of the cargo, once it shall arrive. It is not appropriate, you know” – and here he straightened his shoulders and elevated his nose just a trifle, quite unconsciously – “for a – a person such as myself, to be seen to engage in trade.”

“Yes, I quite see, Your Highness,” I said, biting my lip. I wondered whether he had expressed this point of view to his business partner, St. Germain – who undoubtedly regarded the young pretender to the Scottish throne as a person of less consequence than any of the French nobles – who engaged in “trade” with both hands, whenever the chance of profit offered.

“Is Your Highness quite alone in this enterprise?” I inquired innocently.

He frowned slightly. “No, I have a partner; but he is a Frenchman. I should much prefer to entrust the proceeds of my venture to the hands of a countryman. Besides,” he added thoughtfully, “I have heard that my dear James is a most astute and capable merchant; it is possible that he might be able to increase the value of my investment by means of judicious sale.”

I supposed whoever had told him of Jamie’s capability hadn’t bothered to add the information that there was probably no wine merchant in Paris whom St. Germain more disliked. Still, if everything worked out as planned, that shouldn’t matter. And if it didn’t, it was possible that St. Germain would solve all of our problems by strangling Charles Stuart, once he found out that the latter had contracted delivery of half his exclusive Gostos port to his most hated rival.

“I’m sure that my husband will do his utmost to dispose of Your Highness’s merchandise to the maximum benefit of all concerned,” I said, with complete truth.

His Highness thanked me graciously, as befitting a prince accepting the service of a loyal subject. He bowed, kissed my hand with great formality, and departed with continuing protestations of gratitude to Jamie. Magnus, looking dourly unimpressed by the Royal visit, closed the door upon him.

In the event, Jamie didn’t come home until after I had fallen asleep, but I told him over breakfast of Charles’s visit, and his request.

“God, I wonder if His Highness will tell the Comte?” he said. Having ensured the health of his bowels by disposing of his parritch in short order, he proceeded to add a French breakfast of buttered rolls and steaming chocolate on top of it. A broad grin spread across his face in contemplation of the Comte’s reaction, as he sipped his cocoa.

“I wonder is it lèse-majesté to hammer an exiled prince? For if it’s not, I hope His Highness has Sheridan or Balhaldy close by when St. Germain hears about it.”

Further speculation along these lines was curtailed by the sudden sound of voices in the hallway. A moment later, Magnus appeared in the door, a note borne on his silver tray.

“Your pardon, milord,” he said, bowing. “The messenger who brought this desired most urgently that it be brought to your attention at once.”

Brows raised, Jamie took the note from the tray, opened and read it.

“Oh, bloody hell!” he said in disgust.

“What is it?” I asked. “Not word from Murtagh already?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s from the foreman of the warehouse.”

“Trouble at the docks?”

An odd mixture of emotions was visible on Jamie’s face; impatience struggling with amusement.

“Well, not precisely. The man’s got himself into a coil at a brothel, it seems. He humbly begs my pardon” – he waved ironically at the note – “but hopes I’ll see fit to come round and assist him. In other words,” he translated, crumpling his napkin as he rose, “will I pay his bill?”

“Will you?” I said, amused.

He snorted briefly and dusted crumbs from his lap.

“I suppose I’ll have to, unless I want to supervise the warehouse myself – and I havena time for that.” His brow creased as he mentally reviewed the duties of the day. This was a task that might take some little time, and there were orders waiting on his desk, ship’s captains waiting on the docks, and casks waiting in the warehouse.

“I’d best take Fergus wi’ me to carry messages,” he said, resigned. “He can maybe go to Montmartre wi’ a letter, if I’m too short of time.”

“Kind hearts are more than coronets,” I told Jamie as he stood by his desk, ruefully flipping through the impressive pile of waiting paperwork.

“Oh, aye?” he said. “And whose opinion is that?”

“Alfred, Lord Tennyson, I think,” I said. “I don’t believe he’s come along yet, but he’s a poet. Uncle Lamb had a book of famous British poets. There was a bit from Burns in there, too, I recall – he’s a Scot,” I explained. “He said, ‘Freedom and Whisky gang tegither.’ ”

Jamie snorted. “I canna say if he’s a poet, but he’s a Scot, at least.” He smiled then, and bent to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll be home to my supper, mo duinne. Keep ye well.”

I finished my own breakfast, and thriftily polished off Jamie’s toast as well, then waddled upstairs for my morning nap. I had had small episodes of bleeding since the first alarm, though no more than a spot or two, and nothing at all for several weeks. Still, I kept to my bed or the chaise as much as possible, only venturing down to the salon to receive visitors, or to the dining room for meals with Jamie. When I descended for lunch, though, I found the table laid for one.

“Milord has not come back yet?” I asked in some surprise. The elderly butler shook his head.

“No, milady.”

“Well, I imagine he’ll be back soon; make sure there’s food waiting for him when he arrives.” I was too hungry to wait for Jamie; the nausea tended to return if I went too long without eating.

After lunch, I lay down to rest again. Conjugal relations being temporarily in abeyance, there wasn’t that much one could do in bed, other than read or sleep, which meant I did quite a lot of both. Sleeping on my stomach was impossible, sleeping on my back uncomfortable, as it tended to make the baby squirm. Consequently, I lay on my side, curling around my growing abdomen like a cocktail shrimp round a caper. I seldom slept deeply, but tended rather to doze, letting my mind drift to the gentle random movements of the child.

Somewhere in my dreams, I thought I felt Jamie near me, but when I opened my eyes the room was empty, and I closed them again, lulled as though I, too, floated weightless in a blood-warm sea.

I was wakened at length, somewhere in the late afternoon, by a soft tap on the bedroom door.

“Entrez,” I said, blinking as I came awake. It was the butler, Magnus, apologetically announcing more visitors.

“It is the Princesse de Rohan, Madame,” he said. “The Princesse wished to wait until you awakened, but when Madame d’Arbanville also arrived, I thought perhaps…”