When at last the sound of steps below did come, I was so occupied with visions of Jamie lying in a gutter with his throat cut, that I didn’t realize he was home until the bedroom door opened.

“Jamie!” I sat up in bed with a cry of joy.

He smiled at me, then yawned immensely, making no effort to cover his mouth. I could see a goodly distance down his throat, and observed with relief that it wasn’t cut. On the other hand, he looked distinctly the worse for wear. He lay down on the bed next to me and stretched, long and rackingly, then settled with a half-contented groan.

“What,” I demanded, “happened to you?”

He opened one red-rimmed eye.

“I need a bath,” he said, and closed it again.

I leaned toward him and sniffed delicately. The nose detected the usual smoky smell of closed rooms and damp wool, underlying a truly remarkable combination of alcoholic stenches – ale, wine, whisky, and brandy – which matched the variety of stains on his shirt. And forming a high note to the mixture, a horrible cheap cologne, of a particularly penetrating and noxious pungency.

“You do,” I agreed. I scrambled out of bed and leaning out into the corridor, shouted for Marguerite, sending her on arrival for a hip bath and sufficient water to fill it. As a parting gift from Brother Ambrose, I had several cakes of a fine-milled hard soap, made with attar of roses, and told her to fetch those, as well.

As the maid set about the tedious business of bringing up the huge copper bath-cans, I turned my attention to the hulk on the bed.

I stripped off his shoes and stockings, then loosening the buckle of his kilt, I flipped it open. His hands went reflexively to his crotch, but my eyes were focused elsewhere.

“What,” I said again, “happened to you?”

Several long scratches marked his thighs, angry red welts against the pale skin. And high on the inside of one leg was what could be nothing other than a bite; the toothmarks were plainly visible.

The maid, pouring hot water, cast an interested eye at the evidence and thought fit to put in her tuppence at this delicate moment.

“Un petit chien?” she asked. A little dog? Or something else. While I was far from fluent in the idiom of the times, I had learned that les petits chiens often walked the street on two legs with painted faces.

“Out,” I said briefly in French, with a Head Matron intonation. The maid picked up the cans and left the room, pouting slightly. I turned back to Jamie, who opened one eye, and after a glance at my face, closed it again.

“Well?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he shuddered. After a moment, he sat up and rubbed his hands over his face, the stubble making a rasping noise. He cocked one ruddy eyebrow interrogatively. “I wouldna suppose a gently reared young lady such as yourself would be familiar wi’ an alternate meaning for the term soixante-neuf?”

“I’ve heard the term,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and regarding him with a certain amount of suspicion. “And may I ask just where you encountered that particular interesting number?”

“It was suggested to me – with some force – as a desirable activity by a lady I happened to meet last night.”

“Was that by any chance the lady who bit you in the thigh?”

He glanced down and rubbed the mark meditatively.

“Mm, no. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. That lady seemed preoccupied wi’ rather lower numbers. I think she meant to settle for the six, and the nine could go hang.”

“Jamie,” I said, tapping my foot in a marked manner, “where have you been all night?”

He scooped up a handful of water from the basin and splashed it over his face, letting the rivulets run down among the dark red hairs on his chest.

“Mm,” he said, blinking drops from his thick lashes, “well, let me see. First there was supper at a tavern. We met Glengarry and Millefleurs there.” Monsieur Millefleurs was a Parisian banker, while Glengarry was one of the younger Jacobites, chief of one sept of the MacDonell clan. A visitor in Paris, rather than a resident, he had been much in Charles’s company lately, by Jamie’s report. “And after supper, we went to the Duc di Castellotti’s, for cards.”

“And then?” I asked.

A tavern, apparently. And then another tavern. And then an establishment which appeared to share some of the characteristics of a tavern, but was embellished by the addition of several ladies of interesting appearance and even more interesting talents.

“Talents, eh?” I said, with a glance at the marks on his leg.

“God, they did it in public,” he said, with a reminiscent shudder. “Two of them, on the table. Right between the saddle of mutton and the boiled potatoes. With the quince jelly.”

“Mon dieu,” said the newly returned maid, setting down the fresh bathcan long enough to cross herself.

“You be quiet,” I said, scowling at her. I turned my attention back to my husband. “And then what?”

Then, apparently, the action had become somewhat more general, though still accomplished in fairly public fashion. With due regard to Marguerite’s sensibilities, Jamie waited until she had left for another round of water before elaborating further.

“…and then Castellotti took the fat one with red hair and the small blond one off to a corner, and-”

“And what were you doing all this time?” I broke in on the fascinating recitative.

“Watching,” he said, as though surprised. “It didna seem decent, but there wasna much choice about it, under the circumstances.”

I had been groping in his sporran as he talked, and now fished out not only a small purse, but a wide metal ring, embellished with a coat of arms. I tried it curiously on a finger; it was much larger than any normal ring, and hung like a quoit on a stick.

“Whoever does this belong to?” I asked, holding it out. “It looks like the Duc di Castellotti’s coat of arms, but whoever it belongs to must have fingers like sausages.” Castellotti was an etiolated Italian stringbean, with the pinched face of a man with chronic dyspepsia – no wonder, judging from Jamie’s story. Quince jelly, forsooth!

I glanced up to find Jamie blushing from navel to hairline.

“Er,” he said, taking an exaggerated interest in a mud stain on one knee, “it… doesna go on a man’s finger.”

“Then what… oh.” I looked at the circular object with renewed interest. “Goodness. I’ve heard of them before…”

“You have?” said Jamie, thoroughly scandalized.

“But I’ve never seen one. Does it fit you?” I reached out to try it. He clasped his hands reflexively over his private parts.

Marguerite, arriving with more water, assured him, “Ne vous en faîtes pas, Monsieur. J’en ai déjà vu un.” Don’t worry yourself, monsieur; I’ve already seen one.

Dividing a glare between me and the maid, he pulled a quilt across his lap.

“Bad enough to spend all night defending my virtue,” he remarked with some asperity, “without havin’ it subjected to comment in the morning.”

“Defending your virtue, hm?” I tossed the ring idly from hand to hand, catching it on opposing index fingers. “A gift, was it?” I asked, “or a loan?”

“A gift. Don’t do that, Sassenach,” he said, wincing. “It brings back memories.”

“Ah yes,” I said, eying him. “Now about those memories…”

“Not me!” he protested. “Surely ye dinna think I’d do such things? I’m a married man!”

“Monsieur Millefleurs isn’t married?”

“He’s not only married, he has two mistresses,” Jamie said. “But he’s French – that’s different.”

“The Duc di Castellotti isn’t French – he’s Italian.”

“But he’s a duke. That’s different, too.”

“Oh, it is, is it? I wonder if the Duchess thinks so.”

“Considering a few things the Duc claimed he learnt from the Duchess, I would imagine so. Isn’t that bath ready yet?”