Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon Read Free Book Online

betting man.”
    “No?” Longstreet sounded surprised.
    “No. He wagers at whist, but only, he says, because he has faith in his skill, not his luck.”
    Longstreet gave him a queer look.
    “Not a betting man?” he repeated, and laughed in cynic fashion. Seeing Grey’s look of incomprehension, his own face changed, and he pursed his lips, as though considering whether to say something.
    “You’ve never seen it?” he said at last, looking sideways at Grey beneath gray brows. “Truly?”
    Receiving no reply, he strode across the room and picked up the betting book, which had been left on a side table, following Mr. Holmes’s careful record of the settling of the wager on Dr. Humperdinck’s state of animation.
    Longstreet flipped back through the pages, long-fingered and swift, finally discovering what he wanted with a small grunt of satisfaction.
    “Here.” He handed the book to Grey, pointing out an entry that stood alone at the head of a page, otherwise blank, save the signatures of witnesses to the wager in the margin.

    The Earl of Melton states that the Duke of Pardloe was not a traitor. He stakes twenty thousand pounds on the truth of this. All comers welcome.

    Below this was Hal’s formal signature, big and black. Grey felt as though he had suddenly forgot how to breathe.
    On the opposite page were three entries, the first written in small, evenly controlled letters, as though in deliberate contrast to the passion of Hal’s wager:

    Done. Nathaniel Twelvetrees, Captain, 32nd Foot

    Below this were two more names, carelessly scrawled.

    Accepted. Arthur Wilbraham, MP
    Accepted. George Longstreet

    Grey worked his tongue in an effort to regain enough saliva to speak, and mechanically noted the date of the wager. 8 July, 1741. A month after his father’s death. There was no indication that the wager had ever been settled.
    “You really didn’t know?” Longstreet was regarding him with something like sympathy, mixed with curiosity.
    “No,” Grey said, achieving speech. With some effort, he closed the book and set it down. “George Longstreet. You?”
    Doctor Longstreet shook his head.
    “My cousin. I witnessed the wager, though.” The doctor’s mouth, long and mobile, quirked at one side. “It was a memorable night. Your brother came very close to calling Twelvetrees out and was dissuaded only by Colonel Quarry—he was only a lieutenant at the time, of course—who pointed out that he could not honorably risk leaving his mother and younger brother defenseless, were he killed. You must have been no more than a child at the time?”
    Blood burned in Grey’s cheeks at that. He had had nothing to drink, but felt a rushing in his ears, together with that peculiar sense of detachment that sometimes came upon him after too much wine, as though he were not responsible for the actions of his body.
    “Mr. Holmes!” he called, his voice surprisingly calm. “A quill and ink, if you please.”
    He opened the book, and taking the quill hastily supplied by Holmes, who stood by anxious-faced and silent, he wrote neatly beneath his brother’s entry:

    Lord John Grey joins this wager, upon the same terms.

    He hadn’t got twenty thousand pounds, but it didn’t seem to matter.
    “If you gentlemen will be so kind as to witness my hand?” He held out the ink-stained quill to Longstreet, who took it, looking amused. Holmes coughed, low in his throat, and Grey turned round to see his brother standing in the doorway, watching, expressionless. The sound of laughter and shouts of dismay came from the cardroom behind him.
    “What in God’s name is the matter with you?” Hal asked, very quietly.
    “The same thing that’s the matter with you,” Grey said. He took his hat and coat from the hallstand and bowed. “Good night,” he said politely. “Your Grace.”

Chapter 3

    Pet Criminal
    O nce home, he could not sleep, and after a restless hour spent churning the bedclothes into knots, he got up, poked the