Louis had agreed, as a gesture of cautious amity toward the English diplomatic overtures, to allow the Duke of Sandringham to purchase four Percheron broodmares from the Royal stud at Argentan, with which to improve the bloodlines of the small herd of draft horses which His Grace maintained in England. His Grace was therefore visiting Argentan today, and had invited Jamie along to give advice on which mares should be chosen. The invitation was given at an evening party, and one thing leading to another, the visit had ended up as a full-scale picnic expedition, involving four coaches and several of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court.

“It’s a good sign, don’t you think?” I asked, with a cautious glance to be sure our companions were indeed fast asleep. “Louis giving the Duke permission to buy horses, I mean. If he’s making gestures toward the English, then he’s presumably not inclined to be sympathetic to James Stuart – at least not openly.”

Jamie shook his head. He declined absolutely to wear a wig, and the bold, clean shape of his polled head had occasioned no little excitement at Court. It had its advantages at the present moment; while a faint sheen of perspiration glowed on the bridge of his long, straight nose, he wasn’t nearly as wilted as I.

“No, I’m fairly sure now that Louis means to have nothing to do with the Stuarts – at least so far as any move toward restoration goes. Monsieur Duverney assures me that the Council is entirely opposed to any such thing; while Louis may eventually yield to the Pope’s urgings so far as to make Charles a small allowance, he isna disposed to bring the Stuarts into any kind of prominence in France, wi’ Geordie of England looking over his shoulder.” He wore his plaid today pinned with a brooch at the shoulder – a beautiful thing his sister had sent him from Scotland, made in the shape of two running stags, bodies bent so that they joined in a circle, heads and tails touching. He pulled up a fold of the plaid and wiped his face with it.

“I think I’ve spoken with every banker in Paris of any substance over the last months, and they’re united in basic disinterest.” He smiled wryly. “Money’s none so plentiful that anyone wants to back a dicey proposition like the Stuart restoration.”

“And that,” I said, stretching my back with a groan, “leaves Spain.”

Jamie nodded. “It does. And Dougal MacKenzie.” He looked smug, and I sat up, intrigued.

“Have you heard from him?” Despite an initial wariness, Dougal had accepted Jamie as a devoted fellow Jacobite, and the usual crop of coded letters had been augmented by a series of discreet communications sent by Dougal from Spain, meant to be read by Jamie and passed on to Charles Stuart.

“I have indeed.” I could tell from his expression that it was good news, and it was – though not for the Stuarts.

“Philip has declined to lend any assistance to the Stuarts,” Jamie said. “He’s had word from the papal office, ye ken; he’s to keep awa’ from the whole question of the Scottish throne.”

“Do we know why?” The latest interception from a papal messenger had contained several letters, but as these were all addressed to James or Charles Stuart, they might well contain no reference to His Holiness’s conversations with Spain.

“Dougal thinks he knows.” Jamie laughed. “He’s fair disgusted, is Dougal. Said he’d been kept cooling his heels in Toledo for nearly a month, and sent awa’ at last with no more than a vague promise of aid ‘in the fullness of time, Deo volente.’ ” His deep voice captured a pious intonation perfectly, and I laughed myself.

“Benedict wants to avoid friction between Spain and France; he doesna want Philip and Louis wasting money that he might have a use for, ye ken,” he added cynically. “It’s hardly fitting for a pope to say so, but Benedict has his doubts as to whether a Catholic king could hold England anymore. Scotland’s got its Catholic chiefs among the Highland clans, but it’s some time since England owned a Catholic king – likely to be the hell of a lot longer before they do again – Deo volente,” he added, grinning.

He scratched his head, ruffling the short red-gold hair above his temple. “It looks verra dim for the Stuarts, Sassenach, and that’s good news. No, there’ll be no aid from the Bourbon monarchs. The only thing that concerns me now is this investment Charles Stuart’s made with the Comte St. Germain.”

“You don’t think it’s just a business arrangement, then?”

“Well, it is,” he said, frowning, “and yet there’s more behind it. I’ve heard talk, aye?”

While the banking families of Paris were not inclined to take the Young Pretender to the throne of Scotland with any seriousness, that situation might easily change, were Charles Stuart suddenly to have money to invest.

“His Highness tells me he’s been talking to the Gobelins,” Jamie said. “St. Germain introduced him; otherwise they’d not give him the time o’ day. And old Gobelin thinks him a wastrel and a fool, and so does one of the Gobelin sons. The other, though – he says that he’ll wait and see; if Charles succeeds with this venture, then perhaps he can put other opportunities in his way.”

“Not at all good,” I observed.

Jamie shook his head. “No. Money breeds money, ye ken. Let him succeed at one or two large ventures, and the bankers will begin to listen to him. The man’s no great thinker,” he said, with a wry twist of his mouth, “but he’s verra charming in person; he can persuade people into things against their better judgment. Even so, he’ll make no headway without a small bit of capital to his name – but he’ll have that, if this investment succeeds.”

“Mm.” I shifted my position once more, wriggling my toes in their hot leather prison. The shoes had fit when made for me, but my feet were beginning to swell a bit, and my silk stockings were damp with sweat. “Is there anything we can do about it?”

Jamie shrugged, with a lopsided smile. “Pray for bad weather off Portugal, I suppose. Beyond the ship sinking, I dinna see much way for the venture to fail, truth be told. St. Germain has contracts already for the sale of the entire cargo. Both he and Charles Stuart stand to triple their money.”

I shivered briefly at the mention of the Comte. I couldn’t help recalling Dougal’s speculations. I had not told Jamie about Dougal’s visit, nor about his speculations as to the Comte’s nocturnal activities. I didn’t like keeping secrets from him, but Dougal had demanded my silence as his price for helping me in the matter of Jonathan Randall, and I had had little choice but to agree.

Jamie smiled suddenly at me, and stretched out a hand.

“I’ll think of something, Sassenach. For now, give me your feet. Jenny said it helped to have me rub her feet when she was wi’ child.”

I didn’t argue, but slipped my feet out of the hot shoes and swung them up onto his lap with a sigh of relief as the air from the window cooled the damp silk over my toes.

His hands were big, and his fingers at once strong and gentle. He rubbed his knuckles down the arch of my foot and I leaned back with a soft moan. We rode silently for several minutes, while I relaxed into a state of mindless bliss.

Head bent over my green silk toes, Jamie remarked casually, “It wasna really a debt, ye ken.”

“What wasn’t?” Fogged as I was by warm sun and foot massage, I hadn’t any idea what he meant.

Not stopping his rubbing, he looked up at me. His expression was serious, though the hint of a smile lit his eyes.

“You said that I owed ye a life, Sassenach, because you’d saved mine for me.” He took hold of one big toe and wiggled it. “But I’ve been reckoning, and I’m none so sure that’s true. Seems to me that it’s nearly even, taken all in all.”

“What you do mean, even?” I tried to pull my foot loose, but he held tight.

“If you’ve saved my life – and ye have – well, I’ve saved yours as well, and at least as often. I saved ye from Jack Randall at Fort William, you’ll recall – and I took ye from the mob at Cranesmuir, no?”