At the top of the document, however, the writing—in French—was clear and clerkish.

Contract of Marriage

Made this Day, the Fourteenth of August, Anno Domini Seventeen-Thirty-Five, between Amélie Élise LeVigne Beauchamp, Spinster, and Leopold George Simòn Gervase Racokzì, le Comte St. Germain

“You aren’t a bastard,” Percival Beauchamp said, smiling warmly at Fergus. “Allow me to congratulate you, sir.”

FERGUS KNITTED HIS brows, staring at the document, then flicked a sideways glance at Roger. Roger made a small hem noise in his throat, signifying willingness to follow any lead Fergus chose, but otherwise remained still. He regarded the iced negus; the decanter and glasses were filmed with condensation, and water droplets were beginning to slide down the curved glass. It would have gone down a treat in this steam bath.

Beauchamp and the lawyer were each holding a glass of the cold sugared port, eyes fixed expectantly on Fergus, ready to toast their revelation.

Fergus straightened up and got his feet under him.

“I may or may not be a bastard, gentlemen, but I am most certainly not a child.”

Roger thought that was a good exit line, and also got his feet under him, but Fergus didn’t stand up. He leaned forward and deliberately picked up a glass of the negus, which he passed under his nose with the air of a king compelled to inspect a chamber pot.

“Here,” he said to Beauchamp, who was watching this with his mouth slightly open. “Exchange glasses with me, s’il vous plaît.” Despite the overt politeness, it wasn’t a request, and Beauchamp, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline, obliged. Fergus silently indicated that Roger should likewise exchange drinks with the lawyer and this was done, Roger wondering—not for the first time—What the hell?

Fergus sat back in his chair, relaxed, and lifted his glass.

“To honesty, gentlemen, and honor among thieves.”

Beauchamp and the lawyer exchanged a nonplussed look, but then blinked and murmured the toast, glasses lifted an inch or so. Roger didn’t bother with the toast, but sipped and found the negus as good as he’d thought it might be. It slid beguilingly down his parched throat, cold and warming at the same time.

“Regardez,” Fergus said, as the glasses came down. The air was perfumed with ruby port and the spices used in the negus; the air in the sweltering salon became a little more tolerable.

“Since you are so familiar with my personal affairs, gentlemen, I presume you are aware that Lord Broch Tuarach employed me for a time in Paris, to obtain for him an assortment of useful documents. I therefore have seen many such things as that.” He lifted his glass to indicate the marriage contract on the table, infusing his voice with a touch of scorn.

“Milord Broch Tuarach also produced such documents, from time to time, as situations arose requiring them. I have seen it done, gentlemen, time upon time, and so you will give me leave to express some doubt regarding the … véracité of this particular document.”