Hoare realized that, unknowing, he had just taken a chair himself. So there went his posture of standing, defiant. Ah, well, there would be worse to come, if he was not mistaken. But what was this about "current" majesty? Oh, of course. The reference would be to the bee in Sir Thomas's bonnet. But Mr. Goldthwait was still cataloguing his shipful of grievances against Bartholomew Hoare.
"And then, there was that matter of HRH the Duke of Cumberland, the plan I had laid to bring him into alliance with me, and your breaking up of that plan. Unforgettable, sir, and difficult to forgive. I am sure that Sir Thomas will share my view of that matter."
Mr. Goldthwait glanced across at their host. If Hoare read the knight-baronet's expression properly, Sir Thomas was far from being at one with his colleague at this particular moment. After all, Hoare reminded himself, Mr. Goldthwait had seduced Walter Spurrier, the ringleader of the Nine Stone Circles plot, from allegiance to Sir Thomas to a similar fealty to John Goldthwait, Esquire-a mere gentleman, and a dubious one at that. That could hardly sit well with "Sir Tom."
Worse from the knight's viewpoint would be the certainty that Mr. Goldthwait's aim in inveigling Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, had been to get his participation in overthrowing the rest of the duke's own family, beginning with fat Farmer George himself and going on to Wales, Kent, Clarence, and the rest. All told, an unpalatable crew, but none quite as unsavory as Ernest, Duke of Cumberland. Since Sir Thomas had his own strong views on the subject of coronal legitimacy, conflict in the cabal was certain.
But Mr. Goldthwait was still expounding.
"In short, Captain Hoare, you are in a large though intangible debt to both Sir Thomas and myself. Matters of pride as well as pence are concerned. A debt principally to myself, of course-although, if I understand Sir Thomas correctly, he, too, has suffered indignity at your hands."
"Bats," Hoare thought he heard Sir Thomas mutter.
"Now, sir, I have the opportunity to indulge myself, for a pleasant interlude, in a bit of innocent merriment, at a modest expense of your own self-esteem. So I propose a pleasant evening at cards.
"You do play, sir?" Mr. Goldthwait assumed an expression of anxious hope. "Sir Thomas will stand arbiter for us, won't you, sir? Come, I'll take no denial."
This continued jovial tone of his sent a grue down Hoare's back. He hesitated, while Mr. Goldthwait watched him intently, unable to suppress a gleam of private glee. He was a cat, crouching over its prey in hopes that it would escape to be recaptured over and over again, until its heart finally gave out and it died, dishonored and besmeared.
Between them Sir Thomas Frobisher sat in a near squat, his protruding eyes switching between John Goldthwait and Bartholomew Hoare, back and forth, back and forth.
"I love to gamble, Captain Hoare," Mr. Goldthwait said, "especially when I can control the odds-as, of course, I do tonight. I always win, I must warn you. At the end of play, I am never, never out of pocket."
Now Hoare confronted Hobson's choice. In order to recover his Eleanor and his Jenny, he must take up John Goldthwait's challenge. In doing so, he would be violating his pledged word never to play again. True, he had given the word to himself alone, and no one else would know, but there it was. He would spend the rest of his life as a man who knew he had stripped himself of honor. He knew he would do it, of course.
He had done it before, and most casually, most lately when he had left Walter Spurrier in the forepeak of Royal Duke to drown alone in his own spew.
Hoare knew this would not be the last of it. Supposing he were to win back his wife over the cards, blackmail would almost certainly ensue, and worse. It was not Goldthwait's way, he was learning, to do away with his opponents entirely, but, cat-fashion, to use them, to turn them into his agents-in-place as well as his instruments of pleasure. Hoare would become the other's tool, a repeating infernal machine in fact, which lurked in the navy's viscera and exploded from time to time whenever John Goldthwait thought it would best serve his purposes. The prospect turned his empty stomach.
"I'll do it, sir," he whispered, even more softly than was his wont.
He heard a sigh, but in the library's darkness, relieved only by scattered tapers and the table lamp, he could not tell which man had produced it. Did it come from Mr. John Goldthwait, and if so, did it reveal relief or disappointment? Or was it from Sir Thomas Frobisher's wide lips, and if so, was it one of surprise at Hoare's boldness or of vengeful excitement at his impending downfall? Never mind. The die was cast-or rather, Hoare thought wryly, the cards were on the table.
Not yet.
"We'll ask Sir Thomas to furnish the cards, then," he said, and Mr. Goldthwait did not chide. "I'll have none of yours," he went on, "and I have none of my own, even supposing you fool enough to let me use them if I did."
For the first time, he now addressed Sir Thomas directly, deliberately loading his whisper with respect.
"Can you oblige us, Sir Thomas?"
"Yes," was the answer, tout court. Going to the sideboard, the knight-baronet pulled open a drawer and removed a small packet, wrapped and sealed.
"Simply as a precaution, Sir Thomas," Mr. Goldthwait said, "may I ask that you supply us with a fresh deck upon demand by either player? I'm certain you'll understand, Captain Hoare, and agree."
Hoare nodded.
Sir Thomas returned to the drawer and took out what was probably the balance of the packets.
"Pray tell me, Sir Thomas, the source of the cards you happen to have in such surprisingly ample supply," Hoare whispered.
"They are French in origin, sir." Sir Thomas's bass voice was courteous and quiet, but chilly. "I procure them, however, from Brooks, as you can see by the seal on each pack. They cost me a guinea apiece. Will that provide you with sufficient proof that they come honest to the table?"
Hoare, of course, had never entered London's leading gambling shop, but he knew its reputation. Every gentleman did, more often than not to his own considerable cost. With respect to honesty in play, Brooks' famous scruples were as high as a vestal virgin's. He nodded acceptance.
"What game do you propose, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Goldthwait appeared to debate within himself. Whether he did so actually or in simulation as part of his game, Hoare could not guess.
"Piquet, I think," he said at last.
"Piquet, sir?" Hoare whispered.
"If you are familiar with it, of course," Mr. Goldthwait said in a kindly voice. "I would not wish to take advantage of a neophyte."
"I have played the game, sir."
"Then you remember the rules, I trust." Goldthwait proceeded to set forth his expectations, most of which were reasonable. To Hoare's secret pleasure, Sir Thomas objected to one of them. Irrespective of the personal animosity the knight-baronet might bear toward Hoare, he would serve impartially. Probably.
"And the stakes you propose, sir?" Hoare asked.
"Why, sir, the lives of your wife and daughter, of course," was the jovial reply.
"You hold them, I do not. What currency do you expect me to stake, then?"
"The likenesses, to be sure. Neither Sir Thomas nor I wish them to remain in your hands. Under certain circumstances, as I am certain you have become aware, they could be highly disruptive."
By now, Hoare was all but certain that the several unfamiliar likenesses in the portfolio included at least some of this pair's confederates. If so, Goldthwait was quite right, for Hoare-or his successor, if Hoare did not survive but the sketches did- would be able to catch enough of them to scotch their plot, whatever it was.