"If it was only that dour Scots guard, I'd say good riddance t' him, Jerry. But there's more."
"Don't tell me someone else has disappeared too."
"N-no. Not exactly." Dirk scratched his blond head.
"I can't stand here with you all day. Dirk. Tell me who it is and what's happened to Lim. And hurry, man. I can't keep the Duchess waiting." "It's the one good 'n' pleasant feller in that pack o* varmints that works for her high 'n' mightiness. Tully."
"Lord Murray's manservant? The one with whom you've been on such good terms?"
"That's the one. He's been a-behavin' kind o' queer the past two days, Jerry, 'n' this mornin' he started drinkin' heavy-like. Boilin' Jehos'phat—a whole beaker o' rum is what's gone into his stummick! Anyways, he started a-cursin' that there Duchess like nothin' ye've heard. There he was in the fo'c'sle, a-screamin' that she was a double-dealin' wench 'n' a trollop t' boot. That's when Sir Ian come in with the cap'n, 'n' now pore old Tully is down in the hold in irons." Dirk shook his big head gloomily.
Jeremy was impatient; there was too much at stake to waste sympathy on a servant who drank too much and became abusive toward Caroline. "You say the Duchess wants to see me?" he demanded.
"Yep. She asked me t' come a-searchin' for ye. Jerry, if'n ye could put in a kindly word t' her for Tully "
"If I can. Dirk. If I can." Jeremy hurried off, far more concerned with Caroline's summons than with the future of Lord Murray's valet. This was the first occasion since the start of the voyage that the Duchess had requested his presence, and he assumed that she must have more than a casual reason for wishing to see him.
A few moments later he tapped on the door of her stateroom, and her cool, clear voice bade him enter. He opened the door, expecting to find her alone. Instead, Lord Murray and Colonel Martin were seated in two of the stateroom's more comfortable chairs. Caroline was dressed in an elaborate off-the-shoulder, calf-length gown of ivory satin, and her hair was piled high on her head. Concealing his surprise at finding others with her, he lowered his eyes as he made a leg to her. "Your Grace," he murmured, straightening slowly.
The Duchess favored him with a brilliant smile, raised a hand, and beckoned to him to move closer. "We were talking about you. Master Bartlett," she said. 'These gentlemen were a trifle curious about you, so I thought it would be best to ask you to join us. It is never my policy to talk about a faithful retainer behind his back."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Jeremy glanced at her, then his eyes flicked briefly at Lord Murray and the colonel. The expressions of both were wooden, revealing nothing. He took a deep breath and looked directly at Caroline. "Have I displeased you in any way?"
"On the contrary, sir. It is merely that the time is long past due for us to have a chat together and become acquainted. Come sit beside me."
She patted an empty chair near her own, then deliberately reached out and pulled it several inches closer. Jeremy crossed the stateroom quickly, a vein in his left temple throbbing. Caroline might be a Stuart and a duchess, but she was first and foremost a woman, an extraordinarily attractive woman. He seated himself and waited for her to speak.
Instead it was Lord Murray who broke the momentary silence. "The colonel and I were ignorant of the background of our newest associate, and of course we're interested in you, Master Bartlett," he said, and Eustis Martin nodded agreement.
"And I told them," Caroline added quickly, "that I know almost as much about you as you know of yourself." There was a trace of a challenge in her voice.
"Nothing Your Grace knows would surprise me." Jeremy spoke slowly; the certainty was growing on him that Caroline knew he was an impostor. But unless the two men were superb actors, they appeared to be ignorant of the fact that he was not Terence Bartlett. Therefore, the Duchess had either called him here to expose him or was intending to trick him in some way.
"That is true," Colonel Martin rumbled. "How she does it I don't know, but before Her Grace took me onto her staff— before she had even met me, in fact—she had learned things about me that I thought were family secrets. There was the campaign of '85, for instance. It was shortly after my regiment had landed at Brussels, and "
Caroline and Lord Murray both broke into gales of laughter, and the colonel looked pained. "I beg your pardon, Eustis," the young nobleman gasped, "but we've heard that story many times."
"We still find it fascinating, of course," the Duchess interposed smoothly. "But at the moment we prefer to concentrate our attention on Master Bartlett, if you don't mind, Colonel.''
"I consider your every wish my command, Your Grace." Colonel Martin rose, bowed stiffly, then seated himself again.
"You will join us in a glass of sack, Master Bartlett?" Caroline gestured toward a crystal decanter and several glasses on a small table.
"Thank you, but I must decline, Your Grace."
She smiled and her eyes seemed to be mocking him. "How strange that Terence Bartlett never accepts a drink. Your reputation indicated that you are thoroughly familiar with the joys of sack. Too abrupt a departure from your accepted customs might be—disturbing to some people, sir."
Jeremy felt as though an icicle had caressed the base of his neck. He blinked and looked at her sharply, but there was no change of any kind in her expression. Slowly he arose, poured a glass of sack, and drained it.
"You enjoyed it, sir?" she inquired politely, almost too politely. "This particular sack came from Their Majesties' private cellars at Windsor."
"I've never tasted better."
"Pray seat yourself again, Master Bartlett. You were born near Plymouth, as I understand it, and were educated first by private tutors, then spent a year at Trinity College of Oxford." She spoke very slowly, almost, he thought, as though she were trying to impress certain facts of Terence Bartlett's background on his mind. "That is correct, is it not?"
"Yes, Your Grace. The facts are correct." He hoped devoutly that they were, for if Caroline were trying to trap him into an admission that he was actually someone other than Bartlett, it would be ridiculously easy.
"It was immediately following that year at Oxford that you came to the North American colonies—or so I am told."
"Yes, Your Grace." All of his self-control was required to conceal his agitation. •
Smiling, she straightened the hem of her gown. "The less said about the unfortunate scandal that was responsible for your hasty departure to the New World, the better it will be for all of us. The incident has long been forgotten. Master Bartlett, and I'm sure you have no wish to mention it, not even to your good uncle. Sir Arthur Bartlett. Any such reference might reflect on my own judgment in having made you a member of my party. So you will of course be discreet."
"You can count on me, Your Grace."
The Duchess arose, and the sardonic humor faded from her eyes. "Yes, Master Bartlett," she said with peculiar emphasis, "I'm quite sure that I can."
It was dusk, and the tapers that filled the many wall candelabra in the dining saloon of the Bonnie Maid were already burning. Their light seemed harsh, as it always did here, for their gleam was reflected in the cold metal of cutlasses, long swords, and sabers that hung from the bulkheads. Captain Groliere was a practical man who cared little for the aesthetic, and the weapons were always in place; in the event of a sudden attack from a boucanier ship, the passengers would have ample opportunity to arm themselves. In the center of the big stateroom stood a table of heavy oak, held to the deck by intricately contrived braces. A ring of small armchairs stood neatly in place around the board, and as the weather was freshening, protective hatch covers had been secured over the window openings. An untidy pile of papers was spread out near the head of the table, and Sir Ian MacGregor, the sole occupant of the room, threw down a quill pen, stood, and bowed to the slender girl who had just spoken to him from the doorway.