Despite his condition he was a gentleman, for his suit was made of fine wool, his short cape was beaver-lined, and his boots were cunningly fashioned of a soft leather and could have been made nowhere but in London. A short mustache and a protruding nose were the most prominent features of what seemed in repose to be a dissolute and undistinguished face. In his thirties, the man had not bothered to shave for a day or two, but his linen, despite the spattering of snow, was clean and fresh.
Jeremy moved quickly, for the footpads might return or, even worse, a member of the watch might stumble on him and he would have the greatest difficulty proving that he himself was not a robber. Hurriedly he picked up all the coins he could find in the snow and stuffed them into the unconscious man's pockets. Then he gathered the various papers and documents that were scattered about the alleyway and held them up to the pale light, frowning. If he could find some clue as to the man's identity, he could take him home, but the ink was badly smudged. He was beginning to despair and was wondering whether to desert the drunken gentleman and take himself elsewhere, when he came upon a folded, stiff letter on heavy paper. Opening it, he found that despite streaks here and there he could make out the handwriting, which was large and bold. He held the paper up to the light and squinted at it.
Hon. Terence Bartlett
Van der Voort's Ordinary The Wall Street,
Honored Sir:
It has come to the attention of the undersigned that you are nephew to Sir Arthur Bartlett, Their Majesties' Governor-General in the Royal West Indian Colonies.
As you are doubtless aware, Her Grace, Caroline, Duchess of Glasgow, cousin to Her Majesty, Queen Mary, is at present in New York Town, concluding a brief visit to the North American Colonies. As Her Grace is shortly departing for Port Royal, Jamaica, where she will be the guest of Sir Arthur, she and you have common interests.
I shall call upon you to discuss these matters with you in person at Nine o'clock in the evening on the Twenty-Eighth Day of December, if I may. I should appreciate word from you through your equerry or valet if this Date and Hour are convenient.
Until that Hour, then, and in anticipation of Meeting you,
I am, sir.
Your humble Servant, etc., Ian MacGregor Bart. Signed and Sealed at the Residence of His Excellency, Governor of the Royal Colony of New York, on this, the Twenty-Seventh Day of December in the year Sixteen Hundred and Ninety-One.
Jamming the paper into his own pocket, Jeremy bent over and picked up the unconscious Terence Bartlett. They were about the same height and weight, and he staggered slightly under his load. But it was not too far to Van der Voort's Ordinary, and a wild, audacious scheme began to form in his mind. It was obvious from the tenor of the letter he had just read that Sir Ian MacGregor had never met Bartlett. Today was the twenty-eighth of December, it was not yet nine in the evening, and the baronet's call was still ahead. A young man who used his wits and who took proper advantage of anything in the situation that might accrue to his advantage could perhaps lift himself out of the rut into which circumstance had pushed him.
Despite the thoughts that raced around in his head and made his burden lighter, he was panting by the time he reached the ordinary and kicked open the unlatched door. One of the younger Van der Voorts, a barrel-chested man with the family inclination to chubbiness, was standing just inside, watching the guests in the common room. His glance flickered toward Jeremy and the man thrown over his shoulder. Terence Bartlett was snoring gently, but Van der Voort's expression did not change. It was apparent that the sight of his boarder in this condition did not surprise him.
"Take him oop to de landing," he said, nodding toward the staircase on his left. "His iss de t'ird door on de far side."
Jeremy said nothing, shifted Bartlett's weight slightly, and started up the stairs. As he approached the door that the host had indicated, it opened and a slightly built, middle-aged man-servant in black livery stood in the frame. At the sight of his master his eyes widened and his face contorted in dismay. He did not move, and Jeremy shouldered him aside and moved into a small but comfortably furnished sitting room. Dumping Bartlett unceremoniously onto a low divan, the young gunsmith turned to face the servant.
"Thank you for bringing Master Bartlett home," the man said, speaking with as much dignity as he could muster. "I'm sure that when he is—ah—himself again, he will wish to give you some small reward for your "
"That will be unnecessary." Jeremy drew himself up proudly.
The servant blinked and shook his head; something seemed to be very much on his mind. "Is he too—ah—ill to be awakened and made presentable?"
Jeremy grinned. "You know more about his habits than I do, but it seems to me he's going to sleep the night through."
"I knew it! I knew it!" The little man's agitation increased, and he wrung his hands helplessly. "I begged him not to go out tonight! I begged him to stay here and not drink a drop of sack until Oh, what-can I do now?"
"You're worried about the meeting with Sir Ian Mac-Gregor." Jeremy's voice was quiet.
"How did you know he is to receive a call from Sir Ian?**
Bristling at the other's tone, Jeremy glared at him. "It was necessary for me to examine the papers in his possession to learn his identity. As he was being robbed by cutthroats when I found him and was obviously in no position to defend himself, his papers and his money were scattered on the ground of a filthy alleyway. If you'll examine them, I think you'll find everything intact and in order."
The servant gulped and stared hard. Jeremy's uncompromising tone, his cultured accents, and his erect, almost arrogant bearing were a direct contradiction of his attire, and the man seemed to take full notice of him for the first time. "I beg your pardon, sir," was the slow reply. "I had no intention of impugning your motives. I—I had no notion I was addressing a gentleman of quality. Your clothes—ah—you'll forgive me, sir. But you can understand my predicament. Only this afternoon I carried Master Bartlett's acceptance to Sir Ian at the governor's palace. And Sir Ian is not a man with whom one trifles, I can tell you. He's chamberlain to Her Grace of Glasgow, and—and you know how quick the royal Stuarts are to take offense at the least slight. I'm near frantic, I can tell you, sir! Sir Ian will be here soon, and with Master Bartlett in no condition to receive him, I don't know what to "
"Have they ever met before?" Jeremy's eyes narrowed. "Has Sir Ian or any member of the entourage made your master's acquaintance—or has he been presented to the Duchess herself, perchance?"
"N-no, sir." The servant did not yet see where the conversation was leading. "He was invited to last week's rout and to the governor's Christmas assembly, but his—ah—health did not permit him to attend."
The young gunsmith smiled faintly, then turned his face away so the man could not see the eagerness in his eyes. "I think I can help you solve your predicament. Your name, my man?"
"Hamilton, sir."
"Now then, Hamilton." How easy it was to fall back into the old patterns. "Your Master Bartlett and I seem about the same height, and though he may be a bit heavier than I, especially around the middle, I dare say I could wear his clothes."
The servant's brows rose in alarm. "Are you proposing, sir, that you impersonate Master Bartlett?"
"Precisely. Do you happen to know why Sir Ian is intending to pay him this visit?"
"I know no more than was contained in his letter. And you've already seen that, sir." Hamilton was on guard now.