Jeremy smiled disarmingly. "There's precious little harm I could do by pretending for an hour or so to be Terence Bartlett. Yes, and I could do him only a small fraction of the injury he'll do himself if the Duchess's chamberlain finds him in this besotted state, no matter how badly I might bungle."
Running his fingers over his carefully waved gray hair, the servant pondered for a moment. The temptation was plainly a great one, but there was one thing he did not understand. "Why are you willing to do this for Master Bartlett, sir? I don't recall seeing you here before, so you're not one of his old friends. There's some risk involved if Sir Ian should ever learn of this masquerade, and "
"I'll chance that. The odds are small, very small indeed." Jeremy shrugged, then deliberately yawned. "As for my reasons, say that I'm bored with my life. There's no time to tell you the story of how I happen to be—as I seem to be—but let it suffice that I'd enjoy play-acting for an evening. And as time is pressing, you'll need to decide quickly, for Her Grace's officer will soon arrive." He sauntered casually toward the frosted-glass windows, feigning indifference.
Watching him, Hamilton came to a decision. There was no doubt that this stranger had the air and manners of a gentleman, and there was nothing he could do to harm Terence Bartlett, provided he did not commit the sleeping man to some undesirable or unwanted course of action. On the other hand, tipping the scales strongly in favor of the deception was the undeniable fact that if Sir Ian were turned away at the door there might be innumerable repercussions and embarrassments.
"All right, sir. I—I accept your kind offer." The servant sighed, relieved that he had committed himself to a course of action. "You—will of course say nothing and do nothing that might cause—ah—complications for Master Bartlett?" The question was asked deprecatingly, with a lift of brows.
"To be sure." Jeremy answered in a murmur and evaded the other's eye.
"And when Master Bartlett is himself again, whom shall I say helped him out in his—ah—time of trouble?"
"My name is Stone, Jeremy Stone. I've never before had the pleasure of meeting Bartlett, but I dare say our paths will cross again someday." Jeremy was slightly surprised at the ease with which he could speak the glib, insincere words. "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'd better change into something worthy of our distinguished guest."
He followed Hamilton into a chamber in which a huge four-poster bed and a large wardrobe dominated, and within a few minutes he was suitably attired in green silk breeches, a ruffled jacket of scarlet and white, silver-buckled pumps, and white silk stockings. He refrained from fingering the expensive cloth, and as he surveyed himself in the long French glass attached to the wardrobe he was pleased to note that Terence Bartlett's clothes fitted him uncommonly well. A few moments later he and Hamilton dragged Bartlett, now sunk even deeper in sleep, into the bedroom, deposited him on the bed, and loosened his soiled doubtlet.
And when the expected tap came at the door of the little drawing room, Jeremy was seated negligently in a chair, a long pipe and a glass of sack at his elbow, a slim, unbound volume of essays on his lap. He pretended to be engrossed as he heard a deep, stylish thick drawl with a faint trace of Scottish burr.
"Good evening, my man. I am expected?"
"You are, Sir Ian. Come in. Sir Ian." There was a slight tremor in the servant's voice, but he controlled himself admirably as he bowed the baronet into the room, then coughed delicately. "Sir Ian MacGregor, Master Bartlett."
Jeremy shut the book slowly and stood. He found himself looking at a man of about his own height, whose solid, muscular frame was not hidden beneath a gaudy suit of tufted white silk into which were woven threads of gold. In his early thirties, Sir Ian was an impressive figure. His thick, wavy black hair was his own, his black eyes were quick and penetrating, his cheekbones and jawline were broad and firm, and his nose was thin and hawklike. Flipping off his black, beaver-collared cape but keeping his broad-brimmed, plumed hat firmly on his head, he advanced into the room, extending his right hand and smiling. There was something unusual about that smile, for it reflected neither friendliness nor warmth as he drew back his lips and exposed a double row of large, even teeth.
"Welcome, Sir Ian." Jeremy moved toward the guest. "You have no idea of how much I have been looking forward to this visit."
Relief was written on Hamilton's face as he withdrew discreetly into the bedchamber, quickly drawing the door shut after him to prevent the Scottish baronet from glimpsing the sleeping figure within. Jeremy noted, however, that the door was quietly reopened an infinitesimal crack; Terence Bartlett's servant was going to eavesdrop on the conversation.
"Master Bartlett, your servant." Sir Ian's fingers were strong, but his hand was cold and his grip was perfunctory.
"Sit down, won't you? Perhaps you'll join me in a glass of sack. It's not the best, but one cannot import better from London these days. The fear of a new French war has cut our shipping to a minimum of late." Jeremy was beginning to enjoy himself; he knew about the decrease in shipping only because gunpowder had been increasingly scarce in recent weeks.
"Thank you, no. Her Grace is being entertained at an early dinner, and I must return to the governor's palace as soon as our business is completed." Sir Ian's gaze flickered first at Jeremy, then at the half-empty glass on the table beside him. The deliberate blankness in the Scotsman's eyes was eloquent, and it was all too clear that Terence Bartlett's fame as a heavy drinker had reached the ears of the chamberlain to the Duchess of Glasgow.
Although the indirect slur was intended for someone other than himself, Jeremy bristled. "We have business together, then?" he asked coolly, picking up the glass and taking a large swallow.
"That is my hope, Master Bartlett." MacGregor smoothed an almost invisible wrinkle in his tight breeches. "It is our understanding, Her Grace's and mine, that you are a nephew to Sir Arthur Bartlett, Their Majesties' governor general in the West Indies."
"True enough." Jeremy nodded blithely, scarcely able to conceal a smile. Virtually everyone m the colonies knew of Sir Arthur, the top-ranking administrator of the Crown in the Western Hemisphere, whose exploits in the Near East on behalf of England had preceded him to the New World.
"You, then, are the man we seek. Her Grace is sailing for Port Royal in a few days' time, and it is her feeling that it would be a compliment to Sir Arthur if one of his family were a member of her suite."
"Oh?" Jeremy's heart began to pound.
"I shall be frank with you, Master Bartlett." Sir Ian leaned forward in his chair and spoke earnestly. "Her Grace has another reason for desiring your company on this journey. She must engage in considerable business of state with the governor general. But it is not seemly for a member of the house of Stuart, a blood cousin to Her Majesty, to lower herself to the level of a mere hireling, no matter what his rank. Therefore, it is her thought that much of the actual negotiation should be conducted by others. You have come—well recommended, and as a relative to Sir Arthur, you would doubtless be highly acceptable to him, more so than almost anyone else."
"I see." Actually Jeremy didn't see at all; he knew only that if he were sufficiently bold he could alter the course of his life.
"And your answer. Master Bartlett?"
The door leading to the bedchamber opened another fraction of an inch, and Jeremy could guess at the agitation of Terence Bartlett's manservant. If he replied that he would accept, Hamilton would undoubtedly burst into the room and denounce him as an impostor. He would have to stall for time; what was more, as the Duchess was remaining in New York for three days, he would have to work out some way of continuing the pretense that he was Bartlett until they were safely at sea, and that would require careful planning and execution.