Jeremy Stone was a notable exception, however, as he sat— somewhat to his astonishment—with Captain Phillppe Groliere of the Bonnie Maid at a rickety table in the outermost room, the farthest from the little orchestra. He had no idea why the grizzled sailor had invited him to dine, and he was uncomfortable, as their last encounter had been far from pleasant. His surroundings did nothing to improve his mood either, and while he was grateful for the comparative isolation of the table, the inn and its clientele were at best distasteful. Captain Groliere was patently enjoying himself, though, and was apparently in no particular hurry to explain why he had suggested the meeting.
Sopping up a pool of thick brown gravy with a slab of bread that looked and tasted like a pancake, he munched contentedly, then held up the dripping chunk. "Bragadaps, they call it. Try some. Damn good."
"I have tried it, thanks. And I don't care for it. I'm afraid that bragadaps is too sour for my taste." Jeremy was prepared to talk trivialities until his host decided to get down to business.
"I like this place," Groliere continued comfortably, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The Rainbow goes back to my early days on the island. When I first shipped out here, I was a 'pprentice. Like so many of the lads you see in there. Ha! Sailed a long way since then. Does my innards good to come back here now and again. Particularly before I go back to sea."
"You're leaving Port Royal, then?"
"Aye. If I don't, I'll lose half my crew. In a fortnight. Those who don't catch the French disease will decide to settle here. Dangerous. I'm leaving tonight. Midnight tide. Said farewell to my Jan before I met you here. When I leave you, I'm off on a fishing venture." His left eyelid dropped suggestively. "Be back one of these days. With some fine, fat fish in my hold. You might want to share a fish supper with me when I return."
It was increasingly evident that the captain was not speaking idly, but his air was deceptively casual, and Jeremy was determined to match it. "I'm rather partial to fish, Captain. Particularly the Spanish kind."
Groliere grinned at the joke and clapped his hands twice in the local manner to attract the attention of a waiter. Ordering two glasses of rum, he shifted his gaze back to Jeremy and studied the younger man intently from beneath his bushy brows. "Damn you, Bartlett," he said, "you're all right. Like the way you handle yourself. Liked what I heard about you the other night. Thrashed that slaver proper. More important is my Jan likes you. Hasn't told me so. But I know her. Thought she was wrong about you. Not so sure now."
"You're leading up to something, Captain."
"I am." Philippe Groliere sucked at his mustaches for a second before continuing. "Don't like that crew around the Duchess. MacGregor is a cold-blooded bastard. He'd sell hi^ mother to Satan. Murray is interested in himself, nothing else. And Martin is an ass."
"You seem to know quite a lot about your recent passengers."
"My business is studying men. And you're the best of that lot. Stood up to me on my own ship. That takes courage. Bartlett, I have an offer for you. Watch over my Jan for me while I'm gone. Don't like leaving her here. You won't suffer by it When I come back, you'll have your share of the—the fish.'*
"Aren't you putting considerable confidence in a man you recently accused of attempting to seduce your daughter?" Jeremy tried not to sound stuffy.
"Hell! You're a man. And she's a pretty girl. Besides, you know I mean what I say. Try to bed her, and when I come back I'll kill you. Hell, Bartlett, I've got to trust somebody. What do you say?"
The rum had arrived, and Jeremy lifted his glass to his lips slowly. Offhand he could see nothing wrong with the scheme. As lady in waiting to the Duchess of Glasgow, Janine was perfectly safe; no harm could come to her while she was living in King's House as the guest of the governor general. And when the Bonnie Maid returned to Port Royal, her hold crammed with captured loot, it would be no hardship to receive a bag of gold pieces. The one danger was that the captain himself might have ideas of a liaison of a more permanent nature in the back of his head, but Jeremy could not believe that he would receive consideration as a son-in-law in preference to the men of wealth and rank whom Janine would meet in her present position, particularly when she and the Duchess returned to London.
The young gunsmith let his hand sink to the table without touching his rum. Frowning in concentration, he twirled the thick glass idly. The captain's offer of loot was not to be dismissed lightly, but if he accepted he would be under at least a partial moral restraint to leave Janine alone. It was not an easy decision, for the mere thought of her fresh beauty, her burnished red hair made her more desirable than ever.
Philippe Groliere was eying him narrowly, and he turned away slightly from the other's searching gaze. He knew that he wanted Janine, even at the risk of incurring her father's displeasure. Then, suddenly, he thought of Esther Mary Pennywell. There was a wench just as exciting, just as tempting as Janine. If anything, her casual manner made her more desirable in some ways. Abruptly he decided to let the future take care of itself, and with a jerking motion raised the glass to his lips.
The raw liquor burned Jeremy's throat; he wanted to cough but conquered the desire. "It seems like a reasonable suggestion to me, Captain," he said at last. "I'll accept."
It was some days later, at dusk, that Jeremy returned to his lodgings at the Golden Bucket to find one of Sir Ian Mac-Gregor's liveried servants awaiting him with a message that he was wanted at King's House immediately. The demand was too urgent to allow him time to change into fresh linen, so he quickly buckled on his sword and departed at once. Dirk Friendly had reached for his own hat, but the servant had said that only Jeremy's presence was required, and so the big American remained behind.
There were two spirited horses at the hitching post in front of the inn, and on the short ride to the governor general's residence Jeremy tried to learn why he was needed in such a rush. But the servant either knew nothing or had been told to reveal no information, for he answered the young gunsmith's questions with surly grunts. In a very few minutes they arrived at the front gate, where a pair of sentries saluted smartly and waved them on. Dismounting quickly, Jeremy threw the reins to the servant and mounted the steps with more haste than dignity. A majordomo opened the front door, and a young lieutenant of cavalry, his helmet in the crook of his left arm, stepped forward out of the shadows.
"Master Bartlett?"
"That's right." Jeremy was invariably amused by the ceremony that attended even a routine visit to King's House.
"Be good enough to follow me, sir." The officer marched stiffly up a broad flight of stairs and down a long, candlelit corridor. At last he stopped before the door of the drawing room of the suite used by the Duchess of Glasgow and knocked twice.
"Come in, please." Caroline's voice sounded calm and un-flurried.
The lieutenant opened the door, then followed Jeremy into the room. The Duchess and Sir Arthur Bartlett, the latter looking grim and distraught, were seated on a divan, and Sir Ian MacGregor lounged on the arm of a chair not far from the windows looking out on the gardens. Three fully uniformed cavalrymen, members of the governor general's honor guard, stood stiffly against a wall under a brace of candelabra. Jeremy's glance flickered toward them, for their presence here was unusual, to say the least. And when he saw that all were armed with their heavy sabers, he felt ill at ease.