He bowed to the Duchess, and as she smiled at him she seemed to be trying to say something to him with her eyes. But he could not decipher the message, and Sir lan's dark features were set in their usual bland mask, affording him no clue. He did not have long to wait, however.
Sir Arthur removed a folded sheet of paper from an inner pocket, tapped it on a table beside the settee, and spoke without preamble. "The packet boat from the North American colonies that arrived this afternoon brought me a most interesting piece of mail," he said in a strained voice.
Someone standing near an inner door coughed, and Jeremy became aware for the first time that Lord Murray was in the room and that he was trying to control an obvious agitation. Sir Ian frowned at him, but Caroline, as always mistress of herself, had settled back on the divan.
"It has been a long time since I have received a communication from my favorite nephew," the governor general continued, "but I would know his cramped hand anywhere, a handwriting that I am sure you could not duplicate. This letter is from him and he tells me a bizarre story. He relates that he was made a prisoner by a reckless young adventurer who kept him under the influence of alcohol for several days. He states that this person then took his good name and sailed in his place for this colony. My nephew's words are corroborated by a postscript written by his servant. What have you to say to this remarkable information, young man?"
Before Jeremy could reply, the Duchess Caroline cut in swiftly: "What can Master Bartlett possibly say. Your Excellency? As I've told you repeatedly, I am sure this letter is a forgery. Master Bartlett has been a valued member of my suite since we left New York, and his conduct at all times has been above reproach. I cannot and will not believe that he is an impostor."
Jeremy thanked her silently. This was by far the tightest spot he had even been in, but with her help he might be able to pull through. "I—I am astonished at the intelligence you have received," he managed to say to the governor general, but could not bring himself to add the word "Uncle."
Sir Arthur ignored him and spoke directly to the Duchess. "Your Grace's loyalty does you much credit," he said, "but I am afraid it is my duty to disillusion you."
"You cannot, Sir Arthur," she replied with heat. "I trust Master Bartlett implicitly."
The governor general straightened himself with an effort. "I have tried to be both honest and fair in all my dealings during a lifetime of service on behalf of the Crown," he said wearily. "So I am doing a service to myself as well as to you by exposing this man as a charlatan."
"The letter must have been forged." Her righteous indignation seemed so genuine that Jeremy could not help admiring her ability to play-act, and for an instant he forgot his own peril.
Sir Arthur rose to his feet and faced the young gunsmith. "We shall soon see," he said. "Young man, if you are truly my nephew and not an impostor, you can prove it to all of us very quickly. What is the name of the manor house in Kent where you, as my nephew Terence, spent your childhood?"
Jeremy's shirt felt clammy against his back, and he touched his dry lips with his tongue. "I—I have a very poor memory for names," he said.
"I see. I see. And what was the nature of the disease that killed your mother?"
"It—it was the Great Pox." Jeremy stabbed wildly.
"It was?" Sir Arthur laughed without humor. "She was thrown from her horse while riding in Hampton Court Park, and she expired the following day when a clumsy surgeon bled her overmuch." He paused and looked sadly at the Duchess. "Do you need more proof, Your Grace?"
Caroline seemed overcome for an instant, and tears welled up in her deep blue eyes. "If it be true that he is an impostor, Sir Arthur, I beg you to be merciful toward him. He is a high-spirited young man, and I am sure he meant no harm."
"He has committed a grave offense, Your Grace. I need hardly remind you that you are a Stuart and that an impersonation of this sort, perpetrated against a member of the royal family, carries with it a severe penalty." He glanced past Jeremy at the young lieutenant still standing beside the door. "Mr. Crosby," he snapped, "place the impostor under arrest."
There was at best a faint chance to escape, but Jeremy took it. The windows on the far side of the divan were open, and if he could leap through them and break his fall on the shrubs beneath, he might be able to run through the garden and leave by a rear gate before a pursuit could be organized. It was a desperate gesture, but the moment called for extreme measures.
He dashed around the settee, brushing close to Caroline, and raced for the windows. But one of the cavalrymen was too quick for him and dropped him to the floor with a flying tackle. They rolled over and over, pummeling each other unmercifully, and Caroline screamed.
But Jeremy did not hear her, nor was he conscious of anything other than that he had been trapped, that he had ruined his life beyond repair. He was as angry at himself as he was at the man whose fists were pounding into him, and the very wildness of his frustration gave him added strength. He managed to break free and jumped to his feet.
But before he could move, the other two troopers closed in on him. They were too close and they thrashed him too insistently for him to draw his sword, so he defended himself as best he could with his fists. One of the soldiers landed a particularly heavy blow against his right temple, and the sheer force of the punch dropped him to one knee. The cavalryman who had tackled him was up again; his saber was drawn and he grasped it by the blade, near the top, as he advanced. Then he brought the iron hilt down on Jeremy's head, and the world went black.
Chapter Eight
DIRK FRIENDLY was upset and angry, and the longer he paced the length of the tiny sitting room of the suite in the Golden Bucket, the worse his mood became. Jeremy had not returned to the suite in thirty-six hours, and Dirk could find out nothing about him. It was possible, of course, that he had been sent on a mission of some sort into the interior, but Dirk doubted it, for he knew Jeremy well enough to believe that he would have sent word if he intended to be away for any protracted period. But one who was allegedly no more than a manservant could not properly investigate the disappearance, and for all Dirk could tell, Jeremy might be staying at King's House for a time. However, he had finally made up his mind that something had to be done, and he had been awake since dawn, had dressed quickly, and had then kept the door of the suite open, waiting for some sign of activity from the rooms of Lord Murray, at the opposite end of the long, gloomy corridor.
Half an hour ago the young noble had appeared, adjusting his sword belt, and Dirk had sauntered into the hallway. A casual encounter and an offhand question, he had determined, could do no harm. He had bade Lord Murray good morning, then had asked if his lordship had seen Master Bartlett.
The young nobleman's face had been bland, and he had smiled in a bored, faintly amused manner. "I've seen no one this morning but my valet and my barber," he had remarked pleasantly, then had swept down the stairs and out of sight.
Dirk's anger at himself continued to grow. If only he had worded his query differently. If only he had thought in advance what to say! Instead he had blundered and had been fobbed off with a reply that told him nothing. Meanwhile Jeremy might need him, but there was nothing he could do but pace the floor—and wait.
An unexpected tap on the door awoke him to the present, and he hurriedly lifted the latch. To his amazement, Janine Groliere stood in the frame. Her face was very pale, and she glanced quickly behind her.