Jake moved first to the central table; the pile proved a collection of various fanciful plans of world cosmology, replete with mermaids, phoenixes, and centaurs — obviously the sort of project a young subordinate filled idle hours with while his boss was far away. Much pain had been taken with several of these; on one edge of the table were tacked a series of studies for heads and faces. Jake had gained an appreciation for art while in Oxford for his schooling, and realized immediately that these drafts displayed considerable dexterity.
They were of little importance now, however. He turned his attention to the documents and books on the desks, going through them as rapidly as possible without creating too much noise. For the most part, the papers were plans for bridges and bivouacs that could be put into use anywhere on the continent; not one showed any geography or features that might hint where Howe was heading.
Jake's inspection was suspended by a knock so loud on the door below that it felt as if it were made at his shoulder. This was followed by a familiar
harrumph,
a not altogether pleasant clearing of the throat, and a general "hello there." The heavy steps of a butler sounded up the stairwell as van Clynne's voice boomed out, inquiring after his "good friend, the distinguished Lord of Marquedom, Count Alain, peer to the realm."
Had any other patriot knocked on Alain's door, Jake would have immediately guessed that trouble was afoot. But his long experience with van Clynne led him to believe that the Dutchman, as usual, was merely showing his face where it did not belong. Jake cursed silently, then told himself that at least van Clynne's loud voice would distract the servants and his lordship from any noise he might make upstairs. Jake returned to the desks and began pulling open the drawers to examine their contents.
He was into the second desk when he heard a light foot treading on the stairs. There was no chance to escape; his only option was to hide next to the door and hope whoever was coming up the stairs passed by.
Vain hope. Jake crushed himself against the wall as the room filled with the light scent of pot marjoram. A woman in her early twenties followed. She looked down and asked aloud where the shoes had come from.
"They're mine, I'm afraid," said Jake, putting his hand quickly over her mouth. As she began to struggle, he found it necessary to use both arms to keep her still; as it was necessary to cover her mouth, he used the only device handy — his mouth.
Her lips were quite soft and surprisingly compliant, and in a moment he felt her body slacken into surrender.
Claus van Clynne, meanwhile, made his way through the house with characteristic bluster. The butler who answered his knock gave the bearded, russet-clad visitor a quizzical look, as if he had opened a door and come face-to-face with a ghost of the island's past.
The Dutchman saw the man's apprehension as an invitation to proceed.
"Good evening, sir. Claus van Clynne at your service, here to express my severe condolences to his fine young lordship. His marquessship is at home, I assume."
"Allow me to introduce my young assistant, Al Stone." Here van Clynne swept toward Alison, still on the doorstep."Despite his tender age, my friend is quite a lion with arithmetic. He can multiply the nines and even the odd eight as if they were tens, which is a considerable talent in business. Hmmm, do I detect the scent of roast capon?”
"It is quail, sir."
"Quail!" thundered van Clynne. "Properly prepared quail will triple the life span!"
Van Clynne led Alison and the attendant to the dining room, where the young lord was seated at the table with the air of a North Sea walrus awaiting his mollusk. Ever mindful of his manners, the Dutchman put his hand to his head, then belatedly realized he no longer had a hat. No matter — he swept an imaginary one off his head with the smooth gesture of a dancer opening a show for His Majesty himself.
"Lord Peter Alain! Greetings and cheery health, your most lordly lordship!"
The British ships advancing against the Spanish armada showed more reserve than van Clynne demonstrated as he swooped in on the young lord. Alain's only protection was an elaborate candelabra and a half-finished bowl of onion soup, his first course, resting on a pure silver plate.
"Claus van Clynne," said the Dutchman. "I am sure you are much too young to remember me. Your father appointed me to oversee his interests in the colonies. An excellent decision on his part, if I do say so myself. What is that you're eating?"
"That is odd," said the young man. "My father had no interest in the colonies."
"Of course not," said van Clynne with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Once I gave him my advice, he saw it would be foolish to even entertain the idea. Managing property and trade over an ocean — bad business, son, bad business. Your lordship, that is. Al, take your hat off as a sign of respect for his honor. Bend low — that's a good boy."
Alison did as she was told, which helped her suppress a certain look of displeasure at van Clynne's tactics. In truth, she rather shared Culper's opinion of van Clynne. The portly Dutchman was of a type her inn-keeping father used to complain of as being late on bills and doubly long on gab. But the girl would have obeyed Satan himself to help rescue Jake.
Alain's attitude was one of unmitigated confusion. Unlike his older, now deceased brother, he had never been allowed much access to his father's affairs. Though he deemed it unlikely, he hadn't the slightest idea whether the Dutchman before him actually had anything to do with them. But he did like the slight blush on the youth's cheeks, and saw in Al's face the inviting naivete of a young schoolboy, barely his junior. So he made a gesture that the servant behind him understood to mean two more places should be set at the table.
"I would shake your hands, sirs," he told them politely, "but there are many diseases about and we must take precautions. My man will bring you a bowl to cleanse yourselves."
"No need," declared van Clynne as he pulled out his seat. "We were well advised of Your Lordship's precautions and washed before coming. We even took baths."
Lord Peter raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless ordered the butler into action. The servant did not exactly fly about his business. Nor would "glide" be the appropriate word. He moved with the deliberate speed of a blade of grass growing on a warm spring day as he faded into the bowels of the house.
"I see, my lord, that you are quenching your thirst with Madeira," said van Clynne after a short pause. "An excellent choice, as the water in this city is notoriously putrid. But if I might point out, as holder of, er, a lordly estate — "
"I am Marquess of Bulham," said the young lord haughtily, before adding in a sweeter voice to Al, "You may call me Lord Peter."
Alison, unsure what the soapy tone was meant to signify, nodded.
"Your rank, my lord, gives you even more reason to forgo the Portuguese rot and drink the ancestral drink," continued the Dutchman. "It is only appropriate."
"Which ancestral drink would that be?"
"Ale, my lord. Fine ale. A British drink. Surely your father told you of the great contributions beer has made to your position?"
"My father was a teetotaler. I'm surprised you didn't know that."
Van Clynne ignored that bit of inconvenient intelligence, waving dismissively at the wine. "It never ceases to amaze me how a race can go to all the trouble of defeating an enemy and then sip their liquid. Imagine the great laughter as they trod on the grapes."