'You come with us, of course,' Eleanor said firmly. 'You are one of us, my dear, you must remember.'
'With Order?'
Order was Jenny's cat, out of Chaos, by Jove. Or Jenny was Order's girl. It made no difference, Hoare thought; the two were inseparable.
'And Order, and his parents Chaos and Jove,' he whispered reassuringly. 'His parents, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts as well. The entire family of fortunate felines… In command of that crew, you will have enough on your hands, I give you my word.'
After Hoare had assembled his personal kit, the little family walked down to the dock through a light November mist. Here, with a wave of his hat, Hoare signaled Royal Duke to send his gig. As they stood awaiting its approach, a man behind him cleared his throat. Startled, Hoare spun around, to find himself facing the squat batrachian figure of Martin Frobisher, with his slabsided sister on his arm. The last time Hoare had seen either of them, they had been participating in the grotesque tragicomedy at the Nine Stones Circle. The lady had been bare naked above the waist that night; she had not displayed well.
Martin Frobisher's form was made all the more froggish in appearance by his choice of a surtout. Well cut, it was a deep, warm green in color. He bore his fashionable top hat in hand.
'Go and greet the bride, Lydia,' he said. 'I have something to tell Captain Hoare in private.' Dutiful, the sister obeyed.
'May I wish you happy, sir?' he now asked.
Ever since their first encounter, up the esplanade at the Town Club, Hoare and Sir Thomas Frobisher, this young man's father, had held each other in deep mutual disesteem. Hoare knew that Sir Thomas thought him an arrogant, taciturn coxcomb who made a habit of showing contempt for his betters and who had interfered not once, but twice, with his plans for a second, profitable marriage. He had done so first with the sturdy woman now on Hoare's arm, and, almost simultaneously, with little Miss Anne Gladden. On his own part, Hoare's contempt for the knight-baronet was quite real, and carried with it-Hoare must admit to himself-more than a touch of fear. For Sir Thomas combined a singular degree of authority in much of Dorset with the assurance, self-generated and self- perpetuating, that he, and not its present Hanoverian incumbent, was the rightful occupant of England's throne. For centuries, all the male Frobishers had resembled frogs. Like Sir Thomas's daughter, the Frobisher females were slab-sided, lacked all sheer, and had pronounced humped backs.
Martin Frobisher had inherited his father's appearance but not his quirky mind. In fact, in the course of their brief acquaintance, Hoare had found him quite likeable. He lacked Sir Thomas's overweening pride, for one thing. For another, he seemed possessed of a degree of self-deprecating humor. He was not above acknowledging himself a coward.
Now, however, Mr. Martin Frobisher's mien was grave.
'I beg a word with you, sir,' he said with a gesture inviting him to step aside. Puzzled, Hoare obliged.
'I know, of course, Captain Hoare, that you and my father are not the best of friends.' His voice was embarrassed. As well it should be, Hoare thought.
'No, don't deny it, sir,' the young man continued, looking up into Hoare's faded gray eyes with his own yellowish ones. 'You know it as well as I. But, to be frank, I do not share his feelings on the matter. Indeed, I wish you well.
'For that reason, as well as with an eye to my family's honor, I feel obliged to warn you that my father entertains plans to do you harm.'
'Oh?' Hoare responded, with a lifted brow.
'I do not know how, or where, but from words I happened to overhear, his intention is real. And, as you may have discovered, once my father gets an opinion, he keeps it, nourishes it, encourages it to grow. There are those who call him mad; indeed, I fear that in some respects and on some subjects, they may be right. All I can do now, sir, as his son, is give you this warning. And hope you will walk warily. Will you take my hand?'
Mr. Frobisher looked up at Hoare with eyes that were appealing as well as goggling.
'Of course, sir,' Hoare said, and shook the offered hand. Behind him, his coxswain called, 'Oars!' and the gig grated lightly on the hard.
'Fare you well, Captain,' Frobisher said, and walked off on his bandy legs so that Hoare could make his own good-byes in privacy. Once in the gig, Hoare turned to wave to his wife and his fosterling, then turned, wondering, to face the brig he commanded.
Chapter II
A gray, unremarkable figure, the visitor dominated his host's closet.
'You have assured me, sir,' he said, 'that this conversation cannot be overheard. Nonetheless, how am I to be certain that behind one of these linen-fold panels a secret stenographer does not lurk? Even the walls have ears.'
'You insult my hospitality, sir, and my integrity!'
'Bombast, sir, bombast and fustian. Have done, pray. We are practical men, you and I, and must not permit false pride to stand between us and our objective.
'In the window seat, here, I think,' the guest continued. Come, sir, join me. A pleasant view, indeed, of your garden-and of your daughter. It must be more pleasant still in the spring.'
'I'll thank you to leave my daughter out of the discussion. She has nothing to do with this matter.'
'Agreed. Now, as to the king-he is mad, as we all know, and that presents special problems of a tactical nature.'
'First, the portrait, Mr…'
The visitor raised his hand in warning. 'Ah-ah-ah, sir. No names at all, if you please, not even here. I have gone so far as to assent to your whim with respect to the portrait, as long as it is kept most closely indeed-but names? Not yet, not until our plans bear fruit.
'We have the names we use among ourselves, you know, and I must insist we employ them, and them only…'
'Call me Ahab, then.' The host's voice was surly. He was not pleased, it seemed, at taking correction-and in his own house, at that.
'And, as you will remember, I am Saul. Now, as I was saying, about the king…'
'This brings me to my reason for requiring your presence here so soon after the recent happy occasion at which you were a principal character and I a mere hanger-on.'
The speaker was Admiral Sir George Hardcastle. Without the least ceremony, the instant Royal Duke had touched at Portsmouth's Camber dock, Hoare had left Mr. Clay in temporary command so he could to make all speed to Admiralty House. His timely arrival had been celebrated by the ringing of eight bells on the old Spanish trophy in the building's front hall.
'Now,' the admiral continued, 'do you recall my speaking of Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie, KJB?'
'Of course, sir,' Hoare said, thinking as he spoke that the implied question was absurd. Any officer who did not know his true master would be a zany.
'You will also recall, I trust,' the admiral went on, 'that you, and that brisk little floating counting-house you command, take orders from me only at Admiral Abercrombie's pleasure. He is your commander, and not I.
'Until now, you have been known to Sir Hugh only by reputation and not in person. Sir Hugh now wishes to further his knowledge of you. He requires you to present yourself to him, at the Admiralty, forthwith. Hammersmith here…'
The admiral looked to one side where his new flag lieutenant sat, looking eager. Delancey, his predecessor, had been shifted into command of the brig Niobe, 18, some weeks ago. After an interesting brush with the virgin Royal Duke, he had taken Niobe to the waters off Cadiz to watch over the remains of the combined Franco-Spanish fleet.
'… has prepared vouchers for suitable lodgings at the Golden Cross Inn near Whitehall. Thank you, Hammersmith, you may go.'
