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.'
'To my knowledge we have not been at war with the Portuguese for some time.'
'Would you call Spain a friend, my lord?'
'Of course not.'
'And are the Portuguese not close to the Spanish? Twins of the same isthmus? Would you step on Romulus's foot and expect Remus to remain unaffected?'
'Your friend makes a good argument, though not much sense,' Alain told Alison in a confidential tone. 'He seems to have learned his logic in Circe's cave, rather than Plato's. Are you familiar with the ways of the Greek philosophers?'
Alison shook her head. Lord Peter smiled broadly.
'You would like the ways of the Academy, I believe. I will be departing for the theater with some friends following our refreshments. Would you wish to join us?'
'Well, my lord, besides extending my respects, I am here with a business proposition,' said van Clynne, reminded by the reference to the play that Keen was on his way. 'You have heard, no doubt, that the Seneca control a large store of salt in the upper province.'
'I had not heard of that,' said the young lord.
'Oh yes, the finest store of salt in the entire New World. Now, with the proper financial backing, we would be able to exploit — what was that?”
'What was what?'
'The noise upstairs. Al — quickly, go and investigate.'
'I heard nothing.'
'Tut, tut, my lord, there are spies everywhere. One has only to mention the word salt and they come rushing from the woodwork, like worms from a rotten ship's hull. A quick profit is a ready goad, as your father used to say.'
'My father said that?'
'Al, quickly — up the stairs and investigate. I will talk no further of business until we are sure this house is secure.'
'It was probably just the maid.'
'Just the maid! If I had threepence for every business deal scuttled by a maid, I should have retired long ago. Up with you, Al.'
'Perhaps I should go along,' said Lord Peter. 'I will fetch a few of my cigars while I am upstairs.'
'My lord,' said van Clynne, putting his hand on the young man's arm and easing him back to his seat. 'There is a certain order to things. Even at your tender age, I am sure you understand that we must attend to our business before smoking. The Indians sometimes skip the order, and it leads them into all sorts of mischief.'
While Alain tried to puzzle out van Clynne's meaning, Alison walked briskly to the stairs. She knew she must not run, yet felt her heart pounding fiercely. It was all she could do to control herself. Until a few days ago, bravery had been a child's game, played out in her mind as she drifted off to sleep, her eyes shut to the consequences of failure. But her father's last gasp came to her now, and Fear in the Gorgon's guise walked at her shoulder. With every step she took, the serious danger she faced stroked its icy ringers of dread across her neck.
As the servant surrendered into his arms, Jake deepened his kiss, pressing the young woman's ample bosom to his chest with a degree of pressure that might crush a bear, yet mingled with a softness that would tame a screaming baby. He slipped his fingers around the soft back of her neck, then with a flick closed his forefinger and thumb so sharply the woman fainted.
If asked, Jake would say that he had learned the complicated technique from an old Iroquois warrior. That was far from the truth; the confederation, after all, rarely sanctions the kissing of its enemies. The fainting grip was practiced as a parlor trick among certain London swains — but there is no time now to dredge up details of our hero's past.
The spy pulled the unconscious servant with him to the side of the doorway as footsteps approached from the stair. Holding her with one arm, he reached to his belt and drew his pistol, intending to wield it as a hammer on the newcomer's head — not as fancy a technique as the one he had just practiced, to be sure, but just as effective. Jake's hand was already proceeding downward when he realized the dark body in front of him had a familiar shape.
Alison ducked the blow by throwing herself to the floor.
'What are you doing here?' Jake said. He let the servant slip to the floor as he helped Alison up.
'Looking for you,' said Alison. 'If I knew you were having your way with a tart, I would not have come to rescue you.'
'Watch your mouth, girl.'
'Boy, if you please. I am in disguise. Your Dutch friend has a very peculiar way for a spy. He does not act like one at all.'
'I'm glad to see you're such an expert on the subject. What the hell are you doing here?'
'We are here to warn you. Dr. Keen is coming.'
'Keen? He drowned in the river above Albany. I watched him die myself.'
'Not according to the Dutchman. He says he's seen him, and he's on his way here right now. You're to get out immediately.' Alison shook her head. 'That lord fellow is a queer duck.'
'Quickly — go to the window and stand lookout while I finish going through these papers.'
'But — '
'Do it.'
