'What in hell are you doing with my sister!' thundered Clayton Bauer, outrage mixing with surprise as he realized the fellow before him was Bacon's agent and Keen's friend.
'Thanking her for her assistance this morning,' said Jake. 'And saving her life.'
Clayton's reaction was absolutely on key, but Lady Patricia's husband had not yet registered a complaint. Perhaps he had missed the kiss.
So naturally, Jake repeated it. This time there was token resistance, though he could tell from the way her hand pressed at his side that it was for appearance's sake only.
The dragoons strained from their horses to catch the show. A few gripped the swords in their saddle sheaths, but the bulk wore grins that betrayed admiration for the bold young man who had so overt a manner — and such fine taste in lips.
'Aren't you going to stop him?' Clayton demanded of his brother-in-law.
The earl was one of those men so accustomed to hiring others to do their work for them that they cannot take a stand for themselves, even when confronted by the most vigorous insult. He mumbled some words of shock in a soft voice.
'Stop,' said Lady Patricia. It was the mildest rebuke imaginable, but it was enough for her brother, who stepped up and grabbed Jake by the arm.
'You will leave off, sir,' he said. 'You will cease and desist!'
'And who are you to order me about?'
Jake squared his shoulders as he confronted the man. Clayton was several inches shorter, with a waist that betrayed many second and third helpings at the feasts the British had thrown this past winter. Still, he had the fiery aspect of a self-made man, and the righteousness of his cause propelled his words.
'Do not think that because you are under His Majesty's protection that you do not have to observe the proprieties,' said Clayton. 'Why is everyone in Bacon's employ so damned arrogant?'
'It may be that we are arrogant,' returned Jake, 'but I understand now why all of your men bear a common idiocy.'
The Tory's face twisted with anger and he turned to his brother. 'Here, William, here is my glove. Demand satisfaction for his insult to your wife.'
'I do not think — '
'No, Clayton. It was nothing.' Lady Patricia's trembling voice revealed her great distress. She seemed torn by many conflicting emotions: admiration for her brother, a quiet contempt for her husband, and a definite desire for Jake.
'Then I demand satisfaction,' said Clayton, slapping Jake's cheek with the fingered end of his glove, 'for the family name and my sister's honor.'
Jake stood still in the street for a second, playing the moment for its full drama. The entire world grew silent around him. He saw from Clayton's expression that the Tory was just now realizing the full implications of his challenge.
'You will lend me your glove, as I do not have my own,' said Jake with all the dignity of a Spanish don.
The ritual proceeded quite properly. Clayton gave the place and the time: two days hence, at dawn, on the shore just north of Perth, a no man's land where the technicalities of the law would not follow.
Jake had the option of weapons and conditions. He briefly considered swords — surely this would please the Tory mentality — but changed his mind as a sharp rejoinder occurred to him.
'I choose pistols,' said Jake. 'I should not like your poor sister to cry over your slashed face in the coffin.'
'You will supply them.
'It is only a matter of choosing which set,' said Jake.
He smiled wryly, imagining the Tory spending the whole next day practicing for a showdown which would never come. His smile broadened to the widest grin as he swept down in a bow and bid the company — and especially Lady Patricia — a fond adieu. Retrieving the case with the maps and pistol, he began walking back toward the infirmary with the air of a man who had just snuck from under Death's nose without so much as dusting his clothes.
Chapter Twenty-six
While Jake had seen Claus van Clynne heading anxiously for the exit, it could not be said with any veracity that the squire made a very quick departure. He did, indeed, head straight for the back door, proceeding through the kitchen into the rear hallway and back rooms with all the haste commonly associated with a windstorm. Alas, upon his arrival at the rear of the building he discovered the passage had been given over to storage — and his escape was blocked by a broad cubbyhole stuffed with all manner of maps.
Cursing, he picked through the papers to see if the way beyond them might be cleared. It could not, but as he loudly cursed his frustration, his eyes happened upon the drawing in his hand, and he immediately retracted his angst. He pulled a second map out and examined it with great interest, temporarily losing all concern for the world around him.
Only one thing could divert the Dutchman's attention from the danger Keen posed — the prospect of retrieving his purloined estate. For the maps in his hands were copies of ancient Dutch documents, and clearly showed his birthright. The name was misspelled, with an extra 'e' at the end, but here finally was perfect and legal proof of his family's ownership.
There is no describing the joy that enveloped the Dutchman at that moment. He felt as if every one of his ancestors had gathered round and begun pounding his shoulders while preparing the most glorious brown ale for celebration.
The loud growl of Keen's voice in the foyer brought him back to his immediate predicament. He took the maps and returned to the kitchen, searching for a way out. Here he found the windows filled with provisions for the lord's supper and snacks. Only a small portion of the top quadrant remained of each, not enough to allow van Clynne's dream of escape to take flight.
He picked up a large butcher's knife from the table, then with a firm resolve, shouldered open the door and proceeded toward the front, determined to fight his way clear to his land and destiny.
Miraculously, the front hall was empty. Keen had rushed upstairs, looking for Alain. Though not overly religious, the Dutchman began saying a prayer beneath his breath even as he passed the stairway.
'Mind you, I would have boldly faced him,' the squire added after a humble amen. 'A man such as Claus van Clynne is not frightened by the Keens of this world.'
It was at that moment that Keen spotted him from above.
'You!'
The single word, hurled at him from the top of the stairs, struck van Clynne just as he reached for the elaborate brass doorknob. Like a tangled, prickly vine, it grabbed at his head and shoulders, slapping itself to his body as Keen's South American leeches had once done.
'You!' repeated the doctor, as stupefied and stunned at seeing the large shadow flitting before him as if the archangel himself had appeared to bring him to heaven. 'I disposed of you weeks ago! Yet both you and your companion Gibbs have survived! How?'
Van Clynne swirled in an elegant turn as he answered — not by voice but by the long-bladed knife, which flew from his fingers with a well-practiced flick.
Alas, the squire had not had much experience throwing kitchen knives. The blade sailed forward through the dim space of the stairway, missing the doctor's head by a good foot, and lodging in a large and overdrawn portrait of King George II that stood on the wall.
The projectile did have a positive effect on van Clynne's situation, however: Keen lost his footing as he ducked back out of the way. He tumbled over in a cursing heap, thrashing his head against the railing as he fell down the steps.
