The Golden Flask (28 page)

"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 demon
strated 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, rest
ing 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. Manag
ing 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 sup
press 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 appropri
ate."

"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 intelli
gence, 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 Romu
lus'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, re
minded 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 rush
ing from the woodwork, like worms from a rotten
ship's hull. A quick profit is a ready goad, as your fa
ther 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 busi
ness 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 mis
chief."

* * *

While Alain tried to puzzle out van Clynne's mean
ing, 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 bo
som 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 cer
tain 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 ham
mer 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 down
ward 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."

Jake found a bundle of sketch maps with fresh ink
piled at one end of the floor. The large pile was invit
ing, but he postponed his search through them, instead
pulling open the books on the desk. He had just real
ized one was a thin ledger book showing payments to
different informants when Alison tapped him on the arm.

"A carriage has drawn up."

"Downstairs," he hissed as he rushed to the front window to see. "Tell Claus — no, wait. Too late. It is Keen, damn him, back from the dead. He's already at the steps." Jake pulled Alison to the door. "Ordinarily
I never kill a man twice, but in his case I will have to
make an exception.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Wherein, Jake takes further liberties in Liberty’s name.

“
Y
ou’ll have to go
out the hall window,” Jake told Alison
,
grabbing the ledger book. He reached into his
sock and pulled out the Segallas. "Take this pocket pis
tol. Do you know how it works?"

Alison nodded. "I twist the barrels around for two more shots?"

"If anyone tries to stop you, pull both triggers and
then run as fast as you can. I'm going to drop down this
book to you; it's very important. The alley here," he
said, leading her to the window, "connects with an old
building. Run through it, then meet me at the infirmary. Hurry."