Sir Horatio was the first to speak, but not until he had squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, as if doing his best to avoid a tack someone had placed there to poke at his enormous backside. “We, um, we didn’t know you’d be returning, Mr. Beatty. Your departure two years ago—is it two years now?— well, it was rather precipitous, wasn’t it? And…and so soon after poor Rowley disappeared. His house burning down like that, his dear wife fleeing to the country, seemingly to bury herself there, as yet to return to society.”
“This cheers you?”
“Rowley disappearing?” Mr. Roberts asked rather incredulously, and then winced, as if sorry he had spoken, drawn attention to himself. “Not that we don’t know where he went to, not with Horatio here working at the Admiralty. Died just a few weeks ago, you know. Hanged himself in his cell, poor bastard.”
“Hell of an end for a man with so much ambition,” Sir Horatio said, touching his hand to his neck cloth.
Beales nodded, assuming a woebegone expression. “Yes, yes, shall we all drink a toast to the memory of the dear Earl of Chelfham, who destroyed a most profitable enterprise for us all with his stupidity and greed. Who is to say if the ending of the war wouldn’t have been different if the Red Men Gang had been able to keep up its guinea runs these past years. Not being able to pay his soldiers was not the greatest of our friend Bonaparte’s problems, but it certainly had an impact. Although we’ve all learned a valuable lesson, haven’t we, gentlemen?”
“Not to back the wrong horse,” Mr. Roberts said, and then once again bit his lips together, as if regretting his words.
“Yes, that, as well,” Beales agreed, smiling thinly. “But I was referring to Lord Chelfham’s belief that he could hoodwink me, try to steal from me. From me, gentlemen—can you imagine? I only regret being unable to get to him sooner, ease the pain of his incarceration and his guilt over his betrayal of the rest of us. But when at last the opportunity presented itself, I made certain it was a stout rope. Do you think he was grateful for the time, effort, and considerable expense I incurred having someone insinuated into his lordship’s plush prison? I’ve wondered about that, or if he still thought his pitiful life worth living. And yet, I feel I owe the man something for the services he did render me in the past, which is why you are here. Gentlemen? Some wine?”
“I’ll get us some,” Mr. Roberts volunteered, jumping up from his chair to play at servant. “Over there, yes?” he asked, pointing to the lavish drinks table set up in one corner of the large study.
“Ah, Francis,” Beales purred, placing a few small dark green leaves between his teeth and cheek. “Still the master of the obvious, I see. None for me, thank you. I long ago found my own way to paradise.”
Beales chewed on the coca leaves, releasing their invigorating, mind-expanding juices as he watched Francis Roberts pull the lead crystal stopper from the decanter and then fill two glasses, spilling only a few drops in his nervousness. Once the gentlemen had been served and Roberts was back in his chair, a careful, two- handed grip on the fragile glass, he said, “And so, delighted as I am to see you both again, I’m afraid this meeting of ours is not purely social. There is—”
“Mr. Beatty?” Sir Horatio cut in, raising his hand like some slow-witted student unable to understand the simplicity of two plus two. “You don’t mean to take up where, well, where we left off when our smuggling enterprise was so sadly compromised? With Bonaparte gone for good now, there really is no reason, unless you wish to begin trading in brandy and silks and such, rather than gold guineas.”
“No, no, never return to the same well once it has gone dry, Sir Horatio,” Beales agreed, inwardly wishing to wring the idiot’s fat neck for daring to interrupt him. Ah, well, he wouldn’t need the man much longer. “I am sufficiently well situated, for the moment, monetarily, and can only hope the same for you both. I do, as I’ve already alluded to, have this one small, niggling problem standing between me and a happy existence here in London.”
Francis Roberts must have seen this as his cue, for he sat forward on his chair, his hands gripping the wooden arm rails. “Whatever you need, Mr. Beatty, sir, consider it already done.”
Fools rush in, Beales thought, blessing the gods for peopling the earth with so very many of them ripe for the picking.
“Why, thank you, Francis. That’s so kind in you. I’m quite touched, truly. Almost as if I don’t hold both the rather large mortgages on your estate. And you, Horatio? Are you likewise amenable?”
“Oh, yes, yes indeed. Anything I can do to be of service, as always.”
Beales watched as the man flushed uncomfortably. No need to mention the sword of Damocles he held over Sir Horatio’s head. After all, whose business was it if a man wished to keep his lover in a picturesque cottage near Bath? Even if that lover of such long- standing is one’s own nephew—a young man also in the employ of the so-discreet Edmund Beales?
Knowledge. Power. Knowledge was power. And Edmund Beales did so appreciate both.
“Very well,” Beales said after the silence in the room had grown, at least for his two visitors, decidedly tense. “First, for reasons my own, I am, for the nonce, no longer Nathanial Beatty. Erase, if you please, that name from your memories. In fact, erase me from your memories. Both for only a small space of time, but until I give you permission, you do not know me, have never met me. Understood?”
Francis Roberts actually began to smile, as if just given a gift from above, but quickly covered his mouth and coughed into his fist. Obviously not quite as stupid as he looked, Beales thought. He might keep him.
“Then what will we call you?”
Beales looked at Sir Horatio from beneath heavy eyelids. Him he most definitely would not keep. The man was a stepping stone into the rarefied society of Mayfair, as were all the others, but his usefulness would end soon.
“You will not call me anything, Horatio, for you will not know me,” Beales explained as he would to a child. “You will see me on the street and nod your head in passing as you would to any gentleman you encounter, but that is all. Are we understanding each other now, or shall I write it down for you, have you memorize it and then recite to me tomorrow, so I can be certain you have taken such complex information into your brainbox, hmm?”
“No, sir,” Sir Horatio said, looking into his empty wineglass as if wishing it full again.
“Very well. Now, if we may proceed with my crisis of conscience?” Beales picked up a piece of paper from his desk, turned it about and slid it across the surface toward Roberts, the smarter of the two men, if it was possible to differentiate between Dumb and Obtuse.
Roberts picked up the paper, read aloud, “‘Geoffrey Baskin, captain, the Black Ghost, now known by the name Becket and residing somewhere in Romney Marsh, most probably near the Channel. Jacko, no surname known, captain, the Silver Ghost, probably also somewhere in Romney Marsh—’”
“Yes, yes, I know what’s written on the page, thank you, Francis,” Beales said, waving away the man’s words. “Now, let me tell you their crimes, shall I? Because these men must be located, gentlemen, and brought to justice for the crimes of piracy and murder against the Crown. Found, tried, convicted and hanged…within the month, if possible. Can you do this?”
“Piracy? Where?” Sir Horatio asked, frowning. “Smuggling, God knows, and even some ship wreckers still operating in Cornwall. But piracy? Not in these waters.”
“Indeed, no. Francis holds the paper containing all of the pertinent information. We’re speaking of a time before the turn of the century, gentlemen, in the waters somewhere off Haiti, and a convoy of several ships from three nations, joined together to protect each other in dangerous