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PHILIP TWELVETREES WAS YOUNG, PERHAPS IN HIS MIDTWENTIES, AND good-looking in a sturdy sort of way. He didn’t stir Grey personally, but nonetheless Grey felt a tightness through his body as he shook hands with the man, studying his face carefully for any sign that Twelvetrees recognized his name, or attributed any importance to his presence beyond the present political situation.
Not a flicker of unease or suspicion crossed Twelvetrees’s face, and Grey relaxed a little, accepting the offer of a cooling drink. This turned out to be a mixture of fruit juices and wine, tart but refreshing.
“It’s called sangria,” Twelvetrees remarked, holding up his glass so the soft light fell glowing through it. “Blood, it means. In Spanish.”
Grey did not speak much Spanish, but did know that. However, blood seemed as good a point d’appui as any, concerning his business.
“So you think we might be next?” Twelvetrees paled noticeably beneath his tan. He hastily swallowed a gulp of sangria and straightened his shoulders, though. “No, no. I’m sure we’ll be all right. Our slaves are loyal, I’d swear to that.”
“How many have you? And do you trust them with arms?”
“One hundred and sixteen,” Twelvetrees replied, automatically. Plainly he was contemplating the expense and danger of arming some fifty men—for at least half his slaves must be women or children—and setting them essentially at liberty upon his property. And the vision of an unknown number of maroons, also armed, coming suddenly out of the night with torches. He drank a little more sangria.
“Perhaps . . . what did you have in mind?” he asked abruptly, setting down his glass.
Grey had just finished laying out his suggested plans, which called for the posting of two companies of infantry at the plantation, when a flutter of muslin at the door made him lift his eyes.
“Oh, Nan!” Philip put a hand over the papers Grey had spread out on the table, and shot Grey a quick warning look. “Here’s Colonel Grey come to call. Colonel, my sister Nancy.”
“Miss Twelvetrees.” Grey had risen at once, and now took two or three steps toward her, bowing over her hand. Behind him, he heard the rustle as Twelvetrees hastily shuffled maps and diagrams together.
Nancy Twelvetrees shared her brother’s genial sturdiness. Not pretty in the least, she had intelligent dark eyes—and these sharpened noticeably at her brother’s introduction.
“Colonel Grey,” she said, waving him gracefully back to his seat as she took her own. “Would you be connected with the Greys of Ilford, in Sussex? Or perhaps your family are from the London branch . . . ?”
“My brother has an estate in Sussex, yes,” he
said hastily. Forbearing to add that it was his half-brother Paul, who was not in fact a Grey, having been born of his mother’s first marriage. Forbearing also to mention that his elder full brother was the Duke of Pardloe, and the man who had shot one Nathaniel Twelvetrees twenty years before. Which would logically expose the fact that Grey himself...
Philip Twelvetrees rather obviously did not want his sister alarmed by any mention of the present situation. Grey gave him the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, and Twelvetrees relaxed visibly, settling down to exchange polite social conversation.
“And what it is that brings you to Jamaica, Colonel Grey?” Miss Twelvetrees asked eventually. Knowing this was coming, Grey had devised an answer of careful vagueness, having to do with the Crown’s concern for shipping. Halfway through this taradiddle, though, Miss Twelvetrees gave him a very direct look and demanded, “Are you here because of the governor?”
“Nan!” said her brother, shocked.
“Are you?” she repeated, ignoring her brother. Her eyes were very bright, and her cheeks flushed.
Grey smiled at her.
“What makes you think that that might be the case, may I ask, ma’am?”
“Because if you haven’t come to remove Derwent Warren from his office, then someone should!”
“Nancy!” Philip was nearly as flushed as his sister. He leaned forward, grasping her wrist. “Nancy, please!”
She made as though to pull away, but then, seeing his pleading face, contented herself with a simple, “Hmph!” and sat back in her chair, mouth set in a thin line.
Grey would dearly have liked to know what lay behind Miss Twelvetrees’s animosity for the governor, but he couldn’t well inquire directly, and instead guided the conversation smoothly away, inquiring of Philip regarding the operations of the plantation, and of Miss Twelvetrees regarding the natural history of Jamaica, for which she seemed to have some feeling, judging by the rather good watercolors of plants and animals that hung about the room, all neatly signed N.T.
Gradually, the sense of tension in the room relaxed, and Grey became aware that Miss Twelvetrees was focusing her attentions upon him. Not quite flirting; she was not built for flirtation. But definitely going out of her way to make him aware of her as a woman. He didn’t quite know what she had in mind—he was presentable enough, but didn’t think she was truly attracted to him. Still, he made no move to stop her; if Philip should leave them alone together, he might be able to find out why she had said that about Governor Warren.
A quarter hour later, a mulatto man in a well-made suit put his head in at the door to the drawing room and asked if he might speak with Philip. He cast a curious eye toward Grey, but Twelvetrees made no move to introduce them, instead excusing himself and taking the visitor—who, Grey conceived, must be an overseer of some kind—to the far end of the large, airy room, where they conferred in low voices.
He at once seized the opportunity to fix his attention on Miss Nancy, in hopes of turning the conversation to his own ends.
“I collect you are acquainted with the governor, Miss Twelvetrees?” he asked, to which she gave a short laugh.
“Better than I might wish, sir.”
