He bowed. I bent my knees, but barely; the captain didn’t bother with any pleasantries. “Which one of you is Mr. Hart?”
Mr. D laughed. “Our host is in his study, tragically far from the refreshment. Before we go in, may I offer you a drink?” Again he raised his glass of pale gold champagne, and I noticed it was still full, while the squirrelly man beside him tipped back his own glass, tossing the bubbly down his gullet. I regarded the rows of fine crystal glasses and the iced bottles with French labels. The drink alone must have cost a mint.
“Thank you, no,” I said, and Slate half raised his hand, dismissing the proffered glass.
“A rare sight, a sailor who won’t drink!” Mr. D joked, but the youngest man was nodding.
“A rare sight, anyone who won’t drink, at least in Honolulu.” The man’s intense eyes were lit by a fire within. “The problem worsens by the year, ever since the merrie monarch repealed the prohibition against serving alcohol to the natives. They’re worse than sailors.”
“It’s a problem common among aboriginals,” said the squirrelly man as he picked up a fresh glass.
“But not exclusive to them,” the younger man replied with a glare.
“Some men cannot control their appetites,” Mr. D said pointedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”
Slate’s spine had gone ramrod straight, but his face was blank while he chose his response. “Local issues are . . . of no interest to me.”
Mr. D nodded sagely. “That is likely for the best. Let us to business, then. Come.” He pointed toward the house with his still-full glass.
“A moment,” Slate said, scanning the crowd. “There is a third member of our party. Do you see him, Nixie?”
I didn’t, at first. Then I caught sight of him, in a swirl of sky-blue silk; Kashmir was dancing with Mrs. Hart.
“The tutor?” Mr. D said. His eyes twinkled. “He seems otherwise occupied.”
“Don’t worry, he’s in artful hands,” the squirrelly man said. “Mrs. Hart is a very capable host.”
Although the third man was silent, he looked like he’d bitten a lemon. I kept my own face still.
“There should be no need for dance instruction at our meeting,” Mr. D said, and he led us inside as the song ended. I didn’t glance over my shoulder to see whether Kashmir and Mrs. Hart had parted.
We followed Mr. D into the grand hall. He knocked at the door closest to the front of the house and farthest from the party, but opened it without waiting for an answer.
The study was lit with gas lamps that threw gold light across a blond maple floor laid with a thick green rug. It had that library smell, like the map room did, but the undercurrent of brine was replaced by wood smoke that must have come from the fireplace—a fireplace! In Hawaii! Not for warmth, but for wealth. There was even a small fire burning in it.
A huge window at the south of the room had been shuttered, and a small side door that must have led to the next room—door number two from the grand hall, likely a library or a drawing room—was also shut. I filed away that side door, an extra entrance to tell Kashmir about later.
The walls were a deep hunter green above the wainscot, and there was a large desk with bird’s-eye grain, on which sat a cut crystal decanter, a smooth round stone the size of a fist . . . and a black leather artist’s portfolio tied with a red ribbon. The captain’s eyes were drawn to it like iron to a lodestone.
The man behind the desk stood to greet us. He was flushed, or sunburned, and he had a dun-colored mustache of the sort that continued right past the corners of his thin lips, across his red cheeks, and connected up to the hairline in front of the ears. Those lips stretched in a smile that was almost a grimace.
“Captain,” said Mr. D. “Meet Mr. Hart.”
Mr. Hart shook the captain’s hand, then took my hand in his and bowed over it. I resisted the urge to scrub my palm on my gown; his own had been unpleasantly moist. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his high forehead as well. Studying him, I had the incongruous thought that Blake had been lucky to get his mother’s looks.
Mr. Hart was peering at me, though, a quizzical expression in his watery eyes, the color of weak tea. “Would the miss not prefer to be dancing?”
Slate raised his eyes from the portfolio for the first time since he’d entered the room. “No. She is more an expert than I am, with maps. She stays.”
I tried to ignore the stares the gentlemen gave me, but Mr. D shrugged. “In such complex matters, the more expertise, the better.” He clasped his hands. “Now that we are all gathered, let me make the introductions.”
“Not full names, please!” said the nervous little man.
“He has my full name,” Mr. Hart objected.
The little man scoffed. “Well! It is your house, sir, it could hardly be avoided!”
“As it is my house, I bear most of the risk here,” Mr. Hart said. “Should we not share it more equally?”
“The captain has agreed to confidentiality,” Mr. D said. “There is little risk.”