Mr. D’s smile didn’t falter, and he inclined his head. “Let’s move forward with the plan, then. Captain?”
Slate blinked, and he refocused, not on the men seated across from him, but on the teapot in the center of the rug. “Yes. The plan. Over the last few weeks, we’ve—Kashmir and I—have been checking out the layout of the palace and the grounds and so forth. Well. We’ve found the treasury is guarded at all times by . . .” He looked at Kashmir for confirmation. “Four members of the Royal Hawaiian Guard?”
“Indeed,” Kashmir said, taking over smoothly. “But when the king hosts events, only the youngest guards are left at the treasury across the street. The most experienced guards are nearest the king, to impress the guests and so forth, and the rest are in the barracks on the palace grounds. So our excursion is best planned for a night when the king is throwing a party.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult,” Milly said, laughing through his nose. “He’s always throwing a party.”
“Fine,” Kashmir said. “Next consideration. The Honolulu Rifle Club. Thirty-two armed men, mostly American, by all reports excellent shots. The only force on the island aside from the Royal Hawaiian Guard, and they have better training and nicer guns. Mr. T. You have a connection there.”
Mr. T’s eyes widened. “How did you learn that?”
Kashmir gave him a withering look. “From what I’ve discovered of their political sympathies, it would seem an easy matter for the Honolulu Rifles to be encouraged to avoid the fray.”
Mr. T paused for a moment. “That . . . can be arranged.”
“Good. I’d rather you do it than I,” Kashmir said. His eyes flicked to me then. It was almost my turn. I sat up straighter and surreptitiously wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my trousers. “Next item,” he went on. “The vault in the treasury holds an estimated—”
“I know the keys to the vault are held by a Mr. Frank Pratt,” Milly said, interrupting. “A jumped-up little man, married well—”
“Mr. Franklin Seaver Pratt, the registrar of public accounts,” Kashmir said crisply. “Recently appointed, though he served on the staff of Kamehameha the Fifth. Mr. Pratt, who resides on Beretania Street with his wife, Elizabeth Keka’aniau Pratt, Mrs. Pratt, who is grand-niece and blood heir of Kamehameha the Third. Mr. Pratt calls her Lizzie, I’m told. Yes, I’m aware of who holds the keys.” I couldn’t help but stare at him, and he smiled with only his lips. “Now, I estimate the weight of the treasure at a ton and a half. Could be over two, depending on how much of it is in silver.”
“I must remind you,” Mr. D said. “Our agreement regarding confidentiality is of utmost importance, should you decide to hire any ruffians to help you carry the weight. I trust this will not be a problem?”
“It will not,” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t quaver, but then I tried not to laugh when heads whipped around, as though they’d forgotten I was there. The weight of the gold had been the easiest problem to solve. “And we won’t be hiring any ruffians.”
“You have a crew of five. How else will you manage this feat of strength? Or protect yourselves from the Royal Hawaiian Guard?” Mr. D said with unconcealed interest.
I met Mr. D’s eyes, unwilling to even hint at the answer. “Unfortunately, confidentiality is of utmost importance.”
His expression stayed pleasant, but barely. “Indeed.”
“We can deliver your payment wherever you like, but we’ll need to know in advance where that is,” I said. “Unless you’re coming with us that night?”
Mr. D sighed. “I believe I’d prefer an evening in. But we will send one representative. We have to be sure the job is done, after all, and done correctly.”
Milly had gone pale. “And how will we decide on that representative?” he asked. “I cannot volunteer, sir, and I hope we’re not doing anything so low class as drawing straws!”
“I will not be available that night, I assure you,” Mr. T agreed. He thought for a moment. “Whatever night it may be.”
“No,” Mr. D said. “But I thought Mr. Hart would like the chance.”
“Me?” Mr. Hart half stood, upsetting his teacup. The guhzeng music paused, and in the sudden, shocked silence, the dreamers stirred in their beds. He settled back down at a gesture from Mr. D, but the furious gleam was back in his eyes. “I see,” he hissed through his beard. “I see how it is. The map is not enough for you. My shame is not enough for you. You would bleed me dry.”
“The map is a doodle on a bit of paper, Hart,” Milly said with a sneer. “Admittedly, so is a banknote, but the values are nowhere near the same.”
“It was valuable enough to you when you all came to me with this scheme—”