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Governor’s private secretary, you know; his major-domo.”
    “I don’t like the major-domo,” Thomas growled as they followed him. “One more flounce and he’ll turn into a yard o’ lace…”
    The secretary led the way to Heffer’s office, knocked and, at an answer from a voice Ned did not recognize, flung open the door and walked in, standing to one side and announcing: “Visitors for His Excellency the Governor!”
    Oh dear, Ned thought to himself; the Governor has not yet trained this tame spaniel to distinguish between tradesmen and scoundrels like buccaneers.
    Ned looked at the man seated at the head of the small table and saw a ferret complete in almost every detail, right down to the urine-coloured hair peeping out from the edges of the wig and which matched a ferret’s fur. Pointed face, sharp little hungry eyes, small and yellowed teeth and the skin freckled like pepper on cold pork. So this was Sir Harold Luce. Well, Ned would bet His Excellency had never fought in the King’s cause; he did not have the appearance of a man who had ever smelled powder or considered fighting for anything but his breath.
    The ferret face turned to Heffer and said casually: “You had better introduce these men.”
    Heffer, already standing, turned to Ned. “Sir Harold Luce, may I present Mr Edward Yorke and Sir Thomas Whetstone. Gentlemen, your new Governor, His Excellency Sir Harold Luce.”
    Luce nodded but made no attempt to shake hands. “Please be seated.”
    Ned looked at Heffer, and guessed that Thomas was doing the same.
    “Whetstone? Whetstone? Aren’t you Cromwell’s nephew?” Luce asked querulously.
    Thomas shook his head. “No. Oliver Cromwell, to whom I presume you are referring, is dead. I was the Lord Protector’s nephew until a merciful but tardy God gathered him to His bosom.”
    For a full minute Luce worked out the sentence. Was it a declaration by Whetstone that he was a Roundhead? Was it a sarcastic reference by a Royalist to Cromwell’s death?
    Thomas tugged his well combed, square black beard, and inquired politely: “Is Your Excellency one of the Northumberland Looselies or are you of the Denbighshire branch?”
    The Governor’s face had first gone pale, but now it was becoming purple. “ Luce , Whetstone, not Loosely.”
    Thomas looked down at his clothes. “What’s loose, Your Excellency? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
    “My name, Whetstone. It is Luce.” He spelled it out, enunciating each letter.
    “Oh, I beg your pardon. I must admit that I didn’t think you could be one of the Northumberland Looselies. Have it your own way, then; Loose it is.”
    Thomas managed to convey enough relief in his voice that Luce was left appearing as though he had been masquerading and, Ned realized, knew too little of the knightage to challenge Thomas about two families Ned knew had just been invented on the spur of the moment.
    “Yorke,” the governor snapped, but before he could continue Ned help up his hand.
    “Your Excellency, no doubt you have brought a copy of the table of precedence with you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, out here among the Caribbee Islands, quite apart from what they might be doing in Europe, we use the conventional method of address.”
    “Well?”
    “Can’t think how I mistook his name,” Thomas mumbled, as though chiding himself for mistaking a gamekeeper for the owner. Then he said, loudly and clearly: “What Mr Yorke means is that in England you’d be seated at the table well to leeward of both of us and out here we peasants still hold on to the social graces. Thus if we address you as ‘Your Excellency’, you address us by our titles and observe precedent. I am a baronet and Mr Yorke is an earl’s son, but prefers just the plain ‘mister’. You, I imagine, are a knight by a very recent creation.”
    “And supposing I refer to you as ‘Whetstone’ and ‘Yorke’?” Luce said sarcastically.
    Ned stood up quietly, followed by Thomas. “We bid