A/N: another terrible habit: a tendency to roll dice to decide things. Dice have decided that Beckett's magic number is 4. Gloves…

2

Coffee

"Message for you, sir." Mercer's voice, from the other side of the cabin door. Beckett took a steady breath, and wiped his hands on the white towel provided by the basin exactly four times, and then folded it into exactly four layers.

"Come in."

Mercer stepped into the room, a card and a short letter penned floridly on East India Company paper crested with the mark of the Earl of Southsend resting on a silver tray. He placed it at right angles on the table, the old retainer attentive of his master's neuroses, and stood back, closing the door. Beckett nodded his thanks, and walked over, reading the note without touching the paper.

A short, politely worded dinner invitation for seven o' clock, extended by Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander and her fiancé the Rear Admiral of the Red, at the 'Manticore cabin', to be casual, drinks, cigars and whist afterwards. Beckett shuddered slightly, and realized his nails had curled into his palm again. He did not enjoy these sorts of 'friendly' invitations – they stretched on far too long into the night, and there were only so many times one could excuse oneself to the washroom. Besides, his little… issues… would likely be very easily perceived by the twins, if he didn't guard himself with sufficient care.

Unfortunately, he could see no way of declining without giving insult – or worse, giving too much away. He looked up to see Mercer watching him, expressionlessly. "Sir?" The flat calm in the voice soothed him. He could, at this point, order Mercer to do anything from murdering every third man he saw on his way out, to inquiring as to the wine list available on the ship. Power had always counterweighted his mental disquiet.

"Tell the Earl that I humbly accept his invitation to dinner, and find out where the Manticore cabin is," Lord Beckett said, decisively. Mercer nodded, picked up the tray, and left. Beckett sank his fingers into the edges of the table when the door closed, grit his teeth, and hissed air in and out in even breaths. He was too far from home, and…

He was too far from home. Any home.

Beckett was beginning to miss even noisy, too-crowded London and its stinking streets.

It had only been two days, damn it all. It would be at least a month and a half on the sea to Jamaica.

Right. He could do this. The trip to the Indies, to Manila, had taken far longer, and he had survived that and back. Granted, there had been some close shaves, and he had been on ships where he outranked everybody else and no one thought it odd that a Lord could be eccentric enough to only see the sun once a day and spend the rest of it locked in a cabin, but… he could survive this. He had to. There was power in it for him, and challenge, if he could but wrest strands away from the twins. He had done so three times before, from men seemingly permanently entrenched in their power, in different parts of the world. Manila, Bombay, the Barbary Coast. Madras. It was his specialty, in fact, within the murky world of mercantile power games. Smoothing the lines of authority within the East India Company, and between the EIC and other forces of empire. The Navy. The nobility. Compared to some of the brutal, wily men, with whom he had been matched against in the past, the twins should be nothing.

The Earl of Southsend and his sister.

Who had invited him to dinner.

And this was their ship.

Their territory.

It had seemed so much clearer in London, especially in the presence of the other Lords, those at the pinnacle of the Company, who held the strings and danced the rest of them to their cues. There weren't that many long haul ships headed to Jamaica from Southampton, which meant either he waited another month (or more, knowing how travel worked) until there was a ship to New York, then attempt to charter a course to Jamaica from there, or leave with the Stormy Petrel with its reliable Naval escort and try to get some bearings, and information, from the twins there.

His hands were beginning to feel…

Knowledge is power.

Beckett ground his teeth, lowered his head, and thought of Caesar. Traced back his bloodline four generations by heart, then breathed more easily. He walked over to his case, opened it, and took out a thick folder, which he placed at right angles on the comfortable, if narrow bed beside the porthole. Sitting on the edge, making sure his coat was symmetrically folded to either side, he drew out the file he had collected on the twins and began to read.

After a while, he took out the file on Rear Admiral Norrington.

--

"What. Are the two of you. Doing here."

James felt that he was already being very patient for not having lost his temper so far, even if it were just two days into their trip. Going into his cabin early to change for dinner and seeing the twins, barefoot, sprawled on his bed, papers strewn all over the desk, bits of the floor, the dresser, and the bed itself, reading upside down to candle light, however…

Katherine waved a hand absently from where she was reading part of what looked like neatly written reports. "Could you get us some coffee, darling?"

"Don't call me that," James muttered, trying to push away his sense of sheer exasperation. He took in a deep breath, counted slowly to ten, then began to pick up the strewn papers, starting with the desk. "What are the two of you doing?"

"Coffee first, talk later, sweetheart," Victor drawled, picking up another piece of paper from the mess on the bed. James rolled his eyes, counted to ten again, dumped the papers on the desk, and stalked for the door.

"I want mine with milk!" he heard Katherine call from behind him on his way out.

The twins grinned when the door was shut with a little more force than necessary.

"That was close, Kathie," Victor admonished, rolling to his knees and beginning to pick up the papers. "Do you think he read anything?"

"Too busy seeing red, I think," Katherine sat up, adjusting her dress, and began to help her brother. Her lips curved faintly. "He loses it so adorably whenever he's called any sort of endearment."

"It's really a pity," Victor agreed, as the stack of papers was sorted and divided into three. The slimmer stack disappeared into an envelope. The Earl clapped three times.

The door opened, and the dour features of one of their footmen (with miscellaneous functions) looked in. "Sir?"

"Put this in our rooms, please."

When the footman had left, Katherine chuckled. "Well. That was a pleasant diversion."

"Didn't think he'd be back so early," Victor nodded. "Anyway, back to the problem of Lord Beckett."

"Yes." Katherine pursed her lips. "Terrible slip on our parts, being blindsided by other matters and not doing a proper background check on Beckett before agreeing to his posting."

"I think that was Their intention all along," Victor sighed. "It was probably the engagement that crossed the line. Beforehand they were likely happy for us to play in our little sugar-growing corner of the world. But when we poached a member of the Navy… and an Admiral, at that…"

"I don't think underhanded means would work so easily in this case," Katherine sighed. "Did you see that man he had with him? His eyes?"

"I think even Bartlett would have problems besting that one," Victor agreed. "But as you agreed, sister. There's something a little odd, how he's acting. There's a weakness there."

Katherine nodded, glancing down at the papers on her lap. They were sketched accounts of all the postings that Lord Beckett had been assigned to, as well as his family background. In the envelope taken away were more delicate reports, about balances of power and the Lords that had been previously assigned to or near the postings – what had become of them. "So you really think he's…"

"Yes, sister." Victor said, absently plucking at his scarf – the only cue he gave whenever he was worried. "I think Beckett is Kingfisher."

Katherine looked down at the papers. "We should tell James."

"You know why we can't. The less he knows, the better. If this turns out to be the last mistake we ever make, at least he won't be pulled down with us."

A wry laugh. "We probably should have read this before that bet. Can't withdraw, though. James will suspect something."

"It's a further incentive to win," Victor fell back onto the bed, and stretched languidly. "You know. Looking at it objectively, James is perfect for this. He's so obviously incapable of substantial subterfuge that it'd allay suspicion."

"Concealing the truth…"

"He's capable of that, yes, but not subterfuge." Victor pointed out.

"We haven't been able to see things objectively when James is involved, for a long while now, brother. Perhaps from the beginning."

"He does have that effect on people."

--

James brooded a little at the rail, staring over the water at the Dauntless, meditating about immaturity, his involvement in what looked to be a dangerous prank, the necessity of being stuck with a pair of very bored twins for at least a month and a half on the sea (he could probably elude them in port) and having to keep them out of (too much) trouble, before deciding that he himself was being childish. A few deep breaths of the distinct, fresh scent of the sea, and he went below decks, sending a marine to the kitchens.

When he opened the cabin door, the twins were seated at the desk, the papers stacked before them, fully dressed, and looking so contrite that he lost any final inclinations he might have towards outrage, and smiled wryly. "Your coffee will be here in a moment."

"Thanks," they both said, eerily in concert, apparently decided that they were forgiven, and relaxed, looking through the papers again.

James shrugged off his coat, hat and wig (rack, dresser) and took necessary items behind the dressing screen. He knew better than most that to get the twins to move when they didn't want to was impossible, and any embarrassment he felt about changing in the presence of a lady had melted away long ago (regarding Lady Katherine, anyway). As he worked at buttons, he asked, more conversationally, "Research?"

"Some background information," Victor said.

James chuckled. "I thought that the both of you didn't want to have an unfair head start."

"Oh, this? No, he'd expect us to have read his official file," Katherine said airily. "Just as we'll expect him to have read ours. And maybe yours. You're allowed to go in blind. Makes for good conversation."

"My file? The Company has a file on me?" James blinked. Though come to think of it, he supposed he really wasn't that surprised. The twins had likely read it.

"Very boring reading," Victor's reply was playful, and confirmed James' suspicions. "Commendable officer, etcetera. Not even the whiff of interesting scandal."

James ignored that. "And the both of you still don't want to tell me what's… unusual, about this Lord Beckett."

"It's better that way. If he doesn't suspect anything," Katherine said soothingly.

James was putting on his inner surcoat when there was a knock on the door. The measured tread and the sound of booted heels – and a clatter of a tray on the table, scents – told him that coffee had indeed arrived. The door closed just as he was adjusting his cravat. He walked out.

Katherine and Victor wolf-whistled, like any vulgar member of the working-class. James blushed, and then got irritated at himself for blushing. His remonstrance was sharper than he'd intended "Stop that."

"Even if his preference is women, he has to be a eunuch not to…" Victor grinned, and made a hand gesture that was absolutely inappropriate for his station and breeding, and definitely inappropriate in the presence of ladies. He beamed in the face of narrowed green eyes.

"Don't wear the wig," Katherine added over the top of her mug, when James approached the dresser.

"Shouldn't the both of you be getting dressed?" James arched an eyebrow.

"Oh! But…" Katherine looked at the notes, then at her brother.

"You take longer. I'd read your bit and fill you in," he said. She nodded, blew James a kiss – he glowered – and left the room. Victor settled lower in his chair, flipping through the papers, downing the scalding, bitter liquid as though it were water. That made James frown slightly – attuned as he were to the mannerisms of the twins, perhaps more than they realized. When they drank this much coffee, at this speed, it meant that something had come up that required them to become absolutely serious. Come to think of it, they had only started with that ridiculous pet name calling session when he had picked up some of the papers…

"Anything I can help with?" James asked, concerned, sitting down opposite him. Victor shuffled the papers together and pulled them to the edge, when the Rear Admiral glanced covertly at them.

"No. Just some background reading we should have been looking at anyway," Victor grinned, nothing in his expression or demeanor suggesting disquiet. "You're early."

"Your helmsman told me to take it easy," James said dryly.

"I'm surprised Mister Ethan let you at the wheel for this long," Victor agreed. "He adores this ship. Kathie and I did ask him to let you captain it until we got back, though."

"I'd go back aboard the Dauntless at New York."

Victor pouted. "But the food is worse."

"The both of you can stay on the Petrel."

"But you'll be aboard the Dauntless." Plaintive.

"Normally, the both of you live apart. In Montserrat," James pointed out.

"That's why we should make use of all possible chances to be around you right now," Victor said brightly, and batted his eyelashes in a perfect imitation of his sister, his voice melting into a purr. "We adore you, sweetheart."

The withering stare only made the Earl of Southsend wink and turn back to his coffee.

--

Two cups of tea later, Beckett was aware that he was no closer to solving the enigma of the Earl of Southsend and his sister than he was a few hours ago. There was quite the file on the Earl, detailing his breeding, his inheritance and properties, and his station. There was a very short file on the sister, mostly with regards to her hobbies, and her relationships – sister to the Earl, affianced to the Rear Admiral of the Red. At the next port, Beckett would make sure that was corrected. The sister was definitely part of the façade of the 'Earl of Southsend', as involved as her brother, and likely as dangerous. The file of speculation as to the depth of the Earl's involvement in the New World was also copious, and entirely circumstantial. If the twins were more than what they appeared to be, they were also, for their age, remarkably skilled.

In procuring the marriage to the Rear Admiral, however, they had succeeded in, unfortunately, also procuring the curiosity of the puppet masters at the apex of the Company. Who had realized, to their consternation, the sudden threat to their influence in the Caribbean.

He really should have been called in earlier. Manila's knotty problem had been interesting, but the final months of resolution could have been handled by subordinates.

Beckett drank the next cup of tea in exactly sixteen gulps, without thinking about it, leafing through the Admiral's file again. There wasn't much on the man. Exemplary record in combating pirates. Previous posting to the Barbary Coast before a Lieutenant's position in Port Royal, rose to rank of Commodore through further work regarding piracy, attained moniker 'Pirate Hunter'. Promoted to Rear Admiral of the Red for commendable work in the arrest and execution of a notorious pirate crew.

Something caught his eye – Beckett replaced the cup on the table. In the barely legible notes behind the file: 'Popular gossip claims that the only pirate to have crossed his path and still live is CJS.'

CJS.

Captain Jack Sparrow.

Beckett's lip twisted.

This time, he didn't try to control the urge to wash his hands.

--

James was rather sourly aware that he had been manipulated into showing up early in the Manticore cabin. The 'cabin' in question was really simply a converted stateroom, technically private dining for two – whenever the twins didn't feel like eating with their guests – or whenever they did not, in fact, have guests aboard. The large oval table was covered with a fine white linen sheet, elaborately edged with gold. Antique silverware had already been laid out, the bases of forks, spoons and rounded-edge knives embossed with a more elaborate version of the three-spoked EIC crest.

Through the two portholes, he could tell that night had settled over the sea. He leaned back into his comfortably cushioned rosewood chair and began to toy with the cuffs of his inner coat. Shoes pushed into the plush Persian carpet under the table. The oil painting of some fantastic and imaginary animal, probably the very creature that gave the cabin its name – hung on the wall he faced, its snarling visage terribly distracting.

There was a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"Lord Beckett, sir," the guard.

"Ah, right." James got to his feet.

The man who entered the room was… smaller… than expected.

James supposed he had gotten that particular false impression by how studiously the twins had been examining Lord Beckett's file. When cold dark eyes swept over him, however, in a single, brief assessing glance, he felt that he could understand why.

Lord Beckett's presence was electrifying. And he had thought that he had become inured to airs of power, with his exposure to the twins. Their playfulness, however, had dampened down most of the intimidation from their auras. Partial act, in that case – they wanted to be underestimated. It was part of their game.

Beckett, however, didn't seem to bother with that – his wintry, imperious manner seemed to permeate the room, and likely could cow many a man, with that intense, dark stare. James guessed that it was necessary, for him – the height, and the (yes, he would admit to the twins, technically, Lord Beckett would be his 'type', if for argument's sake he agreed to having a 'type') elfishly handsome face. No wig that seemed necessary to costume – but this was a 'casual' dinner, after all – dark brown hair was bound tightly with a blue ribbon the same almost-black hue of his coat. All elaborate poise. James saw that he was wearing thin white gloves thickly embroidered with gold thread. White cravat, cream shirt. A smile that had long ago eroded into what was really a sneer. Gloved hand out to shake. Right.

Internally shaking himself into officer mode, James smiled politely, and did so. Firm shake. Eye contact. "Lord Beckett. An honor to meet you."

"Rear Admiral Norrington." Lord Beckett's grip was steady, but withdrawn a little too quickly, bordering on rude. "The pleasure is all mine, I can assure you."

"It seems my fiancée and the Earl are likely to be a little late," James said apologetically. "Please, have a seat."

--

Beckett had allowed himself to be guided by Mercer to the stateroom in question. The gloves should assuage much of the anxiety for as long as it was necessary to be sociable – him never removing them would be an acceptable eccentricity. Besides, they were nearly so gaudy as to be a fashion statement all by themselves – however, he had found that often the gold thread proved distracting enough for observers that the fundamental question of why he seemed to wear the gloves all the time when in social functions tended to go unasked.

He had been expecting the Earl and his sister to be late, so he was slightly surprised to hear a male voice answer the knock.

Ah. The Rear Admiral. Beckett made some final checks on his mask, and entered the room.

Rear Admiral Norrington was tall, almost irritatingly so. The straight-backed posture of an officer only emphasized that – though the elaborate blue and white dress uniform of a Rear Admiral complemented the long frame. Startling green eyes in a strikingly attractive face, some fine strands of chocolate-brown hair escaping the red ribbon. Lips were slightly parted, and the man was rather unabashedly staring – up until Beckett stretched a hand forward with a faint smirk.

Well. That was one thing that wasn't on the file.

He'd have to reevaluate the issue of the engagement later – there was probably a clue in how Norrington had placed 'fiancée' before 'Earl'.

After they exchanged pleasantries, he settled in the nearest chair, careful with the coat. Norrington had also seated himself, and he was the first to speak. "The Earl informed me that you are assuming a post in Port Royal, Lord Beckett."

Beckett nodded. "Where you are based, I hear. Admiral. I look forward to working with you, where necessary." Distant, polite. Laughter from the corridor saved him from having to engage in further small talk with the possessor of rather distracting green eyes.

--

He had been caught gawking. James resolved not to tell the twins of that little embarrassment (he'd be the butt of their jokes for months), and got up from his chair with relief that he hoped wasn't too obvious, when they were ushered into the cabin. As befit a good fiancé, he held out the chair for his 'beloved', made sure she was comfortable, and only returned to his own chair when Katherine smiled coyly at him. Her eyes asked a question that didn't need to be verbalized. Did he…?

James shrugged very slightly. Katherine's lip quirked briefly, and she turned to look at where the Earl was engaging Lord Beckett in boyishly elaborate apologies as to why they were late. Apparently they had run into an old friend of theirs and… James tuned out the blather automatically, as the dishes were served.

Sides of beef, venison, lamb. Soup. Served efficiently and quietly by servants dressed in the livery of Southsend. James realized he wasn't really paying attention to what he was eating, caught up in the machinations of the silly bet despite himself. Observing Lord Beckett and trying to be witty. Dry humor probably worked best on these icy sorts.

Victor was leading the conversation – mostly discussing Beckett's comparative experience in postings in Madras and Manila. Katherine was mostly silent, only smiling at her brother (and occasionally at Beckett, coy interest which he seemed to ignore). When she did speak, it was with (James knew better) feminine, shy ignorance. That made him a little more worried, though he was careful not to show it. If the twins were playing the successful-brother accessory-sister act to the hilt, that means that they were unsure of something and had closed themselves up in their best defense-offense.

It took him a moment to realize, when the second course came – poultry, fish – that he was being spoken to. He arched an eyebrow at Victor.

"I was saying, James, that you previously had a posting in the Barbary Coast," Victor said, and smiled winningly at Lord Beckett. "Lord Beckett has also, reputedly, spent time in the Mediterranean."

"How exotic," Katherine said with a look of wide-eyed, barely concealed excitement. "James has told me how dreadful the pirates there can be. Was it not dangerous?"

"Unfortunately, I was sequestered in Tripoli for much of my stay, in negotiations," Beckett sounded almost apologetic. Although apparently humoring the lady, his eyes flickered briefly between Victor and Katherine.

James wondered why the both of them were bothering, when it was likely obvious to them that Beckett had seen their act for what it was. "Ententes with the pirate states?" A faint grin, to take any accusation out of his voice. The situation in the Barbary Coast, even now, was uneasy.

"Diplomatic cloak and dagger, I'm afraid," Beckett smirked. "Nothing as exciting as battling the pirates who 'forgot' about agreements regarding ships flying the Union Jack out at sea."

James conceded the point, and knew the conversational cue for what it was. When he finished with his account of one such raid on a merchant vessel he had been escorting, dinner was finished. Plates cleared. Beckett excused himself, though agreeing easily enough to the Earl's entreaties regarding joining them in an hour for cigars, drinks and whist.

Katherine and Victor sat silently for a moment, waiting for the sound of footsteps to die away, then both turned to look at James. Identical grins. "Well?" Katherine asked, playfully.