Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he'd like being Duke of Columbia—and wouldn't the President be surprised!
"And Sir Thomas," the queen continued, "will be the Duke of ... what? Sir Thomas?"
"Yes, Your Majesty?" Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properly respectful.
"What would you like to be Duke of?" she said.
"Oh," Boyd said after a second's thought, "anything that pleases Your Majesty." But, apparently, his thoughts gave him away.
"You're from upstate New York?" the Queen said. "How very nice. Then you must be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a note of pride in the man's voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent was driving with a serene face and an economy of motion.
Duke of Poughkeepsie! Malone thought. Hah!
He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fell from his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it without success.
All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late Sixteenth Century costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and small skullcaps of the era—and on Barbara, Malone thought privately, the low-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing—and Sir Thomas and Malone—Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly—were clad in doublet, hose and long coats with fur trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them were loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems.