The Captain`s Vengeance

demanding daylight, and, for good measure, both smacked his lips and essayed breaking a bit of wind. Mildly eased, and with grit-heavy eyelids, the bold adventurer drifted off once more to what he deemed a damned well-earned rest.

At the grander, much more spacious de Guilleri city residence, Charite finished packing her rakish seagoing piratical men's clothes in a single heavy sailcloth bag and drew the rope strings taut, knotting it to keep it shut. A second change of clothing, to be worn on the trip down Bayou Barataria, was already laid out on the bed; this one consisting of a rough, ecru shirt and a nondescript skirt of dark blue cotonnade, a short, decorated carmagnole vest, and a garde- soleil… a sun bonnet. Cotton knee stockings and her well-polished boots stood by the foot of her bed. Though she might go in disguise as a backcountry woman riding in a. pirogue, Charite would be damned if she would squish and slop through bayou and swamp muck barefooted. At Capt. Balfa's vacherie, she could change into her pirate's rig, damn what the backward local women thought of it!

Her smallsword, sash dagger, and pistols were cleaned and oiled, the pair of smaller pocket pistols already loaded but not primed, with tompions in the muzzles to keep out the damp. Her slim poignard that she'd strap to her left forearm she had honed to razor sharpness.

For the rest of her last day in New Orleans, though, more feminine things awaited her; a high-waisted gown of the brightest cornflower blue that almost matched her eyes, one that fell straight without the aid of confining corsets, one with an only slightly daring scooped neckline, puffy shoulder flounces, and tight sleeves. With it was a wide straw bonnet adorned with gay ribbons and flowers, and the tiny matching silk parasol with which to flirt. White silk stockings and cunning little slippers dyed dark blue; even if heeled, common shoes were better suited to the perpetual slime of New Orleans streets.

She had finished her toilette seated in front of her dressing table, had lotioned, powdered, and pampered her face, neck, and shoulders before carefully daubing on the minimum of makeup allowed the genteel daughters. She crimped and brushed her lashes, though, to nigh the bold look of the demimonde, for she was not yet a matron and, frankly, did not think that she could ever submit to such a stolid and boring child-ridden propriety, not 'til their grand design had borne fruit.

Charite stood before her cheval mirror and unlaced the ties of her sheer dressing gown, then tossed it towards her bed. She slid her palms down her sides to her waist, over a tight-laced bustier atop a thinly woven chemise, turning slightly to either side to appreciate her slim and youthful body, lifting her hands under her breasts, as if to press them together for a deeper cleavage.

She smiled and blew herself a teasing kiss as she shifted both feet a bit more apart, lowering her rapt gaze to her slim and shapely thighs, revelling in recalling how she'd wrapped those fine legs about that coquin-that rascal- Alan Willoughby. Looking up into her own eyes again, she tried out a sultry, smouldering pout.

'Non non, ' she whispered, giggling, discarding that passionate look for a wide-eyed, innocent come-hither, all but biting her lip in trepidatious desire. 'Better, oh la.' She chuckled before making a cross-eyed face and sticking her tongue out at herself.

'Hunh!' was her Black 'mamans' sour comment.

'You hush,' Charite told her, rewarding her maidservant's sauce with another cross-eyed tongue-shot, 'and don't tell me they'll stay crossed if I keep that up. Push me into my gown.'

She stood patiently to be gowned, shod, tucked, laced, and adjusted, to be adorned with earrings and matching necklace, swaying from one foot to another and crooning to herself, sleepy-eyed but her head cocked in wonder at her own beauty as she was rigged out for the day, became an adorable, desirable perfection before her very own eyes one more time. A little shopping, a delicious dinner, and a few glasses of wine… some coy flirtations with her lashes, parasol, and laced fan with the town swains of her acquaintance, perhaps a former lover or two; punctuated with the pouty tale of being summoned upcountry for a family gathering on one of their plantations, to explain her, and her brothers', absence. It would be more a necessary chore than her usual pleasurable stroll and sampling of her beloved city's treasures. They would depart after full dark, taking a closed coach to the nearest boat landing on Bayou Barataria, and then it might be weeks of enforced solitude aft in a well-guarded cabin aboard Le Revenant-the celibacy of an Ursuline nun or Capuchin monk!-surrounded by swaggeringly masculine sailors. Hmmm…

'Fetch me pen, paper, and ink, maman, ' Charite ordered suddenly, impishly inspired. 'I must write someone a note.'

She consulted her tiny, cunningly wrought timepiece. It was not yet nine in the morning; would Alan Willoughby still be slug-a-bed, or was he the sort to be out and doing at the crack of dawn? she wondered. A note to his pension, or would it better serve to be sent to Panton, Leslie's shore establishment? Hah! Both, just to make sure!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

An th' top o' th' mornin' to ye, Cap'm, sor,' Toby Jugg said with a jovial tone to his voice and a sham tug of his forelock, as if making salaam to an Asian potentate… or a poor Irish crofter to his landlord. 'An' wot a foin mornin' h'it be, at 'all an' at 'all.'

'Oh, pack it in, Mister Jugg!' Lewrie replied with a groan and a weary scowl. ' 'Tis too 'foin a morning for your 'Jack Sauce.' Have you seen Mister Pollock yet?'

'Come an' gone, sor, in a bit of a dither,' Jugg informed him as Lewrie hefted the teapot off the candle-warmer in the Panton, Leslie shore warehouse offices. There seemed enough to make a cup, so Lewrie poured himself a mug-full, hoping for the best.

'Did he say what'd… dithered him, then?' Lewrie asked, making a face at the bitterness of the tea, despite a liberal admixture of two spoonfuls of sugar and a hefty dollop of cream.

'Borryed Dempsey an' Mannix, said he needed eyes t'do some watchin, an' loped off, sor,' Jugg said, taking a sniff of the teapot and slinging what was left out onto the cobbled street to start a new one. 'Desmond, Furfy an t'others are keepin' their eyes on th' Americans. An' th' Yankee Doodles're keepin' an eye on us, too, sor. 'At lout 'cross th' street, sor? Been strollin' back an' forth th' better part of an hour, an' about wore 'is eyes out lookin' in th' same shop windows, each lap he makes.'

Lewrie flung his mug of tea into the street, taking the time to peer at the buckskinned, raccoon-capped watcher, who spun suddenly on his heels and took an intense interest in the creaking overhead sign-boards that jutted out from the storefronts.

'Clumsy buggers they is, sor,' Jugg said with a faint snicker. 'Liam said some o' their lads skulkin' round th' town forts was so obvious, they might as well been carryin' surveyor's rods.'

'Well, pray God our lads are better skulkers,' Lewrie breathed, 'though I rather doubt it.'

'Th' local Cuffies're best, sor,' Jugg said, spooning tea from the unlocked caddy into the pot, then turning to stoke the fire so he could get a fresh batch of water to a boil. 'I 'spect ye niver took a bit o' notice that a slave followed ye all th' way here, Cap'm. Nor did th' Yankee feller who trailed ye take note o' him, neither,' Jugg pointed out with a droll wink.

'They what?' Lewrie responded, with an urge to go 'Eep!' or run out into the street and search for his pursuers. 'Where?'

'So many of 'em, they blend in damn' well, they do, sor,' Jugg almost chortled. 'Who'd spot one Cuffy in a crowd, when New Orleans is et up with thousands of 'em, and most as alike as peas in a pod, sor? To th' likes o' us, anyways.'

Lewrie had sauntered down to the streets after shaving, a sponge bath, and a change of clothing, completely oblivious to anyone lurking or following him. He couldn't recall being stalked on his way to a hearty breakfast. All the way to the warehouse and store, he had idly ambled, savouring the sights, tastes, and smells, and hadn't suspected a blessed thing! Even if Jugg took him by the hand and led him to his trailers, he