"What? D' ye mean they'd hire me on?" Lewrie laughed, picturing that fantasy. "So I could be an underpaid mate again?"
"Non, Alain… a capitaine of your own ship," Charite cajoled, "The sort of ship our rich men would pay you to design and have built, then command! With a share in the profits, perhaps? And later, after the profits grow very huge, you command all the ships, one of the syndicate directeurs. A seat on the board of a firm as important and rich as your old British East India Company, peut-etre? A seat on the board of a bank… a planter with hundreds of arpents of land, with the town house and the country mansion, aussi/ Hundreds of slaves to work your lands and make you even richer, to serve at your every beck and call…"
And I'm t 'mount you every time you feel an itch, hey? he thought in amusement; Though, damme… it does sound tempting!
Lewrie shammed a far-off, speculating expression, one eyebrow cocked. Was Charite posing a legitimate proposition? Or was it merely a girlish daydream? She could not be much older than nineteen or twenty in his estimation, not that long away from dry tutors and even drier chaperoning nuns, raised as bleakly as most Catholic girls were. Though, she had galloped a good distance from whatever tutors and nuns had driven into her, Lewrie cynically thought. And dammit…
She was absolutely lovely. From her speech and manners-minus her odd penchants for drinking, card-playing, men's clothing, and fucking notwithstanding-Charite obviously came from good family and ran in rich (though sporting) circles. So…
Why ain't she married off and cloistered already? he worried; That's the way they do it in Popery, ain't it? Get 'em engaged soon as they're fourteen, wed em off at seventeen? Damme, why hasn't some beau-nasty put in a bid… or does she scare most of 'em off? Black sheep? Blotted her copy book, has she?
"Now, that'd be, ah… that'd show the bloody Royal Navy!" Alan decided to tell her, just to see where it would lead. For if someone in New Orleans wanted his own ship, they came much cheaper if pirated, and even an innocent interest in a ship of his own might smoak out a seller who'd been involved in stealing ships, and Charite would be the one who might steer him to that seller, that supposed "syndicate" that backed the piracy; and her all unwitting! And in the meantime… she'd be his temporary "ride," even if nothing came from it!
Oh, what fun! Lewrie lewdly chortled to himself.
"Captain Alan Willoughby, of the Willoughby Navigation Company! I rather like the sound of that," he exclaimed.
Charite broke out in giggles, gave him a congratulatory embrace, then sat back and took away his wineglass to set on the nightstand on her side of the bed. Lewrie snuggled down in bed, expecting a hug…
She spun about and leaped atop him, pinning him to the mattress and his hands to the pillows, shifting demandingly astride of him.
"You have the six preservatifs remaining, mon c?ur?" Charite coo-asked, writhing against his groin, her face and eyes alight with greed. "Ooh, tres bien!"
"Laisser les bons temps rouler!'"Lewrie hooted in return.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mr. Pollock appeared to be in fine fettle when Lewrie trundled into the eatery he had specified for breakfast. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as some might put it, in point of fact, and bubbling over with bonhomie as he untucked his napkin from under his chin and courteously rose to greet him.
"Ah, good morning to you, Mister Willoughby. I trust you slept well? The set of rooms I suggested proved pleasing?" Pollock gushed.
"Barely a wink," Lewrie replied as he dragged back a chair and sat down at the table, smirking, despite his seeming complaint.
"Oh, so sorry," Mr. Pollock said, frowning in concern as he sat down himself. " 'Twas a quiet place when I lodged there. Nothing too disturbing or dangerous, I trust?"
"The company I kept, actually," Lewrie said with a worldly leer.
"Ahem!" Pollock shied, primly nigh-appalled. "This will not… descend to common talk, will it, Mister Willoughby? A gentleman never tells, after all, ah… ahem! What?"
What a fine hymn-singer he is! Lewrie wolfishly thought; After what my lady concierge told me about him and his "shore wife. " Kept her there, beforehand! A lovely near- White Octoroon she said! Put me to spyin', my man, you'l1 never know what /'// discover!
"I didn't intend to give you chapter and verse, no," Lewrie said to soothe Pollock. "Most p'culiar, though… I wandered into the Pigeon Coop cabaret you mentioned, and there was this most adorable wee fellow…"
"Hey, what?" Pollock nearly screeched, blanching. "Ahem?"
"She was a girl, Mister Pollock… play-acting in men's togs," Lewrie quickly assured him. "Made sure o' that! A full inspection… keel to truck. She said she was from a proper Creole family here in town… out for a stolen night of gambling and fun whilst her folks are in the country. Well-spoken and mannered, obviously educ-"
"Well, I rather doubt that, Mister Willoughby," Pollock drawled back, once he'd gotten over his utter shock and no longer looked like he'd dive out the window shutters in disgust; now he was condescending and simpering with superior local lore. "Proper young Creole ladies never indulge in such, in such low haunts. Sons, however, are expected to, are even encouraged to sloth, indolence, and vice. Daughters, good'uns, might as well be raised to be nuns. No no, sir! I suspect you were spun a merry tale by a cunning bawd who earns a high 'socket fee,' ahem!… for her ah, novelty," Pollock tut-tutted, blushing.
"Didn't ask for tuppence," Lewrie rejoined quickly, boasting a bit. "Well, a brace of champagnes, and she did take me for ten pounds at Boure before we left the cabaret. Intriguin' game, that, but never a word about being for hire. Oddest, most intriguing girl, too…"
Pollock winced, as if Lewrie would descend to Billingsgate smut to describe his evening, but was saved by the waiter's arrival. A cup and saucer was placed before Lewrie without asking, and a stout coffee was poured. "The omelettes are quite good here," Pollock said instead.
"French style… piss-runny and underdone?" Lewrie scoffed.
"A Catalan Spaniard owns the place, so they're properly done," Pollock advised. "Quite succulent with their ham or bacon." To which suggestion Lewrie took heed and placed a hearty four-egg order.
His coffee was stout and strong, the best ever passed his lips, but with an odd, bitter aftertaste, a tang that put Lewrie in mind of the ink-black council brew the Muskogee Indians inaptly termed "White Drink" that caused copious perspiring, pissing, and purifying puking.
"South American or Mexican coffee beans, hereabouts," Pollock explained, "though I do prefer the Turk or Arabica. The climate and soil in Louisiana is much too damp for coffee, and sometimes subject to frost. With the war on, the locals eke out their imports with the local equivalent, chicory. Tasty, once you develop a palate to it. With sugar and cream. Lots of cream, I'd advise, which makes what the French call a cafe au lait."