Now, if he had all six million secretly cached at his plantation, and only tapped now and again for working capital, he could easily explain its partial presence as better-than-average fortune, due to his conservative and sagacious business sense. And he already knew all there was to know how to make things look legitimate on paper!
Well, not all of it. If he told the de Guilleris and those oafs Lanxade and Balfa, and they actually succeeded in taking it, he'd have to go shares, would not realise more than the fifth that the Spaniards originally intended his bank to have. But that would be 1,200,000 dollars more than any of his competitors, and all of it free and clear of pledged assets and sureties! Such a windfall was certainly nothing to sneer at.
And finally, could such a sudden shower of money actually create a real rebellion, result in a real reunion with beloved France, Henri Maurepas shudderingly, hopefully wondered?
"Laclos, venez ici, s'il vous plait, " he called out.
"Oui, m'sieur?" his reliable longtime aide asked from the door.
"These letters from the Captain-Generals, how did they come?"
"The usual post clerk brought them, m'sieur, with all the rest."
"The same as any letter, Laclos?" Maurepas pretended to gasp.
"Well… oui, m'sieur? Why?"
"We'll see about that!" Maurepas answered with a deep scowl. He shot to his feet, shouting for his liveried slave. "Those hapless idiots! I shall be at the Cabildo, Laclos… giving them a piece of my mind at how slipshod they are!"
What a wonderful pretence that would be, Maurepas thought as his liveried slave handed him his hat, gloves, and cane. He would hand the letters over as instructed but would fume that they'd lain on someone's desk overnight, able to be read by just about anyone. If not his, then what of the letters sent to his competitors, hah? If anything happened to their precious consignment of silver, it would be all their fault!
Meanwhile, back at the pension…
Capt. Alan Lewrie, RN, sensed a slight buzzing noise round his head and idly swept one free hand to shoo the pesky flying… thingy. Which herculean effort woke him just long enough to take note that it was a good hour past dawn, and a slit of honest sunshine blazed in the gap in the nearest window draperies; that he could, for once, sleep in like the idlest civilian ever born; and that his lips were dry yet his bottom pillow was damp with drool and stuffily warm.
He rolled over, cramming the cooler top pillow under his head, with his face towards a dark corner, not that 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…