Chapter Eighteen

When Adriana approached the town overland with Etienne and his father Pierre, she lifted her face to the cool breezes to catch the familiar, briny scent of the ocean. As they swept deeper into the town, she realized how much she’d missed the rush and tumble of a vibrant city. When she glimpsed the straight wooden masts surging high over the eastern fortifications, her heart began to pound.

She couldn’t help herself. She swept onto the beach and scanned every one of those ships in search of the familiar rigging of L’Aventure.

Foolishness.

How strange the mind worked. Roarke was three years gone and still she struggled to believe what she’d seen with her own eyes at the mouth of the Santee River. Her lover was dead and she had to accept that, and the sooner she did, the better. Frustrated at her inability to let the past go, she vowed to stay away from the port in the week that followed. The Gaillard men went about their business which allowed her to spend leisurely days riding a mare through the sandy streets. But her own urges tested her resolve, for her gaze was always drawn to those things that made her heart beat faster and her memories churn.

She saw sailors lounging in the taverns. She heard a bawdy pirate song and brazenly hummed a few bars as she passed the punch house whence it came. She glanced at a trader’s horse and saw muskets, axes, daggers, and bottles of smuggled rum strapped on the beast’s back. Nearly everyone on the spacious street—backwoodsmen, natives, pirates—stowed a pistol or a knife in their belts. Throughout the town, the scent of pitch and powder drifted on the wind. The screech of terns filled the wide sky.

She found herself strangely exhilarated as she slipped into the bumping traffic, following a line of Indian women, their backs bent under a mountain of deerskins. Then suddenly—unwittingly—she discovered she was at the port again. Every urge seemed to lead her to this place, so this time she lingered as the breeze tangled her hair. She watched a pirate ship lying low in the bay while chaloupes passed between ship and shore, transporting anyone willing to unload the pirate’s stolen wares.

Perhaps it had been a deep, hidden spark of hope that had drawn her thoughts to Charles Town, but the more time she spent by the ramparts watching the sea, the more she realized that it was something far deeper that caused the swelling emotion in her heart. Charles Town was young, rough, and vibrant. Improbable dreams, unlikely ventures, and crazy ideas might just burst into full bloom in this rough-and-tumble place.

So on the day they were all due to return to the plantation on the Santee River, she rode her mare to the harbor once again. This time she tied her mare at a hitching post and, pulling her beaver-pelt cape around her silk dress, she headed toward a particular dugout canoe among the dozens on shore.

Etienne, standing in the half-laden canoe, straightened carefully and lifted a hand in greeting. “Still dressed like a grand lady?” Etienne ran an admiring gaze over her fur and silk. “It would have been better to wear your wool for the journey, Adriana.”

She turned accusing eyes on Etienne’s father. Monsieur Gaillard flushed crimson where he sat in the canoe, but he continued to take cargo from his slave Joachim and stow it on board as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

“It would be silly to change clothes,” she said as evenly as she could, “when I’m only here to see you off.”

Etienne’s brow furrowed. His gaze fell to her hands, which were empty. “Where’s your satchel?”

“It’s back at the house that I’m renting from the St. Julien family.” She had hoped to be spared a confrontation with Etienne, but his father had clearly said nothing. “I’ve decided to stay in Charles Town for a while.”

“What?”

“Come, Etienne. You must have guessed this would happen.”

He twisted to face his father. “Did you know about this?”

His father’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

“Etienne,” she said, bracing herself, “Over the last week, I have mentioned many times how much I love this city—”

“But you can’t stay,” he said incredulously. “Not alone.”

“Joachim will be staying with me for the summer.”

She glanced to Joachim, who stood by the canoe helping Etienne’s father load the last of the bales. Joachim was too old to be working the rice fields, so having him work as her helpmeet in Charles Town would be far easier for the elderly slave. That’s the only reason she agreed when Etienne’s father had insisted. She attributed her ambivalence about Joachim’s presence to an uneasy, thrumming sense of kinship she always felt for the dark-skinned men, women, and children forced into servitude.

Everyone wore shackles of a sort, but the shackles worn by the Charles Town slaves were heavier and far more visible.

“You’re not serious.” Etienne’s dark brows lowered. “Joachim is mute.”

“And he’s faithful,” she said. “And strong.”

“You can’t do this. You’ll be alone.”

“I know the Ravenels now,” she said. “And I know the St. Juliens.”

“Acquaintances, no more.” Etienne jumped out of the cypress canoe, making it rock wildly. “You work for us. You’re needed at home.”

Etienne strode toward her and then stepped closer than he should. She became very aware of exactly how tall he’d become since she’d first met him. And how dark his jaw became when he hadn’t shaved for a few days.

“This is not a town for innocent women.” His voice was a rumble of disbelief and worry. “What will you do? What will you live on?”

“I have three years’ wages put away.”

“Wages?” His laugh was rough and very unlike him. “Is that what you call a few coins gifted to you at Christmas and Easter?”

“I have other resources.”

He lifted one brow, waiting for an explanation. She dropped her gaze to her satin slippers, soaking up the moisture from the damp marsh grass. She’d never told Etienne, or any of the Gaillard family, about the sack of coins Roarke had secreted in her satchel on that terrible day. In those early months, her mind had been a bruised, soft thing, and her heart held its secrets close.

“I have a fortune in pieces-of-eight taken from the pirate captain’s cabin.”

Etienne’s eyes went wide, and she knew then that it was right to have kept this secret for so long. The coins hadn’t been stolen, but there was no way to explain how she’d obtained them without making him think less of her. They were friends—good friends—and she could not bear the thought of his disapproval.

He lifted his hands to his hips and squinted off to the battlements of the city. She sensed the uneasiness within him. She suddenly remembered a day when Etienne had caught her in the woods weeping over the compass that Roarke had put into her hands. Etienne had held her while she cried—without demanding to know the reason—and when she finally calmed down, she had noticed that Etienne was also trembling.

“Etienne,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Listen. I can help your family in Charles Town more than I can help at the plantation. My English is better than yours.” She placed a hand on his arm and tried not to act surprised at how hard his muscles felt under her palm. “You have probably figured out that I know how to deal with pirates, as well.”

“My mother,” he said, as he turned back to her with a curious intensity, “doesn’t know about these other resources of yours.”

It was a statement, not a question, and she could only nod in acknowledgement.

“Yet she knew you’d stay here in Charles Town.”

“Etienne, I don’t know what your mother was thinking—”

“I do.” He stepped dangerously close. “She knew you’d stay. She’s pushing you away from me.”

Her heart did a strange skip-beat. When he stood this close, no longer was he the awkward young man racing her through the deep woods, dappled sunlight pouring across their faces, their laughter rising to join the songs of the birds. She noticed that his shoulders strained the seams of the shirt she’d just mended, not three weeks ago. He didn’t flush as he used to when he looked down at her.

His deep, brown gaze was unwavering.

She could have stepped back, out of the reach of his grasp, but she knew that rejection would hurt him deeply. So she flattened her hands on his chest to keep his body at a distance. Then she tilted her chin to accept the kiss he lowered his head to give her.

He had kissed before. The knowledge was a gentle shock. She had assumed that Etienne didn’t think about such things, didn’t imagine them. After all, she’d never caught him with his hands in his breeches as she’d caught shipboard sailors many a time. Suddenly the wide, shamefaced grin he wore whenever he returned from Charles Town took on a new meaning. His kiss lingered, hungry but controlled.

Her eyelids fluttered closed.

When he released her, she blinked, dazed, into his soft brown eyes.

A slight smile tilted the edge of his lips. “I should have kissed you years ago.”

“If you’d tried I’d have slapped you silly.”

And then the vague, pleasant sensations that Etienne had ruffled in her body settled as quickly as they’d begun. In their wake came an awkward discomfort, as well as wistfulness for a different man, a fiercer kiss.

With the flat of her hands, she pressed him away. “This is not a good way to begin my stay here in Charles Town. People will talk.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It does to me.”

His kind smile dimmed. “So I can’t convince you to come back with me.”

“I’ll see you soon.” She lifted her skirts and stepped back. “After the August harvest.”

“You’ll see me sooner than that.” He took a swaggering step back toward the canoe. “I’ll be back during the stretch-flow, then again during the harvest-flow.”

“Your mother will not approve.”

“No,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling. “My mother will not approve.”

***

“Send the gentleman in, Joachim.”

Joachim left her alone in the large sitting room, furnished with hand-wrought wooden chairs and a mahogany table. Adriana smoothed her green silk skirts over her thighs and took a deep breath, despite the bite of her corset. Her breasts surged above the low décolletage that spread from shoulder to shoulder.

A man entered the room. She stood and approached him with her hand extended in the fashion of the other ladies of Charles Town. He wore a wide-skirted cassock coat made of dull wool. His sleeves were frayed below the cuffs. “Mr. Elsworth. Thank you for coming. I am Mademoiselle Joubert.”

He stared at the extended hand with cold blue eyes. She lifted a brow, waiting. He took her hand and barely brushed the back of it against his dry mouth.

“Please come and sit,” she said. “There is little tea in Charles Town these days, but I have chocolate for the two of us.”

“I am in no need of refreshment,” he said. “My time is short.”

“Oh?” She led him deeper into the room and settled in one of the hard-backed chairs. “Shall I congratulate you, then? Your business improves?”

Mr. Elsworth visibly stiffened.

“I mean no offence, monsieur,” she said, spreading her skirts and giving him what she hoped was a simpering smile. “But you must know that Charles Town is full of talk about your…” She hesitated, searching for the correct English word. Failure would send the man stiff-backed out the door. “Your hardships.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, mademoiselle.” He spoke the French word like he was trying to tongue a bone out from between his teeth. “Your slave was insolent and said nothing to me about the purpose of this meeting.”

“Joachim is mute. And what I have to discuss with you is careful.”

His face went blank in that way she’d become familiar with, a way that suggested she’d botched the words. Over the past month her English had improved considerably with the help of the local Anglican priest, but she still found it a challenge to grasp the subtleties.

“Delicate,” she corrected. “What I have to discuss is of a…delicate nature. I have invited you here to offer business.”

His fair brows rose on his ruddy forehead. “What business could possibly interest you?”

“Business interests me. Very much. Strange, n’est-ce pas?” She tilted her head and startled at the feel of a curl brushing against her shoulder, like a spider dropping from the yardarms. “I understand that you work as a factor.”

“Yes, I have been a facilitator for Charles Town shipping concerns for many years now.”

“Successful?”

“Your point?”

She resisted frowning at his insolence. She had been warned that he was a bitter man. That’s exactly why she’d chosen him. And if he didn’t want to play silly drawing-room games, she was happy to comply.

“I understand,” she continued, “that you were once a middleman between some of the wealthiest planters in the Carolinas and the merchants of London. I also understand that your current difficulties arose when it was discovered that you had a relationship with a certain lady. I believe she was the wife of one of your clients, n’est-ce pas?”

“The sordid details of that incident have been widely gossiped. It is no surprise to me that a woman of your like has heard them.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You speak quickly for a man who was once considered a good businessman.”

“This is not business. This is digging for gossip.”

“Look around you, Mr. Elsworth.”

His frigid gaze slid across the room, noting the lace-edged curtains, the whitewashed ceiling and walls and the fine mahogany of the table. Though the house was rented from the St. Juliens, and therefore none of the furniture was hers, she saw no need to inform Elsworth of that detail.

“Your lover,” he said, “must be a very wealthy man.”

It was an insult of the gravest kind, but Elsworth’s arrow missed its mark. She’d grown up not caring a wit about something as airy and useless as a reputation, and she wasn’t about to let it bother her now.

“Perhaps I have a lover,” she said, shrugging, “perhaps I do not. But the wealth you see around you is no illusion.”

Neither were the pieces-of-eight she’d hidden in a drawer upstairs.

Adriana settled back in the chair to give him a better view of the cream silk lining the slashing of her sleeves. The French milliner she’d hired to fill her wardrobe also came to fix her hair and advise her on what wrap should be worn with what shoes. She’d soon discovered that acting the boy had been a lot simpler—and less expensive—than putting on the mask of a well-bred young woman. It was a lot of frippery and foolishness in her opinion, but the wealthy people of Charles Town put great stock in it.

Now she watched Mr. Elsworth’s appraisal and waited. Finally, he shoved away the skirt of his cassock coat and took a seat on a hard-backed chair.

“Ah, so now we can talk business.” A frisson of excitement charged through her. “What you see in this room is but a reflection, sir. There is more money in the Santee district with the people who have become my family. But, you see, we have a small problem. We are French, and even after the recent petition passed in the Assembly, we are restricted in what kind of business we can take up.”

“I know plenty of Frenchmen doing quite well despite the laws.”

“Please, Mr. Elsworth, let’s be frank. Just last week a French-owned ship was seized outside of Charles Town. Owned by the Guerrards, people I know. The Carolina courts condemned it as an enemy vessel.”

“The Navigation Acts do forbid foreign ownership of ships out of the Carolinas.”

“The man was naturalized according to the law.”

“Mademoiselle.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “I cannot help you with the policies of the government.”

“Men make those policies and profit by them as well. Men like Governor Joseph Blake.”

She saw him flinch at the name and took a measure of pride that she’d found a weakness.

“I am told,” she continued, “that Blake will receive one-third of the profits from the sale of that ship and its cargo. It is a pity you won’t be sharing in his newfound wealth, Mr. Elsworth, for I know that the governor was once a faithful customer of yours—”

“Once again,” he interrupted, “I am a businessman, not a politician.”

“I only mention that event as an example of what happens to the loyal French of the Santee. Despite all the promises of the law, we are still treated like enemies.”

“We are at war. Englishmen must protect our colony.”

“Protect yourselves from warships, then, not honest merchantmen.” This argument was getting her nowhere, so she waved it away. “I did not bring you here to discuss King William’s war. I understand that many of your clients have moved their interests to other factors.”

His face turned an alarming shade of red.

“I also understand,” she said, “that you have a long-standing agreement with one of the caciques of the Catawba nation.”

“Yes.” The word came with force.

“I’ve also heard that this agreement is in danger of lapsing.”

His gaze cut cold through her.

“You have not been able to supply the materials that the Catawba demand.”

“A need I am in the process of fulfilling.”

“And it must be done quick, no?” Adriana toyed with the curl that had fallen against her nape. “The governor has shown interest in supplying that tribe, as well as the Cherokees and the Choctaws to the west. Will your agreement with the Catawba survive, in the face of the far greater wealth of Mr. Blake?”

His gaze narrowed. “You are irritatingly well-informed.”

“The governor’s dinner parties can be very productive for those who have the patience to listen.”

“I am well aware of the governor’s ambitions, and I have already planned to counter his offers.”

She smiled without showing her teeth. “Where, Mr. Elsworth, shall you get the money for that?”

“The Indians want rum and guns and trinkets and brightly colored cloth—”

“Which cost money.”

“Not much,” he countered, “when you buy it from pirates.”

“Oh, I suspect you’ll have to bargain long and hard to get the amount of goods you need for the amount of money you have.”

“And what would a woman know of bargaining with pirates?”

She kept her smile though all she wanted to do in that moment was speak to him in her own tongue—her Saint-Malouin French—and barter for his coat right off his shoulders like a true urchin of the sea. But she was no longer the tough little ship’s mouse. She’d peeled that mask off and put on an entirely different one that required a whole new set of weapons.

“I know something else, Mr. Elsworth.” She leaned forward. “You’ve approached an acquaintance of mine—a prominent French Huguenot—for a loan.”

He couldn’t mask the shudder of distaste. “A moment of weakness.”

“Or desperation.”

This time he had the dignity not to deny her words.

“My dear sir.” She rose from her seat and took her time walking to the window. “I am in a position to lend you a modest amount of money on certain conditions.”

“The legal interest rate in Charles Town is ten percent.”

“I’m not offering you a loan.”

“Then what in God’s name are you offering me, woman?”

“I want a percentage of the profits on your trade with the Catawba.”

He laughed. A strange burst of a laugh. She recognized it for the scorn, the dismissal, the amused disbelief of an arrogant man.

“If your agreement is as strong as you say,” she continued, ignoring the moment, “then the money you spend on trinkets and rum should bring you a wealth of deerskins and beaver furs. When you sell those skins to the English, I’ll take a percentage of the profits. Plus my original investment back in full.”

“A loan,” he said, clearing his throat, “would be sufficient.”

“I also want a written contract between us for further investments. The contract will last no less than five years, unless I decide to break our partnership.”

“Partnership?” That strange laugh again, but less certain now. “Mademoiselle, I don’t think you even know what that means.”

“Don’t I?”

She heard the clock in the hall sound tick, tick, tick, as she waited for this desperate man to overcome his pride and to come to his senses.

“Quel dommage.” She sighed into the lengthening silence. “It seems our discussion is over, then.” She swiveled on one foot and gestured toward the door. “I am ever so sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Elsworth.”

The factor hesitated. He gripped the arms of the chair as if to lift himself out, then caught sight of his own frayed cuffs. He sat back down. Stiffening his narrow shoulders beneath his cassock-coat, he swept off his tricorn hat and placed it on the table.

She gave him what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I had just about despaired of you, sir.”

“I am not fond of the French.”

“You share common sentiments with most of the English in Charles Town, then.”

“Why me?”

“That’s very simple.” She came around and prevented herself, at the last moment, from flopping into the chair like a boy. “I need your name.”

He startled.

“I have two disadvantages.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “I’m French and I’m a woman. Yet I have all this money, aching to be invested.” She glanced out the front window, where she could just see the tips of the masts peeking over the battlements. “But if your English company owned the deeds to those ships, and that company name was on any agreements with London merchants, then all would be legal—and the two of us could profit greatly by it.”

“You are asking me to break the law.”

“What laws? The English Navigation Acts?” She shook her head. “You know that those laws are twisted daily by the English themselves. How many times have you bartered with pirates for French goods?”

“Bartering with pirates may be against the law, but no one has ever gone to jail for it.”

“No one has ever gone to jail for what I have suggested, either. It may not even be illegal. After all, you’re an English citizen and all our investments will be in your name. I’m just an anonymous investor, taking my cut of the booty.”

She pulled her lips. Booty was not a word a well-raised woman would have used. She hazarded a glance toward the factor, but he seemed too involved staring at the back of his knuckles to have caught her slip.

He ventured, “If you’re interested in an investment, there is a certain pirate ship in the harbor now, looking for—”

“No.” Her heart squeezed. “No pirates.”

“But there is nothing more profitable—”

“Pirates are dangerous clients and make for volatile investments.” She swept out of her chair again and turned toward the window so he wouldn’t see the strain on her face. She couldn’t risk tripping over the past she was determined to bury, along with her grief.

“I’ve heard,” he said, “that you’ve had dealings with pirates. Dressed as a boy. So the story goes.”

“Monsieur,” she said, feeling the wave of smugness coming off him, “you are irritatingly well-informed.”

“The streets are full of talk, mademoiselle.”

She let the insult pass. His nascent sense of superiority would work to her advantage, as would the gossip. She didn’t care what he thought about her, as long as he would bend to her will.

“Do we have an agreement, monsieur?”

“Indeed.” Mr. Elsworth reached for his feathered tricorn and smiled a yellowed, stiff, humorless smile. “We do.”