by Dara Joy
Her father had not proved so tolerant.
He had never liked Jediah and made no bones about it.
After marrying her mother, he had made it clear that while he would not prevent his wife from visiting or socializing with the Toad (as he called him) he was not welcome in his home. Over the years he had relented somewhat due to the entreaties of his softhearted wife and uncle had come to visit on the rare occasion.
Ginny had shared her father’s viewpoint. Uncle Jediah always seemed to be wanting something. Most often money.
Then her parents had been lost at sea.
Ginny blinked back tears as she remembered those pain-filled days when she realized that both parents were lost to her forever. They had been so young, so vibrant. So much alive.
They had taken a trip to see her grandfather, having heard that the elderly man was on his death bed. There had been an accident...
In one fell swoop, Ginny had lost everyone dear to her, for word came to her shortly after the news of her parents’ death that her grandfather, upon learning the fate of his beloved daughter and son-in-law, had quickly succumbed to his heart ailment.
In walks the Toad, Ginny remembered with a grimace.
She exhaled. Except for her parent’s marriage, what she had seen of the exalted state of wedded bliss was nothing more than indenture for a woman. An indenture one could never buy out of.
No, thank you.
Next year she would reach her majority and kick good ol’ Jediah out on his big, lazy rump! For her unconventional, wonderful father had done an unprecedented thing; he had willed control of the estate directly to her once she reached the age of twenty-one– provided she hires a reputable firm to help her administrate it.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to worry about marriage offers. Uncle made sure they were not forthcoming. He wanted to hold onto the reins for as long as he could and, therefore, would never consent to a betrothal knowing her husband would gain control of her funds.
Ginny smiled secretly. Jediah could have saved himself the trouble for she had no intention of ever marrying. And Uncle’s time was quickly running out.
All she had left to her now was her maid, Mabel, and dear Henley Henry– a distant relation at best, but a beloved one. Ginny didn’t know what she would do without her Lord Henry. Since they were children, it seemed he was always there when she needed a shoulder to cry on or a partner in mischief.
Henley. He led such an interesting life! All the fetes and soirees he attended, the people he met, the places he visited...!
She longed for nothing more than to be free to do as she chose, and she hungered to be a writer. A humorist of grand adventures. Oh, how she longed to travel and see exotic places... The China trade... The spice routes... Her eyes dilated, dreamily.
With the help of Lord Henry, she had already secretly published one article under the nome de plume Reggie Moore. Her first composition had been a witty observational essay regarding a young man’s first experience behind the closed doors of the male rite of post-dining port. The article was entitled, ‘Methinks I am a Man At Last.’
It had been a smashing success.
Mr. Swift, the newspaper owner, was already pressuring Lord Henry for additional ‘Methinks’
articles from his friend, Sir Reggie.
Which was all well and good but a writer needed grist for mill and Uncle Jediah was keeping her so close to home that the ability to observe her subject matter was being severely hampered. That first article had involved quite a bit of machination on both her part and Henley’s. Ginny first had to escape the ladies in the parlor by sneaking onto the balcony facing their host’s dining room. Then it was Henley's turn to make a great show of being too ‘warm’ as he opened the doors, letting fresh air in and their conversation out.
Worked like a charm, though. Without being in the room, she had been able to observe the entire experience and could write about it as someone partaking of the custom.
Ginny fumed. Her dear friend wasn’t held back by an overbearing uncle and the dictates of society! No, he enjoyed his life to the fullest.
Just one more year.
Why did it seem so interminable to her? If only she could have a little freedom! If only she could live more like Henley. If only...
She sat up straighter and blinked. It could work, she thought. I know it could!
Relaxing back into plush velvet cushions, Ginny grinned into the darkness as the coach-and-four clipclopped down the road. She had just had her first epiphany.
An outrageous idea had been born.
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The talk of pirates was long forgotten as I rode home in the carriage. I had no idea that the very topics discussed at Lord Gingridge's table would soon affect the narrow course of my life. A meeting was taking place that very night in a darkened corner of Portsmouth...
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Chapter Two
There he sat.
His bold shadow danced across a scarred wooden table in the flickering candlelight. As a portrait, it was well-captured. Dark and undefined.
He had chosen his spot with care that was obvious.
Hidden in the murky corner, he enjoyed a full view of every angle in the tavern. The shrewd positioning was not surprising, considering his keen reputation. Most likely the devil knew the exact placement of every person in the room as well.
The shadow slowly sipped at a thick mug of grog– as did the man. An unsettling image; as if the shadow were the man and the man his shadow. Neither deigned to look up as he approached; although ‘twas certain one of them was aware of the present company.
Nothing took this one by surprise, Creaze knew. No, not bloody him. “I see you got my message, Capt'n.”
The mug, clasped in a hand that was strong enough to lift a man by his throat several feet off his moorings, was lowered nonchalantly.
The bloke took his own good time acknowledging him.
Which was just as well.
For when those cold, catlike eyes fell on a body, well, they sliced you from stem to stern, laid you bare, read your innards, and found out your tainted places.
No adversary had ever stood beneath the judging strength of those eyes and lived long to tell the tale.
The fearsome pirate’s pale orbs glinted like twin blades slicing through the murky room.
The infamous man before him was named the scourge of the seven seas for fine reason. That reputation had been well-earned. Creaze knew that first hand. Had seen what he could do first hand.
He swallowed convulsively.
Dammit to hell, he was his own man now! Sailed under his own flag. He was a ruffian and a bully, a murderer and a back-stabbing thief; yet he still quaked under the Panther’s stony regard like a lad in knee pants.
Creaze knew that if he ever planned on crossing such a dangerous mate, proper timing– the where and when of it– was the crucial element of the thing.
This wasn’t that time.
But it would come.
Aye, it would.
The Panther was worth a lot of coin to the right party, and he intended to collect his due.
“Aye.” The Panther’s voice was low. Rather had a silky quality to it if one were foolish enough to miss the iron-hard undertone. The measure of the Panther’s command resonated through that smooth, almost friendly timbre.
Creaze recalled that the pirate rarely raised his voice to his crew. Never had to. The water dogs all leapt to do his bidding. He had always wondered what made the man tick.
“You might be a mite hospitable, Panther.”
The corners of the pirate captain’s mouth curled up slightly; he mockingly gestured to the slat back chair on the other side of the table.
Creaze gingerly took the proffered seat.
“Well?”
The one word prompt was enough. Willy Creaze knew he best be selling himself quick before the Panther up and left. Even in lawless, dockside parts of town such as this, pirates– especi
ally ones with high prices on their heads– did not put any faith in staying in one place overly long.
Creaze motioned to the serving wench for a tankard of rum. “I figured mentioning the Lion’s name would flush you out from under your rock.”
The pirate’s eyes narrowed.
Willy quickly added, “So to speak, Panther.”
Oh, it was plain and clear the man detested Willy Creaze. Always had. Thought himself his better, he did. Believed in a certain code amongst pirates and ‘twas how he trained his own men.
Honor amongst thieves was naught but fairytale.
Willy scoffed at the toff-like notion. Cutthroats and scoundrels they all were! No matter how you dressed the fowl, it would flock the same.
He supposed such refined ideas was what came of being a mite too tasty to the ladies and, bloody hell, the Panther was sure enough that. Every port they had sailed into, the wenches stood in line to offer themselves up. God’s truth, they did. On many an occasion, when the pirate entered a room, Creaze had seen their lovely mouths part with longing, as if he were some fancy prince instead of a lawless marauder.
Yet, the Panther rarely paid them any mind; he just went about his business, quiet and lethal-like.
‘Twas perplexing.
The wenches never gave Willy (nor any other man in the vicinity) a second look when the captain was around.
Willy resented that. Especially since the Panther had once threatened to emasculate him when he had caught him about to have his way with one of the young captives they briefly had aboard. The Panther had rules about harming passengers. ‘Only interested in the cargo’, he said. ‘Leave other trouble behind.’ That was the law on his vessel.
Creaze recalled that it was at the very next port the Panther had put his ol’ bosun off the ship.
But, Willy didn’t hold a grudge for that.
The Panther was captain and ‘twas his command.
Another might have keelhauled him before hanging him for disobeying his orders. Willy knew he would kill any man for the same.
Not Panther. He had simply discarded him like something he had no more use for. Like dockside trash.
Soon after, Willy was able to commandeer his own ship. A right profitable illegal business followed. If his new crew wondered what had befallen their old captain, well, the dead don’t talk much; especially when swimming with the fish in the deep blue sea.
No, he didn’t hold a grudge on the Panther for that; he had made a lot of gold sailing with him and that was all that Creaze really cared about. Gold was his God. And no one came betwixt him and his religion.
Cross that line and he’d kill you quick enough.
That was his code.
The Panther leaned back in his chair, stretching his long, muscular legs. The casual pose did not fool Creaze one bit. The tall man could strike him dead with his cutlass before Creaze’s pistol would even clear the band of his knickers. God’s truth, he was the best swordsmen Willy had ever seen.
“So, Creaze, what is this vital information you claim to have on the Lion?”
“I heard tell that he’s lookin’ to collect a certain package and that it would be worth a king’s ransom to him to retrieve it before it falls into, shall we say, wrong hands.”
Not an eyelash flickered to give away the Panther’s reaction to such a salty morsel. He simply stared at Creaze with those frosty eyes. After what seemed like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes, he finally responded.
“Where did you hear this rumor?”
“I got my sources, Capt’n.”
“Well, no doubt. So what do you want with me, Creaze?”
“My rootstock also tells me that the Lion specifically asked you to retrieve that package for him.”
The pirate captain took a long draft of grog before speaking again. “Fanciful tale. Assuming I might know what you’re taking about... So what?”
“So, we could ‘keep’ the package until Lion paid up plenty for it. I can stow it away on my ship, and he’ll ne’er be the wiser. They say the Lion is as rich as Croesus hisself with all the plundering he’s done. He won’t miss a bit of gold.”
The Panther grinned slowly, showing teeth. “Creaze, are you actually proposing a collaboration between the two of us?”
“Aye, Capt'n, I am. You might need me and my ship at your back. Cornwall is a rough coast; you could get into trouble there, especially with the patrol boats and that elaborate price on yer head.”
The Panther stopped grinning. His eyes instantly narrowed. “And just who would tip them off, Creaze,” He paused, spacing his next words, “And. Think. They.
Would. Live.”
Creaze shifted in the wooden chair and cleared his throat. “Now Capt'n, I ain’t sayin that would happen–only it could.”
As quick as that, the Panther shot forward; his fist grabbing the front of Creaze’s heavily stained shirt.
“You little worm. Do you really think I’d betray the Lion for the likes of you?”
Creaze’s eyes bulged. Beads of sweat broke out across his oily forehead. Dangerous ground, this was.
“Heed me and heed me well. If you think to interfere with any plans Lion has made– whether they include me or not– you’d best rethink your options.
For if I discover any misdirections with trails that lead back to you, I will personally slice your sorry carcass from stem to stern. And take great pleasure in the task, I might add. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, you do, Panther, you do.”
The Panther released him. Willy made a ridiculous attempt at brushing his filthy shirt of wrinkles. “No need to get yourself in an uproar.”
“Do you so soon forget he saved your sorry arse from a hangman’s noose on Isabella Island?”
‘Twas true. The Lion had saved them all that day.
They had been drugged in the tavern and taken for the prize money on their savage heads.
“Is this how you repay him?” A muscle in the Panther’s jaw ticked.
Willy shrugged. “Business is business, Capt’n.”
The Panther moved towards him. Creaze put up his hands. “As I said, I understand you perfectly. You don’t want nothing to do with it.”
A jeweled dagger found its way to Creaze’s throat in the blink of an eye. Creaze remembered when the Capt’n had ‘liberated’ that dagger years ago in a raid.
He had favored it since; keeping it well hidden in his waist band. Now he was using it to punctuate his previous statement. Hopefully not with a period that would end Creaze’s life.
“Understand me, Willy,” the menacing pirate commanded softly.
Creaze’s spit dried in his mouth. He swallowed.
“Aye, I do, Panther, you have nothing to worry about from your old friend Willy Creaze!”
The blade was gone from his beating vein and the Panther halfway to the door before Creaze took his next shaky breath.
“Creaze.” The Panther addressed him over his shoulder even as he continued walking out, his highcuffed boots clinking sharply on the old wooden floor.
“Aye?”
“The same might not be said for me, old friend.”
With that ominous warning the Panther was gone.
As a threat, it worked rather well in finding its mark.
Creaze’s hands shook as he placed them in his pockets.
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For my part, I was enamored of this marvelous idea I had; and before you judge me too swiftly, I beg you to remember that I was a young and innocent girl. Do not be mistaken. I was not simple or foolish– good lord, no, never that– I simply wanted to experience a lark and approached life as if it were an adventure onto itself...
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Chapter Three
Tareton Court
“Yer going to do wot?”
Ginny faced the intrepid Mabel across the expanse of her bedroom. Occasional lady’s maid, occasional housekeeper, Mabel had come to Tareton Court shortly after the
death of Ginny’s parents. Uncle Jediah, in his true penny-pinching fashion had fired most of the servants in the house replacing all of them with one Mabel Dooley.
Mabel hailed from Cheapside and was probably the last person suitable as a lady’s maid for an impressionable young girl. Uncle Jediah could not have foreseen that Mabel– having recently lost her own daughter– would take one look at Ginny in braids and tears and be forever lost. On that day, she hugged the poor little waif to her ample bosom and a bond was formed which far exceeded the normal relationship of servant to her lady.
Placing hands on hips, Ginny reiterated her intentions.
“You heard me; I’m going to be a fop.”
“Smashing idea!”
Both heads turned to the bedroom door.
Lord Henry greeted them with a huge grin on his face.
“I wondered why you asked me to bring an assortment of my clothes, Ginny. What has that devious little mind of yours concocted? Are we about to engage in some fun? Fancy that– Ginny as a fop!”
Ginny eyed Henley’s clothing as well as the overstuffed portmanteau he carried. The flamboyant lord was bedecked in fuchsia and yellow satin. His wig and face were both powdered; his cheeks and lips rouged. The cloying scent of french perfume always announced his imminent presence– several steps ahead of his actual arrival.
Henley had often referred to his cologne as a calling card, claiming it stirred the room’s senses so that his entrance could be anticipated with great expectation.
“Ah, but it is you, Sir Henry who is the fop’s fop.”
Henley preened at the compliment and struck a proud pose. “Right as rain, you are. I am so good that one day critics shall consider me a mere caricature of meself.”
Ginny laughed at his bon mot. “Henry, the rest of the world may one day see us that way but we know we are so much more.”
Releasing the portmanteau to the floor, the fop perched on the edge of her favorite wing chair. “Tell me more, please do,” he leaned forward in rapt concentration.
