Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  Etienne’s eyes were dark, especially against his pale, powdered face, but they lit with a lazy amusement to see James adjusting his wig. Saint-Cyr himself wore his own wig with ease, his head as high as if it supported a crown. He’d chosen a dark one today though James had seen him with a paler shade of hair as well. The rich, dark curls fell over the white lace dripping over his shoulders and neck and then slid away as he raised one arm to extend his hand, limply twisting his wrist.

  He did not intend anyone to take his hand James knew, it was simply the way the noble French moved, with many such gestures. James also knew that if he tried to move with the same spare elegance, he would have looked like a simpering idiot.

  Sir Marvell did not much attempt the fashion either, but then Sir Marvell did not attempt much in the way of courtesy toward his guest, ignoring overtures and refusing to speak the man’s language, foisting James on the nobleman rather than escorting him around the town himself. If Etienne Saint-Cyr noticed this rudeness, he had yet to speak of it, at least, not directly.

  There was very little directness in the actions and words of Etienne Saint-Cyr. James did not think he had learned much about the French in his months as a captive, but the curious indirectness about all matters save the carnal seemed to be the custom of all of them. They acted as though the speaking the truth of their desires would bring them harm.

  It was no use questioning the strange habit; he had learned that too, his curiosity had only earned him a gentle pat on his cheek and a few cryptic words that left him no closer to understanding the other man. He had learned that anew just the other night, out following Saint-Cyr on another round of almost feverish debauchery, a question slipping out despite his efforts, indicating that he had also had far too much to drink.

  “What I want?” After James had spoken, Etienne had frozen with his hand at his waist, seeming to forget his fumbling attempt to straighten his clothing. One woman, then two, had ripped the costly suit from him not an hour earlier, so little space between them that James did not see when Etienne had found the time to consume so much wine. Such a night ought to have left a man happy and sated, but Etienne had hurried from the place, only slowing once he had found himself outside in the night air, alone with James. Then he had found fault with everything, the food, the clothes, Sir Marvell, the night itself, even James busy trying to keep Etienne on his feet.

  With the nobility, even with Etienne who seemed to avoid others of his station and country, James was finding such things to be common. He had been expecting another carefully aimed laugh for his question, but Etienne had torn away from him, his face unreadable in the dark. The act itself was not so strange as that when Etienne had finally answered him, his voice had seemed to belong to another, his smooth voice becoming harsh.

  “It is not your place to question me, boy.” The reprimand had echoed between them, leaving James pull back and shut his mouth. The night air had seemed colder for a moment, and then Etienne had pulled in a quick breath. “There are things you would not understand,” he had added, his voice rich again. There had not been the faintest hint of apology in his tone, not that he had had need to apologize to someone so far beneath him.

  In truth, James had also wondered why Etienne would spend his nights with him at all, someone barely more than a servant. There were other gentlemen in the city, most of them wasting coin in the same taverns they frequented. There were also other servants, ones who knew better than James how to keep silent.

  “I am too innocent you mean,” he had snapped, a true fool, and had blinked to see Etienne turn and stumble back to him, his eyebrows raised with surprise for a brief moment. Too drunk to conceal much of anything, Etienne had smiled at him, and then unexpectedly fallen heavily into James’ arms, warm and giving in a way another would not have been. “Such a braveenfant précieux.”

  Etienne’s breath had been ripe with wine, and sweet, his dark eyes growing darker at James’ shiver and obvious pause, and then he had frowned and continued his attempt to stand alone, keeping his eyes away from James for several long minutes.

  It was strange that Etienne acted older, when it fact he could only have been James’ age at most underneath the face paint and false, courtly smiles. But James had not time to acknowledge any of that, not with Sir Marvell stepping forward to greet him. Sir Marvell waved a hand at the other clerks, telling them to sit back down without saying more than a ‘good day’ to any of them. His large blue eyes focused on James and then he jerked his head back toward the doorway and Etienne Saint-Cyr, sending his own long, decorative curls flying.

  James nodded carefully at the French noble who still had not spoken and then returned his eyes to Sir Marvell. “I found Monsieur Saint-Cyr out in town. He wishes to speak, James, but his English is not holding up and my French…” His Lordship made a slight face to remind James of his lack of skill with the French tongue, and James felt a sudden need to find and thank his boyhood tutor, who had seen fit to educate him in so many languages. It had served him well in finding employment. He very much doubted that Sir Marvell would have noticed him at all any more than the other clerks, if James had not supplied him with a Castilian phrase at a timely moment.

  Only the lower classes seemed to bother with their lessons, James thought with a sharp, bitter taste to his mouth that would have shocked him in his days with Lord Cavendish. And of course, his skills with numbers and sums had not hurt him either, not with lords who could not dress themselves, much less add figures from morning until night. But James had been eager for work, any work, in his early days in Jamaica, and Sir Marvell claimed to admire his ambition, so much so that he had given James a position almost like that of a steward or head clerk over the goods from his plantation, and had even taken him into his home, saying he was pleased to see his charity in caring for a small child.

  In time he might even manage the manage the entire plantation and not just the trading office in town, but James’ stomach turned at the very idea, and he pushed away the thought of overseeing those out in the fields, wishing fiercely that he was another sort of man, one who truly had such ambitions. He wanted very much to be another man, and stumbled as he took a step to bring himself closer to Sir Marvell.

  The small shoes barely fit his feet, and the ground beneath him was not the rolling wooden deck of a ship. Nonetheless, his face heated as he raised his head, not wanting to see the expression in Saint-Cyr’s eyes. He was too used to dark eyes laughing at him.

  For one moment James was tightly furious, biting his lip to contain his rage, praying that he could, and then it was gone as if it had not been. “I am happy to be of service to you, Sir,” James assured his employer once he had remembered the man’s purpose in seeking him out and tried to find a smile. He could not, but Sir Marvell did not seem to notice or care.

  His square face came forward, leaning at James for a bare moment as the words, “Damned French, wasting my time,” were whispered between them, then he pulled back and waved for Etienne to come closer.

  James’ mouth twisted, as much for the heavy amount of onions Sir Marvell had apparently eaten as for his slur against the Frenchmen. Though he had his faults, Etienne Saint-Cyr had not yet proven himself to be any better or worse than anyone else on this whole corrupt, beautiful island. None here were saints. There was not one innocent soul to be found in Jamaica, except for the children.

  Sir Marvell grinned warmly at the Frenchmen despite his words of a moment ago and put out a hand to pat him jovially on the back. He did not seem to notice how the other man flinched at his action, but James’ eyes widened as Etienne’s met his, disgust plain in his features before he hid the feeling. His lightly painted lips were shaped into a smile as well when he turned back to face Sir Marvell, his head tilted up the slightest bit to make up for their height difference. Both of them would have to look up to talk to James, and James dropped his shoulders, not wanting to be thought of as presumptuous.

  “I was telling him what a pleasing day it is, wh
en we met in the street,” Etienne began slowly, looking at James. James picked up the formal words easily, much easier than he had understood the crude, rapid words of Villon and his crew. “And he stands there like a servant and gapes, then brings me in here.” The calm manner in which the man reached up to pick a bit of dust from his sleeve belied the way his gaze held James’ in a silent conspiracy. Though it was wrong to laugh at the man who had taken him into his home, James felt his lips twitch just the same. He corrected himself instantly, shocked at being so rude. It was not as if Etienne’s English were any better than Sir Marvell’s French.

  “He says it is a nice day, Sir,” James said deliberately, in English, but Sir Marvell just nodded as if he had known that much. There was a moment’s pause, as if both men were debating whether or not to continue with pleasantries, leaving James to stand there, and then Etienne smiled.

  It was a cool smile, deliberate, and for one dizzy moment James was reminded of the Black Devil, of Villon, waiting to pounce while whispering smug words.

  Someone should show you what your sword is for. How differently those words struck his ears now. Villon must have been toying with him from the beginning. “His coat is cut much better than his last one.” Etienne seemed not be in the mood to discuss business just yet. James shook himself free of unwanted remembrances and translated for his employer. Sir Marvell dropped one hand to his coat in a way that was obviously flattered before he recovered himself and managed an irritated laugh.

  “ Monsieur Saint-Cyr chooses to tease me,” he remarked on the same puff of air as his chuckle and then wagged one finger at him—much in the same manner that James had found himself doing toward Ben. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we ought to turn to talk of our venture.”

  Sir Marvell did not see the spark of mirth and triumph in Saint-Cyr’s eyes at his abrupt change of subject, but James did. He was frowning before he thought to hide it, daring to insult his employer’s business partner, and a noble at that.

  For the thinnest moment, Etienne lifted his eyebrows and blinked, as if quite startled to see James’ condemnation, and then he was shrugging in a way that James burned to see, feeling a perfect idiot, again.Precious child, Etienne had called him, as though everyone else had seen things in this world that James could not even imagine.

  “Let’s keep this brief, I have some place else to be,” Sir Marvell directed the English words at James, his brows raised expectantly, though James did not know how he was supposed to end the meeting sooner. Then the man turned to look at his French visitor.

  “Your yield this year was significant?” With a heavy sigh, Sir Marvell headed for the back of the room, toward the inner office and the desk where he kept the bottle of the brown liquor made near his home in Northumberland, back in England.Whiskey he called it, though Ben had a slightly different way of pronouncing the word. His lordship poured some into a glass when he returned and then offered it to Etienne, who accepted with a curious look, waiting on James as he spoke.

  How they ever done business before this was something James pondered in the quiet moments, though he had long decided that they must rely on one of the other partners in their…venture…when all together, or that Etienne had not always spoken for his part. This last one seemed likely, since he was as new to Port Royal as James was, something else James had discovered while accompanying Etienne around the town.

  Strange that someone who claimed to be so knowing could stare around this wicked city with wide eyes and then head straight to the nearest brothel as though he had never been near one before. It left James uncertain whether he was to be governess, chaperone, or fellow libertine.

  For his part Etienne had only seemed eager to be free of the older man’s presence. He’d regarded James with frowning annoyance for the first week, and then some kind of secret fascination once his pace had slowed, wondering at how James did not take part in his whoring. His teasing questions about that were perhaps why he enjoyed taking James with him.

  “ Oui,” Etienne answered Sir Marvell, and then took a sip of his whiskey. He resulting fit of coughing was so strong that his eyes filled with water, and some of the powder dusted across his high cheekbones streaked. James had to grab the glass from his hand before he dropped it and then pat his back to calm him, stroking his hand down over the warm silk of his coat. Etienne’s gaze flicked to him, round and wary.

  “So was mine. It was a good year.” Sir Marvell seemed intensely satisfied about something as he finished his own drink and took Etienne’s. He asked politely ifMonsieur Saint-Cyr would like any more and when he got no answer finished that as well. He did not cough at all. “The price for the sugar and tobacco ought to be high, and bring us plenty of money. Monies that ought to be kept for just us, do you not agree?” he wondered with a cool smile.

  Etienne brought his head up, wiping furiously at his cheeks. But he said nothing, regarding Sir Marvel with his mouth partly open, his body shuddering slightly under the palm of the hand James had left at his back.

  “Oui,” he said at last, quietly. “Good!” Sir Marvell’s smile was suddenly as warm as sun’s shine. He set down the cups and turned back to them, utterly ignoring the clerks as he gestured outside. “We should finish our talk outside…since the day is so pleasant.” As if he were an intimate friend, he leaned in close to Etienne, forcing James to back away. Etienne went still as well, staring up at the older man, and then clearing his throat.

  “It is a nice day,” he commented in English, then frowned and glanced at James. “Do not stand about,Monsieur Fitzroy, follow us,” he ordered with a dismissive sound and spun around to disappear out the door. One look at his employer assured him that this was agreeable to him, and so James followed, with a frown of his own, his face afire. They would speak of their business now, outside without the clerks to listen at the door James knew what the conversation would be of, even if he did not understand the new thread of darkness that seemed to be woven into the words of the two noblemen. Without speaking, they stopped only a few feet from the door, next to Sir Marvell’s waiting carriage. Sir Marvell directed them to that spot, James was certain, in order to leave at the earliest convenience. But James kept his eye on the horses, refusing to look at either man as they spoke.

  “How do you intend to keep the cargo safe?” Etienne offered the first real words, which James then duly offered to Sir Marvell. The sun was hot, and his garments were of thick fabric. His skin felt seared, and he closed his eyes for a moment at the sweat trailing down his forehead, grateful that he wore no paint.

  “The way we usually do—the guards ought to be arriving any day now.” Sir Marvell added that as if it were of no consequence but Etienne seized on it. “Pirates?” Saint-Cyr evidently saw no need to pretend, but James shivered, his attention drawn from the mindless study of horseflesh to the business at hand. To traffick with pirates was foolish. They held nothing sacred, not even their own promises, surely hiring them to watch over valuables was like having a fox watch over the hens. Madness.

  He opened his mouth to protest, though he had known of their planning for some time now, but other than as his interpreter, Sir Marvell seemed not to care for his opinion on this matter. He had done it before, by his own words, and had not had a problem.

  “Better that then lose it altogether to some other group, and they rarely betray their own. They find the penalty too high.” James could feel his employer’s stare, daring him, with his usual amusement, to comment. Only it did not feel like amusement now, at least not to James.

  Silence answered that, and James finally took his gaze from the impatient teams of horses to look at Etienne, who was looking back at him. “Do you think thieves have honour, James?” He used his first name deliberately James was sure, testing him or perhaps simply because he could. James had only dared to address him as Etienne when the other man had been far into his cups. Drunk, the laughter fell easily from Etienne’s lips, his ever-posing body would suddenly collapse into lazy greed, his hands curli
ng into James’ side as James held him steady, his lips tickling at James’ ear and neck, his skin warm from a recent fucking.

  Whatever the reason now, Etienne seemed to truly want an answer. James could not speak, words dead in his throat, and so he gave one short, curt nod, then gasped, having meant to shake his head. He quickly did so, and Etienne arched his brows.

  “One of the ships is in harbour now, if you care to meet the man, put your doubts to rest.” Sir Marvell was squinting up at the sky, looking as though he wished he had his hat. A snap of his fingers would have brought the large slave by his carriage running with it, but he did not call him over. “The Bug or the Spider he goes by, or some nonsense.”

  James let out one slow breath, and then glanced back at Etienne Saint-Cyr, who seemed oddly hesitant. He had even ceased to stand with his strange posture, his toes were pointed out and his arms arranged in some delicate position, but his hands seemed lost in the lace at his cuffs.

  “You do want to be certain, don’t you, boy?” James nearly jumped, to hear the abrupt change in Sir Marvell’s tone. Despite his lack of a title, Etienne Saint-Cyr was the eldest son of a noble family. As these things were accounted in France, he was more than Sir Marvell’s equal, and yet Sir Marvell spoke almost as to a servant. “Your father would be distressed if you lost the family’s money,” Sir Marvell added, tapping his leg impatiently with the heel of one hand.

  James could not help the way his voice grew thick as he repeated the words, shifting his gaze uncertainly between his employer and Etienne. It was rare to see Sir Marvell without a smile, and not once in the past months had James seen him cold as he was now. Even rarer to see Etienne stand and take such insults, or at least what James felt were insults.