“One eagle, five pence,” said the portly merchant Martin Jameson. He sat at the writing desk in his office, legs dangling from the stool, calves looking like sausages stuffed in stockings. He pushed a small stack of coins toward a man of about sixteen. “Standard pilot fee.”
Dominique had never seen the young man ahead of her. He had long hair the color of maple leaves in autumn, and the odd fit of his clothes suggested hand-me-downs. But he was cleaner than the others, with a slender, athletic frame. His voice carried confidence, but also a restless energy. Handsome, she decided. But callow.
“That’s all?” complained the young man. “I might as well make delivery runs.”
The merchant looked at him over his spectacles. “Standard fee for a first-time pilot. The Brothers Laffite expect a man to prove himself before he merits higher earnings. You don’t like it, Mr. Sullivan? Go shoe horses.”
Sullivan sighed. “Fine.” He snatched the coin purse.
Jameson added, “Of course, if you are a man of ambition, there are other opportunities. I hear you saved a riverboat from running aground. The Laffites could use your help with a larger consignment in the Chesapeake. Higher stakes, higher pay. The Penelope leaves this Saturday. Shall I put you in the books, young chap?” Jameson’s quill hovered over his leather-bound ledger.
After a pause, Sullivan replied, “No. This was a one-time thing. I’m a sailor, not a smuggler.”
Jameson snorted. “Then head down to the docks. See what you can earn on a packet sloop. Next!”
Sullivan pocketed his earnings in a leather satchel. As he brushed past, his eyes touched hers for a heartbeat. He was probably looking for that first notch on his belt, but something in his wheat-brown eyes drew her curiosity. She hid her eyes under the wide brim of her hat. He moved on, and she stepped up to Jameson’s desk.
The smuggling merchant leered at her figure. “Ah…Mamselle Dufort. The elder, I presume. Where is your younger sister?”
Dominique tugged a string to better close her shirt, realizing Jameson’s eyes had found a tiny window to her cleavage. “I’m collecting shares for all of us. Me, Melisande, and Grey Feather.”
“Pity,” said Jameson. “I’m told you’re fairer than your sister, but I prefer to judge such things for myself.”
“Really?” Dominique leaned over the desk, batting her eyes seductively. “You think I’m fair?”
Jameson’s fingers forgot the pile of coins he’d been counting. “Why, yes, my dear. Were you my wife, you would never spend a night alone.” His breath turned heady as he said, “You embody the very essence of ‘ravishing.’”
“I do?” Dominique dropped her girlish tone. “Well, you embody the very essence of a hog. Now, where is my money, Jameson?”
The merchant flushed red, his second chin deepening. He dropped a pouch in front of her. “Humph! Seven eagles, twenty pence.”
###
The City Market
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“My dear, you are a vision.” Mr. Ashley clasped the pearls around Dominique’s neck. He looked over her shoulder as she admired herself in the mirror.
Dominique touched a hand to the ruby brooch nestled above the low cut of her corset. It perfectly matched her scarlet gown. The kindly stall merchant drew her blonde locks over her shoulders. After a bath in the creek and a visit to her secret stash in the woods, Dominique felt like a new woman. More importantly, she looked like a woman. Wearing her favorite dress transformed her from frontier tramp to grand ball courtier.
“Do you really think it’s fetching on me?” asked Dominique. In truth, she never liked rubies, but she never tired of hearing compliments. “I want to be the toast of the banquet. I want to embody the very essence of ravishing.”
“My dear.” Mr. Ashley ran a hand over his white wig. “This Promethean stone of fire has been waiting months for a woman of your beauty. Wear this gem, and any room you grace will be at your feet.”
“It is very pretty,” said Dominique with a shy smile. She reached a white-gloved hand into her purse, rummaging through the coins collected from Jameson hours ago. “Alas, I don’t know if my husband gave me enough for such an expense…”
Dominique watched the patrons of the city market from the corner of her eye. They ambled among the stalls, many stealing furtive glances at her. The humbly dressed quaker and his wife at the neighboring cabbage seller. A pair of wigged gentlemen in a passing buggy. A boy of twelve standing near the butcher’s tent with a half-eaten apple. They all gawked at her radiance, and she relished the feeling.
Mr. Ashley bowed his head like a royal coachman. “The price is negotiable of course. And for my favored clients, I am happy to extend a line of credit. What is your husband’s name? Perhaps he already has an account.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” chuckled Dominique, buying herself a moment to spin a lie. “We’re only recently moved from New York. We’ve hardly had a chance to meet new friends. I doubt you’ve heard the name—oops!” Dominique let the purse slip off her hand—as she’d done many times—and a pile of coins splashed on the brick-paved square.
“Oh, dear,” said the merchant, dropping to hands and knees. He began collecting the coins.
“How clumsy of me!” Dominique feigned embarrassment. As she always did while wearing her fine dresses, she added refined turns of phrase to her speech. They were all gleaned from books about glamorous aristocrats and their torrid affairs. “I’m so sorry. Oh, you poor man, you mustn’t trouble yourself so.”
“No trouble, miss, no trouble.”
Dominique kneeled down to his eye-level. He gave a shy smile. He held out her purse, once again filled with her earnings. She accepted it, letting her touch linger on his hand. “Thank you so very much.”
“Twas nothing, miss.”
With her quarry momentarily distracted, Dominique slipped her left hand onto the jewelry display behind him. She palmed the sapphire pendant she had been eyeing for weeks. As the two of them rose to their feet, she slipped the stolen necklace into a hidden pocket of her gown. “Thank you, Mr. Ashley, but I think the summer heat has sapped my strength. Perhaps I should not make such a decision today. What if I come back tomorrow?”
“On the morrow would be grand. I hope you can bring your husband. I should like to meet him—perhaps my wife and I could be your first friends in Philadelphia.”
“I would like that,” said Dominique with a musical laugh. “Farewell!”
After a few steps, Dominique heard Mr. Ashley say, “Ah, Miss…”
Dominique froze.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Dominique turned around. “I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Ashley’s stern expression melted into a smile. “The brooch. You wouldn’t want to rob me, would you?”
“Oh!” laughed Dominique. She took off the pearl choker and handed it to the jeweler. “Of course. How silly of me. My apologies.”
“Not at all miss,” smiled Mr. Ashley. “Good day to you.”
Dominique’s heart pounded as she made her way through the market crowd. Another successful theft. Another exhilarating thrill. Another pang of guilt. Another brilliant…
A stranger collided with Dominique. She tripped on the curb and nearly fell into the dusty street, but someone caught her. Dominique found herself looking up at a young man, boyishly handsome, his strong arms pleasant to the touch. She recognized him. It was Sullyman—or was it Sullivan?—the one from Jameson’s warehouse.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the drifter.
Dominique stared into his golden brown eyes. His eyebrows cut a dashing arc as he smiled. He smelled of perspiration and highway dust, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Like the smell of a saddle splashed with mud. Dominique realized she was still in his arms, her hand on his bicep, and she jumped away.
“‘I beg your pardon’ indeed!” complained Dominique. “You are indeed most rude. And in my way. Stand aside!”
“Of course,
miss. My apologies.” The young man touched his forehead as if to tip a hat. Then he vanished into the crowd.
“You there!” shouted an aggressive voice. A tall man with sleeves rolled up on hairy forearms strode across the street. He narrowly dodged a passing coach, pushed aside a man with a gray wig, and muscled between a pair of ladies. “Stay right where you are, thief!”
Dominique froze as the watchman pelted up to her.
“The merchant may not have seen it,” said the watchman, sweat beading on his wrinkled forehead, “but I’ve had my eyes on you since you walked into the square. I saw you palm that sapphire. Now hand it over!”
“But officer…erm…”
“Miles!”
“…Officer Miles!” said Dominique lamely. “Indeed, I don’t know, erm, of what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t,” snapped Miles. He seized her arm in his beefy hand and reached into her hidden pocket. “We’ll get to the truth, I warrant.”
It was over. Dominique felt the blood draining from her face. The sweat turned cold on her brow. She was caught for the first time, and if she couldn’t think of a good lie, she was going to prison. What would happen to Melisande? And Grey Feather? How could she survive such a place?
The anger on the watchman’s face gave way to concern. Miles moved his hands to the other side of her dress. “Where is it?”
He didn’t find the pendant! realized Dominique. Seeing her opportunity, she said, “Unhand me, sir! Unhand me at once. Someone, help!”
Curious faces looked in Dominique’s direction. A few men turned frowns on the officer. In the next second, Dominique would have an angry crowd rising to her defense.
Miles dropped Dominique’s arm. He paced back, hands raised in surrender. “My mistake, miss. I meant no offense. Please accept my apologies!”
“Of all the offensive affront!” cried Dominique, employing a few more upper-class phrases. “How dare you sir! You ought to be ashamed, indeed. Now, out of my way.”
“Of course, miss. Have a pleasant—”
Dominique shoved past Miles, desperate to be as far from the market as possible. She turned down a winding street crushed between brick houses. As she took care to avoid the puddles from chamber pots, she checked her pocket and found it empty. The jewel had been there, but where had it gone?
As if to answer her question, a man leaning in a doorway said, “Looking for something?”
Dominique stopped short. A few feet away, the young man—Sullyman—was standing under the awning of a kitchen side door. His grin was infuriating. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The drifter held out his hand, revealing a gem as blue as a mountain lake.
Dominique cleared her throat. “What will you do with it?”
“Return it when the jeweler’s not looking.” Sullyman pocketed the sapphire. “My question is, why’d you do it?”
Dominique stared at the callow man, intrigued in spite of herself. He was so young, his slender jaw didn’t have a shadow of a beard. But something in his wheat-brown eyes drew her curiosity. As if they were wells of feeling, so deep she could dive in and lose herself. The sweep of auburn hair across his brows, the dimple under his cheekbone, those longbow lips…
Dominique caught herself and replied, “Listen, I could have handled it. I didn’t ask for your help.”
He jammed his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Oh really? Didn’t you almost get caught?”
“That was a first.” Dominique raised her chin. “My technique worked like a charm on Mr. Ashley. And, given time, it would have worked on Watchman Miles.”
“And what technique is that?”
“Steal with your eyes, not your hands.”
“Clever,” the young man said with a smirk. “I think I’ll borrow that one. Still, you might at least say ‘thank you.’”
“Thank you. Sorry for your trouble.” Dominique beat a path toward the wharf. To her annoyance, the young man jogged to catch up.
“No trouble,” he said cheerfully. “Hey, I recognize you. I saw you earlier. At Jameson’s warehouse.”
“Impossible,” she lied. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“No…” Sullivan’s grin got more annoying all the time. “It’s you. You’re one of Lafitte’s crew. So tell me: what were you doing in the market, dressed up like some wealthy lady of leisure?”
“What? A girl can’t dress well?”
“Sure she can,” said Sullivan, raising an eyebrow. “But it is unusual to see well-dressed women stealing from the market. Why’d you do it?”
“How dare you! You’re a perfect rogue.” Dominique increased her pace. “Thank you for your help, but my affairs are none of your business.”
“Wait!”
A hand took Dominique’s, and she turned around. She was surprised at the man’s boldness. Surprised that she enjoyed his touch. His grip was strong, yet gentle.
“Let me take you for a stroll along the waterfront.” His eyes were bright and hopeful. “We don’t have to talk about the market. We could talk about anything you like. What do you say? One stroll.”
Slipping her hand free, Dominique said, “Listen, uh, Sully—”
“Sullivan. John Sullivan.”
“—Whatever your name is! I’m far too old for a man of sixteen.”
“Eighteen!” protested Sullivan. He added sheepishly, “since last month, anyhow.”
“You think you’re the first lovesick pup who’s wanted to court me? You probably think a woman who dresses like an Indian and steals from merchants is thrilling, but I don’t have time to be your passing amusement. Believe me when I tell you: I’m no one you want to know.”
Sullivan’s face fell. “At least…tell me your name?”
“Don’t be a child. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.” As she marched onto Market Street, she glanced back. Sullivan stared after her for a moment, then set off in the opposite direction.
For his own good, thought Dominique. And mine. And yet, she was disappointed he didn’t follow.
Before Dominique made it ten strides, a black coach with a four-horse team came to a stop ahead of her. The door flung open, and a slender man in a black coat and tall hat stepped into her path. He said in a French Creole accent, “Mamselle Dominique, I am disappointed in you.”
Dominique sighed. “What do you want, Monsieur Laffite?”
He sauntered toward her, a churchwarden pipe smoking in his hand. “Why Mamselle, such formality is hardly called for among old friends. Call me Pierre.”
“I prefer ‘Laffite,’” said Dominique with a sour smile.
Laffite gave a titter. He ran a finger through her blonde hair. “I was watching from my coach. I’m glad you’re making new friends. I like to see a spirit of friendship among those I employ. Tell me, how do you find our Mr. Sullivan?”
“That petulant boy? I wouldn’t know. I told him to piss off.”
Laffite pursed his lips. “Hmm, that is not kind of you, Dominique. Not kind at all. Men at that age can have such tender hearts. I think you should go after him. Give him a second chance. And while you’re winning him over, it will be no trouble to sign him onto the Chesapeake Run.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous, Laffite. I’m not some harlot you can peddle to new recruits.”
Laffite’s grip closed on Dominique’s shoulder—painfully. His eyes turned hard. “Alas, I’m so friendly by nature, I sometimes fail to make myself heard. I have a sensitive cargo that will soon spoil and my pilot is dead of yellow fever. John Sullivan has the skills I need. This is not a request, Mamselle. Now, go get that ‘petulant boy’ and sign him onto the crew. I don’t care if you do it on your feet, or on your back, but sign him.”
Dominique tried to squirm away, but Laffite gripped harder.
“That is,” added Laffite, “Unless you’ve forgotten what I’ve done for your Indian brother and your wild brat of a sister. If not for me, your corpses would be sca
lped and rotting by the road. It is unwise to dally on a debt, especially one of that kind. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes,” said Dominique, grinding her teeth.
“Magnifique!” The French smuggler smiled and sipped his pipe. “These colonial hayseeds aren’t good at much, but their tobacco is second to none! Don’t you find that?” Laffite strolled away, the churchwarden smoking in his slender fingers.
Chapter 34
Near the Sewer Tunnel
The Shores of the Lake Island
Monday, September 12th, 1803
Day 3, After Midnight
The grass brushed Melisande’s cheeks as she stalked toward her prey. Two soldiers sat across a fire, unaware of her approach. A breeze cooled the mud on her bare arms. She felt agile. Deadly. She knew in the next moment, she would kill or be killed. If she moved too slow, she would feel a bullet tearing through her bones. If she pounced too soon, a sword would slash through her sinew. Fear was the warrior’s elixir, and she drank it greedily.
And yet, Melisande found herself distracted. Fighting for those she loved was what she did best. But Dominique’s words kept running through her mind.
“You don’t know me, Melisande,” Dominique says. They’re alone in the cabin of the Allegheny. Melisande has come to rescue her sister from an abusive husband, but Dominique will have none of it. “You love who you think I am. All you’ve ever done is chase what brings you pleasure. You care about Melisande and Melisande only.”
The first Djedid had a touch of grey in his mustache. His boots were drying beside a fire of burning driftwood. As he pulled off his wet stockings, he was rambling in the Turk language to his bored comrade. The other soldier sat with his back to Melisande, his hairy back bare as his shirt dried on a laundry string. He ran a file under his fingernails as he listened to his companion.
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