“Well, he’s sober now,” the first replied. “Maybe he’ll hire us. Doubt it, though. Drunkards and their kin are tight fisted.”
“All right, lads, steady on,” Jasper said with a frown. “New parcel lot will be farther down Ship Street, most like, near the crane.”
“Which crane?” a jack in the back asked, frowning. “Rusty Reaper or the Ballast? If it’s the Reaper…”
“It is, I’m afraid,” Jasper confirmed with a chuckle at the chorus of moans. “I know. Maybe Templeton-Rath will pay to have it scoured and tinkered.”
“Or replaced altogether,” the jack in the corner muttered.
“Say, you’re his mate, aren’t you?” the original jack tar asked, ignoring all talk of cranes and office locations and drawing closer, ale on his breath as he leaned in to peer at Jasper. “I know you. East India. What are you doing slumming it here at the Crow?”
“We’re all in the same business,” Jasper assured him. “I was raised on the dockyard, same as you. So was Lennox.”
This won a round of scoffs from the sailors that made Jasper stifle a frown and a sigh. Next to him, even Rhys’s shoulders appeared to have gone up a little.
“Why you askin’ about the Ceylonese, then?” the second jack pressed. “Worried? Think your friend will dunk his head in the Ceylonese arrack before they can sell it? Maybe he’ll go one better than his old man and try a chip of opium, eh? They say vices like that run in the family.”
The barman raised his eyebrows and made a turn on his heel, walking rapidly into the back as though he’d just recalled serious business that required him to not remain present for the rest of this chat.
Jasper closed his eyes briefly, licking his lips as he took a deep, steadying breath at the roar of laughter from sailors. There were five of them, he reckoned, but only four that appeared deeply invested in the comedy of this particular subject.
There was a loud click to Jasper’s left as Rhys set the pitcher down with a thunk, turning slowly to look at the man who’d just spoken.
Rhys smiled slowly, tilting his curly head to the side. “I don’t understand the joke,” he said, thickening his Welsh lilt as he leaned against the bar. “Not from pierside, me. I’m a pavilion boy, myself. I want to laugh too.”
“Well, he’s seed of the best known lush on the wharf, isn’t he? Lennox. Right fancy, considering his origins. Left the counting houses for London banks,” one of them explained, leaning into Rhys’s sharp, humorless grin. “He’s got airs like he comes from pedigree, but we know the truth. Ain’t no dock boy should be that proud or that fancy. It’s only a matter of time before the blood wins out. Only a fool would expect anything better from the loins of that old drunk.”
Jasper sighed.
“I really wish you hadn’t said that,” he told them, glancing at Rhys, who shrugged and stepped almost imperceptively toward Jasper’s side, ready for the inevitable next moment.
“Why not?” the man asked, still grinning.
Which made Jasper’s first punch land very easily, right in the center of his face.
Whatever Malcolm saw when he finally emerged from their reserved table to find out what was taking so long, Jasper did not know, only that sometime later, both he and Rhys were seated on the wooden benches facing the ocean, bruised, bloody, and still chuckling, while Malcolm lectured them until the niner bell rang off the dockhouse watchtower.
And the Templeton-Rath ship did indeed, finally, blow in.
Chapter Seven
Libba was half-pinnedinto a new costume when the ruckus started.
Though she was not actively playing any parts in the production, she had explained to Monica that as director, she would understudy for all the woman roles. All four of them. Bloody Shakespeare.
She was close enough in size to the players in each part that Monica was using her as a living dress form while she adjusted the initial designs from the house, which worked perfectly in Libba’s estimation, since she’d be needing all of them for her secondary endeavor as well.
Tonight’s garb was for Lady Capulet, a gauzy marriage of North African sensibilities, Arabic veiling, and South Asian textiles Monica already had on hand in carnation pink.
“If I had your hair,” Monica said wistfully as she pinned a scalloped, translucent pink veil over Libba’s tightly spiraled curls, “I’d never wear it up.”
“If you had my hair,” Libba retorted, “you’d spend half your life wishing to have your own back.”
It made Monica giggle, touching her own wispy, blonde tresses. “That’s probably true, isn’t it? Gingers want brown, brunettes want blonde, curlies want straight, and straight wants waves. No one is ever satisfied.”
“Satisfied people are smug,” Libba returned, smiling despite herself. “So it’s probably for the best.”
They both laughed at that as Monica wedged the pins into place, holding the top portion of the veil to Libba’s scalp while the lower bit could flutter prettily over the curls falling over her arms and ribs.
