Page 98 of Rears & Vices

No. There was no trust there.

“All right,” he managed, just so Vitaliy would go. “I understand. Thank you.”

Vitaliy nodded—and then he did go.

Twenty-Five

“Ifeel as though I’m sitting in on a honeymoon,” D’Arcy complained to Everard on the third day, on occasion when Vitaliy was gone afuera. “Of a marriage of obligation and dowry,” he added, the rasp of his endangered voice not enough to conceal his acute sarcasm. “And… knitting. For God’s sake, Everard, don’t hold back the fight on my account.”

But Everard had to hold back; there was no alternative. If Everard confronted the true reach of his fury at Vitaliy’s absurd stance, at his inaction, he might burst at all seams with no regard to casualties.

It was a good thing Vitaliy would be gone to shore for the junta.

That was all.

On the fourth day, the Sévère sat anchored in the bay of hot, palm-strewn Port-au-Prince. With some careful maneuvering, the San Telmo had ridden in convoy, Romilly René at her command. It made Everard nervous, giving the woman what she’d wanted after all; but the alternative was to split either from Vitaliy or from D’Arcy, neither of which was bearable at present. And she hadn’t cut and run—yet.

Haïti was possessed of a beautiful port: above the palms and beach and town centre rose three verdant mountains. Atop the southernmost and tallest, three sea-facing walls of a star fortification stood halfway constructed in white stone, already studded with cannon. The message was clear: Haïti would hold its own against those wanting to take advantage of its new, probate statehood. But thanks to Vitaliy’s missive ahead of them to President Pétion, they’d been recognised and hailed upon arrival, and neither ship had been shot through.

“Are you sore to be missing General Mina? Simon Bolívar?” D’Arcy asked that hot afternoon, rather obvious in his intent; Everard had been pacing the cabin for the past quarter hour at least. Vitaliy had managed to make the junta appointment, and was there now, sitting in a palace with unnumbered state-makers and influentials—to most of whom he’d sold crucial weaponry.

And he considered himself not a king?

Everard ran his hands through his hair. “No,” he said. “Not precisely. I’ve no taste towards filibustering, and no doubt someone would only want to recruit me for the job. If not Mina or Bolívar, then another.”

D’Arcy hummed. “Surely.” He groped for his teacup and saucer, sipped tranquilly, and then: “But perhaps you flatter yourself?”

Everard stopped pacing. “I beg your pardon. Experience aside, my command of Spanish alone—” He sighed. There was no need to be defensive towards D’Arcy, of all persons. “But you are grumpy. Is it you that’s sore to be missing the junta?”

It was an insincere retort; D’Arcy confirmed it with a snort.

“You know I’ve no interest in rebellion, revolution. Dem-oh-cracy,” he said, crisp and sardonic. He replaced the saucer, pulled shut the mosquito-net, and pushed himself higher on the pillow, groaning softly. “You see where equality and fairness has got me?”

So says the ton-born, third son of an earl.

Everard grit his teeth. “I will have your recompense, Preston. No matter what Vee says. I swear it you.”

D’Arcy lay back with a hum. When he closed his eyes, the asymmetrical swelling of his nose and his blacked left eye seemed rather pronounced.

Everard felt the sting of remorse. “I am exhausting you.”

After a moment, D’Arcy gave a sharp nod. “In the worst way, I’m afraid.” He cracked open one eye. “Read to me from that head of yours? I’ve read everything to be had in this godforsaken cabin.”

Everard pulled his chair close, penitent. “Of course.”

On the seventh day, Vitaliy made an unplanned visit back from shore, brief and without ceremony. Everard was within the printing parlour, sweating his bollocks off beneath the heavy apron, but working, useful at last; word had travelled quickly that there was a floating press arrived, with no commitments or restrictions and, most importantly, fresh ink and paper.

In accepting the jobs, Everard had been judicious in estimating how much time he would have to hand for printing, with D’Arcy laid up and him with nothing else to do. Unfortunately, he’d been less judicious in estimating how much two hundred impressions an hour would take out of him physically.

Thom had taken a shift or two, but his heart wasn’t in it, and Everard felt guilty of wasting the boy’s time. Felt Thom was maybe obliging him for the sake of his prior servitude. And since Everard was equally as incapable of paying him now as he had been when they’d slipped over the side of the Netley, he’d insisted Thom leave him to it.

Everard was rolling back the carriage on a wet page as Vitaliy crept into the parlour. He had obviously just come from Government Palace: he wore a fanciful blue waistcoat—the one that seemed as pasted upon his body as wall-paper—and a curly, out-of-date wig. His stance was anxious, with hands held behind his back, and he wore no weapons. He had never looked less like a storybook pirate. He was beautiful nonetheless.

Everard waited, panting slightly, swiping at his forehead with his shirt.

“Yes?”

“Good evening,” Vitaliy said, hesitantly. “How is she faring?”