Page 65 of Rears & Vices

“All men deserve access to the written word, Governor,” Vitaliy said. “All persons,” he revised.

No—there seemed no possible way the man who had denounced colorist satires would be interested in donkeyish Alarie, romantically or otherwise.

So, why did Vitaliy tolerate him? Oblige him?

Everard push-pulled the handle. This time, the “kiss” of pressure from the platen upon the carriage looked a tad excessive, but that was easily fixed. He reached up and adjusted the main lever’s length a hair, a twist of the screw end, and push-pulled again. Better. Though he suspected with the movement of the ship working at her, he’d have to be adjusting that screw near-constantly. It was a small price to pay.

“The Spanish is probably our best bet, for pamphleteering,” Everard said. “Followed by French. Tribes will have translators, missionaries, churchmen. Though are you sure, Governor, that you want to disseminate war and revolution to tribes who may neither know nor care? I understood it was criollos whom La Corona was executing.” Criollos were white persons born in the Spanish colonies; a slight tick down the casta ladder, behind Spain-born españoles.

“Again,” Alarie said, in French, “I do not know Mina’s precise plans. Thus far, he wants only naval escort from me, and soldiers from Haïti. But a body’s a body in war, my friend. You, career man, Englishman, should understand this.”

Everard grimaced. “In fact, I tried my damnedest not to. As would anyone with a functional soul.” He wiped grease from his knuckles and thumb, removed his apron, and looked up.

Vitya had been watching him. His eyes were half-lidded, and his bottom lip had been sucked beneath the other. He glanced to the greatcabin door, back again, and raised a thick blond eyebrow in question.

Everard was absolutely exhausted—but yes, absolutely, yes. Whatever that invitation had been, yes.

First, however, there was Louis-Michel Alarie to be dealt with.

“Fancy a nightcap, Governor?” Everard said, making a quarter-turn. “I do feel for you, having your supper accommodations displaced.” He nodded to the greatcabin, forced a smile. “But there is the desk to sit around. It’s quite a large desk, in fact.” He raised his eyebrows. “Large enough for three.”

Louis-Michel Alarie stood suddenly from his lean, his pretty eyes downcast. “Oh, you are very kind,” he said quickly. “You English, always kind. Non, I must not—I need to rest for our rendez-vous at the junta.”

Behind him, Vitaliy smiled wide. He brushed a palm over his mouth, turning quickly stoic just in time for Alarie’s about-face and curt bow.

“Goodnight, Governor,” Vitaliy murmured, and bowed.

Everard didn’t bother. Alarie’s eyes hadn’t moved from the floor.

Alarie backed through the parlour door, shutting it firmly behind. They listened to his steps fade into the depths of the ship.

“Well,” Everard said. “That confirms it utterly.”

He caught Vitaliy’s eye, and they shared a muffled laugh.

Everard sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that, perhaps.”

Vitaliy remained in the doorway, leaning with arms crossed, outwardly quite relaxed. His eyelids were lowered, his perfect, heart-shaped lips set in a peaceful quirk. They matched the tawny pink of his cheeks.

“It was… blatant,” he admitted.

“It was, wasn’t it? And slightly mean.”

Vitaliy shrugged. “Nothing he doesn’t know. Or… encourage, time to time.”

That said a whole hell of a lot. “Had you known?”

“It took me longer than it should have.”

“Deception a-purpose, I’d bet. With a face like that?”

“Maybe.”

“He tried to exploit it?”

“And succeeded,” Vitaliy said. “Mostly. I suppose I am easily led.”

“Oh, come on.” Everard laughed. “Easily led? You? Have a look at me, Vitya. Do I strike you as very urbane? Debonair?” He rubbed hands over his filthy, sweat-damp breeches in illustration. “As though I’ve led you anywhere.”