Lydia And The Rogue

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—PARIS, FRANCE,1813—

        THE AMOUNT OF MONEY that stood before him was enticing, he'd give the bitter man that. The man who stood in front of him was plump, but a cherry plump. The way that old grandmothers should and normally were to assure kindness and delectable embraces. His withering scalp was almost shaved full, save for the patches of gray hair around a patch of baldness shaped like a spoon. He wore gray attire, long gray tail coat and a dark blue cravat completed with tasseled hessians. While he was a little disheveled in the long run, he looked of money. And money could always be trusted.

          His labored breath fawned hotly across Nicholas Claremont's burgundy polished wooden desk, and the fact that the man's, Mr. Fabron, hands were nearly white from how tightly he gripped his walking stick unnerved him. Still, he felt rather bare in front of the well dressed man. After a long journey from America and a plethora of women, his ego was bigger then the entire Atlantic ocean but he still felt a bit tired and run down. He'd need a good basin with cold water to shake this feeling, he duly noted.

          Specs of doubtfulness coursed through him. If this man asked for what he did and acquired the large quantities of money he seemed to have and gave out, why on God's green Earth would he do it? When no avail approached, Nicholas could only tip his head as he ceased the cautious contemplating oblivion and returned his attention to the portly man.

          Mr. Fabron securely mashed his lips, them turning a white tainted hue as well. "And do correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel as though you think me mad."

          Nicholas almost scoffed himself. Aloud, he was quiet to the man, but inside he wanted to tell him to blastit. Nobody should ask this much of a man; much less Nicholas; the man who couldn't care about saving some young ingenue in distress—or just simply some girl too big for her country and wished to flee. The only woman he'd ever think twice about is those who land within his legs, whether or not to join that particular lady in another moment of bliss. No, that wouldn't be the case with Fabron's daughter, she was what? Fourteen at max. If he was lucky she'd be younger and he wouldn't have to worry about her bleeding crimson all over his bed. His bed. Bloody hell, what was Fabron's intentions?

          "I do not think you mad," He pointed out. "I understand with the exception of why and how, but in this past half hour," His eyes glanced towards the shifting clock in the corner of the room. "You've failed to mention either of those points."

          Lifting his hand to cup his chin, the man nodded in agreement? In pettiness? Nicholas could not conjecture exactly what. "I see, I see. Tell me this, are you loyal as they say you are? You've never had a charge before but I'm sure as good as you are to your crew, you can make an exception."

          "I am loyal, 'tis true."

          "Then why not?"

          "I never said no," He scoffed.

          "Will you do it, Captain Claremont?"

          Nicholas stood up abruptly and noticed the slight twinge in Fabron with a smirk. In his twenty and six years he'd never once thought someone thought him a good caretaker. Now, he had good authority that word spread throughout the colonies, throughout Britain and now France that he was a man of his word, never to back out. That didn't mean he was going to take in some little rabbit that belonged in her hometown chateau with a bowl of water, someone gripping her hair to make sure it didn't dip into the creamy substance.

          Shaking his head, he paced. It'd take weeks for the Northton to reach their final destination, a small town in Britain that occupied the duke, Duke of Newilde. By all means it'd be an interesting journey... Though it might be regretted.