"A bit too many Navy officers and merchant captains, trading factors and such. There are few places a lady may go away from home. Ah!" She brightened. "There is, however, a small public house near my dress-maker's. Baltasar's. The emigй Frenchman who is the proprietor styles it as a restaurant, quite the latest thing in Paris, he says. No lodgings, just food and drink. Can you imagine?"

"The hard part is imagining how the man turns a profit," Alan said, grinning. Chop-houses and public-houses were usually close by bagnios, had rooms to let for private dining and discreet sport with dinner companions, or could trot out a chambermaid or a prostitute for their patrons. Without that sideline, he could not see how money could be made, not in a harbor town, at any rate.

"If you do not mind me seeing to my errand first?" Anne asked, as though eager to try the place. "If I do not delay you from returning to your ship at the proper time?"

He was forced to walk her into the dress-maker's shop, where several island ladies of social note were taking rest from the day's warmth, gossiping and killing time, while fabrics and laces were considered, the latest points of style were admired or denigrated, and the small staff bustled about to fetch out requests. Alan felt like a total fool standing by the door with his hat under his arm, feeling the cool gaze of the women. They glanced at him, scowling a bit at the effrontery of a man to invade their sanctuary from husbands, shot glances at Anne, and then shifted to gaze most significantly at each other.

Damn all this feminine truck! Alan fumed, trying to look patient, calm, and innocent, though he felt as examined as if he had gone in naked as the day he was born.

The restaurant a few doors down was almost empty, thank God, but not a bad sort of place, screened from the street by a high brick wall and an iron gate, with a second false wall behind the gate for discretion. The small front garden was sheltered from the sun by thin slats of wood in an overhead screen supported by trellises, all adrip with vines or hung with flowers in hanging baskets. There was another fountain to cool the air. A series of French doors at the back of the garden terrace led into the main dining room and kitchens, and more doors and windows overlooked the harbor from a back terrace with the same sort of screen overhead. Except for a small brass plaque on the iron gate, Alan would have never known it was there; he had walked by it before and thought it a residence.

They were seated at a small table near the back terrace where the shadows were deepest, and the thick walls of the building, the stone floor and the light harbor wind gave the impression of coolness.

The proprietor, a Frog dandy-prat who appeared lighter in his pumps than most, tripped over and bowed deeply and elegantly, making the usual gilt and be-shit flowery words of salutation to what were probably the only new customers he had seen in a long afternoon. And he was disappointed that they did not wish to sample his solid fare, but only wanted drinks. He did, however, serve them a treat he told them was known in the Spanish Indies as sangria, a fruit juice and hock concoction, made to a recipe he had received in Havana during his service to the court of the Captain-General himself.

"It's quite delicious," Anne said after taking a sip. "And most refreshing. I have been told that too much acid fruit is bad in a hot climate, but I never saw the sense of it."

"Hmm, not bad," Alan had to agree. "Must keep it on ice. It's almost cold."

"Or in a hanging ceramic jar," Anne told him. "Everyone in the islands learns that if what the Spanish call an olla is hung in shade where there is a chance of wind, water or whatever it seems to cool on its own. One may see beads of water on the outside, and it feels cold to the touch. Quite remarkable, really."

"Hmm, one could do that aboard ship, below decks, and God knows out at sea, we'd have bags of wind."

"Your shipmates would think you quite ingenious, Alan," Anne promised. "Well, I hope you were not bored by the sights of our poor city today, or by having to escort me to the dressmaker's."

"Oh, not at all," he assured her.

"You looked as if you would strangle back there," she teased.

"Well, they did make me feel dawkish," Alan had to admit, easing back in his chair. "All those ladies eyeing me like I had the King's Evil. And at you. I hope my presence gave them nothing to talk about."

He almost bit his cheek in alarm when he realized he wasn't to know about her alleged past dalliance, and his comment made it sound as if he did. "I mean," he qualified, "they looked like an idle lot. People like that usually misconstrue the most innocent event and turn it into a subject for gossip. Bored to tears with their own miserable lives, I expect."

"Yes, I suppose they could." Anne looked at him directly over the rim of her glass. "But since there is nothing between us but the hope of you becoming a member of our family, what harm?"

"Well, none, I suppose." He shrugged and hunched back forward over the rim of the table, trying to look innocent once more.

"Are you as worldly as you sound, then? Does our Lucy have cause to worry?" she asked softly, with a grin at his discomfort.

"Now you are teasing me," he said. "I've seen gossip-mongers in action before, though. And I would hate to do anything that would jeopardize the Beauman family name. Or do anything to hurt my chances, either."

"Then you shall be making a formal proposal for Lucy's hand? Perhaps I should tell her I saw you after all. And how you poured out your heart to me about your fondest desires." Anne smiled.

"Now you really are teasing me," he protested.

"I'll own to that." She laughed. "Are you that eager for her?"

"I'd not come traipsing by two or three times a week if I was merely entertaining myself, Anne. Let me try to explain." He began, trying to form the words carefully so he would not be misunderstood. "At first, on Antigua, I thought Lucy was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and the sweetest. But at the time, she was only a girl, my admiral's niece. I had no idea if I had a future in the Navy, much less what would happen to me when the war ended. I had a small annuity from my father, but no hopes for anything else. Lately though, there is a larger annuity from my grandmother, and an inheritance. Mostly her personal goods and paraphernalia. And I've prize-money coming due when I go on half-pay, so I can now offer something other than 'cream-pot love.' Never even thought I could really court Lucy and be taken seriously before, though we were allowed to correspond. I don't know what will satisfy the Beaumans, but I am willing to try my hand, even if the war isn't over yet. Maybe my timing is bad, but we may sail soon, and God knows when Shrike puts back into Kingston."

"Allow me to play the Devil's Advocate for you," Anne offered. "If you do not mind me prying, what is your estate?"

"Near on twenty-five hundred pounds in prize-money," he said, adding in his hoard of stolen guineas. "Twice that in inheritance, and two hundred pounds a year. Not a stick of land or rents, though, but…"

"Godamercy!" Anne laughed, throwing back her head. "Even if a girl brought nothing but her linens, you're a prime catch, Alan. For half a tick, I'd be interested myself, were I not already settled."

Don't say tempting things like that, he thought quickly.

"So I do stand a chance?" Alan asked. "I've not been too abrupt so far, have I? Do they doubt my feelings for her, or think me too poor to pay serious court to her?"

"Well, I would say you stand as good a chance as any, more so than most of the local lads," Anne told him. "I know they were concerned when they brought Lucy back from Antigua that you had no lands or inheritance. Yet you had fought a duel for her honor, and Uncle Onsley and Auntie Maude spoke well of you, both professionally and for your personal qualities."

"Thank God for that."

"Compared to some of the island boys of good family, though, her prospects would be better with one of them," Anne cautioned. "You must know there are many who've squired her. You compare more polished, more refined a gentleman to them. Educations and manners in the Indies can't match a Home-raised young man. But."

"Yes?" Alan almost groaned at that qualifying "but."

In sympathy for his cause, perhaps, or to calm his fears, she laid a cool hand on his wrist and let it linger. "You must know that her parents are just as interested in a suitor who brings profitable connections. Plantations, new opportunities for trade. Money to put into ships and cargoes, or places to raise new capital. Tis a curse of our Society that even now, after years of seeing the wretched results of marriage formed on pecuniary interests instead of worry about a young woman's eventual happiness, parents still follow their own desires. They may say they are looking out for Lucy's happiness and security, and certainly I am sure they shall, when the time comes, but you must know the Beaumans," she pressed, a slight sadness coming to her voice and her huge dark eyes. "It is just as easy to find contentment and a good life with a man more endowed with the means to security. To them, that may mean someone of their own station, even someone older and more settled in his affairs, as you should well know."

"I see." Alan nodded. Betty Hillwood had not put him in the most jovial mood he had ever experienced, and he wasn't exactly cherry-merry at this new information, either. "It's changing back in England, you know. As long as the suitor has stability, they seem to let the daughters have more free will."

"Would that was always so!" Anne exclaimed, sharp enough to make the nodding Frog proprietor glance up briefly, and she took hold of his wrist instead of merely resting her hand on it. "Wedding for love, all other things being equal, surely causes no more distress than marriages without it, and gives more reasons for sweet contentment later."

She seemed to speak from painful personal experience, but Alan was cautious enough to keep his rebellious trap shut.

"And finally," she said, seeming to wilt back into her chair and removing her hand to toy with the stem of her wine-glass, "there is your age, and Lucy's. They believe neither of you is old enough to know your own minds yet."

"Bloody hell!" Alan spat softly, too crestfallen to guard his choice of words. Was he truly wasting his time courting Lucy, and would be denied the joy of her company forever? Potential wealth be damned, he suddenly felt the need of someone sweet and young and unspoiled, someone even naive and in love with the world, instead of trulls like Betty Hillwood and their weary cynicism.

"And when, pray, do they think we should be old enough to know our own minds?" Alan asked sourly. "And please them into the bargain?"

"It's a rare girl who weds before her mid-twenties, even here," Anne told him gently. "With enough wealth, that may not answer, but I'd think even the most ardent swain from the best family'd have to content himself with a wait of at least three more years, till Lucy's twenty-one."

"Whew."

"And father Beauman has been talking of retirement lately," Anne went on. "Of going back to England and leaving the family business to Hugh, with Floss' husband to help him. They're thinking that Lucy and Ledyard would benefit from a couple of years in London society to put some ton on their manners, and give them a better future."

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