Thomas had been in the middle of wiping himself clean with a rag soaked in spring water, when the knock came at his door. With a grumble he hurried through drying himself off and throwing on a pair of loose linen pants and a dingy old shirt. Dressed, if somewhat ridiculously, Thomas walked on bare feet to the door and began to pull it open. He was immediately met with the pleading and supplicating Jax, down on both knees, wailing at him for mercy and assistance.

A good natured chuckle was Thomas’ first response. “No dress for the dance, my friend?”

Thomas waved the sea artist up from the deck, and gestured for him to follow him inside the cabin. “Let’s see what we can do, shall we? I would be a scoundrel indeed to leave a crewmate of mine bereft of a means to strike some lucky lady’s fancy.”

With a smile upon his face, Thomas moved to the large sea chest that served to hold his clothing. Though certainly not a man given often to fine dress, Thomas realized the value of such garments when it came to becoming an accepted member of society, and thusly he kept a handful of ensembles for such occasions. Sifting through his clothing, Thomas spoke to Jax over his shoulder.

“I trust she said yes?”

His voice was even and pleasant, and he listened to Jax’s response with a broad grin. It did his heart well to hear the news, and Thomas enjoyed the thought of the helmsman cracking through the thick and shining armor of the First Mate.

[i]If anyone has the salt and the tenacity to navigate that harbor, it would be Jax[/i]. Thomas thought with a playful, yet hidden, roll of his eyes.

“Ah, here we are,” Thomas said, pulling a bundle of crisply folded clothing from the chest. The bundle was wrapped in sail cloth to prevent it from being soiled, and tied with twine. He handed this to Jax. “And here’s the footwear,” Thomas turned back to the chest to withdraw a pair of knee-high black leather boots. These he placed carefully atop the clothing in Jax’s arms.

Thomas eyed the sea artist for a moment, and then nodded with satisfaction. “It should fit you, I wager. There should be a matching ribbon in there as well to tie your hair back with, if you should so desire.”

Stepping forward, Thomas reached up to clap Jax about the shoulders. He smiled to the man.

“Now, I must finish getting my own aspect as pretty as a Spring butterfly, so if you please…” Thomas raised an arm towards the open door to his cabin.

[center]* * * * *[/center]

The coach pulled up along the broad, coral-pebble drive, and came to a stop before the white-washed mansion of Commander Robert Murray. Placed inland from Port Royal, the Commander’s plantation sprawled in the lush green countryside, surrounded by acres of sugarcane and lime trees. The two-story structure stood with broad and bright windows that faced inland, while the expansive back lawn stretched towards the ocean, not but a mile away. Two fully grown avocado trees buttressed the corners of the mansion, and the large kitchen house was visible through the foliage to the left.

Oil lamps alight with small dancing flames, perched on wooden poles, lit the drive and likewise created a wide pathway that led behind the mansion, and to the rear lawn. It was before this pathway that the coach at last stopped, and a servant rushed forward to tend the door for the two gentlemen inside.

Captain Thomas Lightfoot stepped free of the coach, and out into the lingering heat of the Jamaican countryside. His copper eyes reflected the flickering glow of the lamps that were the only light on this early, and as of yet, moonless night. Idly he brushed a hand across his coat, and reached up to reposition the black velvet tricorn hat atop his head. Thomas once again pressed at the nonexistent wrinkles in his outfit. It was his finest clothing, and a set he had only used once before.

The justacorps coat he wore was of a dark silver silk, fashionably cut with broad French cuffs, and tailored with the buttons ending at his waist. Ebony filigree danced in elegant embroidery across the coat, and gleamed pleasantly in accompaniment with the silver adornments. Beneath the jacket was a silk vest of the same pattern, though this was instead black with silver thread for its needlework. Upon his legs he wore black velvet breeches, fastened at the knees with glossy obsidian ribbon, and ending in simple black hose to feet encased in square-toed, black leather shoes.

His hair, too short to tie or braid, was slicked back over his head with beeswax, and the length of stubble normally found along his jaw had been freshly shaven. Around his waist, hidden by a gray sash and the tails of his coat was the ever present dagger, cinched firmly and within easy grasp at his left hip.

Thomas turned back towards the coach, and the disembarking Jax. With a twinkle in his eye, he gave the sea artist a low whistle.

“My goodness, you do strike quite the figure, my friend. You had best watch yourself tonight or you’ll come back to the Skate minus your purse, and with some wide-eyed beauty upon your arm, whispering of marriage.”

He chuckled, and gave Jax a genuine smile. “I will leave you to wait upon your escort,” he said, referring to the First Mate that had opted to travel separately of the two men. With a slight bow, Thomas left Jax to his waiting, and turned along the lamp-lit pathway towards the rear lawn.

As he walked beneath the avocado tree, the splendid lilt of a string quartet met his ears, accompanied by the low buzz of conversation, the rustle of silk, and the tinkling of flatware. When he at last made the rearmost corner of the mansion, Thomas was met with the sight of the most opulent party he had ever attended.

The expanse of the exquisitely manicured lawn swept to the shadowed edges of the heavy Jamaican night, dotted all along its expansive borders with the same torches that illuminated the drive. Arbors had been erected over several tables along the periphery, their graceful wooden columns and arches plaited with all manner of vines and climbing greenery. Centerpieces of still dewy hibiscus and bougainvillea graced the lace-covered tables, their heavy, generous blooms scenting the night air with the most subtle of floral notes - though these were merely the least of the temptations to draw the senses.

The tables themselves were near to groaning beneath their tempting burdens, lavishly piled with all manner of delicate sweetmeats on silver terraced trays, pastries thick with coconut, pineapple and a seemingly endless variety of sugared, exotic fruits. Dark bottles of wine beckoned to the partygoers, inviting any passerby to pour themselves a generous portion of sparkling gold or ruby drink in cut crystal goblets. 

But the vast swath of the lawn had been left open entirely, all the better to display the true lights of this evening. 

Resplendent in sharply pressed dress uniforms, the officers of the garrison of the Jamaica colony mingled amidst a sea of silk and satin. High born gentleman rubbed shoulders with their martial counterparts, adorned in ostentatious powdered wigs and stiff suits of fine fabric. Upon their arms, ladies of fair skin and rich adornment laughed and tittered in pleasant charade. Their warmly colored dresses accentuated the party’s own rich appointments, and from afar they appeared like the blooms of the centerpieces come to life, and moving among the crowd. In the center of the colorful throng, the tune of the quartet led many to dance. With practiced and formal steps the pairs moved across the lawn, smiling with faces lubricated by flowing wine and bellies full of rich fare.

It was amongst those that danced that a particularly splendid flash of color caught his eye, and Thomas smiled in spite of himself. There, flowing gracefully through the crowd, was the rogue. Her dancing partner was none other than Commander Robert Murray himself.

[i]Ah, Antonia, ever the puppeteer.[/i]

A sudden idea came to his mind, and erasing the smile from his face, Thomas set out across the lawn with a confident lift to his chin, and a detached look in his copper eyes.

Around him the party goers swirled in elaborate loops of dance, and the swish of bustled fabric blended harmoniously with the songs of the string quartet seated upon their dais.

His gaze followed Antonia, disguised beautifully as some exotic lady, as she moved gracefully along with the ever rigid Commander Murray. It took conscious thought for Thomas to not smile openly at the depth of the rogue's adherence to her character, as she not once cast her eyes away from the dashing British gentleman before her.

Thomas positioned himself so that the lilting path of the Commander and Antonia would cross where he stood. As the two spun about, Thomas deftly leaned forward and tapped the Commander firmly upon the shoulder. With a slight bow as the startled Murray turned his head, Thomas removed his tricorn hat.

"Commander," he said, "I beg your pardon, but I simply must avail myself a dance with this most striking of ladies." Thomas paused to look up into the glowering eyes of his old friend. "By your leave, of course?" he added with a smile.