Barbossa kept late hours. You had to do the stereotype properly, or you may as well hock it all in and become a lawyer.
It wasn't so much curiosity as much as glum, half-baked interest that led him to rummage in Lovehaste's pockets. He found what he thought of as a 'wimmin's pistol' (pearl-plated, small, dainty, absolute crap for defending yourself but excellent accessory with the right shoes), a handkerchief ruined by seawater, the shattered remains of a compact mirror, and an expensive leather wallet with nothing in it except a few corroded farthings and a little portrait depicting two women.
One of them was clearly Mariella Lovehaste- the eyebrow gave her away like a shot. Standing beside her was a babe of such unholy beauty Barbossa felt something hot and heavy stir in his stomach, and he was pocketing the picture before he could stop himself, whistling badly.
He glared at the sleeping Lovehaste, who was snoring with her mouth open. The babe had borne a familial resemblance to her. Perhaps… just perhaps…