The Baltic Gambit

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Tess, this is, ah . . . no names are necessary, are they? But he is one of our naval heroes,” Mrs. Batson (for surely it must be she) airily said by way of introduction. “Sir, this is Tess, new-come with us by way of Belfast. Not quite English, as you said, but now that we are all British, hmm?”

  “Honoured t’meet you, Tess,” Lewrie said, rising to greet her, to give her a short bow from the waist.

  “Yer servant, sir,” Tess replied, dipping him a graceful curtsy.

  “Will ye join me in a glass of champagne, my dear?” Lewrie bade.

  “The gentleman requests the rest of the night, Tess,” the older woman said in a soft coo, to which Tess gave a grateful, relieved grin. “I leave you to your pleasures and amusements, Tess . . . sir. Do take joy,” Mrs. Batson wished them, then glided away.

  Lewrie took the girl’s hand and led her to a seat on the settee, then sat down beside her. A second later, the manservant was back with a fresh tray of glasses of champagne for them both.

  New-come to us, mine arse, Lewrie cynically thought; Sweet and young she may look, but . . . they might’ve sold her virginity to one o’ the highest bidders, the last six months runnin’!

  She was pretty, though; not painted up or tarted up with artifice, for she had no need for rouge or paints. Pretty in a country way, like a maidservant to a rural squire’s house, a goose-girl or milking maid one might meet in a village on market day.

  She had a nice oval face with a high forehead, a quite cute nose, and a smallish mouth, with a bit of an overbite that gave her face the sweetest seeming innocence. Her eyes were dark-green-hazel, and her sandy-brown hair, with the faintest hint of strawberry red, was parted missishly simple in the centre of her head, gathered loosely with ribbon at the nape of her neck, and fell in long, lazy curls, with a few wispy strands either side of her face.

  “Well, I s’pose I could reveal that my first name’s Alan, without spillin’ any Crown secrets,” he said, grinning, by way of beginning.

  “And ye’re really a Navy officer?”

  “A Post-Captain,” Lewrie confided.

  “Whatever that is, sir,” she said, with another shy grin.

  “Warships are Rated,” Lewrie casually explained to her. “Now, Admiral Nelson’s new ship, the San Josef, which he made prize at the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent years ago, is a First Rate of ninety-eight or an hundred guns.” He stretched his legs out a little and put one arm on the back of the settee, shifting to face her. “Anything below the Rates, a Lieutenant may command, or a Commander, but when you get to a frigate of the Sixth Rate, with more than twenty guns, that’s what Admiralty calls an official ‘Post’ ship, and only a full Captain will command her. Hence . . . ‘Post’ Captain. I’ve had two frigates so far, Proteus was a Sixth Rate of thirty-two guns, and my last was Savage, a Fifth Rate of thirty-six guns.”

  “Oh, an are ye goin’ t’th’ Baltic with Admiral Nelson, then?” Tess enthused, shifting more to face him, too, “Will ye be beatin’ th’ BeJesus outta th’ Roosians, and such?”

  “Speakin’ o’ Crown secrets!” Lewrie scoffed, almost hooted, in point of fact. “Why, everyone in England—and ev’ry enemy spy!—must know that, by now. But, no . . . I’m without a ship, at present. I had t’give up Savage before Christmas. There were some . . . civilian things t’see to ashore, so another captain has her now. Damn his eyes.”

  “Ooh, I think I know who ye are!” Tess whispered excitedly, and squirmed a little bit closer still, almost jouncing on her bottom in sly glee. “Damme if ye’re not that Alan Lewrie wot’s been in all th’ papers, are ye not!”

  “Guilty . . . of that, at least,” Lewrie confessed with a teasing touch of his finger to her lips, then to his own with a shussh sound.

  Gettin’ bags o’ use from that ’un, he thought; Guilty . . . or not! Dined out on it for weeks. Ha-bloody-ha.

  “Yer secret’s safe with me, Captain . . . Alan,” Tess teased, in return. “Mum’s th’ word.” They clinked glasses and drained them and waved for refills as the girl wriggled even closer, under the arch of his arm, with her warm hip and thigh against him. “Don’t know as I’ve ever . . . been introduced to a real hero before. Oh, officers an’ such from some regiment or t’other, or so they claimed, but . . .” She checked herself with a pretty moue, a shrug, and a toss of her hair, as if talk of previous clients was discouraged by “Mother” Batson and those bully-bucks of hers. After all, the illusion was the thing.

  “Soldiers, by God,” Lewrie sneered. “Pack o’ cod’s-wallops, the lot of ’em. They buy their commissions, whilst Navy men have to work t’gain ours.”

  At least he assumed that Tess was talking about gentlemen officers, not the sweaty rank and file. Mrs. Batson’s didn’t look like the sort of establishment that would have private soldiers or Ordinary Seamen in, even on Boxing Day. More to the point, Lewrie hoped that Tess had dealt with “well-armoured” gentlemen in the past.

  “You stick with naval gentlemen, they’ll see ye right,” Lewrie told her, with a grin and a bit of a rising leer.

  “Uhm . . . like you, Captain Alan?” she asked, coyly inclining her head, bestowing upon him another of those shy and fetching smiles, her lips parted slightly.

  “Care to discover the diff’rence, Tess?” he muttered, cocking a brow, and suddenly very aware of the heat and closeness of her body and the scent of her perfume, and her fresh-washed hair.

  She took a deep sip of champagne, eyes turned away as if studying his proposal, seeming somewhere ’twixt solemn and wryly amused . . . then looked back at him, smiled shyly once more, and slowly nodded.

  “Let us go up to your room, then, Tess,” he said, winking.

  “Aye, let’s,” she agreed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Her room was three storeys above the street, beyond the grandness of the lower staircase, where marble was replaced by solid oak, and the carpetting was more worn. Tess lit them up with a single candle in one hand, and Lewrie’s in her other. They went down a wide and gloomy hall, only lit here and there with a sole candle on a table, or one or two mounted in wall holders.

  There was a final door at the right of the hallway, which Tess opened. Beyond it, instead of a good-sized bed-chamber, there was yet another passage, much narrower, which forced them shoulder-to-shoulder as she led him past a door to either side, then an equally narrow cap to the T, which presented a final pair of doors. The one on the right-hand side was slightly ajar, and Tess preceded him into the room beyond, tiptoeing and hesitant.

  Ambush, here? Lewrie had to worry for a moment as he followed, quickly peering about for the sight of a bully-buck with a lead-loaded leather cosh, or a whacking-thick cudgel.

  “More light, Captain Alan?” Tess asked. “Or, d’ye prefer th’ dark?”

  “At least one or two more candles . . . for now,” he said, satisfied that he would not be bashed on the head and robbed. Yet. As she ignited more candles with her first one, Lewrie could see where he was.

  There had to be four smaller rooms carved out of the original large bed-chamber, he deduced, the new walls and passageway made up of plain deal partitions, though painted white with the impression of fine mouldings just painted on, like stage scenery. The wall to his right was substantial plaster, still wallpapered. The one ahead of him was also papered, with a set of dark and heavy drapes covering a window. . . . He crossed to it with difficulty, squeezing between a chest-of-drawers and the foot of the bed to pull the drapes apart and look out, down to Panton Street far below. He let the drapes fall back together, for it was cold, the panes frosted and semi-opaque. Come to think on it, the room was chilly, too, and he couldn’t imagine what they’d done with the fireplace that should have warmed the larger, original room.

  Now that he could see, Lewrie took in the bed, fairly close to the draped window, then to a taller old-style night-stand on the other side, where his requested bottle of champagne stood chilling in a pail filled with slushy snow, aside two fresh glasses. There was
a folding screen set out from the deal partition they had passed through, on the floor beside it a storage chest, and, against the middle wall, by the chest-of-drawers, stood a wash-hand stand with a pitcher, towels, and two bowls.

  “They charge extra for the candles, do they?” Lewrie asked her with a wry chuckle.

  “Oh, nossir,” Tess told him with a little laugh of her own as she finished lighting the requested candles. “Now, d’ye wish t’have a fireplace, those rooms there, an’ there, t’ones we passed comin’ in, well . . . th’ established girls get those, ’less ye put in a request t’ Mother Batson.”

  “Didn’t know,” Lewrie said with a shrug, peeling off his coat. “Where does one . . . ?”

  “There’s a row o’ pegs, yonder, sir,” Tess told him. She went to the row of pegs herself, quickly exchanging her lacy and revealing silk dressing gown for a heavier one of tan wool, wrapping it round her body with a shiver. Not so quickly that Lewrie couldn’t get an appreciative eyeful of her figure, despite the looseness of her chemise. It only came to mid-thigh, and, silhouetted by a fresh candle, the sight made him grin. She was girlishly slim in arms, back, and hips, with very shapely slim legs, right down to an alluring gap ’tween her upper thighs. Yum-bloody-yum! he thought in sudden lust.

  He went to the pegs, hung up his coat and waist-coat, stuffed his sporty paisley neck-stock into a pocket, and sat on the chest to tug at a boot.

  “Lemme help ye with those, sir,” Tess volunteered, kneeling to lend a hand. Lewrie stood in his stockinged feet and shivered. There was a set of small carpets on the floor, but they were old and threadworn, without a bit of give or insulation.

  “Maybe I should bring a dressing robe along, next time,” Lewrie said, hugging himself for warmth.

  “I can only wish ye think enough o’ me t’come a second time,” Tess teased, still sitting on her heels below him. “There’s a quilt t’wrap up in, do ye want.” She rose to her knees and placed a hand on the buttons of his breeches, looking up somewhere ’twixt shyness and flirtatiousness as her fingers found his mounting erection. “Might I help ye further, . . . Captain Alan?”

  Lewrie’s hand to the waistband buttons, hers working up from the bottom of the row, and he was free in a trice, breeches and stockings discarded atop the chest, and the boots, and the room’s chill a sensual thrill from the hem of his shirt to his groin.

  “Ye have ‘armour’?” she softly asked, her hands under his shirt, on the tops of his thighs. “They’ll not let us, without. Do ye not, I’ve a few in the—”

  “A round dozen,” Lewrie told her in a throat-constricted mutter as Tess’s hands slid up to his hips, bracketing his taut belly.

  “Saints preserve us, but I hope ye’ll spare me the use of all of ’em, arrah!” Tess said with a gasp of alarm, false or not, he could not tell. She dropped back to her heels, eyes wide.

  “The Green Lantern’s Best,” Lewrie assured her, offering her a hand. “Let’s get under the covers, then have another glass of champagne, me girl. Vite vite, as the Frogs say.”

  Out of her shoes, Tess was about four inches shorter than his five feet nine inches as she rose to her feet, and, with his hand in hers, quickly led him to the bed. He whipped the coverlet, blankets, and sheet back and they both jumped in, her heavy wool robe slung to the footboard, then the covers pulled up to her chin, the pile of pillows flounced up and braced behind their shoulders and heads. Lewrie reached for the bottle and the glasses, poured for both of them, then shifted to his side to face her, clinking his glass to hers once more.

  She took a sip, then leaned back against the pillows, sighing contentedly. “Never had champagne ’fore I come t’London, I never,” she told him, flashing her that rather sweet, shy smile again. “La, ’tis a grand thing, the ‘bubbly.’ ”

  “ ’Deed it is,” Lewrie happily agreed. “Why, a fellow captain I know, Benjamin Rodgers, couldn’t go to sea at all, did he not have at least three dozen dozen bottles in his lazarette store. Goes through it like a country squire sucks up ale,” he said with a hoot.

  “An’ here I thought goin’ t’sea was all misery an’ hard times,” Tess said, shifting to her side to face him, one hand propping up her head. “ ’Twas bad enough, just goin’ by packet from Belfast t’ Liverpool, and sick! I thought I’d die ’fore settin’ foot on hard ground. Whush! Sure, and it’d take a power o’ strong drink t’get me aboard a ship again. T’make such life even passin’ tolerable.”

  “It ain’t always that stormy, in the main,” Lewrie told her. “More good days than bad, really. The worst part sometimes is days on end o’ boredom. One week after t’other, exactly the same hum-drum and routine.”

  “And there’s dancin’ t’hornpipes, an’ all?” Tess asked, smiling and much more at ease than their first moments. “Shinnin’ up masts, an’ such?” she added, with a sly leer in her eyes.

  “Ye’d not ask me t’shin up a mast tonight, will ye, Captain Alan?” she asked with feigned dread.

  “Seein’ as how you’re a landlubber, not a ‘scaly fish,’ I don’t think I’ll put ya to the main-mast truck quite yet, m’dear,” he joshed with a grin and a throaty chuckle. He slipped closer, putting an arm behind her head, and she snuggled up to him, bringing welcome warmth and a heady mix of enticing aromas. “Perhaps I’ll start ya out on the mizen . . . only as far as the cro’jack yard.”

  “Ye haveta learn another tongue t’be a sailor?” she asked with a shake of her head.

  “We’ve our own language, for certain, Tess,” he agreed.

  “Ye’ll not be too rough an’ hungry, will ye, Captain Alan?” she asked in a soft voice. “Mean t’say . . . ‘’

  “I’ve simple, normal tastes, if that’s your question,” he assured her, feeling warm enough to undo his cuffs and slide out of his silk shirt. “Nor am I a brute. Mind though . . . it has been a long time. But, we have ’til dawn, or a little later, I’m assured. I doubt we’ll go through the whole dozen. But . . . ya never can tell, am I inspired?” he said with a grin. “And you are inspiring.”

  They sipped at their champagne, he faster than she, and set his empty glass on the night-stand. He turned back, and she was waving her empty at him with a bolder grin of her own.

  “Should I snuff some candles?” she asked as she slid down in the bed, sweeping her long hair to one side.

  Only three single candles barely illuminated the small room; it was all amber and gently flickering shadows. Now they were silent, he could hear what was going on in the other cubicles; the rhythmic thud of mattresses and the squeaking of slats or ropes, urgent grunts, moans, and throaty soft laughter.

  “Not right now,” Lewrie said, sliding over to hold her close, to kiss her throat, her shoulders, and nuzzle below and behind of her ears. He moved up to her forehead, her cheeks, and her chin, testing whether she was the sort of whore who’d kiss for real, or turn her head away to feign passion. His lips found hers, and they were very soft and sweet as she allowed him . . . then, after a few light, teasing kisses, parted her lips and met him, measure for measure.

  His free hand gently slid under her chemise to roam over her hip, and trail spider-soft down her thigh, then back up slowly, roving over the back of her leg ’til he could cup a firm, baby-bottom-soft buttock and stroke a circle; expanding wider to her waist. Tess shifted beside him, parting her thighs wide enough for him to put a leg between them, and feather his fingers from her waist to her belly, then down to her fluff. Her arms were round him, her kisses more urgent, and the musk of her breath intensifying. She slid a hand down to her waist-sash and undid the loose knot so he could tickle his hand up her back, above her waist, cross her rib cage, and slide the chemise up even higher.

  “Let’s have this off, sweetness,” he growled, helping her lift it free over her head, and she flung it away, with no care for where it landed, then flung her arms round his neck, beginning to moan kittenish as he buried his face against her neck and hair.

  “Oh, Captain Alan! Uhmm! Oh, yes,
ooh!” Tess whispered, her fingers in his thick hair. “Ah, that’s darlin’!”

  It was such a sham, almost enough to put him off for a moment, yet he was determined, almost challenged, to take her beyond the play-acting, before the night was done. One last open-mouthed bout of kisses, and he slid down her body to her breasts.

  Not all that large, yet soft and milky, and delightfully scented. His tongue rimmed her puffy pink areolae and nipples, smiling to himself as they went taut as he licked, flicked, and assayed a shuddery play-nip that made her moan a tad more authentically.

  Lower down, bestowing attention on her sides, her ribs, and she went onto her back, slim thighs parted further to make room for him when he got to her stomach, her belly, her navel, and Tess’s hips were slowly rolling and beginning to push up to him.

  “Ooh, ooh, ah!” Tess uttered as he gained the deliciously soft tops of her inner thighs, and she lifted her knees, shifting again and widening her legs as his hot breath stirred her corn-silk-fine patch of fluff, kissing her belly above it, and feeling her stomach shudder.

  If that ain’t real, then it’s one hell of a trick! he thought.

  To the seat of pleasure at last, tongue and lips on her cleft, and she smelt so clean, for a moment, before the musk arose, as Tess went from dryness to dampness, then to slickness as he pressed his face to her.

  There’d been a courtesan in his teens, then a Chinese whore in Canton, who had titteringly instructed him in how to pay attention to “the little man in the boat” . . . not just a brief visit, but a lengthy stay, . . . and the result he could conjure with what the Chinese girl had called “the hummingbird.” And damned if he would go anywhere else ’til he’d lit a proper fire . . . an honest fire.

  It seemed to be working, for Tess’s fingers clawed in his hair, at his scalp, her hips jouncing up in time with his tongue, panting in rhythm, and mewling soft yelps and urgent whines.