“Maybe you should have,” Lewrie said, laughing.
“T’other girls’d complained about him, an’ after I told ‘Mother’ Batson about that, she told him he wasn’t welcome no more, thank God,” Tess said with a forlorn look for a moment. She took a pensive bite of her sandwich and slowly chewed.
“Not the sort t’take ‘no’ for an answer, though, I take it?” he asked.
“Bob an’ them say they can spot him, lurkin’ in th’ street most nights,” Tess said with a shiver, “him an’ his ‘man.’ I haven’t been able t’go out with ‘Mother’ Batson, since.”
“They let you out?” Lewrie enquired, imagining the possibilities.
“This house don’t keep no slaves, Cap’m Alan,” Tess bragged. “If we need t’go shoppin’, see a show or somethin’, ‘Mother’ will take us, with a couple o’ th’ burly lads, o’ course. We can’t be stylish, elegant, nor fetchin’ in th’ same ol’ clothes all th’ time. We’re closed of a Sunday, o’ course, and wot ‘Mother’ calls ‘dark’ on Mondays, just like th’ theatres. Used t’be an actress, ‘Mother’ was.
“Would ye like t’meet me away from here sometime?” Tess coyly teased. “Come t’yer lodgin’s? ‘Mother’ lets us, does she trust us.”
“I don’t think the Madeira Club’d admit ladies, even were they proper wives,” Lewrie said with a chuckle of amusement.
“That’s where ye lodge, is it?” she whispered. “No matter, for there’s so many hotels an’ taverns with rooms t’let. I’d walk out with you, Cap’m Alan . . . even does that mad Roosky bastard follow us all th’ way. I’d be safe with you.
“Fact o’ th’ matter . . . ,” Tess cooed, leaning her head on his shoulder, putting an arm round his back. “There’s gentlemen, an’ there’s real gentlemen, like you, an’ do I have my druthers, I’d be with you fer tuppence, an’ leave an earl fingerin’ his purse. I like you, Alan Lewrie. An’, ’fore God I like th’ way ye bed me . . . like ye care, do I feel. . . .” Before he could begin to pooh-pooh that notion, Tess was kissing him again, this time lightly, fondly . . . almost dreamily. Even with bread crumbs on her lips, it was . . . sweet.
“We’ll see about walkin’ you out,” Lewrie told her, putting on a wide, amusing grin, “once we know this Russky bastard’s no more threat to you, hmm? I know some people,” he hinted darkly. “For now, though . . . could I reserve you for all tomorrow night?”
“Ye could come early for th’ supper, an’ all!” Tess gaily said, all but clapping her hands; though Lewrie sensed a false note to her enthusiasm, as if she was secretly disappointed that he’d not squire her about in public, not right away, at least. She looked him over a bit, as if sizing up the heft of his purse, the status of his accounts. Perhaps she’d read the tracts or newspaper articles, which had touched on his long string of captures, and the scent of much prize-money. . . .
Don’t care what she says, she ain’t givin’ it away for free! he cautioned himself; She’s most like schemin’ for a place of her own, an’ me her only patron, and I can’t afford that . . . poor, hopeful thing.
“ ’Tis only three guineas, th’ ev’nin’,” she told him, her head cocked to see how he reacted to that, “with champagne an’ vittles late at night, like now, extra, o’ course.”
“I’d call that a toppin’ bargain!” Lewrie cheered, giving her a hug. “What time should I be here for the supper?”
“Starts at seven,” Tess told him, looking relieved and pleased. “I’ll be all prettied up for ye. More makeup than now.”
“You don’t need false artifice, Tess,” he declared. “You’re as handsome as any ever I did see, just the way you are.”
“La, ye’re th’ gallant man.” She chuckled. “Go on with yer fine self. ’Long as ye prefer me so, though . . . ‘’
They finished their sandwiches, drained the last drops from the champagne bottle, and slipped back under the covers, her robe spread on the top of the blankets and coverlet. London’s church bells rang two in the morning, and Lewrie yawned, his eyes beginning to feel gritty.
“Ye wish t’sleep now, Alan?” Tess asked, about half out of it herself. “ ’Fore that . . . could ye lock th’ door, again, an’ slide th’ chest t’block it? It’d make me feel safer,” she asked in a wee voice.
He borrowed her too-small robe for a moment, went about the cold room snuffing candles, sliding the chest before the door and locking it with the key, then slipped back into bed with her. She came to him to drape across him as he embraced her; a hard squeeze from him, another from Tess, and a happy sigh in the dark after he’d snuffed the candle on the night-stand as she nuzzled and burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder.
Half-drunk, nigh fucked out . . . yet, Lewrie thought, head swimming. No, all he wanted then was to sleep for real, sleep warm with a warm girl next to him. A girl who was already breathing with her lips parted on his shoulder. Give it a rest, he chid himself; give her one, too. There’s always t’morrow mornin’ . . . and t’morrow night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
What the bloody Hell am I gettin’ myself into? he asked himself after breakfast at the Madeira Club, a somewhat hot bath and a change of clothes, a shave, and a half-hour tussle with Toulon and Chalky in his rooms; after they’d gotten over their sulks that he’d not spent the night in his own bed, he was beginning to feel human again.
Much refreshed, Lewrie trotted down to the Common Rooms to give the newspapers a gander, nodding good mornings to the other lodgers. He requested a cup of coffee, then picked among the pile of dailies that his fellow clubmembers had already read. He picked The Morning Post first, looking for Mrs. Denby’s “Tattler” article, though it was hard to find.
Newspapers crammed items together much like a stew; onions next to broth, meat sunk beneath the oatmeal. The type font style and size was unvarying, with only the briefest separation ’tween the end of one and the beginning of the next, each headed by only the vaguest notices as to what each contained, with nothing standing out and shouting its importance; all, of course, intermixed with advertisements of the same sort, with only the rarest, and expensive, wood-cut illustration. One usually saw illustrations only in penny-tracts and pamphlets, not newspapers. One thing stood out, though . . .
“Jesus Christ!” Lewrie yelped as he got to the middle of the first page. Despite the ink smudges caused by previous readers’ hands, he could make out that the government had fallen!
The Prime Minister, William Pitt (the Younger, he was called, as opposed to Pitt the Elder, now Earl of Chatham, his father who had preceded him in that office), had resigned! “Twigg was right,” Lewrie muttered. “He really meant it.”
The Morning Post speculated that a new government would be formed by Lord Addington, who would assume the office of Prime Minister at once. The King would request him to form a new cabinet which, The Post assured readers from their sources, would contain the Earl of Elgin as the new Lord Chancellor, Lord Hawkesbury as Foreign Secretary, and Lord Hobart would replace Sir Henry Dundas as Secretary of State for War.
“Admiralty . . . Admiralty,” Lewrie hungrily growled in impatience. He scanned down the page, flitting from line to line—stumbling into an advertisement for ladies’ hats before jumping to the top of the next column. “ ‘Old Jarvy,’ by God!” he chortled as he found the speculated name. “I know him . . . and he don’t despise me! Pray God he serves!”
Admiral the Earl St. Vincent, Sir John Jervis prior to his victory and elevation to the peerage, had been in command of the Mediterranean Fleet since 1797, then in command of Channel Fleet, since. Only one drawback stood in the way of “Old Jarvy’s” acceptance of the office; he had been at sea for bloody years on end, in all weathers, and might be so broken in health—he was no “spring chicken,” as Lewrie’s North Carolina wife could colloquially say—that he’d rather come ashore to retire, not take on responsibility for the whole Royal Navy.
Lewrie almost gnawed a thumb-nail in fret, wondering whether he should wri
te him that very morning, and send the letter to Portsmouth before Jervis even decided, or, whether to send it to Admiralty, hoping it would be the first thing the man opened and read upon taking charge. A letter to Portsmouth might cross Jervis’s path, and miss him; one to Admiralty might get shuffled into the bottom of a vast pile of correspondence, if not outright tossed in the dustbin by a departing secretary, for the principal two secretaries to Admiralty kept their lucrative government posts at the pleasure of the First Lord, and the current head of the Navy, Lord Spencer, had no love for Lewrie; of that he was damned sure.
Get my best uniform sponged an’ pressed, for later, Lewrie decided, realising that haste would serve no purpose; And, get the cat-hairs off.
He moved on to The Times, The Chronicle, The Gazette, and The Marine Chronicle; the only copy of The Courier was last evening’s and would have nothing to offer. All of them seemed to have spoken to the same anonymous sources in government, and cited the same names of new ministers expected to form the new government.
The Times speculated even further as to why Pitt had resigned. It was over Catholic Emancipation, of course. Public office, seats in Commons, military or naval commissions required adherence to the established Church of England; Catholics and Jews were barred from holding offices. Muslims, Jains, Hindoos, perhaps even some of the oddest of the Dissenter sects were barred, as well, for all Lewrie knew. People in the Army’s ranks could rise to Sergeants-Major, people in the Navy could rise as high as Boatswain, or hold Admiralty Warrant, whatever their faith, but to hold command posts, well . . . ! Pitt and the King had come to logger-heads over it, and King George’s stubborness had won. As Defender of the Faith, the King would brook no innovations in time of war against a heathen, pagan, anti-religious foe such as the Republican, Levelling French.
“Just as well,” Lewrie grunted to himself. “No place in the gun-room for Whirlin’ Dervishes, or even home-grown Druids . . . with or without paintin’ themselves blue. Damme.”
His hands, his fingertips were nigh-black with ink smudges, and his coffee was cold. “Uhm, Spears . . . a fresh, hot coffee, and a wet hand towel, if ye please.”
He (gingerly) returned to The Morning Post, delving further into it, past the front page, in search of something labelled “Tattler.”
“Aha!” he chortled when he found it, buried on page six. Court doings, scandals, upcoming Bills of Divorcement rumoured ’twixt unhappy spouses—mostly for adultery, which would make such salacious reading in the near future; there were publishers who would obtain the transcripts and print them up for sale as mild pornography for those who got their jollies from such accounts.
Last night in Ranelagh Gardens there occurred a contretemps between one of our Naval Heroes, mentioned prominently in the news of late, and a wealthy lady of Greek extraction now residing in London, engaged in the overseas currant trade . . . ‘’
Now there was a slur; Trade was not a gentlemanly endeavour and for a woman to run such a business was even worse a mortal error to Society’s mores, even were she English-born, and to be Greek, well . . . !
Oh, Mrs. Denby had done him proud, Lewrie decided after finishing the article. Tears, a hint of a scandal, false charges of paternity, with prominent note taken of Lewrie’s supposition that her late husband had quickened the child in question, and those letters sent in jealous spite . . . perhaps by a mad woman! Confrontation before her doors, loud protestations of condemnation for her actions . . . Theoni was, Lewrie smugly thought, ruined in London! Mrs. Denby had even interviewed last night’s witnesses for anonymous comment after he’d gone, as if to spread jam—currant jam—on this particularly savoury duff. Outraged amusement was the carefully selected consensus opinion, with much sympathy for the “un-named Naval Hero” and his tortured wife, and nothing but loathing and revulsion for the perpetrator!
His fresh coffee came, and a wet hand towel with which he wiped his fingers. A moment later, another club servant approached with a note. Lewrie flicked it open, noting the initials TKC pressed into the wax seal. It was from Theoni, in her own hand for once, not the maidservant who’d penned her poisonous letters, so the English syntax was a little hard to follow.
Beg for forgiveness . . . leave Caroline for her? he read in silent astonishment; Good God, the woman might be truly mad! Think about “our” son, mine arse!
“There be a reply, sir?” the servant softly asked, coughing into his fist. “There’s a messenger waitin’.”
“No, no reply,” Lewrie snapped, crumpling the note in his fist.
He sipped his coffee slowly, a tad worried (it here must be noted) that Theoni might sue him for paternity; she certainly had the money to do so, and that would mean the rest of his life tied up in Chancery Court, where lawyers made bloody millions off the carcasses of their clients! Would she dare risk exposing herself, and the boy, to public certainty, instead of rumours and guesses about her identity?
Hadn’t thought o’ that, Lewrie ruefully mused; But it seemed like a hellish-good idea, at the time. Christ shit on a . . .
“Another note, sir,” the same servant said with another cough.
“Bloody . . . !” Lewrie fumed, tearing this one open.
I did not imagine you to be quite so clever, sir, to expose your tormentor so quickly and adroitly. In celebration, might you dine with me at the chop-house in Savoy St. and The Strand at One O’clock? There are certain Considerations anent your actions that must be discussed, as well as the amazing news of the Change in Government. Please reply.
Twigg
“Meanin’, he thought of lawsuits before I did, damn his blood,” Lewrie muttered, scowling at the clock atop the mantel, then at the waiting servant. “The gentleman’s runner is waitin’? Good. Tell him that I’ll be pleased to accept the invitation to dine at the time and place proposed.”
“Very good, sir.”
By God, I do get tired o’ runnin’ t’Twigg t’save mine arse, he thought, squirming ’twixt dread, embarrassment; Who knows what I’ll end up owin’ him? My first-born son? Patrons’re s’posed t’be nice people!
BOOK 2
Surge et adversa impetu
perfringe solito. Nunc tuum nulli imparem
animum malo resume, nunc magna tibi
virtute agendum est—
Up! And with thy
wonted force break through adversity. Now
get back thy courage which was ne’er unequal
to any hardship; now must thou greatly’
play the man.
—LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA
HERCULES FURENS, 1273–78
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Momentous news,” Mr. Twigg simpered, dabbing his lips with his napkin as the soup course was removed. “I told you Pitt’s administration would fall. It was only a matter of timing, do you see. And to resign over such a trifling matter, too.”
“I’m sure Catholic Emancipation was close to his heart,” Lewrie said. “God knows why. Perhaps he’d only sold the Act of Union to the Irish with such a promise. And what he’d promised to his own faction for them to back it . . . ,” he added with a shrug.
“Which promises to his own faction he most certainly could never keep, either,” Twigg interjected with a faint, thin-lipped smile. “They assuredly knew that Emancipation was a bootless endeavour from the very start, and shammed their support for it, knowing that the King’s opposition to it would be its undoing. And Pitt’s.”
“Maybe he was just tired,” Lewrie said.
“Or, looked to be at the end of his tether to his contemporaries . . . those hungry for his place, and higher positions,” Twigg said with a sardonic cock of one brow. “The old and sick king-wolf always succumbs to the pack, in the end. Torn to shreds, his throat ripped out by the younger and stronger.”
With his bemused smile Twigg looked as if he liked his simile, and would be partial to witnessing such an event. He’d always been a cold, bloodthirsty sort when necessary.
“Well, I am certain you
r odds have improved, Lewrie, with Jervis as First Lord of the Admiralty,” Twigg breezed on as a waiter carried in some nicely browned squabs on rice.
“Depending on who serves him as First and Second Secretary, and how they feel about me,” Lewrie pointed out.
“I do believe that Sir Evan Nepean will stay on,” Twigg told him. “As will Marsden as Second.”
“Then I’m still up t’my neck in the quag,” Lewrie groused.
“Speaking of . . . ,” Twigg said with a twinkle in his eye. “I suppose you’ve given your letters to the lady in question a thought.”
“Hmm?” Lewrie replied, a glass of sauvignon blanc by his mouth.
“No, you haven’t,” Twigg said with a heavy, disappointed sigh. “Is Mistress Connor of a mind to get revenge in court . . .”
“Chancery, most-like,” Lewrie gloomed.
“Ahem! As I said, is she of a mind, and, has she saved all your letters to her over the years . . . as I strongly suspect she has . . . then they could prove to be damning evidence that the affair was mutual, and that you are the father of her bastard. Protestations of lust, love . . .”
“I ain’t that stupid!” Lewrie shot back. “Learned that from my father. Never put anything in writing ye don’t wish made known later. Especially when it comes to women! False-promise, broken troths, belly pleas, and all that? Far as I can recall, I was chatty and pleasant, but I never made any sort of claim the boy was mine.
“Well, I might’ve asked of his health and progress, just as I did about her first-born,” Lewrie added. “Family friend or god-father to the git, nothing more than that.”
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