The Baltic Gambit l-15

by Dewey Lambdin

  Well, there was Theoni Kavares Connor, the rich widow and mother of his bastard son. She seemed to turn up wherever Lewrie sported, at least twice a week, and made it quite plain that since he had so much time on his hands, with his wife estranged from him and safely off in the countryside (and how the Devil she'd discovered that? Lewrie had to wonder) they should partake of a passionate rencontre, and Lewrie was not quite sure why he hadn't leaped upon her slim, wee body, and those glorious tits of hers, yet… there it was. Shiverin' guilt, most-like, he told himself; or lingerin' fear o' gettin' caught out.

  Equally maddening and mysterious was Eudoxia Durschenko. With Daniel Wigmore's so-called Peripatetic Extravaganza (read circus cum theatrical troupe) in winter quarters 'cross the river in Southwark, the girl was free to explore London, too, and, maddeningly, was simply everywhere Lewrie had gone! Did she have a spy network worthy of Zachariah Twigg's, or the Secret Branch of the Foreign Office?

  Did he hire a prad to take an icy, but bracing, ride in a park, there Eudoxia Durschenko would be on her magnificent trained stallion, Moinya, from her circus act. Did Lewrie attend a subscription ball, she was there, too, dressed in the height of fashion. At Ranelagh Gardens, Covent Garden, theatres in Drury Lane, shopping in the Strand, gawking at rarees and street performers, and pursued by a clutch of rakehells and hopeful swains, especially at those midnight champagne suppers.

  With her exotically dark, curly hair and high-cheeked, almond-eyed features and full lips, and those intriguing hazel-amber eyes of hers, Eudoxia Durschenko would have been the belle of the season, no matter her class or origin, and even the latest fashionable colours of puce, lavender, purple, and all set well upon her graceful form; even those sofa-pillow "Pizarro" hats looked cunning atop her head.

  In point of fact, was he forced to choose between Eudoxia and Theoni Connor, Lewrie would have plumped for the exotic Russian girl, hands down… assuming he could wedge himself into her circle of admirers without looking like a total fool or moonstruck cully. Assuming Eudoxia's constant chaperone would let him.

  Unfortunately, her father, Arslan Artimovich Durschenko, was at her elbow constantly. Fetching as she was, desirable as she was, her father had once intimated that Eudoxia was still a chaste young maid, and he was determined for her to remain virginal, even if he had to kill the first half-dozen young lechers who got within whiffing distance of her perfume!

  It did not improve Eudoxia's romantic odds that her father was just possibly the scariest, and ugliest, patch-eyed old devil Lewrie had ever clapped his "top-lights" upon. The Durschenkos claimed Cossack origins, so both were expert riders, but Arslan Artimovich could swing a sabre with the best of them. His previous circus act, before the pan of a rifled musket blinded his right eye, had been that of a marksman with any sort of rifle, musket, or pistol, and the recurved Asian bow and arrows-from horseback, standing in the stirrups, standing on the horse's bare back, hanging like a Red Indian under its belly or its neck… the act that Eudoxia now so ably performed. After the accident, he'd turned lion-tamer and kept four of the beasts, grown from cubs to huge, rangy adults. Arslan Artimovich was also able to substitute at the knife-throwing act.

  He was, in fine, so menacing and scary that Blackbeard and his pirates would have pissed their breeches in dread of him! It must be admitted that Arlsan Artimovich certainly gave Lewrie the "squirts"! He had to admit, though, that the risk of his life to her papa's vengeance, or his lions, just might be worth it.

  "Kapitan Lewrie, zdrazvotyeh… how good to see you again!" Eudoxia had gushed the first night he'd "crossed hawses" with her in the lobby of a theatre. She had swept in from the cold, swathed in a sleek, long fur overcoat with hood. Soon as she had carefully removed the hood from her artfully styled hair, she had boldly crossed to him and offered her hand to be kissed, a regal yet eager smile plastered on her face, and her eyes alight with glee. "My bold Kapitan Lewrie! I was so relieved you are ac… acquitted. My English improves, yes?"

  Buzz-hum of talk as he took her hand in his: "That's 'Black' Alan Lewrie, don't ye know"… "Princess Eudoxia from Wigmore's circus, begad! What a stunner!"

  "Indeed it does, Mistress Durschenko," Lewrie had purred over her lace-gloved hand. "It is my pleasure to see you again, as well. You are enjoying London?" he had asked, lingering a trifle longer in his bow as she dropped him a fine curtsy; her gown was low-cut, and revealed a promising pair of poonts!

  "It amazes me, Kapitan," Eudoxia had declared. "Pooh. You do not use my name?"

  "Eudoxia, aye," Lewrie had said with a sly smile, one that she matched, until they both heard a bear's deep warning growl, making him wonder if Jose was there with his dancing bears, Paolo and Fredo. But it was Arslan Artimovich.

  "You remember Papa, Kapitan?" Eudoxia had said with a roll of her eyes and a minx-ish grin.

  "Arslan Artimovich, sir," Lewrie had responded, letting go her hand (rather precipitously, in point of fact) and turning to bow greetings to her father. "Delighted to see you well, sir. Your servant."

  "Kapitan Lewrie," the old cut-throat had rumbled, arms akimbo to spread the wings of his own fur coat, revealing a flashy blend of Eastern and Western garb; a fur cap on his grizzled locks, a double-breasted tail-coat made of royal blue wool over a cream-coloured Russian silk shirt that buttoned up the side of his neck; a scarlet waist sash (fortunately, no sign of daggers or pistols shoved into it, God be thanked!), buff-coloured snug trousers, and tall top-boots (minus spurs). "You still alive," Arslan Artimovich had added, sounding as if he was rather surprised… or was pointing out a temporary state, dependent upon Lewrie's behaviour. He smiled… evilly.

  Lewrie had tried to continue a conversation with Eudoxia after that, just long enough to not seem ungentlemanly, or cowardly, for he had felt a strong urge to toddle off to greet some others. That was hard to do, though, for there came from the glowering Papa Durschenko a constant raspy whisper consisting of fondly recalled Russian phrases such as "Peesa," "Sikkim Siyn," "Tarakan," "Nasyakomayeh," and that old favourite, "Gryazni sabaka"!

  What could one do when a lovely girl's father called you Prick, Sonofabitch, Cockroach, Insect, and Dirty Dog? All in stone-heavy Cyrillic letters that sprayed the parquetry like blood from a cut throat!

  "You know, o' course, that callin' an Englishman such things is cause for a duel," Lewrie drawled to Papa Durschenko.

  "Then choice of weapon is mine," that worthy off-handedly replied with a menacing hiss and a broad grin of expectation.

  "Papa! Stoi! Stop insulting Kapitan Lewrie!" Eudoxia scolded. "Is boorish. Ne kulturny," she said with her nose up. Evidently, she had come a long way from her childhood Cossack village, or her family's nomadic yurt, for all Lewrie knew of her early years. Eudoxia mightn't be a grand actress, but her "turns" with Dan Wigmore's theatrical troupe had taught her how to play-act well-born hauteur. Her top-lofty air put her papa in his place; all he could do was utter an inarticulate "Grr!" and, for a moment, share with Lewrie a frustrated look over his willful daughter's new ways.

  There was a sudden commotion at the doors to the theatre lobby, with the crowd parting like the sea at a warship's cutwater, with men in royal livery leading the way, the grand fellow in the very front waving a long staff in the bored manner of palace courtiers. "His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales," the gaudily clad fellow in a powdered wig intoned in an equally bored manner, and the clench-jawed, nasally tone of the uppermost Oxonian. Men bowed and ladies curtsied deeply, all heads lowered as the Prince swept in, one hand languidly waving to one and all, with a faint smile on his phyz, and a nod to some he recognised. Well, there was also a flirtatious glint, perhaps even a wink, to some of the prettier ladies, though the heir to the throne acted as if his heart wasn't really in it. 'Til he espied Eudoxia, that is.

  "My dear," the Prince of Wales murmured, stopping before her.

  "Ah… em?" from the stunned Eudoxia as he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

  "Stunnin'," from the Prince.
"Seen you ride and shoot, what? We were most impressed."

  "Spasiba, em… thank you, your… highness," Eudoxia replied in a stutter, like to faint, yet reddening with pleasure.

  "Yob tvoyemant" from her papa, and Lewrie discreetly took hold of his arm before he reached out to strangle the fellow.

  "Fascinatin', hey?" the Prince of Wales asked of one of his simpering courtiers, cocking a brow significantly. Lewrie realised that his courtier looked to be making a mental note to himself, nodding to the Heir as if he caught his meaning. He'd be up 'til dawn, discovering where she lodged, when she rode in the park, and what her favourite colour was.

  Royalty bestowed upon her a departing nod, a fond smile, then glided on to the stairs to his reserved box.

  "Doh!" Eudoxia said under her breath, employing her fan for its real purpose. "God Above!"

  "Who is pasty fellow?" Arslan Artimovich growled.

  "The Prince of Wales… heir to the throne?" Lewrie explained. "One day, he'll be George the Fourth. A great'un for the ladies, it's said," Lewrie slyly added, hoping that Papa Durschenko would lose sleep worrying over a rakehell royal, instead of him.

  Sure t'God, there's some nice jewelry headed her way, Lewrie thought with a well-repressed snicker; If the King lets him, that is.

  "God damn kings and princes," Papa Durschenko darkly muttered.

  "I wouldn't say that too loud, were I you," Lewrie warned him. "Paneemahyu?" he added, using one of his very few words of Russian. "Englishmen take a very dim view of people insulting their rulers… even pasty-faced princes. Calls himself 'Florizel,' don't ye know," he imparted in a whisper. "Wants t'be everyone's friend. Young women, especially."

  Which information incited another "Grr!" from Durschenko.

  "Well, I'll take my leave of you, sir… Mistress Eudoxia," Lewrie said with a grin, emulating the Heir and taking her hand to be kissed. "I'm off to my seat, and I hope you enjoy the show. Perhaps we may run into each other for a cold collation and some champagne?"

  "Grr!"

  Leaving it at that, Lewrie had toddled off, leaving Eudoxia to her moment of glory, and the greater adulation from her many admirers, despite what her papa wished!

  CHAPTER TEN

  The second week of Lewrie's enforced idleness passed much in the same fashion as the first, but with a lot less relish on Lewrie's part. His last rencontre with Theoni Kavares Connor had turned out to be rather embarrassing, in the vast rotunda of Ranelagh Gardens, of all places. She'd been importunate and a bit of a shrew, all but demanding that he pay court to her, and Lewrie, never one to appreciate being pressed in a corner, and with only the lamest of excuses as to why he had not yet dropped by, namely that his new stature as a Publick Hero would not let him act as he had in the past-"Respectability, and all that, Theoni," he had claimed, which sounded stage-y even to his ear!-hadn't set all that well with her.

  Hissed like a bloody goose guardin' her eggs! Lewrie had told himself at the time; And like t'peck my shins an' flog me!

  Theoni's seething, barely controlled anger, then her tears, had made a nasty scene for the crowd in the rotunda, and sent Lewrie on a less-than-dignified trot to get away from her. Thankfully, for the last three days, he hadn't run into her anywhere, after that.

  He still slept in late, but he didn't stay out quite as late in the A.M.S as he had the first week. Fear of her, he concluded. So he haunted the Madeira Club's library, which contained rather a respectable collection of books, and the Common Room, with its cheery fireplace and comfortable leather sofas and chairs, was a grand place to read up on all the latest editions. Mind, none of them particularly salacious or interesting; all followed the modern concept of Edifying, Uplifting, and Useful, or completely unworthy to the nineteenth-century gentleman. And damn Priestley, Bentham, and the whole lot of Reformers, Lewrie stewed as he found most of them hard slogging.

  He was all but nodding over a book as mystifying as any done by Milton when a club servant ahemmed into his fist and handed Lewrie a note.

  "Ah? Hmm," Lewrie said as he opened it, fearing that Theoni'd run him to earth at last, and wondering why there was nothing on the outside of the folded-over paper to show who had sent it. "Christ!" he muttered once he had it open, for it was from Zachariah Twigg.

  My dear Capt. Lewrie,

  A matter has just yesterday arisen which, I am sure, will prove to be of the greatest interest to you. Should this note find you in your lodgings, and not absorbed in your amusements, do, pray, join me at my club, Almack's, for dinner at One of the clock. My man will await your prompt reply.

  Yr Obdt. Servant

  Twigg

  It was worse than Theoni finding him, worse than Eudoxia dashing into the Common Rooms nude, with her father and his lions in hot pursuit and out for Lewrie's blood. It was Twigg, damn his eyes!

  When'd he ever call me "dear"? Lewrie cynically thought; And he just had t'get at least one shot in, 'bout my "amusements." Oh, this could be hellish-bad. Who does he want me t'kill? And Almack's; he couldn't remember if that particular club was Tory or Whig, and if it was, did it really say anything about Twigg's personal politics? At least Lewrie knew that Almack's set a splendid table, and Twigg would be footing the bill, so…

  "Pen and paper, please," he told the club servant, "and I think there's a messenger laddie waitin'?"

  "There is, sir. I'll fetch them directly," the servant said.

  "So pleased to see you, again, Lewrie," Zachariah Twigg said in what could be mistaken for a pleasant tone, almost purring with social oils, as it were, as he extended a long-fingered, skeletal hand to be shaken. "So pleased you got off. And, have been granted some time to re-acquaint yourself to the joys of London life. Cold enough for you?"

  "Thankee for your invitation, sir," Lewrie replied, civil enough on his own part, but still wondering whose throat those fingers had strangled lately. "Not as cold as it was last week, no, but still chilly."

  He felt like gawking at his plush surroundings, for he had not been inside any of the grander gentlemen's clubs in London, except for the Cocoa Tree, or one of the others that featured the hearty sort of revelry and gambling open to non-members, and folk of both sexes after dark. He felt like a "Country-Put" yokel just down from somewhere very dreary, and shown into Westminster Cathedral, for Almack's was a grand establishment indeed, done in the finest, and subtly richest, taste.

  "Something warming, perhaps, Captain Lewrie," Twigg suggested as they strolled into a large library with many sofas and chairs. "A brandy for me, Hudgins."

  "Yes, sir. And for you, sir?" the distinguished-looking older servant asked in a fair approximation of a courtly Oxonian accent.

  "Kentucky whisky," Lewrie requested, a brow cocked in fun, just to see if Almack's stocked such spirits.

  "Would Evan Williams suit, sir?"

  "That'd be splendid," Lewrie replied, impressed even further.

  "A quiet corner, over there, ah," Twigg said, pointing out one grouping of furniture near the tall windows at the far end of the room. The tall and cadaverous Twigg led the way, swept the tails of his coat clear, and took a seat on one end of a sofa, while Lewrie settled for a wing-back chair nearby.

  "Cold, that's the bugabear, Lewrie," Twigg said in a petulant, business-like rasp. "Enough cold to keep the Danes', Swedes', and Russian fleets laid up in-ordinary, and unable to sail. The Thames here in London is already thawing below London Bridge, and the rest of the river is open to shipping. The passages into the Baltic are free of ice, and time is of the essence."

  He promisin' me a command? Lewrie thought with spurred hope, of a sudden; That'd be of great int'rest t'me, like he wrote!

  "I've met some other officers who know some who've served in the Russian Navy, sir," Lewrie told him. "Frankly, they don't sound so formidable… conscript crews, and all, and limited sailing seasons in which t'work their people up to competence. In the Baltic, at least."

  "Quite true, yet… with the Russians combined with the Danes… as doughty fighters
as the Dutch, and the Swedes with a very competent navy, things could get rather dicey, should they put to sea together. Their numbers would be daunting."

  "So were the Spanish at Cape Saint Vincent," Lewrie scoffed. "I think 'Old Jarvy,' and Nelson, put paid to them, despite their numbers."

  "You know that Bonaparte is behind all this," Twigg said with a sniff and a thin-lipped look of asperity.

  "Anything to take pressure off France, and force us to squander our own advantages far afield, aye," Lewrie contentedly answered as he was handed a crystal snifter half full of amber bourbon, as Twigg got his own snifter of brandy from a silver tray. Both took a moment to swirl their drinks, study the "legs" of evaporating alcohol which resulted, and sniffed deep, as over a fine wine. Only after their first sips did Twigg continue.

  "It's rather more devious than that, Lewrie," Twigg pointed out. "Does this so-called Armed Neutrality no longer recognise our right to stop and search their ships for contraband or materials of war, denying the existence of a blockade unless there is a Royal Navy warship off every bloody little piss-pot of a port, and limiting their concept of contraband to weapons, shot, and powder, Napoleon gets everything that he needs but cannon, round-shot, and powder with which to rebuild his own navy, and equip an even larger army, to the detriment of every nation in Europe… including us. Do but consider all that is exported from the Baltic, Lewrie… ''

  Oh God, he's lecturin' his worst student! Lewrie thought with a silent groan; Hark t'this, stupid!… have ye the wits t'do so!

  "Flax, and woven linen for sails," Twigg counted off with the fingers of his free hand, pontificating, as was his wont. "Pine timber for masts and spars, tar, pitch, rosin, and turpentine with which to maintain ships, not to mention fibres for ropes and cables."

  Ye did mention it, didn't ye, Lewrie scoffed to himself.

  "As well as the raw materials for gunpowder manufacture," Twigg said on, almost running out of fingers by then, "and the wool for uniforms, the leather from Russia's vast herds of cattle for boots, shoes, saddles, and harness, and soldiers' accoutrement pouches and belts… ''