“So. Where are we bound?” Lewrie asked, noting that their cabriolet had just passed through Charing Cross and was bound east for the busy, bustling Strand. “Saint Paul’s for a long kneel-down, and a homily-long prayer from young Reverend Blanding? It appears Westminster Abbey’s out. We’ve long passed that.”
“Don’t know about that part, but you’re dinin’ with ’em at that splendid chop-house in Savoy Street you went on and on about, and thankee for tellin’ me of it. I, on the other hand, will coach on home for my townhouse, then dine with a lady I met at the levee, and a most handsome mort she is, too! You’ll beg off for me, will you, there’s a good lad.”
“What? Don’t tell me ye made progress with that auburn-haired wench that quickly, with her ‘lawful-blanket’ there!” Lewrie gawped.
“Not her … a ‘grass-widow’ whose husband’s regiment’s been posted to the Kentish coast, in case Bonaparte does manage t’get his army cross the Channel. Aha!” Sir Hugo cried as the carriage neared Savoy Street. “Coachman, draw up here, so my son may alight.”
“What? What the Devil…?” Lewrie carped.
“You can whistle up another conveyance once you’ve eat, right?” Sir Hugo said as the assistant coachee got down to open the kerb-side door and lower the folding steps.
“I’m saddled with the Blandings, alone, while you…?” Lewrie fumed.
“Your friends, not mine,” his father said with a snicker, tapping his walking-stick impatiently to force Lewrie to alight.
“I can always count on ye, Father,” Lewrie said once he was on the pavement, heaving a long-suffering, resigned, and I-should-know-better-by-now sigh. “You will always let me down!”
“Ta ta, lad! Bon appétit!”
* * *
Lewrie had changed to light wool breeches that fit more comfortably and a sensible pair of shoes with gilt buckles for his evening out. Lord Percy Stangbourne had swapped slippers for highly polished cavalry boots. “Don’t I look dashin’ and dangerous, hey?” he’d hooted, showing off his elegantly tailored uniform, in which he did look very dashing, indeed, and revelled in it.
Lydia Stangbourne came gowned in a champagne-coloured ensemble that surprised Lewrie with its lack of translucence. Oh, its under-sleeves were sheer, but it was not as revealing as young ladies, and a fair share of older ones, preferred these days. The top of her gown began almost at the tips of her shoulders, and it was delightfully low-cut in the bodice—a grand sight, that, though Lydia was not amply endowed—but her gown was rather conservative compared to the rest of the women who dined at Boodle’s. She had seemed happy to see him, and during the coach ride her face had been animated and nigh girlish. Once there, though, that softness had evaporated, and Lydia had worn almost a purse-lipped pout, a royal “we are not impressed” expression.
The Stangbournes—Percy particularly—seemed to be regular customers at Boodle’s, for their party had been greeted with the enthusiasm usually associated with the arrival of a champion boxer or jockey. Liveried flunkies took their hats, walking-sticks, or cloaks with eagerness to serve, and even before they had left the grand foyer for the main rooms, flutes of champagne had appeared. A dining table had been awaiting their arrival, but it had taken nigh ten minutes to reach it, for their entry had turned into what felt like a royal procession. All the young and “flash” sorts, and a fair number of older ladies and gentlemen, had simply had to come and greet them with much beaming, bowing, hoorawing, curtsying, and tittering; so many Sir Whosises and Dame Whatsits, Lord So-and-Sos and Lady Thing-Gummies, being introduced to Lewrie—and so many japes and comments passed between them and Percy—that he had felt quite overwhelmed … and, after a bit, irked to stand there like a pet poodle and listen to subjects he knew nothing about sail round his floppy, fuzzy ears! And have them scratched now and again, like “Ain’t he a handsome hound, now!” tossed at him.
Another thing that had irked him after a while: scandalous or not, Lydia Stangbourne still drew admirers and “tuft-hunters” by the dozen. He’d lost count of how many young fellows he’d met and shaken hands with, all of whom had looked him up and down and had seemed to dismiss his presence as a potential rival; they all seemed to be civilians, of course, elegantly, stylishly garbed.
And, once returning to their own tables, laughing at him behind his back, sneering at him for a jumped-up inarticulate “sea-dog,” not worthy to be in their select company! His ears had begun to burn.
Lydia had sported that bored, pouty look, as if raised to play “arch,” though she had smiled briefly when greeting admirers and had chuckled over their jests. What the bloody Hell was I hoping? Lewrie had thought…’til Lydia had shifted her champagne glass to her left hand and had slipped her right arm into his. Hullo? She bein’ kind? he’d speculated, imagining that she had sensed his unease and was just playing the polite hostess, as a duty to ease the “outsider’s” nerves!
Once seated, though, she had turned lively, smiling and laughing and seeming as rapt as her brother as Percy dragged tales of derring-do and battle from him, an explanation of his “theft” of those dozen slaves, and the fleet actions he’d participated in. Given a chance to preen, even to a small audience, Lewrie had begun to feel more at ease, as the supper progressed, keeping things light and amusing.
“And are you married, Sir Alan?” Percy had asked. “Even though I hear that many sailors don’t ’til they attain your rank. Was Dame Lewrie unable to attend the levee this morning?”
“My … my late wife, Caroline, was murdered by the French two years ago,” Lewrie had sobered. “We’d gone to Paris, during the Peace of Amiens, a second honeymoon, really…”
“Good God above, why?” Percy had demanded, his mouth agape.
“You poor man!” Lydia had exclaimed.
“The shot was meant for me,” Lewrie had told them, laying out how he’d angered Napoleon Bonaparte by presenting him captured swords in exchange for the prized hanger Bonaparte had taken from him after blowing up his mortar ship at Toulon on 1794.
“You’ve met the Ogre?” Lord Percy had further cried.
“Only twice, and neither time was enjoyable,” Lewrie had said, having to explain that first encounter long ago, and how he’d refused parole and had had to surrender his sword, to remain with his men and the Royalist French with him, who surely would have been slaughtered on the spot, had it not been for the arrival of a troop of “yellow-jacket” Spanish cavalry to whisk them away to safety.
“Don’t know if it was really me and the dead Frogs’ swords, or something else that rowed him, but, he set agents and troops to hunt us down and kill us. We almost got clean away, almost into the boat, but, some French marksman…,” Lewrie had tried to conclude, but all the memories had come flooding back, and he had stopped, chin-up and his face hard.
“My most sincere apologies for broaching the subject, sir … but, to have been face-to-face with the Corsican Tyrant, the Emperor of all the French, well!” Lord Percy had cried, much too loudly, and had proposed a toast, again much too loudly, to Lewrie’s honour. And, by the time for dessert, port, and cheese, the same people who had been introduced once had come to their table for another round of greetings, their names and faces just as un-rememberable as the first time.
Then, with supper done, Lord Percy would not take “no” for an answer ’til they’d made the rounds at Almack’s, and at the Cocoa Tree too, to show Lewrie off and name him to everyone they knew as the hero who had bearded Bonaparte twice, and lived to tell the tale!
Lewrie began to feel like a prize poodle, again, for a whole other reason!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lewrie wished he had begun to play-act yawns and beg off after Almack’s, but there he was in the Cocoa Tree, one of the fastest gaming clubs in London, nodding, bowing, and smiling (a tad forced by then, his smiles) to yet another parcel of simpering “hoo-raws.” Percy was dead-set on entering the Long Rooms to find a game, and Lewrie had to follow along.
“Do you
care for a flutter of the cards tonight, Sir Alan?” he asked, craning his neck to find an empty chair and a game he liked.
“I’ve really no head for gambling, mil … Percy,” Lewrie said with a grin and shake of his head. “Got my fingers burned and learned my lesson before I went into the Navy.”
“Are you sure you’re English, sir?” Lydia teased, tossing back her head to laugh, her arm under his once more. “Why, wagering is the national disease!”
“Got cured of it,” Lewrie told her, chuckling.
“I wager the wagers Alan makes against the French are deeper than any I’ve ever made!” Lord Percy hooted. “Wager wagers, hey? Well, you two can support me whilst I take a risk or two. I say, there’s an opening for vingt-et-un. Smashing!”
“Keep your head, Percy,” Lydia cautioned her brother. “You’ve taken on nigh your daily half-dozen.”
“A gentleman who can’t manage half a dozen bottles of wine per day is no proper gentleman, Lydia,” Lord Percy scoffed. “She’s of a piece with you, Alan … do the stakes near an hundred pounds, Lydia’ll go all squeamish and quaking. There must’ve been a miser in the family tree long ago, and she inherited, ha ha!”
“Let us know whether you’re winning or losing large, Percy,” she told him with a wry tone. “Scream or groan, and we’ll come running to your rescue. Captain Lewrie will surely join me for more champagne?”
“By this time o’ night, I’m about ready for a pot o’ tea,” he had to admit to her, feeling well and truly “foxed.”
“Now I know you’re not English, Captain Lewrie!” Lydia teased again. “There must be a West Country Methodist, or a Scottish Calvinist, in your family tree.”
“Well, my mother’s family is from Devonshire,” Lewrie quipped.
“A pot of tea, then … with Devonshire cream,” Lydia decided, smiling most fetchingly, and with lowered lashes.
They found a comparatively quiet corner table in the outer public halls, and ordered tea with scones and jam, which didn’t even seem to faze the waiter; odder things had been called for at the Cocoa Tree.
Over several restoring cups, which cleared some of the fumes in Lewrie’s head, Lydia led him through his background; how his mother had died in childbirth, and Sir Hugo had come back to take him in.…
“That Willoughby?” Lydia almost gasped. “The ‘Hell-Fire Club’ Willoughby? Good God, Sir Alan, he’s almost as scandalous as I!” She laughed in delight, then lowered her head to peer hard at him, cocking her head over to one side. “Do you take after your mother, now, or do you take after him? Do you share his proclivities, even my less-than-good repute might be in jeopardy!”
“Just a simple sailor, me, Lydia,” Lewrie japed.
“You’re aware … my divorce and all that?” she asked intently.
“Father told me a bit, this afternoon,” he admitted, shrugging. “Sounds as if you got saddled with the Devil’s first-born son.”
“He was, and he is,” Lydia told him, looking a bit relieved by his answer, “and I’m well shot of him. You have children?”
And Lewrie had to explain how both his sons were in the Royal Navy, and how Sewallis had managed to forge and scrounge his way into a Midshipman’s berth, which much amused her. His daughter, Charlotte, well … “She’s with my brother-in-law and his wife in Anglesgreen. Never heard of it? Halfway ’twixt Guildford and Petersfield, a little place. Best, really. My father’s country place is there, but there’s no one to care for Charlotte … even if Governour thinks it was all my fault, our going to Paris, and Caroline’s murder, and … the last I saw of Charlotte, over a year ago, she blamed me, too.”
“You don’t have a seat, yourself?” Lydia asked, her voice going a touch cool for his lack.
“Caroline and I were her uncle Phineas’s tenants. We ran up a house, built new barns and stables, but, after her passing, I couldn’t stand the place … all hers, d’ye see … and then Uncle Phineas decided that my other brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, and his new wife needed a place of their own, and turfed me out, so he could sell it to Burgess’s new in-laws, the Trencher family,” Lewrie explained. “Now, my father’s place is home … do I ever get a chance t’go there, what with the war and all. Twice the acres, twice the house, even if Sir Hugo opted for a one-storey Hindoo-style bungalow. Rambles all over the place, and even has an ancient Celtic hill-fort tower, later a Roman watch tower, he’s partially rebuilt. Mine, when he passes, but—”
“Lydia, darling Lydia!” a man interrupted, coming to loom over their table. “Pardons, sir,” he added, very perfunctorily, as if the presence of another man was of no concern, and good manners were not necessary. “How delightful you look this evening, my dear!” the gallant continued. “The colour of your gown makes you simply ravishing!”
“Why, hullo, Georgey,” Lydia rejoined, turning arch and bored-sounding once more, extending her hand to be slobbered over. “Alan, may I name to you George Hare. Georgey … allow me to name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet,” Lydia said, pointedly using Lewrie’s Christian name, and Hare’s diminutive.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Hare replied, tossing off a brief bow from the waist before turning his attention back to Lydia.
“Yer servant, sir,” Lewrie gruffly responded, striving for the blandest note, as if the fellow made no impression, though he felt an urge to slap the interloper silly, or demand what the Devil he was doing by intruding. Damme, does she know everyone in London? he fumed.
“Lydia, my dear, have you given consideration to my invitation to Lady Samples’ supper party on Saturday? It will be ever so gay an affair … music, dancing, and écarte?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot attend, Georgey,” Lydia said with the weariest drawl, drawing back her hand. “Percy and I thought of going to the country for the weekend. Some time en famille, n’est-ce pas?”
“Well, perhaps a brisk canter through the parks before then,” Hare suggested with a hopeful expression.
“We shall see, the weather permitting,” Lydia said, all but feigning a yawn. “I can promise nothing.”
“Ehm, well … does it not rain, I’ll send a note round,” the fellow pressed, knowing he was being snubbed but determined not to show it, and stubbornly determined to arrange a meeting with her. “Yer servant, sir … your undying, humble servant, Lydia,” he said, bowing himself away.
“Such an unctuous, beastly boor!” Lydia huffed once he was gone. “Can he not see how heartily I despise him? My apologies, Alan. Your grand night should not have been interrupted by such a toadying, money-hunting … oily pimp!” she all but spat, her face fierce with anger.
“I gather his sort turn up rather a lot?” Lewrie said, feigning an amused grimace, though he wasn’t much amused; it had been irksome!
“Some more subtle than others,” Lydia told him, making shivers of disgust, then smiling faintly. “My mis-fortune at marriage … that is the reason I dread re-entering that particular institution,” Lydia said with a head-cocked shrug before peering intently into his eyes. “Though try telling that to all the swaggering jackanapes who can’t imagine a woman who won’t swoon at the sight of them! To be single, I am thought un-natural … a condition only cured by throwing my self, and my dowry, into some new man’s dungeons! To be re-enslaved!”
“Then don’t,” Lewrie told her with a grin. “Enjoy your life.”
“Georgey Hare’s one of the worst,” Lydia went on, stunned for a second by Lewrie’s bald directive. “His family’s decently well-off, and he’s a thousand per annum, so he can play at the law.…”
“I don’t like attorneys, much,” Lewrie japed. “Except when in need o’ one.”
“Oh, let us speak no more of Georgey, or his slimy ilk,” Lydia said with a huff of exasperation, slumping into her chair and looking pouty-sad. “I know!” She perked up, instantly turning mischievous and leaning over the table towards him. “Do we wait upon Percy, it will be dawn before he leaves the Long Rooms. Winning or losing, he can’t
be dragged away by a team of bullocks! Will you trust me, Sir Alan, to find some place more amenable to quiet conversation?”
Could we really be “aboard”? Lewrie devoutly wished to himself, amazed by her daring. “God, yes!” he quickly agreed.
“Then let us go,” she said, determined.
* * *
“Are you … comfortable, Alan?” Lydia asked in a whisper as she lay beside him, her head propped up on the pillows and her forearm.
“Most comfortable,” he told her, stretching and sighing blissfully, half-turned towards her with his right arm under her pillows. “And damned grateful, thankee very much!”
Her long dark blond hair was down, and her grin was impish and infectious. By the light of a single candle on the night-stand, her green eyes sparkled like emeralds as she regarded him, as if inspecting him for warts. She grew sombre for a moment.
“I mean … are you comfortable with your … estate in life?” she amended, waving her free hand in the air. “Do you aspire to…?”
“D’ye mean t’ask if I aim for wealth?” he countered, sitting up a bit. “Never gave it much thought, really. No, really!” he insisted to her moue of dis-belief. “Look … I’ve my father’s house and land when he passes, and he came back from India a ‘chicken-nabob,’ so I’ll not have t’go beggin’. In the meantime, there’s my Navy pay, and I’ve been more fortunate than most when it comes to prize-money. There’s a goodly sum in the Three Percents, inherited plate, jewellery and such, and a tidy sum at Coutts’. I’m not after yer money, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. Aye, I’m ‘comfortable,’ as ye say, Lydia. ‘On my own bottom,’ as the Navy says. Do you fear I am?”
“It’s what I fear from every man,” she confessed, cuddling up onto his chest to drape herself atop him.
“Well, the proof’s in the pudding, as they say,” Lewrie said, a bit miffed that she would even ask, though he still stroked her bare back and shoulders with delight. “Of course, that’d require that you’d allow me t’know you better.”
The Invasion Year Page 21
