A King's Commander (20 page)

“You're in the brothel business?” he yelped in alarm. “That's as good as saying we
both
are! Now, hold on just . . .”

'Course, everyone I knew in the early days said I'd make a hellish grand pimp, he recalled, somewhat ruefully.

“Non, non,” she countered heartily. “Sell, on'y ze furnishings. For
monnaie,
an' some wine. Wine, I sell to ozzers, at profeet. You'
officiers Brittanique,
mos'ly. Forgive
plais,
Alain,
mon coeur,
but . . .” She sobered, almost biting her lip shyly. “Mos' of zem, zey are 'aving
très monnaies,
but are . . .
les folletes—
ze leetle fools? Pay any sum I as' for zere port an' claret. An', zey mus' 'ave clubs,
hein?
Where officers go, when zey wish to be
amusant?
Zey need furnishing grande for zose,
aussi! An',
so many gowns, an' jewelry I 'ave tak' in trade. Officers mus' 'ave zere courtesans . . . and courtesans mus' 'ave pretty gowns, or jewelry. Or ze les follettes, zey buy
for
zem, from
moi.
”

“So, we're . . .
you're
running a secondhand shop for whores and such,” he stated flatly.

“Non!” she declared, aghast, and suddenly losing her gay confidence and pride. “To shop, on'y, Alain, never to . . . I s'ought you be 'appy, zat I do so well. Zat I mak' ze 'ome beautiful, an' eet cos' you nossing!” She began to blubber up, her pouty little lower lip beginning to tremble. “I . . . I s'ought you be
proud
of me!”

“Phoebe . . .” he crooned, abandoning his champagne to take hold of her before she fled in tears, to slide her down onto his lap where he rocked her and stroked her like a heartbroken child. “There there, don't take on so, my girl. Of
course,
I'm proud of you. 'Bout pleased as punch, don't ye know! You're a marvel, so clever, so enterprising . . .”

Hold on there, he thought, though: let's not trowel it on
too
bloody thick! I still don't know what people think of this place. Or my association with it!

“It's just such a surprise, that's all, Phoebe.
Ma cherie,
”
he told her softly, cradling her head on his chest. “Aye, you
have
done a miracle with this house! I'd not recognize it. And so tasteful! Grand as the Walpoles, grand as the richest house ever I've seen back home in England! But I thought I'd be coming back to our . . . to you, my girl . . . and our little hideaway, where we could be private and intimate. Cozy and pleasant, hey, like you said? And I find people crawling about underfoot, jam-packed to the deck heads with stuff like a chandlery, too damn' busy a bustle, bad as the 'Change back home. And some of 'em not the elegant sort you should—a
lady
should—be knowing. Now, where is our privacy in all that, hmm?”

“Ees jus' . . .” Phoebe hiccupped, snuggling closer even as she dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. “You' Prize Court . . . zey tak' so
long,
an' eef I mak'
monnaies
zen you non worry 'bout eef you can afford me, Alain!
Merde alors,
eef I lose you, what is zere for me to do? Become ze
putain,
again? Non. Never again,
mon amour!
”

“Phoebe . . .” he gentled, stroking her back. Touched, though, to his heart by her concern for him. He plucked a dainty, gauzy silk handkerchief from the bosom of her elegant gown and began to dry her tears.

“Someday,
oui . . .
”
she whispered, turning her face up to his to be gentled. “You go 'way to sea, return to Englan'. Or, we grow tired of each ozzer? I
pray
zat do non 'appen for
très beaucoup ané, mon amour!
All zese I do, so you 'ave nossing to s'ink about but 'ow much you love me, 'ow much I love you! An' 'ow 'appy we are. Zose zat come 'ere . . .” She sniffed, taking the handkerchief for a vigorous swipe at her nose. “Zey non shame you, Alain . . . or
moi.
Zey do non come to trade wiz ze leetle 'hore 'oo 'ave e'spensive s'ings,” she swore, all but making the sign of the cross over her heart.

“Non, zey s'ink zey deal wiz
émigré royaliste
from Toulon. Our 'ouse ees non ze salon, or ze
maison public.
Ze courtyard, on'y, ees market. Non 'ere, in 'ouse. Oh, la, I store gowns an' jewelry, in ze ozzer bedchamber, for
sécurité, mais . . .
I do non entertain! An' I am non for sale, ever again, Alain! Eef I mak'
monnaies, honestly . . .
zen I am 'ave
sécurité
so I
never
'ave to sell myself to men, ever. Give to a man I love, wiz all my 'eart,
oui . . .
but, never sell.”

“Dear God,” he whispered, in awe of her. “Forgive me for rowing you, Phoebe. Forgive everything I said, or thought. You really are a wonder. A bloody knock-down wonder!”

“Oh, Alain!” she relented, flinging herself upon him once more, this time shuddering with relief, her tears turning to ones of restored joy.

And
a poser,
and
a puzzle, and God knows what else, Alan thought, damned well relieved, himself; but above all, girl . . . a sweet, cunning little . . . entrancing dear'un!

C
ontessa!”
the street vendor greeted her from his flower cart. Followed by some liquid Italian, and the offer of a nosegay of local blooms.

“Contessa?” Lewrie frowned anew. It had been the sixth time in their short evening stroll that he'd heard the word, but the first that he'd associated it directly with her.

“Zey call me zat, Alain.” Phoebe shrugged, a bit too artlessly, and with too much nonchalance, though she could not hide her blushing.

“Why is that, exactly?” he inquired, striving for an equally offhand air.

“I do ze bus'nees wiz zem, loan ze
une peu monnaies,
so . . .” She blushed again. “A lady cannot be
padrone, hein?
Zat ees for men. I 'elp 'eem buy donkey for 'ees cart, an' now 'e pay me back, wiz 'ees profits,
oui?
Like
ze
padrone
does,
mais . . .
”

Several gentlemen and their ladies, out for a stroll of their own, bowed or curtsied to them—to her, specifically—in the next half block, doffing their hats. Fawning over her, chatting away mostly in Italian, making raving sounds over the miniature portrait of Pascal Paoli that hung on a gold chain about her neck.

“Zey are
patriotes,
Alain,” Phoebe said, blushing even more prettily. “I tell zem where I fin' eet, an' zey wish to purchase,
aussi.
”

“Don't tell me you paint 'em in your spare time,” he teased with a droll expression. “Assumin' you have any, that is.”

“Non, non
moi,
Alain.” She grinned impishly. “Une of my cousin, 'e ees
artiste,
in Bastia. 'E do ze portraits, 'ave ees own shop. 'E 'ave now three ozzers work for 'eem. 'E sen' zem to me, I sell for 'eem, place orders for more. For on'y ze
une peu, petite
commission,
n'estce pas? Mon Dieu merde alors . . .
'e
ees kin!”

She'd already explained to him, long before, on the intricacies of Corsican kinships. Which were pretty much on a par with a

Scottish clan, with commerce of the most cutthroat kind thrown in. Immediate family, down to distant cousins, came first; second was clan loyalty; then God and Church, with Self coming in a poor fourth, usually. One obeyed the family
padrone,
then the feudal lords of one's extended clan, who, it seemed, were forever feuding with each other as bad as Capulets and Montagues in Shakespeare's
Romeo and Juliet.
Blood was always answerable in blood, and they had longer memories, and grudges, than an entire pack of abused hounds. The
vendetta,
they called it.

Paoli, everywhere he looked, it seemed, too. Portraits, names of children, names of shops and favorite horses. Troop a large painting or effigy of Pascal Paoli through the streets, and one might imagine the Second Coming—or a Saturnalia, with one and all kneeling in tears or hosannahs like Roosian serfs did to their icons, or their masters. Hero, Saint, Liberator, Caesar—all of them, was Paoli, in the Corsican mind.

“Hmmf!” Phoebe sniffed suddenly, turning her head, and turning up her nose in remarkable imitation of a grand dowager who'd just delivered the “Cut Sublime” to some mountebank on The Strand back home.

“What?”

“'Eem!” She sneered, inclining her head toward a party farther down the street. “Zat Messieur Jheel-ber' Elliot of you's.”

“He's viceroy of the island, Phoebe, representing our good King George,” Lewrie told her patiently. “What's he done to you?”

“Alain,” she rejoined, scandalized and reproving, “'e ees tyrant!
Mon Dieu merde alors,
Corsica fight ze Genoese hun'erd year, to be independent. Genoa give Corsica to France, an' zen Signore Paoli lead us in fight
zem
for year an' year.”

“And back in King George the Second's reign, Corsica offered to become English, as I remember. Sign the whole island over to us,” he countered.

“
Oui,
to rid us of Genoese, so we non become part of France, be free!” she argued.

“Wait a moment.” He scowled, perplexed again. “
You're
French!”

“Papa was Français, Maman was Italian,
mais . . .
Alain, I am
Corsican,
you see? An' now, you' Messieur Elliot, 'e will mak' us British, wiz monarch. Like you' Scotland . . . poor relation? When what we wish ees to be Corsica independent. Papa come from France, so long ago, 'e was Corsican. Maman be born 'ere, in Italian clan, but she was Corsican firs',
hein?
Say Corsican, non Français or Italiana. You' Elliot, 'e say we mus' 'ave king an' parliament, but mus' be
Corsican
king an' parliament, we say. An' zat ees
quel dangereux . . .
'oo ees king, what clan. Ooh la,
you s'ink you see vendetta
now . . . !
So,” she summed up with another snooty heave of her bosom, “ze man 'oo open zat box belong to Pandora, zat man ees ze fool
grande!
”

“But not Republicans,” Alan hoped. “Mean t'say, if you don't have a king, you might as well be like those anarchist Americans. Or the French, these days.”

“
Mon Dieu,
Alain, non!” Phoebe chuckled. “Oo ees say ev'ryone ees egal, zat ees stupeed! People are non born e . . . equal, ever. 'Ow you 'ave
padrones
an' clan lords, eef paissans conardes be jus' as good as ze noblesse? Zat ees
seelly
idea!”

Add perplexing to the list, Alan thought of his earlier appraisal of Phoebe Aretino; paradoxical . . .

“I 'ope you 'ave ze appetite
grande,
Alain, ze cuisine 'ere ees so ver' good!” she urged, changing subjects, and moods, as quick as the mercurial little minx she was. “Non Français, but Corsican!”

The Ristorante Liberatore, with a portrait of Pascal Paoli for its centerpiece, of course, was packed with diners and doing a stock-jobbers' business. But a table was always
reserved,
it seemed for “la contessa bella” Aretino. And, with much smacking of lips, kissing of fingers, crooning “oohs and ahhs!” of welcome joy—along with an occasional smacking of a forehead—they were led to that table that had a commanding view of the harbor and docks, as well as the rest of that crowded dining room, on a slightly elevated upper terrace. And, as they made their way to it, several of the more fashionable diners paid Phoebe “passing honors” with even more glad cries, some almost groveling at her feet in gratitude for some earlier favor. Her hand was kissed and wrung so often Alan thought she seemed more like a Member of Parliament on the hustings, right after he'd trotted out the free gin and roast beef for purchased votes!

Hell of a welcome, he thought, for a little slip of a girl.
And
a retired courtesan, he could not help himself from adding; there must be somethin' Latin in that, surely. God, what a country!

With an almost regal air of true nobility, Phoebe smiled and inclined her head, responding to their greetings, before allowing a squad of unctuous waiters to seat her. And grinning, her eyes alight, gleeful as the cat that ate the canary, over her newfound adulation.

“Oh, there's some poor fellows can't get a table,” Alan pointed out. “Damme, it's Nelson and Fremantle.” Lewrie allowed himself a tiny smirk, to think he was being treated like a prince consort to a queen as Phoebe's companion, while those two distinguished senior officers were forced to idle in the entryway, pretending with the patience of Job that they weren't famished. Or humiliated. Or almost reduced to groveling or bribery to gain a table, and a meal.

Captain Nelson raised a hand to his right brow, of a sudden, and winced as if in mortal agony, pressing his palm to his eye like he was trapping a persistent Corsican fly. Captain Thomas Fremantle left off scowling at one and all to turn to him, solicitously. And Alan could almost read their lips, as they debated whether to stay or to go.

“Zose officiers, Alain,” Phoebe said as their first wine arrived, a fruity, sparkling blush-pink strawberry something. “Zay are you'
compatriotes, oui?
Ze poor man, 'e ees suffer ze
mal de tête,
per'aps? We should let zem join us. Eef you are willing.”

“Of course,” Alan responded quickly. “This heat, and all. Why, he must be wilting. And, they'll starve to death, else.”

Phoebe summoned a waiter who bowed to hear her whispered command, then quickly dashed off to invite the two officers to join them.

“Grateful,” Fremantle explained as they shuffled their seats so Nelson didn't have to face the sunset glare off the bay. “Awf'lly. An hellish crowd, hey? Settle for a bread stick . . .”

“Captain Horatio Nelson, Captain Thomas Fremantle, allow me to name to you . . .” Alan began, grinning impishly as he continued in the spirit of the evening, and the sentiments of the town, “. . . la Contessa . . . Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino? Contessa . . .” He gave her a quick conspiratorial wink, “Captain Horatio Nelson of the
Agamemnon,
and Captain Thomas Fremantle, of the
Inconstant
frigate.”

“Messieurs, enchanté,”
Phoebe replied, with another slight incline of her head, as if speaking from a throne to acknowledge lesser barons. Where'd she learn all
this,
so damn' fast? Lewrie wondered to himself. “You appear-ed so, uhm . . . 'ow you say, indispose, Capitaine
Nelson? Ooh la, I trus' you are well, m'sieur.”

“My infinite gratitude for your most gracious invitation,
mademoiselle,
” Nelson rejoined, trying to be sociable even as he seemed to suffer another tiny spasm. “A trifling wound I received the other day.”

“Trifling,” Fremantle countered with a snort. “Ha.”

“Weeks ago,” Nelson discounted with a dismissive wave as their waiters returned with more wine, and actual written menus, “Middle of July, actually. I must say . . . this, uhm,
ristorante
is so certain of their supplies they can print their fare, 'stead of chalking it up by the day? Incredible.”

“Ah,
oui, m'sieur
Capitaine
Nelson,” Phoebe answered gaily, and Lewrie suspected, one of those on the island who had a hand in assuring those regular supplies; what
didn't
she have her hand in by now! he wondered. “You will fin' ze fare ees limit . . . limit-ed? Local
ordinaire,
on'y,
n'est-ce pas, mais . . .
you will fin' eet consistent. An' all ver' tasty, Corsican cuisine.”

Odd, Lewrie thought; I'd have thought Nelson was the sort to play up a tale of honorable wounds. Seen him posture and prose before, now, ain't I? To Alan's lights, though, Nelson didn't look particularly cut up. No limp, no bandages . . . a bruise or two, some scabbed-over cuts on his face. Must
have
been too trifling, he concluded; else we'd be sitting deathwatch by his bed, to watch the hero pass over.

“Pardon me for discussing ‘shop in the mess,' as it were, sir,” Lewrie said, “but I must own that my curiosity has the best of me . . . you both have been up at the siege-work. 'Tis rumored the French are almost ready to give in. I was wondering if there was any truth to it.”

“Pray God that will be so, Commander Lewrie,” Nelson said, with some heat. And with what almost sounded like a croak of uncharacteristic gloom. “Aye, soon. They simply must, do you see! They're short of almost everything, by now. Save powder and shot. As I learned to my cost,” he added, with a faint, deprecatory grin. “Our parallels have been advanced nigh to musket shot of their walls, and our batteries are dominant over their artillery, at last. General Stuart is confident of their surrender within the week. Failing that, an attempt against them might, well . . . a final assault might have to wait, for a time.”

“Horrid sickness,” Fremantle supplied as Nelson faltered, like a watch spring run down. “We've, what . . . barely two thousand men now? And half of them down, half the time. Bouillabaisse, hmm? Some sort o' fish chowder?” Fremantle wondered, after pondering the menu. “Oysters . . . they might be in it, d'ye think? Like an English meal, back home?”

“Aye, sir. More a brothy fish stew, but
some
oysters,” Lewrie informed his superior, hiding his smirk at how provincial most English gentlemen were away from home, how wary they were of unfamiliar dishes. And how un-English he sometimes felt, to delight in the exotic and new.

“Might I offer a toast, sirs.” Lewrie grinned, raising his wine. “To our foes, the French, sirs. May they be similarly afflicted. And confused.”