A King's Commander (44 page)

Now, this'un:

. . . patron travels to Leghorn and Florence on family and commercial affairs, and I must confess I have conspired to accompany him. Though once in the city we will be too little together most days, and a great many evenings, for he will be much upon the town and
so very busy,
while I languish. Many evenings he must attend the rich and prominent in their homes or at the theaters, accompanied by their wives and children, to which I am not invited though his hosts, being substantial men, covertly maintain their own convenient, pleasing, and similar “fictions”?

“Hmm, hmm, hmm!” Lewrie harrumphed, feeling a stirring, in spite of himself, in his nether regions.

Though our acquaintance has been so brief thus far, I am constantly mindful of you, and struck by how warm is my regard. How often I muse that after knowing you much better, I could not form a more perfect appraisal and appreciation of your fine qualities. Marcello will invite you ashore soon, to renew his budding friendship. Do please accept, so you and I may renew our own. Further, should the needs of your ship allow, you will then be free to call upon me while we are in Leghorn, or inform me of a shore residence you may use, so we may dine . . .

Would it not taste pretty much like lead paint or turpentine, he felt badly in need of a glass of something for “Dutch Courage,” at that very moment. To dine
intime,
well, well . . . just the two of us, alone?

Lewrie brooded, it must be admitted on his behalf, on past errors. And they were legion. Whenever he'd been so idle, so out of sorts, and so sunk in the “Blue Devils.” So close to shore, and all its allures. Betty Hillwood, Dolly Fenton, Lady Delia Cantner, Soft Rabbit, Phoebe . . . and a host of others whose names he'd forgotten, if not their charms.

More than two months since Alassio Bay, staying aboard most of the time, or in communal shore lodgings while
Jester
had been careened and empty. Male-only suppers, park strolls, the opera that was in Italian and wasn't meant to be understood, anyway, or concerts where the music didn't puzzle overly much, with Knolles, Mountjoy, Buchanon, or the midshipmen as unwitting chaperons. Then back aboard sober,
alone . . .

But what was good for the geese was good for the gander. He'd let the hands have their ruts, so why not . . . ?

No, damme . . . in enough bloody trouble already, ain't I, he told himself sadly, turning her note over and over in his fingers; should I start again, I'll make a
pig
of meself. He did espy, and quickly take to memory, the carefully written return address, however. Duty, refit . . . so little time? Well, I
have
to write her, o' course, to beg off . . . ?
Pig
—piglet—teats—bouncers—God,
stop
me 'fore I
tup
again!

“Mister Silberberg is without, sir,” Mountjoy interrupted.

“Have the vicious, two-faced fart come in, then, Mister Mountjoy,” Lewrie barked in a quarterdeck voice loud enough for Twigg to hear beyond on the gun deck. And slipped the too-tempting note from Signorina Mastandrea into the middle drawer of his desk. “And fetch me poor old Toulon, soon's he's paint-free . . . th' widdle darlin' . . .” Lewrie said with a sudden surge of spite.

“How
very
clever, Lewrie,” Twigg/Silberberg whispered, feigning amusement, though pale with sullen anger.

“So good to see you again, Mister Silberberg. And how's me shares doin', hey?” Alan chortled. “You'll pardon me if I don't rise.”

“You press me too far, sir!” Twigg hissed, but softly. “I vow you'll overreach someday, to your regret!”

“Pretty much what I thought of you, sir,” Lewrie whispered in return. “After you damn near got my arse knackered. Four dead, four crippled. Like the score so far, do you . . . Mister Silberberg? Press
me
too far . . . someday, and . . .” Alan shrugged, flashing a toothy grin.

“We need to talk, sir. Privately,” Twigg instructed, tossing his head to the pantry, where Aspinall hummed and crooned over Toulon to gentle him. “You and I. No others.”

“And what about him?” Lewrie asked, his notice drawn to a side of beef in a dark suit who had accompanied Twigg aboard. “Feel need of bodyguarding, sir? A fine ox-carcass you've hired, I must say.”

“Here 'e be, sir, good'z new, I reckon,” Aspinall announced as he fetched the cat back. “Got all 'at paint off 'im, I did, sir. He weren't fond o' th' scrubbin', though.”

Toulon was set upon the desktop, fluffed up with insult, tail bottled up and lashing. He would have finished washing his flank all by himself, but for the odor, and the presence of strangers. With a mean-spirited growl and hiss, ears laid back—which made Twigg pale even more and cringe far back in his chair—Toulon leapt away to go hide under something, where he could sulk in private, carping to cat-gods of how abused his pride was, how unfair Life's Portion.

“That'll be all, Aspinall,” Lewrie said. “Go on deck, if you please. We'll fetch our own glasses. You, too, Mister Mountjoy.”

“Yes, sir,” Mountjoy replied, mournful that he wasn't included this time.

“Now, sir. What do you and I have to discuss, private or otherwise?” Lewrie asked, rising to open the wine cabinet for them. Brandy was too good, he thought; let 'em drink this cheap Dago red!

“You failed, Lewrie. Failed me.” Twigg began, swiveling about to keep his eyes on him.

“Not for want of trying, sir. Or have you not noticed how bad
Jester
was knocked about? Didn't know you'd whistle him up quite that quickly, else I would have swallowed my pride and requested
Meleager
to stay seaward with me.”

“Then he'd have never dared, sir,” Twigg snapped impatiently as he accepted a glass, a pour, and tossed his wine back. He made a face, lurching back as if he'd been poisoned, and eyeing Lewrie hellish-sharp, as if he wouldn't put poison past him!

“You, sir?” Lewrie asked of the hulking stranger, so tanned and fit, so martial in his carriage. “Whoever you are?”

“Yes, sir, thankee,” the apparition spoke at last, taking wine and sipping at it, showing no trace of disappointment with its taste.

“One of my associates, Lewrie,” Twigg grumbled. “A most competent fellow. Ex-Household Cavalry. Allow me . . .”

“Looks
far
too intelligent to be Household Cavalry,” Alan said tongue-in-cheek, “nor British Cavalry, at
all!
And,
if
intelligent . . . then how'd he come to be stupid enough to associate with you, sir?”

“One should never kick strange dogs, sir,” the dark fellow said with a faint smile, yet an air of menace. “They've been known to bite.”

Officer, Lewrie surmised by his squirearchy, perhaps Kentish accent; ex-officer. Abscond with the mess funds, did you? Or your major's daughter?

“Enough of this rancor, Lewrie,” Twigg warned. “As you refer to me, 'pon your life, as Silberberg . . . you will take as gospel that my man is ever to be referred to as Mister Peel. Or ex-Captain Peel.”

“Not ‘John Peel,' surely,” Alan snickered, reminded of the old hunting song.

“No, 'tis
James,
sir . . . James Peel,” the fellow purred, offering his hand, which Lewrie had to shake.

“Right, then . . . Captain Peel, Mister Silberberg,” Lewrie said, sitting down, regretting his choice of wines, which he also was forced to drink. Thin, too fruity, and acidy; and fresh-poured already had a redolence of paint thinner. “So, what is so important that you sailed down from Genoa?”

“Coached,” Twigg griped, shifting as if in pain. “As to that gruesome necessity, more later. What is important, Lewrie, is killing Guillaume Choundas. Still.”

“Is that really necessary, sir?” Lewrie frowned. “We buggered him and his reputation, took his convoy at Alassio, and bagged four of his warships, such as they were. And, in spite of serving us as good as he got, we damaged his own corvette. I'd think his stock was quite low, by now.”

“Can you forget the Far East, sir?” Twigg insisted. “Whenever we thought we'd truly crippled him, he wriggled free, and came back to bedevil us, twice as strong as before? No, sir. It won't be over till I've his head in a sack, for all to see.”

“When last we met, Mister . . . Silberberg, you told me you prided yourself on keeping things coolly logical and objective,” Lewrie said with a dubious look. “Frankly, I think Choundas is become your bug-a-bear. It sounds entirely personal and revengeful, to me. What can he hope to accomplish, with the few ships he has left? With Nelson commanding the Riviera coast? And with your . . . connections . . . alerting us to every convoy? In the Far East, he was the
only
pirate, privateer . . . whatever, that Paris would sanction, so eliminating him was important. Wartime, though . . . he's just another ship's captain at the moment, a commander of a minor squadron. There must be a hundred men in France just as potentially troubling.”

“He's in
my
bailiwick, Lewrie,” Twigg objected stubbornly, “in charge of the squadron that runs supplies to support the French Army, which will gobble up all of northern Italy if they're not stopped. It makes him
my
preeminent problem, no matter our past connection. If he is killed, I save another region the grief of facing him. If he dies, Choundas rises no higher. He gets no frigates, no ships of the line to play with. Can you possibly imagine the harm he'd do, were he to become a junior admiral?”

“Then why not have one of your . . . associates,” Lewrie wondered aloud, “stop his business with a knife under the heart?”

“Told you he has a clear head, Peel.” Twigg smirked suddenly in glee. “When he thinks, that is.”

“Yes, sir,” Peel agreed, stony-faced, peering at Lewrie openly, judging, weighing, and balancing.

“He's well guarded, Lewrie,” Twigg complained petulantly, as he sipped more wine, made another face. “Made no new friends on his rise with the original revolutionaries. Had damned few from before. Those still alive, that is. Once he'd culled 'em for past slights. Imagined slights, half of 'em. Stays sober, keeps his wits about him, of which I do not have to tell you, he has considerable. Personal guard force, a pack of Breton pets, including this Hainaut fellow we returned to him. As for vices . . .”

“Goes for the windward passage, even with girls,” Lewrie stuck in. “So we learned from the Filipina villagers, and Chinese whores.”

“The younger and weaker, the sweeter, aye,” Twigg snarled with revulsion. “Barring someone doing him in like Marat in his bath-water, he's almost impossible to get at. Our abilities, so to speak, are not that firm in Provence, or along the Riviera. Too much fear, d'ye see, 'mongst adult women, and his tastes run to the small, weak, and helpless. Recruiting a girl-child victim stands little chance, either, that he'd choose her, or that she could summon nerve enough to do the deed. We have a better plan, though.”

“Oh, Christ, and it involves me, does it?” Lewrie groaned. “We
played
that card. He'll not fall for it a second time.”

“Hot as my hatred for Choundas is, Lewrie, it can't hold a candle to his hatred for you,” Twigg cackled, entirely too pleased with himself. “Do you both survive this war, I'd expect he'd be panting to kill you when you're both pensioners. Some things abide. He'll bite.”

“And what if I refuse, sir?” Lewrie snapped. “You're Foreign Office,
you
can't order a serving officer, or his ship . . .”

Twigg smirked, reached into his coat, and produced two letters. One from Hotham, one from Nelson, Lewrie noted with horror.

“Not
afraid
of him, are you, sir?” Peel posed, with a barely concealed sneer.

“Name your weapon and place, and I'll show you ‘afraid,' sir!” “Didn't ask were you afraid o' me, sir,” Peel egged him on. “I asked were you afraid o' him?”

Lewrie took pause, considering; reading those two sets of orders. “Aye, I most fuckin' well am fearful of 'im, sir,” Lewrie said at last with bald candor. “Anyone who's ever had dealings with Guillaurne Choundas has right to fear him. Or should.”

“Were you to render me a valuable service, Lewrie,” Twigg posed, his pencil-long, thin fingers steepled under his skeletal chin, “which I swear to you involves no physical danger to your ship, your crew, or yourself . . . which helps bring Choundas to book . . . would you do it?”

“You say that now, sir,” Lewrie countered, still seething from Peel's goading. And suspecting that it was Twigg's arranging, for Peel to put him off balance with his sneer, his cocked eyebrow. “But things always have a way of going from a walk to a gallop, with you. Once you get the bit in your teeth, there's no stopping you. And there I'd be, clinging to your scheme's tail, half dragged to death. My people right with me, thrown into peril all unwitting.”