There were fumblings and delighted little purrs from beneath the map as Toulon fought it. A tap or two, and he was whirling and clawing, creating an earthquake under Lombardy.
"Peek-a-boo, Toulon!" Lewrie whispered with a smile, peeling the map back to fold up. He was answered with a loud purr, and the cat laid out on his back, all four paws in the air and waving for sport.
Would they be going home, back to Admiral Jervis, after this? Lewrie wondered as he picked up Toulon and carried him back to the desk. With all the excitement for the summer happening far away, it didn't seem reasonable that their squadron could accomplish much for the good in the Adriatic.
Maybe send Fillebrowne for fresh orders, Lewrie speculated, and good riddance to bad rubbish! Before he…
Granted, Lewrie hadn't been in a charitable mood after leaving the Arsenal, after seeing how low the mighty Venetian Navy had fallen. He'd been a tad leery, too, of spending any more time with Lucy or her forbidding husband, Sir Malcolm. Or of having Peter Rushton get cherry-merry with drink and gush out things of the past that were best left in the past. Or dealing with that wily criminal, Clotworthy Chute! What could come out, what more social trouble could he tumble into, once they got to gossiping over old times? And his part in them?
Thankfully, Peter and Clotworthy had been away-off on their own low amusements, he suspected-but, to equal their pestiferous presence, Commander William Fillebrowne had turned up instead!
Of all gentlemen in the Royal Navy, Lewrie knew smarm when he heard it, having dished out more than his fair share in his time. And Commander Fillebrowne had been most definitely smarmy!
"Horrid foreign custom, sir," Fillebrowne had chortled, "the Venetian habit of cicisbeo. A proper Venetian lady must have one, d'ye see- with her family's approval, of course. Chosen with more care than her mate, I'm told, from only the finest select of Society. One never chooses from a lower ranking than oneself… that'd be a mortal shame, d'ye see."
"Why, whatever is it, Commander Fillebrowne?" Lucy had goggled, all coy and frippery as a minx.
"Her guide through life, her amanuensis," Fillebrowne had sworn in much good humour. Rather a leering humour, Lewrie'd thought. "This cicisbeo holds her muff, her cloak… trails along and steers her over her introduction into Society. Part dancing-master, diplomatic representative… tea-fetcher, hand-holder, father-confessor… some say her lover…!"
"Sir!" Sir Malcolm had barked, damned displeased by such talk.
"Her catch-fart, d'ye mean, sir?" Lewrie had interjected. "A simpering twit to stroke her ego?"
"Uhm… that too, Commander Lewrie," Fillebrowne had agreed. "It is said, I believe, that he is her lifelong teacher in all things. A male chaperone, admitted to her dressing chamber with her maids."
"Sure you're pronouncing it right?" Lewrie had scoffed, eager to both skewer Fillebrowne-simply because he'd taken a hot dislike to him- and to reassure Sir Malcolm that he was no danger himself. "We saw them, didn't we, Sir Malcolm, at the ridotto? Mincing about like so many 'Mollies' in men's clothing? It's certain to be said more like 'sissies-bay-oh.' Sissy-boys."
"Hah!" Sir Malcolm had barked again; this time with amusement.
"A lifelong triangle… wife, husband and cicisbeo" William Fillebrowne had insisted, sticking to his original pronunciation. "I have it on good authority. Unspeakable people, the Venetians. Every Italian society, for that matter." He shrugged off, as if he'd meant no more than to be entertaining, and informative. "Horrid custom!"
"Ah, dinner!" Sir Malcolm had enthused as the food arrived. Witty, charming and amusing, had Fillebrowne been. Lewrie had let him have the stage, preferring to deal with Sir Malcolm over mills and weaponry, casting cannon, good swords and such. Yet, round the beef course, there'd come a sly, secretive stroking along the side of his boot beneath the table!
Better not be Fillebrowne! Alan had frowned to himself. Secret "Molly," is he? Oh, Christ, no!
Dining en famille on a spacious balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, seated at the opposite corners of a four-place table, there was no way Fillebrowne could reach him. And it surely wasn't Sir Malcolm! Lewrie warranted. He was all stocks, money and business talk.
No, directly across from him was Lucy, smiling so sweetly that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, her huge aquamarine eyes so saintly-wide and cherub-innocent…! Yet, in one covert second, when conversation had lagged and the only sound was the scrape of knives and forks on fine Venetian glass plates-she'd cut her eyes to him, to see, had he noticed! And she had seemed almost amused when he'd drawn his feet away from her soft, slippered caress, or scooted his chair back a wary inch or so more!
Why, the brainless, pox-riddled trull! he'd snorted in affront. Not wed a year, and she's makin' sheep eyes at me again? Me, a man wed and… well, maybe what's in my soul shows, plain as day. But no! Not again. Not with her, certain!
They'd caught up on family doings. Her father and mother back in England, in the Midlands, along with her foppish brother Ledyard. Floss and her husband, her oldest brother and his wife Anne… and a rather sultry and seductive Anne, Lewrie had recalled in spite of his best intentions!… still in Jamaica running the plantations and the sugar, rum and molasses trade. There'd been a first husband, but he'd died in '89. There were children, now old enough to be left in care of governesses, or Eton school. Sir Malcolm's brood was grown, adult and away on their own pursuits.
"Heavens, Alan," Lucy had almost wailed in remembered grief. "After… I was disconsolate. Even after two years of mourning. But mother and father insisted I go to Bath to take the waters. And a bit of joy. And suddenly, one night in the Long Rooms…!"
She'd given Sir Malcolm a doting smile at that point, tousled a stray lock of his hair over his ear. And the old colts-tooth had almost whinnied in shy delight to be so fawned over!
"Neighbours… not twenty miles betwixt us, all that time, but of different parishes…!" Lucy had gushed. "Father an investor, in the early days, though Shockley had never come to call upon us."
"How fortunate are life's turnings," Sir Malcolm had managed, blushing to the roots of his hair, but gazing upon his dazzling younger wife with nigh-on total adoration. "How surprising…"
"Serendipity, sir," Lewrie had recalled. "From Dr. Johnson's lexicography. I think. To seek one thing of value, and unexpectedly come upon another of even greater delight, totally unlooked for."
"How true, sir!" Sir Malcolm had sworn with heat. "How true!"
And God help the poor bastard, Lewrie thought, tossing off his Rhenish. She always was a brainless bit o' baggage. Spooning over the old toad… and running her toes over me at the same time! And over Fillebrowne, when I wouldn't serve, I think.
Round dessert, Lucy had turned to Fillebrowne for a time, and he'd gotten a strangled look, just after she'd shifted in her chair. Followed by lidded, half-hooded eyes, Alan remembered. And a damned smug air about him, too!
Damme, is she so bound and determined to put "horns" on Sir Malcolm Shockley, she ain't particular who tops her, 'long's it's done? She'd been just close enough to reach him with her tiny foot; he'd got that sleepy ram-cat look right after. A righteous man, Lewrie suspected, Sir Malcolm hadn't noticed. But then, the husband was always the last to suspect, in any event. And well Lewrie knew of that, and prospered from it in his wilder days among the "grass widows."