“Is there anything else for me?” Lewrie asked, deflating.
“Just the one, sir,” the clerk told him.
That’un was properly wax-sealed and written in an elegant hand, on good bond paper, to boot. Lewrie had sent a note round to his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, to inform him that he was in town. Not that Lewrie really cared a fig to see the old fart, but it was what one did to be sociable, and remain in the will … assuming that the old lecher didn’t turn dotty in his head and squander all he had on whores and courtesans and race horses.
He was almost (but not quite) disappointed to discover that his father had other plans for the evening with an intriguing lady just new-come to London. Sir Hugo did not propose an alternate time for him to call, unless he was long in London, and didn’t have to rush back to his ship right away. Sir Hugo was sure he would understand.
I surely do, Lewrie thought in a foul humor; I can always count on my father … he’ll let me down every time!
He slouched into the Common Room and flung himself down into one of the leather wing chairs near the fireplace, wondering what he could do. He ordered American whisky from the steward who came to his side, but there was none available; would Spanish brandy suit, or might he settle for a Scottish whisky? Lewrie stuck with the brandy.
As intently as he’d peered at every passing coach-and-four that had been bound to Portsmouth on the road the day before, he had missed sight of Lydia’s equipage. How irked might she be to arrive, after dark and in a nippy drizzle, most-like, to find that no set of rooms had been booked for her at The George Inn, their usual trysting place, for the very good reason that he hadn’t gotten confirmation that she would be coming down? How even further irked might Lydia be to send word to Reliant and learn that he’d dashed off to London, leaving her to her own devices—without even leaving an explanatory note to mollify her!
It ain’t like we’re married or anything like that, Lewrie told himself, his mood becoming a tad anxious; I’ve not even given her “a packet o’ pins” as promise for anything! By God, though, if she ever speaks t’me after this, I’ll get an ugly ear full!
He considered hiring a coach that instant and dashing back to Portsmouth, no matter the perils of a night-time journey, but … no. He had to stay in London, bide close to the Madeira Club ’til he got word from Admiralty, whichever way that decision would go.
A damn good night t’get blind drunk! he concluded with a sigh, and waved his empty glass at the steward for a top-up.
* * *
Needless to say, his next morning was more than a tad blurry. After breakfast, and nigh an entire pot of hot, black coffee, Lewrie spent his time writing letters. Firstly, he penned a grovelling “forgive me” to Lydia to her Grosvenor Street house, explaining as best he was able why he had had to dash off. With no news from Admiralty, he then wrote letters to his sons, Sewallis and Hugh, who were at sea, Sewallis still most-like on the French blockade, and Hugh and his ship, as he’d learned, with Nelson in pursuit of that Frog Admiral Villeneuve and his large French fleet, its location still unknown.
With nothing else to do, and admittedly hitting his stride with his scribbling, Lewrie wrote chatty letters to his former brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick and his wife, Theodora, the brother-in-law he liked. He wrote to the other one, Governour, who despised him, and his wife, Millicent, again to be sociable. He wrote a separate letter to his daughter, Charlotte, who resided with Governour and Millicent, though he had no idea if she would even read it, or if Governour would even allow her to see it. Then came his former ward, Sophie de Maubeuge, now Mrs. Anthony Langlie. Sophie and his former First Officer in the Proteus frigate were the parents of at least two children by now, and were the most pleasant of his correspondents, were Lewrie given his “d’ruthers”.
With still no word from Mr. Marsden by noon, and with his appetite stifled by the odd rumbles engendered from the night before, he even went so far as to write to Sir Malcolm Shockley and his wife, the twitter-brained Lucy. Back when Lewrie and she had been teens, he’d been head-over-heels with her, but she had been a Beauman, of the Jamaican Beaumans, and nothing good could have ever come from that clan.
He paused to wonder if Lucy was still slipping under the sheets with other men and gulling poor, honest, and upright Sir Malcolm into believing her faithfulness!
Lewrie penned shorter notes to Peter Rushton, now Viscount Draywick after inheriting his childless uncle’s title; and his younger brother, Harold, who had inherited their father’s title of Baron Staughton when Peter had been elevated upwards. Harold, quite unlike his older brother, was level-headed and rather shrewd, when sober at least, and good company when not. Lewrie hadn’t seen him in years, but Peter had gotten Harold a well-paying government post under the Secretary of State at War, where he wielded considerable influence. One never knew who might come in handy when it came to patronage and influence! Lewrie even wrote another, shorter, letter to another old school chum, that nefarious “Captain Sharp”, Clotworthy Chute, who was rumoured to have turned honest and was now big in the antiques trade. Lewrie carefully stressed that he was in town a little time … too short a time for Clotworthy to hit him up for a loan!
By two in the afternoon, and with still no letter for him at the front desk, Lewrie betook himself on a stroll, threading his way through the pedestrian throngs of Wigmore Street, West to Baker Street, then South to the corner of Oxford Street and one of his favourite taverns, the Admiral Boscawen, where he tentatively supped on sliced roast beef, pease pudding, potato hash, and gravy, and was delighted to discover that what went down would stay down, aided along by two pints of ale.
Not quite as bleary as before, Lewrie returned to the Madeira Club, where he yet had no mail, and whiled away the rest of the afternoon by scribbling notes to his old Cox’n, Will Cony, who now owned the Olde Ploughman in Anglesgreen; to his former cabin steward, Aspinall, who was now a published author here in London; and, frankly, got so bored that he even penned letters to his Lewrie cousins at Wheddon Cross in Devonshire, near Exeter.
By the time he had folded, waxed, and sealed the last letter, it was nigh five o’clock, and the club’s stewards and servants were circulating to stoke up the fireplaces and light more candles to welcome the club’s members back from their days on the town. That passable Spanish brandy appeared on a sideboard.
Pettus made his appearance, yawning and shrugging his clothing into order, looking as if he had used his free time to good purpose whilst Lewrie had spent the day alone, and had caught up on his sleep.
“Will you be dining out on the town tonight, sir?” Pettus asked.
“Hmm … think not, Pettus,” Lewrie told him after deliberating. Gloster’s Chop House and his favourite-of-all restaurant in Savoy Street, were both off the Strand, and either were just too far to go at that hour. “I’ll dine in here. There’s little for you to do for me ’til the morning. Enjoy your idleness,” he said with a smile. “I trust they’re feedin’ ye well, and that your quarters are warm and comfy?”
“Oh, aye, sir, quite pleasant, and they feed extremely well,” Pettus told him, “though I do miss Yeovill’s way with spices and—”
“Pardons, Captain Lewrie,” Lucas, the desk clerk, interrupted, “but a messenger just dropped this off for you, this instant.”
“Aha!” Lewrie exclaimed as Lucas handed him a stiff cream bond letter with a large blob of royal blue sealing wax and the imprint of Admiralty. “Wish me luck, Pettus. Thankee, Lucas.”