"Something about Eudoxia," Lewrie quickly determined. "She's the only young woman I've been within sniffin' distance, lately. Am I right? Damme, Theoni's little tantrum at Ranelagh Gardens t'other day… desperation?"
"Exactly, Lewrie," Twigg informed him. "For here is a fresh one addressed to your wife… one designed to even further infuriate your good… if put-upon… Caroline. The good-scribbling maid was caught red-handed with it, on her way to the posting house so the coach could deliver it to your house in Anglesgreen. We have her confession, are you interested."
"Theoni knows of this?" Lewrie asked. "Well, no wonder I've not run into her the last few days. Thought it was our spat, but… ''
"Desperation, indeed, to see her schemes produce so little fruit over the years, and you off at sea, not exactly as diligent as earlier in answering her letters," Twigg elaborated. "We have a second, meant for Eudoxia Durschenko… the usual anonymous 'dear friend, you must know,' laying out what an unfaithful cully you are. To deflect her before the girl puts any more stock in you."
"Hah! Fat lot o' good that'd do!" Lewrie said with a wry laugh. "Eudoxia's known I'm married since Cape Town, as I said, and her papa already hates me worse than cold, boiled mutton! B'sides, did Theoni have it scribbled in proper English, I doubt either one of 'em could make heads or tails of it."
"Then why does she seem to run into you so often, Lewrie?" Mr. Twigg sarcastically posed to him. "And, why… when she does… does she evince such delight to do so, even with her very watchful father at her side… hmmm?"
"Well, er… em," Lewrie stammered, half intrigued by the sudden possibilities, and half appalled with the image of how dead he'd be should he run the risk. "Surely, she must see that it's daft. Not to be. Better she takes up with the Prince of Wales, he's int'rested."
"With 'Florizel'?" Twigg scoffed. "Now there's a slender reed. Poor fellow… all he wishes is to be liked, to be loved by one and all. Or, merely appreciated. Good a King as he is, George the Third has been saddled with a sorry set of offspring. Oh, there may be some gewgaws and presents from the Heir, but they'd come with social ruin."
"For actresses and circus performers, that might be good publicity," Lewrie cynically said, draining the last of his cool coffee and going to the sideboard for fresh.
"You should warn her off, no matter," Twigg told him, snapping his fingers and pointing to his own empty cup.
"Me? Why me?" Lewrie asked. Talk to Eudoxia, or pour ye bloody coffee, either one! he thought.
"For the good of the Crown, Lewrie," Twigg told him, impatient to have to explain things to Lewrie, and for more coffee. "I cannot, for doing so would make it an official matter. The people's love for the Royal Family is paramount to continuing the war effort, and another bloody scandal involving 'Prinnie,' as some are wont to call him, would harm that. Frankly, I serve on sufferance as a partially retired consultant, and to interfere in the Heir's doings would be the ruin of me."
"But since I'm already ruined, there's no loss?" Lewrie snapped.
"That is pretty much it, yayss," Twigg drawled, smiling cruelly.
"Mine arse on a band-box," Lewrie said with a resigned, defeated sigh. He poured Twigg his desired cup, too.
"Hash things out with Theoni… stop her business," Lewrie said as he sat back down, idly stirring sugar and cream into his own coffee. "Coach home and confront Caroline with the truth, too? God o' Mercy!"
"Well, it is not as if you have much of anything else better to do, Lewrie," Twigg purred, "what with how things stand with you at Admiralty, at present."
"Oh, thank you just so bloody much!" Lewrie barked.
"Do you want to be reconciled with your wife, Lewrie?" Mr. Twigg asked with a piercing, probing stare.
"Well, o' course I do!" Lewrie shot back.
Hold on, do I really? he had to wonder, though; Aye, for our children, if nothing else. It's not as if I've any other women in my life… that I could dally with openly, anyway. Nelson can get away with his affair with Emma Hamilton, but…
"Even if we don't," Lewrie told Twigg, "after all the tears that Theoni put her through… I put her through!… I owe Caroline a semblance of a marriage."
"She would never believe a word that crossed your lips," Twigg said, matter-of-factly for a change, with none of his usual top-lofty acid. "Leave that to me. After all, 'twas I who sicced you on Claudia Mastandrea in Genoa, for the good of the Crown. That still leaves your Corsican mistress, Phoebe Aretino, and Theoni Connor to deal with, but… one could be explained by long separation, and the other by wounds and laudanum, in the beginning. And the machinations of a scandalous and crafty, spiteful, and possessive home-wrecking bitch."
"You would do that?" Lewrie asked with his head cocked over; it just wasn't like Twigg to be charitable, or very much care about people who were (sometimes) useful to him.
"You've done me excellent service over the years, Lewrie," Twigg told him. "Perhaps I feel as if I owe it to you. I will coach to your home town with the evidence, including the maid's confessions, and the last letter… to Caroline, at any rate. No need to include the one written to Eudoxia directly, hmm?"
"Caroline will still think I'm trying to put the leg over her," Lewrie glumly confessed.
"Then amaze her, and… for a rare once… don't," Mr. Twigg shot back with a brief bark of amusement. "Her father would feed your chopped-up carcass to his lions, if you did, ye know."
"Of that I'm quite aware!" Lewrie replied in sour higg
"Well, that should conclude our business," Twigg said, quickly finishing his coffee and tossing his napkin onto the table. "I must be off. Too damned many Danes, Swedes, and Russians in England, with the sudden urge to correspond with people in their home countries… especially those who reside, or trade, in our naval ports. Codes to be decyphered, whole letters to be lost, or… enhanced with false information," Twigg simpered.
"Throats to be slit," Lewrie posed, tongue-in-cheek as he rose.
"Well, only do we must," Twigg said with a vague wave of his hand and an evil little grin.
"I don't s'ppose you still have any influence with Admiralty, do you, Mister Twigg?" Lewrie said of a sudden. "Mean t'say, there's war in the offing, and… ''
"Not all that much, no, Lewrie," Twigg had to admit, grudgingly, as they left the alcove dining room and crossed the main hall towards the coat cheque. "Not, at least, with the current administration over there, though there are rumours… ''
"Hey?"
"Pitt is quite unhappy," Twigg told him as a manservant took their tickets and went to fetch their hats and greatcoats. "He managed the Act of Union with Ireland, and convinced the King to ennoble all those new Irish peers, yet… Pitt hinged his entire legislation on a promise of Catholic Emancipation, allowing Papists to serve in the Army, Navy, and hold public office… perhaps stand for seats in the Commons, as well. King George, however, as Defender of the Faith, as his full title tells us, was adamantly against that. Does Pitt step down… d'ye see my meaning?"
"A new Prime Minister, a new First Lord, aye!" Lewrie enthused for a brief moment, then deflated. "But probably someone who's heard of me, and despises me as much as Lord Spencer already does. Damn!"
"Nelson has already hoisted his flag in the San Josef over at Torbay, in Plymouth, Lewrie," Twigg further informed him as the servant returned with his hat, greatcoat, and long walking-stick, and another club servant came to help him dress. "You've served under him I believe. Perhaps he could intercede for you. And you did Vice-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker good service, and fattened his bank accounts, with your seizure of all that lovely Spanish silver a few years ago. You could write him and ask for employment."