"Ye could come early for th' supper, an' all!" Tess gaily said, all but clapping her hands; though Lewrie sensed a false note to her enthusiasm, as if she was secretly disappointed that he'd not squire her about in public, not right away, at least. She looked him over a bit, as if sizing up the heft of his purse, the status of his accounts. Perhaps she'd read the tracts or newspaper articles, which had touched on his long string of captures, and the scent of much prize-money…
Don't care what she says, she ain't givin' it away for free! he cautioned himself; She's most like schemin' for a place of her own, an' me her only patron, and I can't afford that… poor, hopeful thing.
" 'Tis only three guineas, th' ev'nin'," she told him, her head cocked to see how he reacted to that, "with champagne an' vittles late at night, like now, extra, o' course."
"I'd call that a toppin' bargain!" Lewrie cheered, giving her a hug. "What time should I be here for the supper?"
"Starts at seven," Tess told him, looking relieved and pleased. "I'll be all prettied up for ye. More makeup than now."
"You don't need false artifice, Tess," he declared. "You're as handsome as any ever I did see, just the way you are."
"La, ye're th' gallant man." She chuckled. "Go on with yer fine self. 'Long as ye prefer me so, though… ''
They finished their sandwiches, drained the last drops from the champagne bottle, and slipped back under the covers, her robe spread on the top of the blankets and coverlet. London's church bells rang two in the morning, and Lewrie yawned, his eyes beginning to feel gritty.
"Ye wish t'sleep now, Alan?" Tess asked, about half out of it herself. " 'Fore that… could ye lock th' door, again, an' slide th' chest t'block it? It'd make me feel safer," she asked in a wee voice.
He borrowed her too-small robe for a moment, went about the cold room snuffing candles, sliding the chest before the door and locking it with the key, then slipped back into bed with her. She came to him to drape across him as he embraced her; a hard squeeze from him, another from Tess, and a happy sigh in the dark after he'd snuffed the candle on the night-stand as she nuzzled and burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder.
Half-drunk, nigh fucked out… yet, Lewrie thought, head swimming. No, all he wanted then was to sleep for real, sleep warm with a warm girl next to him. A girl who was already breathing with her lips parted on his shoulder. Give it a rest, he chid himself; give her one, too. There's always t'morrow mornin'… and t'morrow night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
What the bloody Hell am I gettin' myself into? he asked himself after breakfast at the Madeira Club, a somewhat hot bath and a change of clothes, a shave, and a half-hour tussle with Toulon and Chalky in his rooms; after they'd gotten over their sulks that he'd not spent the night in his own bed, he was beginning to feel human again.
Much refreshed, Lewrie trotted down to the Common Rooms to give the newspapers a gander, nodding good mornings to the other lodgers. He requested a cup of coffee, then picked among the pile of dailies that his fellow clubmembers had already read. He picked The Morning Post first, looking for Mrs. Denby's "Tattler" article, though it was hard to find.
Newspapers crammed items together much like a stew; onions next to broth, meat sunk beneath the oatmeal. The type font style and size was unvarying, with only the briefest separation 'tween the end of one and the beginning of the next, each headed by only the vaguest notices as to what each contained, with nothing standing out and shouting its importance; all, of course, intermixed with advertisements of the same sort, with only the rarest, and expensive, wood-cut illustration. One usually saw illustrations only in penny-tracts and pamphlets, not newspapers. One thing stood out, though…
"Jesus Christ!" Lewrie yelped as he got to the middle of the first page. Despite the ink smudges caused by previous readers' hands, he could make out that the government had fallen!
The Prime Minister, William Pitt (the Younger, he was called, as opposed to Pitt the Elder, now Earl of Chatham, his father who had preceded him in that office), had resigned! "Twigg was right," Lewrie muttered. "He really meant it."
The Morning Post speculated that a new government would be formed by Lord Addington, who would assume the office of Prime Minister at once. The King would request him to form a new cabinet which, The Post assured readers from their sources, would contain the Earl of Elgin as the new Lord Chancellor, Lord Hawkesbury as Foreign Secretary, and Lord Hobart would replace Sir Henry Dundas as Secretary of State for War.
"Admiralty… Admiralty," Lewrie hungrily growled in impatience. He scanned down the page, flitting from line to line-stumbling into an advertisement for ladies' hats before jumping to the top of the next column. " 'Old Jarvy,' by God!" he chortled as he found the speculated name. "I know him… and he don't despise me! Pray God he serves!"
Admiral the Earl St. Vincent, Sir John Jervis prior to his victory and elevation to the peerage, had been in command of the Mediterranean Fleet since 1797, then in command of Channel Fleet, since. Only one drawback stood in the way of "Old Jarvy's" acceptance of the office; he had been at sea for bloody years on end, in all weathers, and might be so broken in health-he was no "spring chicken," as Lewrie's North Carolina wife could colloquially say-that he'd rather come ashore to retire, not take on responsibility for the whole Royal Navy.
Lewrie almost gnawed a thumb-nail in fret, wondering whether he should write him that very morning, and send the letter to Portsmouth before Jervis even decided, or, whether to send it to Admiralty, hoping it would be the first thing the man opened and read upon taking charge. A letter to Portsmouth might cross Jervis's path, and miss him; one to Admiralty might get shuffled into the bottom of a vast pile of correspondence, if not outright tossed in the dustbin by a departing secretary, for the principal two secretaries to Admiralty kept their lucrative government posts at the pleasure of the First Lord, and the current head of the Navy, Lord Spencer, had no love for Lewrie; of that he was damned sure.
Get my best uniform sponged an' pressed, for later, Lewrie decided, realising that haste would serve no purpose; And, get the cat-hairs off.
He moved on to The Times, The Chronicle, The Gazette, and The Marine Chronicle; the only copy of The Courier was last evening's and would have nothing to offer. All of them seemed to have spoken to the same anonymous sources in government, and cited the same names of new ministers expected to form the new government.
The Times speculated even further as to why Pitt had resigned. It was over Catholic Emancipation, of course. Public office, seats in Commons, military or naval commissions required adherence to the established Church of England; Catholics and Jews were barred from holding offices. Muslims, Jains, Hindoos, perhaps even some of the oddest of the Dissenter sects were barred, as well, for all Lewrie knew. People in the Army's ranks could rise to Sergeants-Major, people in the Navy could rise as high as Boatswain, or hold Admiralty Warrant, whatever their faith, but to hold command posts, well…! Pitt and the King had come to logger-heads over it, and King George's stubborness had won. As Defender of the Faith, the King would brook no innovations in time of war against a heathen, pagan, anti-religious foe such as the Republican, Levelling French.
"Just as well," Lewrie grunted to himself. "No place in the gun-room for Whirlin' Dervishes, or even home-grown Druids… with or without paintin' themselves blue. Damme."
His hands, his fingertips were nigh-black with ink smudges, and his coffee was cold. "Uhm, Spears… a fresh, hot coffee, and a wet hand towel, if ye please."
He (gingerly) returned to The Morning Post, delving further into it, past the front page, in search of something labelled "Tattler."