"Aha!" he chortled when he found it, buried on page six. Court doings, scandals, upcoming Bills of Divorcement rumoured 'twixt unhappy spouses-mostly for adultery, which would make such salacious reading in the near future; there were publishers who would obtain the transcripts and print them up for sale as mild pornography for those who got their jollies from such accounts.
Last night in Ranelagh Gardens there occurred a contretemps between one of our Naval Heroes, mentioned prominently in the news of late, and a wealthy lady of Greek extraction now residing in London, engaged in the overseas currant trade… ''
Now there was a slur; Trade was not a gentlemanly endeavour and for a woman to run such a business was even worse a mortal error to Society's mores, even were she English-born, and to be Greek, well…!
Oh, Mrs. Denby had done him proud, Lewrie decided after finishing the article. Tears, a hint of a scandal, false charges of paternity, with prominent note taken of Lewrie's supposition that her late husband had quickened the child in question, and those letters sent in jealous spite… perhaps by a mad woman! Confrontation before her doors, loud protestations of condemnation for her actions… Theoni was, Lewrie smugly thought, ruined in London! Mrs. Denby had even interviewed last night's witnesses for anonymous comment after he'd gone, as if to spread jam-currant jam-on this particularly savoury duff. Outraged amusement was the carefully selected consensus opinion, with much sympathy for the "un-named Naval Hero" and his tortured wife, and nothing but loathing and revulsion for the perpetrator!
His fresh coffee came, and a wet hand towel with which he wiped his fingers. A moment later, another club servant approached with a note. Lewrie flicked it open, noting the initials TKC pressed into the wax seal. It was from Theoni, in her own hand for once, not the maidservant who'd penned her poisonous letters, so the English syntax was a little hard to follow.
Beg for forgiveness… leave Caroline for her? he read in silent astonishment; Good God, the woman might be truly mad! Think about "our" son, mine arse!
"There be a reply, sir?" the servant softly asked, coughing into his fist. "There's a messenger waitin'."
"No, no reply," Lewrie snapped, crumpling the note in his fist.
He sipped his coffee slowly, a tad worried (it here must be noted) that Theoni might sue him for paternity; she certainly had the money to do so, and that would mean the rest of his life tied up in Chancery Court, where lawyers made bloody millions off the carcasses of their clients! Would she dare risk exposing herself, and the boy, to public certainty, instead of rumours and guesses about her identity?
Hadn't thought o' that, Lewrie ruefully mused; But it seemed like a hellish-good idea, at the time. Christ shit on a…
"Another note, sir," the same servant said with another cough.
"Bloody…!" Lewrie fumed, tearing this one open.
I did not imagine you to be quite so clever, sir, to expose your tormentor so quickly and adroitly. In celebration, might you dine with me at the chop-house in Savoy St. and The Strand at One O'clock? There are certain Considerations anent your actions that must be discussed, as well as the amazing news of the Change in Government. Please reply.
Twigg
"Meanin', he thought of lawsuits before I did, damn his blood," Lewrie muttered, scowling at the clock atop the mantel, then at the waiting servant. "The gentleman's runner is waitin'? Good. Tell him that I'll be pleased to accept the invitation to dine at the time and place proposed."
"Very good, sir."
By God, I do get tired o' runnin' t'Twigg t'save mine arse, he thought, squirming 'twixt dread, embarrassment; Who knows what I'll end up owin' him? My first-born son? Patrons're s'posed t'be nice people!
BOOK 2
Surge et adversa impetu
perfringe solito. Nunc tuum nulli imparem
animum malo resume, nunc magna tibi
virtute agendum est-
Up! And with thy
wonted force break through adversity. Now
get back thy courage which was ne'er unequal
to any hardship; now must thou greatly'
play the man.
– LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA
HERCULES FURENS, 1273-78
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Momentous news," Mr. Twigg simpered, dabbing his lips with his napkin as the soup course was removed. "I told you Pitt's administration would fall. It was only a matter of timing, do you see. And to resign over such a trifling matter, too."
"I'm sure Catholic Emancipation was close to his heart," Lewrie said. "God knows why. Perhaps he'd only sold the Act of Union to the Irish with such a promise. And what he'd promised to his own faction for them to back it…," he added with a shrug.
"Which promises to his own faction he most certainly could never keep, either," Twigg interjected with a faint, thin-lipped smile. "They assuredly knew that Emancipation was a bootless endeavour from the very start, and shammed their support for it, knowing that the King's opposition to it would be its undoing. And Pitt's."
"Maybe he was just tired," Lewrie said.
"Or, looked to be at the end of his tether to his contemporaries… those hungry for his place, and higher positions," Twigg said with a sardonic cock of one brow. "The old and sick king-wolf always succumbs to the pack, in the end. Torn to shreds, his throat ripped out by the younger and stronger."
With his bemused smile Twigg looked as if he liked his simile, and would be partial to witnessing such an event. He'd always been a cold, bloodthirsty sort when necessary.
"Well, I am certain your odds have improved, Lewrie, with Jervis as First Lord of the Admiralty," Twigg breezed on as a waiter carried in some nicely browned squabs on rice.
"Depending on who serves him as First and Second Secretary, and how they feel about me," Lewrie pointed out.
"I do believe that Sir Evan Nepean will stay on," Twigg told him. "As will Marsden as Second."
"Then I'm still up t'my neck in the quag," Lewrie groused.
"Speaking of…," Twigg said with a twinkle in his eye. "I suppose you've given your letters to the lady in question a thought."
"Hmm?" Lewrie replied, a glass of sauvignon blanc by his mouth.
"No, you haven't," Twigg said with a heavy, disappointed sigh. "Is Mistress Connor of a mind to get revenge in court…"
"Chancery, most-like," Lewrie gloomed.
"Ahem! As I said, is she of a mind, and, has she saved all your letters to her over the years… as I strongly suspect she has… then they could prove to be damning evidence that the affair was mutual, and that you are the father of her bastard. Protestations of lust, love…"
"I ain't that stupid!" Lewrie shot back. "Learned that from my father. Never put anything in writing ye don't wish made known later. Especially when it comes to women! False-promise, broken troths, belly pleas, and all that? Far as I can recall, I was chatty and pleasant, but I never made any sort of claim the boy was mine.
"Well, I might've asked of his health and progress, just as I did about her first-born," Lewrie added. "Family friend or god-father to the git, nothing more than that."
"And did you save hers?" Twigg pressed, scowling.
"Not a bit of it!" Lewrie told him. "Gone t'cat litter long ago."
"Well, that's something, I suppose," Twigg said, leaning back in his chair and swirling his wine glass idly. "One could not expect you to be that huge a calf-headed cully, no matter how desirable the lady. Or how eminently bed-able."
"Should I take that as a back-handed compliment?" Lewrie asked.
"I'd not," Twigg replied.
"Hmm," Lewrie gravelled at the back-handed insult. "Oh, by the by… last night I ran across something interesting you might wish to look into. About some daft, drunken Russian here in London."
"A Russian, d'ye say. Hmm," Twigg mused between bites.
"Some 'nabob' who calls himself a count. Anatoli, or something like that," Lewrie breezed on, between bites of his own squab and rice. "Damned fool took a strong liking to a whore at 'Mother' Batson's house and broke in past her pugs t'get to her. Must've run out of 'tin' for the 'socket-fee.' Beastly sort, I heard. Just won't do it regular… goes for the 'windward passage,' un-armoured, too, can he get away with it. Got himself and his manservant thrashed to blood puddings, by the sound of it. Mean t'say… what's a mad Russian count doin', runnin' free in London, and us about to send a fleet t'smash 'em?"