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"Who's the lucky devil who'll stay here and freeze?" Lewrie asked with a merry smile on his face, and tongue in his cheek.

"Me, sir," Lt. Farley piped up. "I've the Forenoon."

"Stay warm, Mister Farley, God help ye," Lewrie japed. "I will be below. Is there need for a pot of coffee round Four Bells, do you send for it, t'keep the people of your watch thawed out. Practice on the guns at Two Bells, weather permitting, mind."

"Aye-aye, sir!" Lt. Farley replied, looking eager and thankful for the kind offer.

Pettus helped him shed his hat, muffler, mittens, and heavy fur coat once he'd taken one last look about the decks with an experienced (if rusty) eye, before trooping down the starboard gangway ladder to the upper deck, then aft to the great-cabins.

He found one of his passengers, Count Rybakov, still seated at the dining table, sipping tea which, in the chilly cabins, was visibly steaming. He had been up on deck, once they'd gotten the anchors up and stowed, and had made their way into the St. Nicholas Gat, standing well aft by the taffrail lanthorns and flag lockers, out of the way of working sailors, to experience the departure. His servant, Fyodor, was fussing about him with some sweet biscuits from his personal stores.

"A good beginning, Kapitan Lewrie?" Rybakov jovially enquired.

"A splendid beginning, sir… my lord," Lewrie told him as he took a seat at the other end of the table. Another cup of coffee was set before him, along with a plate of scrambled eggs speckled with bacon crumbles, diced onion, and melted cheese. With it was a piping-hot heap of shredded fried potatoes, and a goodly slice of the roast beef on which they'd dined the night before. On a separate, smaller plate lay two thick slices of buttered toast, and the jam pot was close by.

Lewrie rubbed his hands together, to warm them as much as welcome his breakfast, before spreading jam on his bread. He took a first bite, tastebuds tingling in anticipation, and looked up at Rybakov for a second.

Dammit, this'll get tryin', Lewrie thought, feeling irked that anyone shared his table. Captains of His Majesty's warships were, by dint of authority, required to live apart from the rest of their crews and officers; inviting them in for a meal only so often, and spending the bulk of their time at sea in enforced isolation. Frankly, there were times that one could relish such isolation, and this was one of them. It was rare that Lewrie had anyone in for breakfast, and he was used to eating by himself as the ship's day began. Now, here was this interloper that Admiralty and Foreign Office had foisted off on him!

A sip of very hot coffee, a forkful of eggs, then a bite of the roast beef, sauced with a bit of potatoes, a second bite of bread, and he could almost dismiss the nobleman's presence, if he made it plain he was concentrating on his victuals, and wanted to be left in peace.

"I was just thinking, Kapitan Lewrie…," Rybakov began to say.

Burn in Hell! Lewrie silently fumed.

"I am hungry," Count Levotchkin complained, emerging at last from his sleeping space, and stumbling towards the table. He looked like Death's Head on a Mop-Stick, and his elegant clothing was rumpled.

"Bonjour, cher cousin," Count Rybakov cheerily greeted him, reverting to a Russian aristocrat's preferred French.

"You ate without me?" Levotchkin petulantly groused as he reeled into a chair with a dizzy thump. "We are moving? At sea? Damn. You, boy," he said, snapping fingers at Pettus. "I will have what the Kapitan is having. First, fetch me tea."

Pettus got a squinty, clench-mouthed look, and Lewrie, recalling why he'd been sacked by his last employers, worried that the tea might end in Levotchkin's hair. He gave Pettus a warning look.

"You rose late, Anatoli," Rybakov gently chid him. "Yes, we are at sea… on our way, at last. You slept through it? Amazing."

"I'll send word to the galley," Lewrie offered, "though, I fear there'll be a delay, if the galley fires've been curbed. And you'll have to supply my cook with the makings. Whitsell, run tell Nettles he's another breakfast to prepare, and the goods are on the way."

"Aye, sir."

"My tea!" Levotchkin demanded, head in both hands. He looked round for his manservant. "Sasha, tea, davai. Vite vite!" he snapped.

The big, burly bald manservant went to the side-board, poured a cup, and placed it before his master. But… just before he did so, he peered long and hard at Lewrie, as if undergoing an epiphany; not a glad one, from the way he frowned. As Count Levotchkin was having his first restorative sip, Sasha bent down to whisper in his ear, all the while with his eyes glued on Lewrie, who was irked with such effrontery, and put down his utensils to glare back.

"Mumble mumble London… argey-bargey Panton ooleetsa," Lewrie could barely make out. "Hiss-hiss-whisper chi magazeena…"

Ooleetsa that's 'street,' chi, that's 'tea,' Lewrie translated from his thin stock of Russian words in his head; but what the Hell's a magazeena?

"Buzzle-muzzle Strand…," Sasha imparted in a raspy whisper as Count Levotchkin stiffened and sat up straighter. "Da, ya oovyerin," the bruiser assured his master. Whatever the Devil that last meant, Count Levotchkin turned his head to glower at Lewrie, as well, eyes as wide as a first-saddled colt… just before his face turned to stone, and his eyes slitted. The sides of his fine nose pulsed in and out to each audible angry breath as his visage paled, his cheeks reddened.

Panton Street, the Strand, tea whatever… Oh, shit! Lewrie at last put together; The little bastard's set his beast t'lurkin' after Tess, and put two and two t'gether. Saw us at the tea and pastry shop. Maybe that's what a magazeena is.

Count Levotchkin set his cup down in the saucer, both rattling to the shaking of his hands.

"But, what is the matter, Anatoli?" Count Rybakov asked him in sudden concern. "You are ill? Should the ship's doctor…?"

Levotchkin answered him in a babbling flood of furious Russian and French, mixed, neither of which Lewrie could follow. Rybakov had difficulty, too, so rushed did the younger man's plaint spew out.

"Shto?" Rybakov asked as Levotchkin paused for breath. "Viy oovyeryeni? Tojeh sama-yeh dyevooshka?"*

"Da, ya oovyerin," Levotchkin replied, snarling this time, and glaring daggers at Lewrie. "Sasha is certain, for he saw them. Him!" Levotchkin accused, lifting his chin to point up the table to his host. "My honour has been insulted, and he must answer for it. I must kill him." He rose with a napkin in his right hand and began to advance on Lewrie, who shot his own chair back and stood ready to punch the fellow in the face if he dared issue a challenge with a napkin, not a glove.

"Stoi!" Rybakov barked. "I forbid this, Anatoli! Sit down! Do nothing. Remember our mission!" Rybakov then launched into a tirade in Russian-no French which might be shared with anyone else this time-and went so far as to lay a restraining hand on Levotchkin's right arm. "Obey me in this, Anatoli. Obey me!"

Levotchkin uttered a growl of frustration, shaking off his kinsman's hand. He threw the napkin at Lewrie, missing wide, then, to the astonishment of everyone, gave out a howl, an inarticulate bellow akin to the sound a hound might make over the corpse of its master.

"I refuse to share these rooms with the man," Levotchkin vowed. "I will not dine with him, drink with him, breathe the same air…!"

That'll save my spirit store, Lewrie inanely thought.

"Anatoli, that would be imposs-" Rybakov chid him.

"Damn him! Damn him to Hades!" Levotchkin cried, spinning on his heels and stomping aft to his partitioned-off bed-space, slamming the louvred slat door and making the flimsy deal and canvas partitions come nigh to collapsing like a tent.

"Well," Rybakov softly said in the immense silence. "Kapitan, I must apologise for my cousin's manners, but… he feels that you give him great insult, over a young lady."

"Not quite a lady, no, my lord," Lewrie said with a wry grin as he sat back down to resume his cooling breakfast. "The girl in question's adenizen of 'Mother' Batson's brothel, in Panton Street, for whom he took a fancy."