And, once returning to their own tables, laughing at him behind his back, sneering at him for a jumped-up inarticulate “sea-dog,” not worthy to be in their select company! His ears had begun to burn.
Lydia had sported that bored, pouty look, as if raised to play “arch,” though she had smiled briefly when greeting admirers and had chuckled over their jests. What the bloody Hell was I hoping? Lewrie had thought…’til Lydia had shifted her champagne glass to her left hand and had slipped her right arm into his. Hullo? She bein’ kind? he’d speculated, imagining that she had sensed his unease and was just playing the polite hostess, as a duty to ease the “outsider’s” nerves!
Once seated, though, she had turned lively, smiling and laughing and seeming as rapt as her brother as Percy dragged tales of derring-do and battle from him, an explanation of his “theft” of those dozen slaves, and the fleet actions he’d participated in. Given a chance to preen, even to a small audience, Lewrie had begun to feel more at ease, as the supper progressed, keeping things light and amusing.
“And are you married, Sir Alan?” Percy had asked. “Even though I hear that many sailors don’t ’til they attain your rank. Was Dame Lewrie unable to attend the levee this morning?”
“My… my late wife, Caroline, was murdered by the French two years ago,” Lewrie had sobered. “We’d gone to Paris, during the Peace of Amiens, a second honeymoon, really…”
“Good God above, why?” Percy had demanded, his mouth agape.
“You poor man!” Lydia had exclaimed.
“The shot was meant for me,” Lewrie had told them, laying out how he’d angered Napoleon Bonaparte by presenting him captured swords in exchange for the prized hanger Bonaparte had taken from him after blowing up his mortar ship at Toulon on 1794.
“You’ve met the Ogre?” Lord Percy had further cried.
“Only twice, and neither time was enjoyable,” Lewrie had said, having to explain that first encounter long ago, and how he’d refused parole and had had to surrender his sword, to remain with his men and the Royalist French with him, who surely would have been slaughtered on the spot, had it not been for the arrival of a troop of “yellow-jacket” Spanish cavalry to whisk them away to safety.
“Don’t know if it was really me and the dead Frogs’ swords, or something else that rowed him, but, he set agents and troops to hunt us down and kill us. We almost got clean away, almost into the boat, but, some French marksman…,” Lewrie had tried to conclude, but all the memories had come flooding back, and he had stopped, chin-up and his face hard.
“My most sincere apologies for broaching the subject, sir… but, to have been face-to-face with the Corsican Tyrant, the Emperor of all the French, well!” Lord Percy had cried, much too loudly, and had proposed a toast, again much too loudly, to Lewrie’s honour. And, by the time for dessert, port, and cheese, the same people who had been introduced once had come to their table for another round of greetings, their names and faces just as un-rememberable as the first time.
Then, with supper done, Lord Percy would not take “no” for an answer ’til they’d made the rounds at Almack’s, and at the Cocoa Tree too, to show Lewrie off and name him to everyone they knew as the hero who had bearded Bonaparte twice, and lived to tell the tale!
Lewrie began to feel like a prize poodle, again, for a whole other reason!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lewrie wished he had begun to play-act yawns and beg off after Almack’s, but there he was in the Cocoa Tree, one of the fastest gaming clubs in London, nodding, bowing, and smiling (a tad forced by then, his smiles) to yet another parcel of simpering “hoo-raws.” Percy was dead-set on entering the Long Rooms to find a game, and Lewrie had to follow along.
“Do you care for a flutter of the cards tonight, Sir Alan?” he asked, craning his neck to find an empty chair and a game he liked.
“I’ve really no head for gambling, mil… Percy,” Lewrie said with a grin and shake of his head. “Got my fingers burned and learned my lesson before I went into the Navy.”
“Are you sure you’re English, sir?” Lydia teased, tossing back her head to laugh, her arm under his once more. “Why, wagering is the national disease!”
“Got cured of it,” Lewrie told her, chuckling.
“I wager the wagers Alan makes against the French are deeper than any I’ve ever made!” Lord Percy hooted. “Wager wagers, hey? Well, you two can support me whilst I take a risk or two. I say, there’s an opening for vingt-et-un. Smashing!”
“Keep your head, Percy,” Lydia cautioned her brother. “You’ve taken on nigh your daily half-dozen.”
“A gentleman who can’t manage half a dozen bottles of wine per day is no proper gentleman, Lydia,” Lord Percy scoffed. “She’s of a piece with you, Alan… do the stakes near an hundred pounds, Lydia’ll go all squeamish and quaking. There must’ve been a miser in the family tree long ago, and she inherited, ha ha!”
“Let us know whether you’re winning or losing large, Percy,” she told him with a wry tone. “Scream or groan, and we’ll come running to your rescue. Captain Lewrie will surely join me for more champagne?”
“By this time o’ night, I’m about ready for a pot o’ tea,” he had to admit to her, feeling well and truly “foxed.”
“Now I know you’re not English, Captain Lewrie!” Lydia teased again. “There must be a West Country Methodist, or a Scottish Calvinist, in your family tree.”
“Well, my mother’s family is from Devonshire,” Lewrie quipped.
“A pot of tea, then… with Devonshire cream,” Lydia decided, smiling most fetchingly, and with lowered lashes.
They found a comparatively quiet corner table in the outer public halls, and ordered tea with scones and jam, which didn’t even seem to faze the waiter; odder things had been called for at the Cocoa Tree.
Over several restoring cups, which cleared some of the fumes in Lewrie’s head, Lydia led him through his background; how his mother had died in childbirth, and Sir Hugo had come back to take him in…
“That Willoughby?” Lydia almost gasped. “The ‘Hell-Fire Club’ Willoughby? Good God, Sir Alan, he’s almost as scandalous as I!” She laughed in delight, then lowered her head to peer hard at him, cocking her head over to one side. “Do you take after your mother, now, or do you take after him? Do you share his proclivities, even my less-than-good repute might be in jeopardy!”
“Just a simple sailor, me, Lydia,” Lewrie japed.
“You’re aware… my divorce and all that?” she asked intently.
“Father told me a bit, this afternoon,” he admitted, shrugging. “Sounds as if you got saddled with the Devil’s first-born son.”
“He was, and he is,” Lydia told him, looking a bit relieved by his answer, “and I’m well shot of him. You have children?”
And Lewrie had to explain how both his sons were in the Royal Navy, and how Sewallis had managed to forge and scrounge his way into a Midshipman’s berth, which much amused her. His daughter, Charlotte, well… “She’s with my brother-in-law and his wife in Anglesgreen. Never heard of it? Halfway ’twixt Guildford and Petersfield, a little place. Best, really. My father’s country place is there, but there’s no one to care for Charlotte… even if Governour thinks it was all my fault, our going to Paris, and Caroline’s murder, and… the last I saw of Charlotte, over a year ago, she blamed me, too.”
“You don’t have a seat, yourself?” Lydia asked, her voice going a touch cool for his lack.
“Caroline and I were her uncle Phineas’s tenants. We ran up a house, built new barns and stables, but, after her passing, I couldn’t stand the place… all hers, d’ye see… and then Uncle Phineas decided that my other brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, and his new wife needed a place of their own, and turfed me out, so he could sell it to Burgess’s new in-laws, the Trencher family,” Lewrie explained. “Now, my father’s place is home… do I ever get a chance t’go there, what with the war and all. Twice the acres, twice the house, even if Sir Hugo opted for a one-storey Hindoo-style bungalow. Rambles all over the place, and even has an ancient Celtic hill-fort tower, later a Roman watch tower, he’s partially rebuilt. Mine, when he passes, but-”