Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune Страница 20

Granted, Lewrie hadn't been in a charitable mood after leaving the Arsenal, after seeing how low the mighty Venetian Navy had fallen. He'd been a tad leery, too, of spending any more time with Lucy or her forbidding husband, Sir Malcolm. Or of having Peter Rushton get cherry-merry with drink and gush out things of the past that were best left in the past. Or dealing with that wily criminal, Clotworthy Chute! What could come out, what more social trouble could he tumble into, once they got to gossiping over old times? And his part in them?

Thankfully, Peter and Clotworthy had been away-off on their own low amusements, he suspected-but, to equal their pestiferous presence, Commander William Fillebrowne had turned up instead!

Of all gentlemen in the Royal Navy, Lewrie knew smarm when he heard it, having dished out more than his fair share in his time. And Commander Fillebrowne had been most definitely smarmy!

"Horrid foreign custom, sir," Fillebrowne had chortled, "the Venetian habit of cicisbeo. A proper Venetian lady must have one, d'ye see- with her family's approval, of course. Chosen with more care than her mate, I'm told, from only the finest select of Society. One never chooses from a lower ranking than oneself… that'd be a mortal shame, d'ye see."

"Why, whatever is it, Commander Fillebrowne?" Lucy had goggled, all coy and frippery as a minx.

"Her guide through life, her amanuensis," Fillebrowne had sworn in much good humour. Rather a leering humour, Lewrie'd thought. "This cicisbeo holds her muff, her cloak… trails along and steers her over her introduction into Society. Part dancing-master, diplomatic representative… tea-fetcher, hand-holder, father-confessor… some say her lover…!"

"Sir!" Sir Malcolm had barked, damned displeased by such talk.

"Her catch-fart, d'ye mean, sir?" Lewrie had interjected. "A simpering twit to stroke her ego?"

"Uhm… that too, Commander Lewrie," Fillebrowne had agreed. "It is said, I believe, that he is her lifelong teacher in all things. A male chaperone, admitted to her dressing chamber with her maids."

"Sure you're pronouncing it right?" Lewrie had scoffed, eager to both skewer Fillebrowne-simply because he'd taken a hot dislike to him- and to reassure Sir Malcolm that he was no danger himself. "We saw them, didn't we, Sir Malcolm, at the ridotto? Mincing about like so many 'Mollies' in men's clothing? It's certain to be said more like 'sissies-bay-oh.' Sissy-boys."

"Hah!" Sir Malcolm had barked again; this time with amusement.

"A lifelong triangle… wife, husband and cicisbeo" William Fillebrowne had insisted, sticking to his original pronunciation. "I have it on good authority. Unspeakable people, the Venetians. Every Italian society, for that matter." He shrugged off, as if he'd meant no more than to be entertaining, and informative. "Horrid custom!"

"Ah, dinner!" Sir Malcolm had enthused as the food arrived. Witty, charming and amusing, had Fillebrowne been. Lewrie had let him have the stage, preferring to deal with Sir Malcolm over mills and weaponry, casting cannon, good swords and such. Yet, round the beef course, there'd come a sly, secretive stroking along the side of his boot beneath the table!

Better not be Fillebrowne! Alan had frowned to himself. Secret "Molly," is he? Oh, Christ, no!

Dining en famille on a spacious balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, seated at the opposite corners of a four-place table, there was no way Fillebrowne could reach him. And it surely wasn't Sir Malcolm! Lewrie warranted. He was all stocks, money and business talk.

No, directly across from him was Lucy, smiling so sweetly that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, her huge aquamarine eyes so saintly-wide and cherub-innocent…! Yet, in one covert second, when conversation had lagged and the only sound was the scrape of knives and forks on fine Venetian glass plates-she'd cut her eyes to him, to see, had he noticed! And she had seemed almost amused when he'd drawn his feet away from her soft, slippered caress, or scooted his chair back a wary inch or so more!

Why, the brainless, pox-riddled trull! he'd snorted in affront. Not wed a year, and she's makin' sheep eyes at me again? Me, a man wed and… well, maybe what's in my soul shows, plain as day. But no! Not again. Not with her, certain!

They'd caught up on family doings. Her father and mother back in England, in the Midlands, along with her foppish brother Ledyard. Floss and her husband, her oldest brother and his wife Anne… and a rather sultry and seductive Anne, Lewrie had recalled in spite of his best intentions!… still in Jamaica running the plantations and the sugar, rum and molasses trade. There'd been a first husband, but he'd died in '89. There were children, now old enough to be left in care of governesses, or Eton school. Sir Malcolm's brood was grown, adult and away on their own pursuits.

"Heavens, Alan," Lucy had almost wailed in remembered grief. "After… I was disconsolate. Even after two years of mourning. But mother and father insisted I go to Bath to take the waters. And a bit of joy. And suddenly, one night in the Long Rooms…!"

She'd given Sir Malcolm a doting smile at that point, tousled a stray lock of his hair over his ear. And the old colts-tooth had almost whinnied in shy delight to be so fawned over!

"Neighbours… not twenty miles betwixt us, all that time, but of different parishes…!" Lucy had gushed. "Father an investor, in the early days, though Shockley had never come to call upon us."

"How fortunate are life's turnings," Sir Malcolm had managed, blushing to the roots of his hair, but gazing upon his dazzling younger wife with nigh-on total adoration. "How surprising…"

"Serendipity, sir," Lewrie had recalled. "From Dr. Johnson's lexicography. I think. To seek one thing of value, and unexpectedly come upon another of even greater delight, totally unlooked for."

"How true, sir!" Sir Malcolm had sworn with heat. "How true!"

And God help the poor bastard, Lewrie thought, tossing off his Rhenish. She always was a brainless bit o' baggage. Spooning over the old toad… and running her toes over me at the same time! And over Fillebrowne, when I wouldn't serve, I think.

Round dessert, Lucy had turned to Fillebrowne for a time, and he'd gotten a strangled look, just after she'd shifted in her chair. Followed by lidded, half-hooded eyes, Alan remembered. And a damned smug air about him, too!

Damme, is she so bound and determined to put "horns" on Sir Malcolm Shockley, she ain't particular who tops her, 'long's it's done? She'd been just close enough to reach him with her tiny foot; he'd got that sleepy ram-cat look right after. A righteous man, Lewrie suspected, Sir Malcolm hadn't noticed. But then, the husband was always the last to suspect, in any event. And well Lewrie knew of that, and prospered from it in his wilder days among the "grass widows."

Should he suspect her himself? he wondered. An innocent man'd not. But then, he wasn't an innocent, was he? An innocent man would never have even caught that play between them. If that was what it was.

It wouldn't square up, dammit! What he'd known of Lucy Beauman in the West Indies, with her wide-eyed innocence, her blessed lack of worldly knowledge and weariness, well… perhaps people changed over a decade. But not by that much, surely.

And she'd been so fluttery and charming as she'd seen him out, as he'd departed before Fillebrowne. Just as if any flirtation between her and Fillebrowne had never occurred, and he was still her target! A ploy to let him know she was available? Alan speculated. A way to whet his interest, by using Fillebrowne-to make him jealous?

"Pahh!" He spat softly.

"Sir?" His cabin-steward asked, leaving off his silent puttering. "A top-up, Aspinall," he told him. "And before I forget again, tell my cook I'll dine aboard Lionheart this evening."

"Aye, sir," Aspinall replied, headed for the wine-cabinet. Not that I didn't wish to top her long ago, Alan recalled, in his reckless, wild single days. Well, more reckless than he was now, he amended. In his teens, sure the Navy was a short wartime career, he'd been a penniless but handsome midshipman, 'bout the most fetchin' Mid there was in the entire West Indies, he reckoned smugly to himself. Dashing and rakehell, a born Corinthian, with that damme-boy glint to his eye that made prim maidens' hearts go all aflutter. The bad'uns always got the interest of the good'uns! And her family had been so rich, whilst he hadn't a hope of an inheritance, a living of any sort, beyond a poor remittance from his father-whenever Sir Hugo had remembered, or felt like, sending it. There had been hopes for a match, her family had been almost disposed to it, should he make something of himself, earn a commission. Well, he'd blown the gaff to the wide, now, hadn't he? He'd thought about her, even years after, had fantasies alone in his narrow bed-cot, and months at sea…

No, stop yourself, you damn fool! he chid himself sternly. She is married. So am I. And not a "grass widow," put out to pasture once the heirs were born, and a bored husband off with a mistress for sport.

And Sir Malcolms so perishiri big! he reminded himself. Not of the "understanding" sort of fast-livers, or the City aristocrat circle, who'd stand aside or tolerate weekend "country house" games. Not the kind, Lewrie thought, who'd partake of a mistress on the side, either. One of those "all or nothing" gentlemen, in such decent love.

He'd have his fetchin' little wife all to himself, Lewrie realised, or put both of 'em in the cold, cold ground and be satisfied with the nothing. Made enough of a fool of myself, anyway, with Phoebe Aretino, and I'll not make that mistake again!

And certainly not with a married woman, not a married English lady-Mean t'say, damme… there are rules! 'Less both parties are amenable-that's the way it's always worked! But for a man to intrude into a reasonably happy marriage, well… that, he'd always held, was a caddish deceit.

Now, Zachariah Twigg trots Claudia Mastandrea 'cross my hawse again, he mused as Aspinall refilled his wineglass and he took a sip to cool his blood… or I cross some fetchin' mort's hawse… hmm. A night or two of "puttin' the leg over," four thousand miles and nigh on two years away from home, well… no harm in that. Long as it's foreign mutton… a mort I don't know. A decently amusin' courtesan… not a street whore… o' the commercial persuasion…?

But not Lucy. Definitely not! he swore to himself. And no matter how temptin' the bait she offers. Swear it, God. Swear it on a stack o' Bibles!

He put his left hand out as if to make that oath that instant. Unfortunately, his hand came down upon the desk, half upon a pile of notes from the Ship's Surgeon, Mr. Howse, and half-upon Toulon's rear, quite near his "nutmegs." Lewrie glanced down. Howse's notes were on the number of seamen treated with the Mercury Cure for the Pox, after their last stay in port, out of Discipline.

He didn't think that boded too well as an omen for that stern "resolve" of his.

CHAPTER 8

One in the morning, and he'd been called from his bed, a regal and welcoming-soft real bed, in the palazzio of Count Salmatori, after a brief, bone-weary and dreamless sleep since eleven, when the Piedmontese legates had arrived in Cherasco. And still, they tried to quibble, these Royalists, these trimmers, who thought war a game, and victories and defeats temporary intrusions into their elegant lives of luxuries and privilege, serenely hair-splitting to maintain a shred of Divine Right for their odious king, Victor Amadeus.

Signores Salier de la Tour and Costa de Beauregard were both bland and vexingly obscure and sneaking. The general had had enough. Four days of marching almost without sleep, all across the foothills of the Ap-penines and the Alps, through narrow passes, along winding tracks in the mountains-horse, artillery and foot. And he'd fought battles so often, he'd lost count, though Berthier had it all written down. Won them all, routed them, stampeded them, slain them or took them prisoner. And still, Victor Amadeus the sleepy-called King of the Dormice for constantly nodding off in public-that vain bigot, champion of a new Bourbon monarch on the throne of France, that vicious old beast who'd revived the Inquisition against his own people, whinnied and shivered in dread of his folly, not a day's march away, and tried to negotiate favourable terms for himself! As if doing France the favour!

General Bonaparte yawned in their faces, then drew out his watch.

"… so you see, Your Excellency, the terms are so harsh," Signore Costa carped, pausing for a moment when he saw that this young

Frenchman wasn't listening. "To take the fortress of Cuneo, the key to our whole Alpine frontier, as well… along with the monetary demands-"

"Since drawing the document of armistice up, Signore," Bonaparte snapped in good Italian, "I've also captured Cherasco, Fossano and Alba. I've broken your army, broken your line at the River Tanaro and stand on the River Stura here at Cherasco. You ought to consider my demand moderate. It is now one in the morning, signores. I have ordered an attack across the Stura, to begin in one hour. At two, my armies," he lied most plausibly, looking red-eyed, haggard and remorseless, as unkempt and grumpy as a fiend from Satan denied blood, "march. And then, with no forces worth the name to oppose me, I will be in Turin tomorrow night. Where there will be no negotiating."

"Signore general, Your Excellency," Costa de Beauregard whined with his hands out in supplication. "Sacred honour was pledged, to the Austrians, the British… to stand by them-"

"Yet where are they, to stand by you, hem?" Bonaparte sneered. "Hard to stand, on your knees, under a heavier yoke than this I offer. Your answer. Accept my terms now-or nothing later."

Salier bowed his head, almost in tears. Costa looked at him and nodded his sad assent, as well. "Very well, Excellency. We will sign."

"Bon!" Napoleon Bonaparte nodded with them, grunting a tired but satisfied sound. Yet he then sprang from his elegant gilded chair at once, calling for coffee, as if his bone-weariness had been a sham. He went to a farther, smaller salon where his maps had been set up.

He allowed himself a wolfish smile, now his back was turned to those groveling Piedmontese envoys. Piedmont was his, just as he had schemed, their army and their will to fight crushed. The Austrian, Beaulieu, of the much-vaunted but slow-mincing "best army in Europe," had been gulled into taking his bait. His demand for free passage in the Genoese Riviera had, naturally, been told to the Austrians by the Genoese, and Beaulieu had come too far south, dividing that mightier combined army into eatable pieces. And Bonaparte had whirled between them, outflanking, out-marching, bloodying their noses in turn, destroying the corps each had sent to aid the other. Now Beaulieu was scrambling, faithlessly abandoning his allies, rushing for fortified Alessandria, taking the fastest roads to end up, Bonaparte was mortal certain, at the Austrian Archduchy of Milan's most powerful border fortress, that brooding monster at Pavia. Without having to enter Turin or force a crossing of the Stura, he could now wheel east and harry his rear and flanks before Beaulieu reached it. Send Massena, Augereau, or Serurier down to demonstrate before Pavia, and hoodwink him again! General Bonaparte had always loved maps, along with mathematics. Precise maps, over which he could feel he soared like an omnipotent bird of prey, feeling every rise, every defile, every spot where troops could be hidden behind a fold, every possible place of ambush, like an eagle might ride an updraft. Pavia was far too strong, would result in weeks of siegework, and he didn't have the manpower or the time for such. A Royalist French Army had broken itself there long before, against an Austrian threat, and a French king, Francois I, had ended imprisoned. But there was a way across the Po River, at a place that would out-flank Beaulieu one more time, catch him wrong-footed, and let him threaten Milan itself. He ran his finger down the line of the Po to Piacenza. Maillebois s French Army had crossed that far downstream, just there at Piacenza, in 1746. A day's rest, a chance for his footsore army to loot more boots, grain and wine from the Piedmontese, and he would be off. Off on another lightning-quick march, and turn the Austrians' flanks, force them off the Ticino River, out of Pavia… or lose the garrison they left behind, after he'd beaten the field armies.