The Baltic Gambit

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Russian short and direct,” Arslan Artimovich replied.

  “Dangerous fellow, her father?” Lord Peter Rushton asked Lewrie, once they’d taken their leave and had repaired to a tavern that served much-needed restorative drink.

  “Cut yer throat for tuppence,” Lewrie assured him, between sips of a calming brandy. “Determined the girl dies a virgin, I think, and most-like’ll be in the bed-chamber on her weddin’ night, t’see does it go his way . . . or else.”

  “So you haven’t, um . . . ?” Rushton asked, amazed.

  “Wouldn’t even chance it, ’less he croaks first,” Lewrie admitted.

  “Oh, rum go,” Clotworthy said with a sigh. “Still, . . . the girl does seem took by you, Alan. Even if there’s no future in it.”

  “Might prove a challenge,” Lord Peter mused.

  “Don’t even think it, Peter!” Clotworthy cautioned. If anyone in London was familiar with the truly dangerous, it was Chute, and the old devil had put the wind up him. “Go for the chamin’ little whore, instead . . . the other’un so took with Alan, here.”

  “You rogue, sir!” Rushton hooted. “Yes, I noted she had eyes for you. No wonder we ain’t seen him since the trial. A delectable young beauty. Wherever did ya find her, Alan?”

  Lewrie didn’t want to tell him, of a sudden, even if Tess was only a whore. Oft as he’d sworn that he’d have made a topping pimp . . .

  “Come come, now . . . don’t make me depend on Clotworthy to ferret her out,” Rushton pressed with an expectant leer. “Which brothel’s she in, and what’s her fee?”

  “Dare ye risk bein’ seen in a brothel, Peter?” Lewrie countered. “The wife, and all . . . your seat in Lord’s, and reputation?”

  “Oh, tosh!” Rushton laughed. “Easier for me than you, old son. Damme, I’m a peer! Ev’ryone knows how things stand ’twixt me and the wife. It’s expected of my sort. Did whoring or keeping a mistress on the side make the slightest diff’rence, there wouldn’t be the tenth of a quorum left in Lord’s . . . only those who’ve outlived their cocks, and I sometimes wonder ’bout them!

  “Seriously, Alan,” Peter continued, all atwinkle, “it ain’t like we haven’t shared and shared alike before. Where can I sample her, and what does she cost?”

  “ ‘Mother’ Batson’s . . . a new place in Panton Street,” Lewrie reluctantly told him, knowing that Clotworthy Chute could smoak her out by suppertime, anyway. “Her name’s Tess. New-come from Belfast. Didn’t know she was that young, d’ye see . . . sixteen or seventeen, Eudoxia thought. Two or three guineas’ll do.”

  She’s just a passin’ fancy, Lewrie thought, squirming; So why does it irk me t’pass her on?

  “A bloody bargain, is she a good ride,” Rushton snickered.

  Rich as Peter Rushton, Lord Draywick, was from what was left from his inheritance, and his marriage into a Trade fortune, there was the possibility that he might find Tess a very pleasing diversion, even go so far as to buy her out and set her up as his mistress; “under his protection,” the saying went. Certainly he could not afford to do that, or even go to “Mother” Batson’s all that often.

  Might be best for her, Lewrie considered; A place of her own, with a maid, and a cook. Rich gowns, and jewelry. Some place warmer than that drab little cubicle she has now. Only the one customer to deal with, too. As much security as she could expect . . . ’til Peter gets tired of her. Might be best, all round. Might be Tess’s fondest wish! And, since when did I care a toss for a whore’s welfare, her bloody feelings?

  “I thought that bloody bell-wether in charge of her baa-lambs hellish-resembled Emma Batson,” Clotworthy exclaimed as if he’d solved a mystery. “Famous in her youth, she was, and probably has her first shilling. A clever old baggage, with a head for her business as good as any ‘fancy man,’ I can tell you. Tess, is she? Tess who?”

  “Don’t know, really,” Lewrie said, shrugging.

  “Well, last names hardly matter, do they?” Lord Peter sniggered, his nose in his brandy glass. “First names, either, ‘Dearie’ and ‘my Joe,’ and ‘darling’ serve just as well. Sixteen or seventeen? Hmm!”

  “She’s hellish-sweet, and . . . endearing,” Lewrie said, his eyes fixed on the far wall as he took a sip of his own drink. “A new-come, as I said.” He almost shook himself to reject that line of thinking. “There’s a supper every evening, for select patrons and the girls of their choice. It ain’t a quick place . . . even though there’s another parlour for the walk-ins. Set a quite nice table, really, and . . . ya meet the finest set o’ gentlemen,” Lewrie added with a bark of sardonic amusement.

  “Damn my eyes, are you sweet on her, Alan?” Lord Peter Rushton exclaimed, feigning mock horror. “I do believe you are. Just like ya were at school . . . the chamber-maids who did for our rooms? Or that tavern wench at the Crown and Cushion, where we always went? Do you recall her, Clotworthy? Betsy, or Judy, or something?”

  “Indeed I do, Peter old son,” Clotworthy seconded with a dreamy expression on his phyz. “Damned impressive set of poonts, she had, as I remember. And a most obligin’ mort. Alan here was so besotted with her, he’d have run off with her . . . had she not been makin’ such a good livin’ makin’ half the students, and a fair number of the faculty, as happy as clams, haw haw! Made me happy, I can tell you, and only one shilling a throw. Oh, those were fine days. Nights, rather!”

  “Ten minutes in the tavern’s pantry,” Lord Peter hooted, “with her skirts thrown up, and sitting on an ale barrel . . . for six pence! Oh, but Alan was always that way. Mad for quim, then in ‘cream-pot’ love for them.”

  Damme, I guess I always was! Lewrie confessed to himself.

  “Poor fellow never figured out that likin’ ’em ain’t necessary, just ’cause he got the leg over,” Clotworthy said, shaking his head in amusement. “Just throw down yer money, enjoy ’em, and be done, haw haw.”

  Damme, but I don’t think I like these shits half as much as I used to, Lewrie thought with an uneasy feeling, a tightening of his innards; Right, I’ve always been a calf-head cully when it comes to the women . . . whores or proper, no matter. Fine enough friends when we all were lads, but . . . have I changed? Did they change? Or, never have.

  “So, a good ride is she, this Tess creature, Alan?” Clotworthy goggled at him with a knowing leer.

  Lewrie squinted with sudden anger for a second, before tamping it down firmly. “Well, you’d be the best judge of that,” he said instead, slowly drawling his answer. Damme, am I jealous? he wondered.

  “Does she play the shy virgin?” Peter queried. “Or is she game for any place, time, fashion, or orifice, hey? An acrobat, is she?”

  Dammit! Lewrie silently fumed, taking time to answer by sipping on his drink; They’re like schoolboys, still . . . civilian schoolboys! A gentleman doesn’t tell such! Have I got so old I can’t feel chummy with fellow rakehells any longer? Or, have I gotten wiser?

  “That’s for you to find out, Peter,” Lewrie told him, faking a sly grin, after he had finished the last dollop of brandy in his glass. “Now, did I have your purse, I’d buy her out and set her up, for she’s that pleasing to me.”

  “You’d play Pygmalion with her, Alan?” Rushton japed, not noticing his old friend’s reticence; it didn’t matter a whit to him.

  “On her, most-like,” Clotworthy interjected.

  “Next time you call at ‘Mother’ Batson’s, you’ll put in a good word for me with the ‘Abbess’?” Lord Peter asked. “With the girl, as well? Is her establishment as fine as you say, and sets such a fine table, I might become a regular caller. Panton Street’s convenient to Whitehall, and my town-house. Let her know a wealthy patron’s coming, hey?” he said with a wink and a leer at his double entendre.

  “Well, of course, Peter . . . what are friends for?” Lewrie said, trying not to grit his teeth or slap the lecher silly; hypocritical as such an act might be, and ruefully chiding himself for being perhaps but a shadow compared to his old compatriots’ las
civious natures.

  “Then, a glass with you, sir,” Peter insisted, snapping fingers for the waiter to come top them up. Lewrie would have risen and left, but for that offer, which could not be rejected, or be thought of as a “sneaker.” Despite his distaste, he stayed on.

  “Ah, but we’re a merry band of rogues,” Clotworthy said with a cheery smile. “Remember our old motto, Peter . . . Alan? What Wilkes said of life . . . ‘a few good fucks, and then we die,’ ha ha!”

  “Damme, but I believe I started the day lookin’ for stationery,” Lewrie said, perking up as he changed the subject. “Yet here I sit, with not a single sheet, nor a ha’porth of ink yet. And there is that furrier in the Haymarket to discover . . . just in case Admiralty’s run short of Post-Captains before the fleet sails for the Baltic.”

  “You’ll not dine with us, Alan?” Clotworthy Chute exclaimed in seeming disappointment. Perhaps he’d fancied that Lewrie would foot the bill, as he had at Harrow with ale, porter, and “tatties.”

  “Some other time, Clotworthy,” Lewrie demurred. “I think I’ll finish this last glass, then toddle along. I believe we should all consider our drinks celebratory . . . that we survived an encounter with Mistress Durschenko’s charmin’ father, hmm?”

  “Do you think we’ll really have to go fight the Russians, Danes, and Swedes, Alan?” Clotworthy asked. “Mean t’say . . .”

  “Aye, and the sooner the better,” Lewrie assured him. “Time is not on our side, not with the weather warmin’, and their navies’ ports thawin’ out. Do they put to sea, and combine, well . . .”

  “Beat ’em like a drum, no matter,” Peter scoffed with a sublime confidence that bordered on indifference; he even allowed himself one idle yawn. “We’ve Nelson, after all.”

  “And Alan . . . can he tear himself from betwixt his doxy’s legs,” Clotworthy chuckled over the rim of his glass.

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” Lewrie asked, finally finishing off his brandy, and more than ready to depart. “One way or t’other.”

  “By yer leave, sir!” an impatient porter snarled at him, trying to make way on the crowded sidewalk with several wrapped packets.

  “By yer own bloody leave, damn yer eyes!” Lewrie snapped back, more than ready to fight someone, raising his walking-stick in threat.

  “Pardons . . . pardons.” The weedy little brute shied away, more sauce than sinew, and scurried off.

  “Bloody Hell!” Lewrie growled under his breath. “What a pack of cods-heads.”

  Are they what I’d’ve become, if I’d stayed ashore in London . . . anywhere in England? he fumed to himself as he strode along for his lodgings; Then, thank God for the Navy!

  Alan Lewrie had always cynically, cheerfully admitted that he would never be buried a bishop, that the most he had aspired to would be to be considered a “Buck-of-the-First-Head,” a merry denizen of the “cock and hen” clubs in the more sordid parts of London; sleep in late, roister and rantipole ’til dawn, and begin it all over, had he had his druthers.

  Such as he seemed to be doing now.

  Yet . . . not only had it become tiresome . . . boresome! . . . but it was beginning to pall, the ambrosia turned to ashes in his mouth. The morning’s encounter with Peter and Clotworthy made him squint with revulsion.

  Christ, am I havin’ an Epiphany? he wondered.

  He shook that notion off with a shiver and a barely audible Brr.

  Idle hands, the Devil’s workshop, he recalled; and I’ve been damned idle, since before Christmas. Or, t’other’un . . . ‘lie down with dogs and ye rise with fleas.’ Oh God, ye don’t hear from me much, but . . . I really need t’get back t’sea! Doesn’t have t’be a frigate . . . a cutter would do, a one-masted revenue sloop! Hell, even the Impress Service, just so long as I’m employed at something! I’m not a huge sinner after all . . . compared to some I could name. Right . . . I’m a fool for women, and I always get in trouble ashore. There may be women aboard warships, despite what the Admiralty wishes, but . . . none that tempt my eye, the plug-uglies. Most of ’em foul an’ rough as bosuns . . .

  He accepted the fact that Peter and Clotworthy were right in one regard; he never had been a callous, unscrupulous abuser of women’s affections. He’d always gone soft on them. In point of fact, two of his duels, in his early days, had been in defence of a girl’s good name or honour, so . . . didn’t that count for something? Mean t’say . . . !

  Write off the odd convenient quarter-hour romp here and there, and what have you? he thought, scanning back over his conquests as he dodged a brace of strolling ladies and a street urchin bullying a wee dog; A string of fond relationships, that’s what, by . . . sorry. Long-time, mutually pleasin’ love affairs! Don’t make me a bad person, not like Peter, or Clotworthy, or . . .

  He practically stormed up the steps to the doors of the Madeira Club, thrusting the doors back so forcefully that the day porter at the desk jumped in fright, scrambling to come round to gather up his cloak, hat, walking-stick, and mittens. “Still raw out, sir? A fine mist falling, still? I’ll have your cloak and hat sponged, then send them up to your rooms, sir.”

  “Er, thankee,” Lewrie mumbled, realising that he’d stomped back to the club so fiercely that he’d worked up a sweat under his clothes. “Any letters for me?”

  “Uhm . . . nossir, none so far today.”

  “Very well, then. Do any come, I’ll be in the Common Room.”

  “Very good, Captain Lewrie.”

  Lewrie dabbed at his temples and cheeks with a handkerchief to make himself presentable, once he’d found a nice, quiet corner, and a thickly padded leather wing-back chair near the fireplace. A servant took his request for hot coffee, and padded away, leaving him to stew on the morning’s doings.

  “What the Devil do I do?” he muttered as he stirred sugar and milk into his cup. “It can’t go on like this. Not for long, or I’ll be ‘skint’ by Easter.” His accounts at Coutts’s Bank, some prize-money that had dribbled in from Mediterranean captures way back in ’96, was sufficient for keeping a gentleman of his station in moderate comfort, with enough to keep up his rented farm and home in Anglesgreen, both the boys at their school, his daughter Charlotte’s first tutor, and his wife, with her typical thriftiness, in fine style. Dabbling with the whores, though, sweet as one of them was . . .

  Lord Peter could afford such squandering, both of his purse and his repute, but he was the beau ideal of the Abolitionists, of the Respectable; of the dour Hannah More, Rev. Wilberforce, and all of their grim adherents, and he could not risk running into any more of them in “Mother” Batson’s parlour. “Saint Alan, the Liberator!”

  He would have to see Tess just one more time, he realised with what the French would call tristesse, a sweet-sad sorrow, flooding him. There really was no future in it, even were he as rich as the fabled Walpoles. Sadly, he also realised that if he could afford for her to be his long-time kept mistress, he’d tire of her someday, too, and abandon her to her uncertain fate. Better he spoke of Lord Peter to her, and hope that Tess struck him the right way.

  After all, he did try to plant the seed of the idea in Peter’s mind, of buying her out and setting her up under his protection; that would be best, in the long run. And go back to living the life of a “salty, tar-splotched” nautical monk!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Good morning, Captain Lewrie,” the day porter greeted him as he entered the club the next morning, giving him a chary, cutty-eyed look as he took his things to hang up. “Breakfast will be served the top of the hour, sir . . . there’s to be pork chops and smoked mullet, fresh up from Sheerness.”

  “Umph” was Lewrie’s sleepy comment. “Thankee.”

  “Coffee or tea in the Common Room, sir,” the porter advised, to a man who looked badly in need of either.

  “Morning, all,” Lewrie nodded to his fellow lodgers gathered by the table of pots, cups, and saucers. “Mister Giles, Major Baird . . . Mister Pilkington . . . Showalter.”

 
Pilkington was the club’s Cassandra, sure that Trade would end, and the economy go smash, due to this Baltic business; Showalter was still angling for a seat in Commons, next by-election on his home hustings, and courting monied supporters like a street-walker; Mr. Giles was hellish-devout, and big in the leather-goods trade and tanneries, whilst Major Baird, their “chicken-nabob” come back from India with a fortune of at least £50,000, was still searching for a suitably proper wife . . . or oral sex in the loge boxes at the theatres.

  Yet all eyed him as charily as they would a naked drunk at the altar of the local parish church. Know too damned much about my business, Lewrie thought with a wince and a sigh; and where I was, damn ’em. There were some askance glances, some whispers and mutterings, making Lewrie wonder were his breeches buttons done up proper, or was a used cundum dangling from a coat pocket.

  Frankly, it had been a damned sad night. Tess had noticed his moodiness and tetchiness, and had tried to jolly him out of it . . .’til she’d learned the reason for his detachment.

  She’d sat up in bed, a quilt and the coverlet wrapped round her, and her arms about her knees, with a pensive look on her pretty face.

  “Ye’ll not come t’me no longer, Alan me dear?” she’d said with a hitch in her voice, and a swipe at her eyes with a fist. “Sure, am I too expensive? Is that it?”

  “No, Tess, it’s not the money . . . though I’m not a rich man, not really,” he’d tried to explain, practically curled up around her, with all the pillows under his shoulders and head.

  “That dark-haired girl ye were with, then? D’ye wish ya were with her, the more?”

  “Not if I wish t’live!” he’d said with a wry laugh, explaining Eudoxia Durschenko . . . and her fierce father. “There’s no one else I wish t’be with . . . ye know I’m married, no matter how badly that has turned out. She and I . . .’tis distant, now. Might improve . . . ?”