The Baltic Gambit l-15

by Dewey Lambdin

  Yet he had not come out with a full purse, and only two of his cundums, and once "in the saddle," two would not be enough. He knew he was too hungry to be sated by a mere two romps, and the last thing he needed, and what he had amazingly avoided during his long career as a rakehell, was the French Pox. What he imagined he could afford that night by way of Cyprian charms would be riskier than he wished, in that regard. There was also the very real risk of being lured into a jade's rooms, accosted by her "fancy man" and his accomplices, and being found days later, a naked corpse in the mud-flats of the Thames!

  Yet…! With the idea firmly embedded in his mind, Lewrie turned the pages to Brothels. London's many church bells began to chime the hour; it was a quarter past eight P.M., or so his pocket-watch said after he took a quick peek at it. Why, it wasn't even the shank of the evening! The theatres were barely into the middle of their first acts, of yet, and the chop-houses were still packed with diners.

  " 'Nuther porter, sir?" the waitress enquired, slyly projecting a hip to the edge of his table. Even here, in a somewhat clean tavern, there'd be rooms abovestairs for rantipoling, and the servers augmented their earnings with sport. She wasn't to his taste, though, in his now-stimulated state, Lewrie began to wonder exactly what his taste was and where he'd draw the line.

  "No, I'm off," Lewrie said, tucking the guidebook into a breast pocket of his uniform coat, and fumbling for his coin purse.

  "Cor, wot a pity," the waitress leered, 'an yew with h'int'rest in a li'l sport."

  "Ta," Lewrie said, hastily taking his leave. To the first hacking coach outside, he shouted "Madeira Club, Duke and Wigmore" to the coachee, and clambered in. Time was wasting!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In mufti again, armed with a stout walking-stick that disguised a slim sword, and with bank notes squirrelled away in several pockets, he was pleased to discover himself back in his old haunts, where he had rented his first London lodgings; in Panton Street, where many foreign emissaries lived… or kept their mistresses. The house that his hired coach took him to he remembered as one which in his time, in 1784, had been the residence of a single family. Now, though…

  No finer establishment for the discerning gentleman in search of Corinthian delights in St. James's, in the utmost of security and serenity, the house of Mistress Batson may offer the most exquisite selection of jewels of the demimonde…

  Or so the guidebook said, and if Mistress Batson's lived up to a tithe of its advertisement, it would be worth it, Lewrie decided as he alit and paid the coachman.

  There was a hulking sort of fellow loitering by the front stoop who gave him a chary look-over. "Come as a patron, sir?" he asked in a gruff warning voice.

  "Aye," Lewrie simply replied.

  "Then go right in, sir, and take joy."

  Lewrie barely had to rap the large door-knocker once before the portal was opened by the hulking fellow's obvious twin, this one done up in a sober sort of livery. From a cold night street to a gust of warm air, from the stinks of London to inviting aromas of perfumes and Hungary Waters in a mйlange of scents; from the din of carriages and dray waggons and the humm-umm of people to almost a hush. A violin played in company with a flute or recorder. There was a faint clink of glasses, a convivial buzz of conversation, and soft, teasing female laughter coming from somewhere beyond the entry foyer.

  A stout older woman in the sack gown and over-done makeup of at least two decades past greeted him with a curtsy, to which he replied with a short bow, a "leg," and the doff of his hat.

  "Welcome to Mother Batson's, sir," she said, looking him up and down, much like a tailor might. "You come for ease, I take it?"

  "I do, indeed, Ma'am," Lewrie told her as another liveried servant took his hat, boat-cloak, and walking-stick, and gave him a claim chit.

  "I see by your cloak you are a seafaring gentleman, sir," the older woman said.

  "The Navy, Ma'am… just back from years at sea," Lewrie said.

  "And God bless our 'wooden walls,' " she said back, smiling at last, "though… years at sea, my my. You sound insatiable."

  "As we say of those who do not stand evening watches, Ma'am, I would like 'all night in,' and a morning departure," Lewrie told her. "When the sun's above the yardarm, and the streets are safer."

  "Now that would require a guinea, sir." The older woman leered. "Come into our parlour, take seat, and have a glass of something, where you may find your heart's delight." She offered not an arm to steer him, but a palm to be crossed. Once a pound note, and a silver shilling, had been placed in that palm, she did take him by the arm and lead him into a much larger room.

  Where the music was, where other men lolled at their ease with drinks in their hands and young women by their sides; where a waiter with a tray of glasses circulated, and offered him champagne.

  "Bottle in the room will be extra, when you're ready" was said in a soft voice. Another pound note went to the manservant, who winked acknowledgement, then drifted away.

  Lewrie took a look around and chose a short settee, a bit away from the others. Even as he settled himself, two men made their choice and were led by their Cyprians to the grand old staircase.

  Damned if one of the men wasn't Sir George Norman, K.C., the one who had prosecuted him just weeks before, now minus his court periwig… and his rectitude! Sir George jolted to a halt and gawped at him, stupefied for a brief moment, before Lewrie raised his glass in salute and smiled; to which Sir George performed a slight shrug, and displayed a worldly-wise smile, before following his doxy to the stairs.

  And damned if the fellow with him wasn't a Member of Commons, a fellow noted for being in the "progressive," reforming, and moralising faction. By the gay and bawdy interplay 'twixt Sir George, his choice of Poll, and the other couple, it didn't appear as if they'd be taking separate rooms, either!

  "Do you have any preferences, sir?" the older woman in the towering wig enquired after she had seen the foursome up the stairs with fond wishes. She sat beside Lewrie on the short settee, hands in her lap as prim as a vicar's wife at high tea. "We boast of ladies to every taste. Dark and exotic from the West Indies or Africa, perhaps? Girls worthy of a rajah's harem in India or the Far East? Old, stout… slim and young… dark or fair? Whatever is your fondest wish… short of a child, of course… Here, you may find your heart's desire. And all skilled in every aspect of the pleasurable arts," she said with many a simper and sly grins.

  "Well, hmm…" Lewrie paused, colouring a bit, for it had been years since he'd had to visit a commercial establishment. Christ, wasn't it Charleston, way back in the American Revolution? Or with Cashman in Port-au-Prince, in '98? Had no need o' brothels, he told himself; not with so many willin' sorts about.

  "Slim and fair'd be nice," Lewrie told the "Mother Abbess" at last, "as English as plum pudding… and, as sweet."

  "Then I have the perfect one for you, sir," the woman said, rising to her feet and beckoning to a girl in the far corner near the musicians, who was by herself and nodding dreamily in time to the melody. "Tess, my dear… come and meet our guest, the naval gentleman."

  The girl seemed almost to jerk from her pleasant musings, as if waking from sleep at dawn. She sprang to her feet with a shy and winsome smile before remembering her "lessons" in grace, then crossed the parlour to join them in a well-schooled glide. It was a good thing the parlour was well-warmed by two fireplaces, for she wore only a thin and silky chemise, cinched round the waist with a pale blue ribbon, with a darker blue dressing gown over that, un-sashed, so it peeked open with each step to show off her low-heeled shoes, her white silk stockings tied above the knees, and now and then showed off her slim ankles and thighs… though she did keep her hands close to the laced edges of the dressing gown as if wishing to fold it snugger and less revealing.

  "Tess, this is, ah… no names are necessary, are they? But he is one of our naval heroes," Mrs. Batson (for surely it must be she) airily said by way of introduction. "Sir, this is Tess, new-come with us by
way of Belfast. Not quite English, as you said, but now that we are all British, hmm?"

  "Honoured t'meet you, Tess," Lewrie said, rising to greet her, to give her a short bow from the waist.

  "Yer servant, sir," Tess replied, dipping him a graceful curtsy.

  "Will ye join me in a glass of champagne, my dear?" Lewrie bade.

  "The gentleman requests the rest of the night, Tess," the older woman said in a soft coo, to which Tess gave a grateful, relieved grin. "I leave you to your pleasures and amusements, Tess… sir. Do take joy," Mrs. Batson wished them, then glided away.

  Lewrie took the girl's hand and led her to a seat on the settee, then sat down beside her. A second later, the manservant was back with a fresh tray of glasses of champagne for them both.

  New-come to us, mine arse, Lewrie cynically thought; Sweet and young she may look, but… they might've sold her virginity to one o' the highest bidders, the last six months runnin'!

  She was pretty, though; not painted up or tarted up with artifice, for she had no need for rouge or paints. Pretty in a country way, like a maidservant to a rural squire's house, a goose-girl or milking maid one might meet in a village on market day.

  She had a nice oval face with a high forehead, a quite cute nose, and a smallish mouth, with a bit of an overbite that gave her face the sweetest seeming innocence. Her eyes were dark-green-hazel, and her sandy-brown hair, with the faintest hint of strawberry red, was parted missishly simple in the centre of her head, gathered loosely with ribbon at the nape of her neck, and fell in long, lazy curls, with a few wispy strands either side of her face.

  "Well, I s'pose I could reveal that my first name's Alan, without spillin' any Crown secrets," he said, grinning, by way of beginning.

  "And ye're really a Navy officer?"

  "A Post-Captain," Lewrie confided.

  "Whatever that is, sir," she said, with another shy grin.

  "Warships are Rated," Lewrie casually explained to her. "Now, Admiral Nelson's new ship, the San Josef, which he made prize at the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent years ago, is a First Rate of ninety-eight or an hundred guns." He stretched his legs out a little and put one arm on the back of the settee, shifting to face her. "Anything below the Rates, a Lieutenant may command, or a Commander, but when you get to a frigate of the Sixth Rate, with more than twenty guns, that's what Admiralty calls an official 'Post' ship, and only a full Captain will command her. Hence… 'Post' Captain. I've had two frigates so far, Proteus was a Sixth Rate of thirty-two guns, and my last was Savage, a Fifth Rate of thirty-six guns."

  "Oh, an are ye goin' t'th' Baltic with Admiral Nelson, then?" Tess enthused, shifting more to face him, too, "Will ye be beatin' th' BeJesus outta th' Roosians, and such?"

  "Speakin' o' Crown secrets!" Lewrie scoffed, almost hooted, in point of fact. "Why, everyone in England-and ev'ry enemy spy!-must know that, by now. But, no… I'm without a ship, at present. I had t'give up Savage before Christmas. There were some… civilian things t'see to ashore, so another captain has her now. Damn his eyes."

  "Ooh, I think I know who ye are!" Tess whispered excitedly, and squirmed a little bit closer still, almost jouncing on her bottom in sly glee. "Damme if ye're not that Alan Lewrie wot's been in all th' papers, are ye not!"

  "Guilty… of that, at least," Lewrie confessed with a teasing touch of his finger to her lips, then to his own with a shussh sound.

  Gettin' bags o' use from that 'un, he thought; Guilty… or not! Dined out on it for weeks. Ha-bloody-ha.

  "Yer secret's safe with me, Captain… Alan," Tess teased, in return. "Mum's th' word." They clinked glasses and drained them and waved for refills as the girl wriggled even closer, under the arch of his arm, with her warm hip and thigh against him. "Don't know as I've ever… been introduced to a real hero before. Oh, officers an' such from some regiment or t'other, or so they claimed, but…" She checked herself with a pretty moue, a shrug, and a toss of her hair, as if talk of previous clients was discouraged by "Mother" Batson and those bully-bucks of hers. After all, the illusion was the thing.

  "Soldiers, by God," Lewrie sneered. "Pack o' cod's-wallops, the lot of 'em. They buy their commissions, whilst Navy men have to work t'gain ours."

  At least he assumed that Tess was talking about gentlemen officers, not the sweaty rank and file. Mrs. Batson's didn't look like the sort of establishment that would have private soldiers or Ordinary Seamen in, even on Boxing Day. More to the point, Lewrie hoped that Tess had dealt with "well-armoured" gentlemen in the past.

  "You stick with naval gentlemen, they'll see ye right," Lewrie told her, with a grin and a bit of a rising leer.

  "Uhm… like you, Captain Alan?" she asked, coyly inclining her head, bestowing upon him another of those shy and fetching smiles, her lips parted slightly.

  "Care to discover the diff'rence, Tess?" he muttered, cocking a brow, and suddenly very aware of the heat and closeness of her body and the scent of her perfume, and her fresh-washed hair.

  She took a deep sip of champagne, eyes turned away as if studying his proposal, seeming somewhere 'twixt solemn and wryly amused… then looked back at him, smiled shyly once more, and slowly nodded.

  "Let us go up to your room, then, Tess," he said, winking.

  "Aye, let's," she agreed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Her room was three storeys above the street, beyond the grandness of the lower staircase, where marble was replaced by solid oak, and the carpetting was more worn. Tess lit them up with a single candle in one hand, and Lewrie's in her other. They went down a wide and gloomy hall, only lit here and there with a sole candle on a table, or one or two mounted in wall holders.

  There was a final door at the right of the hallway, which Tess opened. Beyond it, instead of a good-sized bed-chamber, there was yet another passage, much narrower, which forced them shoulder-to-shoulder as she led him past a door to either side, then an equally narrow cap to the T, which presented a final pair of doors. The one on the right-hand side was slightly ajar, and Tess preceded him into the room beyond, tiptoeing and hesitant.

  Ambush, here? Lewrie had to worry for a moment as he followed, quickly peering about for the sight of a bully-buck with a lead-loaded leather cosh, or a whacking-thick cudgel.

  "More light, Captain Alan?" Tess asked. "Or, d'ye prefer th' dark?"

  "At least one or two more candles… for now," he said, satisfied that he would not be bashed on the head and robbed. Yet. As she ignited more candles with her first one, Lewrie could see where he was.

  There had to be four smaller rooms carved out of the original large bed-chamber, he deduced, the new walls and passageway made up of plain deal partitions, though painted white with the impression of fine mouldings just painted on, like stage scenery. The wall to his right was substantial plaster, still wallpapered. The one ahead of him was also papered, with a set of dark and heavy drapes covering a window… He crossed to it with difficulty, squeezing between a chest-of-drawers and the foot of the bed to pull the drapes apart and look out, down to Panton Street far below. He let the drapes fall back together, for it was cold, the panes frosted and semi-opaque. Come to think on it, the room was chilly, too, and he couldn't imagine what they'd done with the fireplace that should have warmed the larger, original room.

  Now that he could see, Lewrie took in the bed, fairly close to the draped window, then to a taller old-style night-stand on the other side, where his requested bottle of champagne stood chilling in a pail filled with slushy snow, aside two fresh glasses. There was a folding screen set out from the deal partition they had passed through, on the floor beside it a storage chest, and, against the middle wall, by the chest-of-drawers, stood a wash-hand stand with a pitcher, towels, and two bowls.

  "They charge extra for the candles, do they?" Lewrie asked her with a wry chuckle.

  "Oh, nossir," Tess told him with a little laugh of her own as she finished lighting the requested candles. "Now, d'ye wish t'have a fireplace, those rooms there, an' there, t'ones we
passed comin' in, well… th' established girls get those, 'less ye put in a request t' Mother Batson."

  "Didn't know," Lewrie said with a shrug, peeling off his coat. "Where does one…?"

  "There's a row o' pegs, yonder, sir," Tess told him. She went to the row of pegs herself, quickly exchanging her lacy and revealing silk dressing gown for a heavier one of tan wool, wrapping it round her body with a shiver. Not so quickly that Lewrie couldn't get an appreciative eyeful of her figure, despite the looseness of her chemise. It only came to mid-thigh, and, silhouetted by a fresh candle, the sight made him grin. She was girlishly slim in arms, back, and hips, with very shapely slim legs, right down to an alluring gap 'tween her upper thighs. Yum-bloody-yum! he thought in sudden lust.

  He went to the pegs, hung up his coat and waist-coat, stuffed his sporty paisley neck-stock into a pocket, and sat on the chest to tug at a boot.

  "Lemme help ye with those, sir," Tess volunteered, kneeling to lend a hand. Lewrie stood in his stockinged feet and shivered. There was a set of small carpets on the floor, but they were old and threadworn, without a bit of give or insulation.

  "Maybe I should bring a dressing robe along, next time," Lewrie said, hugging himself for warmth.

  "I can only wish ye think enough o' me t'come a second time," Tess teased, still sitting on her heels below him. "There's a quilt t' wrap up in, do ye want." She rose to her knees and placed a hand on the buttons of his breeches, looking up somewhere 'twixt shyness and flirtatiousness as her fingers found his mounting erection. "Might I help ye further,… Captain Alan?"