The Baltic Gambit l-15

by Dewey Lambdin

  He would have handed the bottle back to her, but Tess threw her arms round his neck, thrust a thigh between his, and kissed him with a fierce passion. She jerked the knot of her sash loose and spread the dressing robe over him, pressing her fever-warm body to his… she whimpered and cooed and clung to him like a limpet.

  And did he feel sudden moisture on his face… her face?

  Oh, don't do that, he thought as he hugged her back, slipping his free hand under the covers and her robe to stroke her bare back and shoulders as she writhed against him; A girl's tears'll always land me in trouble.

  "There, there, sweetlin'," he murmured into her hair. "It's all over, and no harm done."

  "G… git one o' ye're cundums," she breathed, "an' make love t'me, this very minute!"

  "Well… if it'll make ye feel better," he japed.

  Damned if he wasn't ready to oblige her, in point of fact, for the threat of danger, then her warmth and softness, had made him as inspired as the first time, with an erection as stiff as a marling-spike. She sat up, "armoured" him quickly with trembling hands, then sat astride of him, her robe cocooning them both, and her long, curly hair brushing his chest.

  "La, ye're th' grandest… bloody… man!" she moaned.

  Minutes later there came a discreet rap on the door, which made Tess start and Lewrie scramble for the dagger. "Who's there?" the girl squeaked.

  " 'Tis Bob, Tess," a man said in a gruff voice. "Wi' yer vittles. No fear, 'at Roosky bastard's long gone."

  Lewrie had to help shift the heavy chest, and unlock the door so the waiter could come in with another salvaged bottle of champagne and a tray covered with a napkin, which when whisked away, revealed a pair of sandwiches, and a dish of pickles.

  "Two pound, six, sir," Bob told Lewrie, who was looking for his coin purse, "an' we'll settle th' reckonin' in th' mornin'."

  "Looks like you gave as good as you got," Lewrie told him, noting the waiter's bruises, and the beginnings of a black eye.

  "Lots better'n he, sir!" Bob said with a boxer's grin. "Him an' his manservant, both. Poxy bastards'll look like raw beef fer a week."

  "He'll not ever come back, pray Jesus?" Tess fearfully asked.

  "Ain't sayin' 'e won't try, girl," Bob reassured her, clenching his fists together and cracking knuckles, "but we've leave t'dump 'is arse in th' Thames, if he do, Roosky titles'r no."

  Lewrie dug some money from a pocket of his coat and slipped the man the reckoning, with another pound note atop it for his efforts, and tipped Bob the wink.

  "Mmm, roast duck!" Tess enthused once Bob had left, and she had lifted the bread to look at her sandwich. "Told ye the house sets out a grand table." She sat in the middle of the bed, cross-legged with her robe spread over her lap, shifting with delight as she took a bite and chewed. Lewrie poured her a glass of champagne and slid under the bed covers, using the borrowed quilt to drape his shoulders and chest like a Red Indian. "Damme, this is good." Lewrie agreed, after a taste.

  "Hot mustard and some sorta red jelly… apple, it may be, all stirred t'gether," Tess said, smiling with pleasure after chewing and swallowing, "like wot ye serve with venison'r grouse?"

  "Mm-hmm!" Lewrie agreed again, with his mouth full. "So… who was this Anatoli character?" he asked, after a sip of champagne.

  "A… customer," Tess told him, looking uncomfortable with the subject. "First he come, was round Christmas… end of Terms, he calls it… from Oxford? Once th' week'r so, 'til th' night he… and I…" She frowned and squirmed a bit. "He went with no one special, 'til he lit on me, damn his eyes. T'other girls said he was a rough 'un, so I was leery, d'ye see? But he seemed nice enough, th' first time'r two."

  "But then he turned brute on ye?" Lewrie gently probed.

  "Aye, that he did," Tess spat, "an' askin' for me only, fer all night… like you," she added, leaning over to nudge his shoulder with hers, and flashing a brief, adorable grin. "Mind, 'tis a lot easier on a girl, with but th' one feller t'deal with, an' a lot o' them older an'… Well, I gets a lot more rest with th' older fellers… not like you, Captain Alan, that's fer certain. No sleep in you!"

  She reached out to brush his hair from his brow.

  Uh-oh! Lewrie thought at her gesture; Don't go fond on me!

  "Him, though…," Tess said, turning pensive. "Ev'ry night, for a fortnight, an' him swearin' he'd buy me out, an' set me up an me own lodgin's for his own, brr! Mean t'say, 'tis a poor girl's fondest wish t'be set up good as a lady, but! Not with th' likes o' him, even was he rich as that Tsar o' his. Just wouldn't do it nat'ral, no, not him, an' wantin' me without 'protections'… in th' wrong..!"

  She made an angry moue and swiped at her own hair, tossing her mane with anger and impatience.

  "That sorry I am t'bring it up, though ye did ask," Tess said, "for 'Mother' Batson says her gentlemen don't wanna hear 'bout t'other customers' doin's, or who went before 'em, 'cause half o' what we sell is… illusion, d'ye see? Affection, attention… grace an' beauty, an' all that shite. Oops!" she pealed out a laugh as she covered her mouth with a hand for a second. "B'lieve me, Cap'm Alan, this bus'ness can be powerful strange sometimes. See there, in th' corner."

  Lewrie looked where she pointed; there was a bundle of birch rods, which he'd taken for an old broom, or kindling for a Franklin-pattern stove.

  "There's some… real 'Quality' sorts… who can't get goin' without ye whip their bare bottoms, an' tell 'em what bad boys they be!"

  "And some who wish t'whip you?" Lewrie scowled.

  "Bedamned if they will!" Tess declared. " 'Mother' Batson don't hold with her girls gettin' hurt… scarred up, more-like."

  "And this Anatoli liked t'be whipped?" Lewrie asked.

  "Oh no, not him," Tess said, after a big bite of her sandwich and a swig of champagne. "He cared more for puttin' it in my mouth or my bum-hole, an' all th' time tryin' t'sneak his cundum off whilst I'm kneelin' on all fours like a bitch-hound. Might start out havin' me th' normal, Christian way, but that never lasted long. And, do I ever balk, he'd go all sulky an' teary, first… slip me more money, order up more wine an' gin… said if he couldn't get somethin' he called vodka, then gin'd suit, and Jesus but he could put it away like water! He got drunk enough, he'd get mad, give me th' back of his hand a time or two, but then… the daft bastard'd start weepin' again, and tells me how much he loves me, for th' love o' God! Onliest way t'shut him up was t'kneel on th' floor an'… ye know. Then he was cherry-merry, again… for a time.

  "One night," Tess said, leaning close to confide in Lewrie, "he got th' window open, an' stood on th' ledge, stark nekkid an' drunk as a lord, fer ev'ryone t'see… swearin' if I didn't be his alone, then he'd jump, and… swear on the Bible, Cap'm Alan, 'twas all I could do not t'give him a push!"

  "Maybe you should have," Lewrie said, laughing.

  "T'other girls'd complained about him, an' after I told 'Mother' Batson about that, she told him he wasn't welcome no more, thank God," Tess said with a forlorn look for a moment. She took a pensive bite of her sandwich and slowly chewed.

  "Not the sort t'take 'no' for an answer, though, I take it?" he asked.

  "Bob an' them say they can spot him, lurkin' in th' street most nights," Tess said with a shiver, "him an' his 'man.' I haven't been able t'go out with 'Mother' Batson, since."

  "They let you out?" Lewrie enquired, imagining the possibilities.

  "This house don't keep no slaves, Cap'm Alan," Tess bragged. "If we need t'go shoppin', see a show or somethin', 'Mother' will take us, with a couple o' th' burly lads, o' course. We can't be stylish, elegant, nor fetchin' in th' same ol' clothes all th' time. We're closed of a Sunday, o' course, and wot 'Mother' calls 'dark' on Mondays, just like th' theatres. Used t'be an actress, 'Mother' was.

  "Would ye like t'meet me away from here sometime?" Tess coyly teased. "Come t'yer lodgin's? 'Mother' lets us, does she trust us."

  "I don't think the Madeira Club'd admit ladies, even were they proper wives," Lewrie said with a chuckle of amusemen
t.

  "That's where ye lodge, is it?" she whispered. "No matter, for there's so many hotels an' taverns with rooms t'let. I'd walk out with you, Cap'm Alan… even does that mad Roosky bastard follow us all th' way. I'd be safe with you.

  "Fact o' th' matter…," Tess cooed, leaning her head on his shoulder, putting an arm round his back. "There's gentlemen, an' there's real gentlemen, like you, an' do I have my druthers, I'd be with you fer tuppence, an' leave an earl fingerin' his purse. I like you, Alan Lewrie. An', 'fore God I like th' way ye bed me… like ye care, do I feel…" Before he could begin to pooh-pooh that notion, Tess was kissing him again, this time lightly, fondly… almost dreamily. Even with bread crumbs on her lips, it was… sweet.

  "We'll see about walkin' you out," Lewrie told her, putting on a wide, amusing grin, "once we know this Russky bastard's no more threat to you, hmm? I know some people," he hinted darkly. "For now, though… could I reserve you for all tomorrow night?"

  "Ye could come early for th' supper, an' all!" Tess gaily said, all but clapping her hands; though Lewrie sensed a false note to her enthusiasm, as if she was secretly disappointed that he'd not squire her about in public, not right away, at least. She looked him over a bit, as if sizing up the heft of his purse, the status of his accounts. Perhaps she'd read the tracts or newspaper articles, which had touched on his long string of captures, and the scent of much prize-money…

  Don't care what she says, she ain't givin' it away for free! he cautioned himself; She's most like schemin' for a place of her own, an' me her only patron, and I can't afford that… poor, hopeful thing.

  " 'Tis only three guineas, th' ev'nin'," she told him, her head cocked to see how he reacted to that, "with champagne an' vittles late at night, like now, extra, o' course."

  "I'd call that a toppin' bargain!" Lewrie cheered, giving her a hug. "What time should I be here for the supper?"

  "Starts at seven," Tess told him, looking relieved and pleased. "I'll be all prettied up for ye. More makeup than now."

  "You don't need false artifice, Tess," he declared. "You're as handsome as any ever I did see, just the way you are."

  "La, ye're th' gallant man." She chuckled. "Go on with yer fine self. 'Long as ye prefer me so, though… ''

  They finished their sandwiches, drained the last drops from the champagne bottle, and slipped back under the covers, her robe spread on the top of the blankets and coverlet. London's church bells rang two in the morning, and Lewrie yawned, his eyes beginning to feel gritty.

  "Ye wish t'sleep now, Alan?" Tess asked, about half out of it herself. " 'Fore that… could ye lock th' door, again, an' slide th' chest t'block it? It'd make me feel safer," she asked in a wee voice.

  He borrowed her too-small robe for a moment, went about the cold room snuffing candles, sliding the chest before the door and locking it with the key, then slipped back into bed with her. She came to him to drape across him as he embraced her; a hard squeeze from him, another from Tess, and a happy sigh in the dark after he'd snuffed the candle on the night-stand as she nuzzled and burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder.

  Half-drunk, nigh fucked out… yet, Lewrie thought, head swimming. No, all he wanted then was to sleep for real, sleep warm with a warm girl next to him. A girl who was already breathing with her lips parted on his shoulder. Give it a rest, he chid himself; give her one, too. There's always t'morrow mornin'… and t'morrow night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  What the bloody Hell am I gettin' myself into? he asked himself after breakfast at the Madeira Club, a somewhat hot bath and a change of clothes, a shave, and a half-hour tussle with Toulon and Chalky in his rooms; after they'd gotten over their sulks that he'd not spent the night in his own bed, he was beginning to feel human again.

  Much refreshed, Lewrie trotted down to the Common Rooms to give the newspapers a gander, nodding good mornings to the other lodgers. He requested a cup of coffee, then picked among the pile of dailies that his fellow clubmembers had already read. He picked The Morning Post first, looking for Mrs. Denby's "Tattler" article, though it was hard to find.

  Newspapers crammed items together much like a stew; onions next to broth, meat sunk beneath the oatmeal. The type font style and size was unvarying, with only the briefest separation 'tween the end of one and the beginning of the next, each headed by only the vaguest notices as to what each contained, with nothing standing out and shouting its importance; all, of course, intermixed with advertisements of the same sort, with only the rarest, and expensive, wood-cut illustration. One usually saw illustrations only in penny-tracts and pamphlets, not newspapers. One thing stood out, though…

  "Jesus Christ!" Lewrie yelped as he got to the middle of the first page. Despite the ink smudges caused by previous readers' hands, he could make out that the government had fallen!

  The Prime Minister, William Pitt (the Younger, he was called, as opposed to Pitt the Elder, now Earl of Chatham, his father who had preceded him in that office), had resigned! "Twigg was right," Lewrie muttered. "He really meant it."

  The Morning Post speculated that a new government would be formed by Lord Addington, who would assume the office of Prime Minister at once. The King would request him to form a new cabinet which, The Post assured readers from their sources, would contain the Earl of Elgin as the new Lord Chancellor, Lord Hawkesbury as Foreign Secretary, and Lord Hobart would replace Sir Henry Dundas as Secretary of State for War.

  "Admiralty… Admiralty," Lewrie hungrily growled in impatience. He scanned down the page, flitting from line to line-stumbling into an advertisement for ladies' hats before jumping to the top of the next column. " 'Old Jarvy,' by God!" he chortled as he found the speculated name. "I know him… and he don't despise me! Pray God he serves!"

  Admiral the Earl St. Vincent, Sir John Jervis prior to his victory and elevation to the peerage, had been in command of the Mediterranean Fleet since 1797, then in command of Channel Fleet, since. Only one drawback stood in the way of "Old Jarvy's" acceptance of the office; he had been at sea for bloody years on end, in all weathers, and might be so broken in health-he was no "spring chicken," as Lewrie's North Carolina wife could colloquially say-that he'd rather come ashore to retire, not take on responsibility for the whole Royal Navy.

  Lewrie almost gnawed a thumb-nail in fret, wondering whether he should write him that very morning, and send the letter to Portsmouth before Jervis even decided, or, whether to send it to Admiralty, hoping it would be the first thing the man opened and read upon taking charge. A letter to Portsmouth might cross Jervis's path, and miss him; one to Admiralty might get shuffled into the bottom of a vast pile of correspondence, if not outright tossed in the dustbin by a departing secretary, for the principal two secretaries to Admiralty kept their lucrative government posts at the pleasure of the First Lord, and the current head of the Navy, Lord Spencer, had no love for Lewrie; of that he was damned sure.

  Get my best uniform sponged an' pressed, for later, Lewrie decided, realising that haste would serve no purpose; And, get the cat-hairs off.

  He moved on to The Times, The Chronicle, The Gazette, and The Marine Chronicle; the only copy of The Courier was last evening's and would have nothing to offer. All of them seemed to have spoken to the same anonymous sources in government, and cited the same names of new ministers expected to form the new government.

  The Times speculated even further as to why Pitt had resigned. It was over Catholic Emancipation, of course. Public office, seats in Commons, military or naval commissions required adherence to the established Church of England; Catholics and Jews were barred from holding offices. Muslims, Jains, Hindoos, perhaps even some of the oddest of the Dissenter sects were barred, as well, for all Lewrie knew. People in the Army's ranks could rise to Sergeants-Major, people in the Navy could rise as high as Boatswain, or hold Admiralty Warrant, whatever their faith, but to hold command posts, well…! Pitt and the King had come to logger-heads over it, and King George's stubborness had won. As Defender of the
Faith, the King would brook no innovations in time of war against a heathen, pagan, anti-religious foe such as the Republican, Levelling French.

  "Just as well," Lewrie grunted to himself. "No place in the gun-room for Whirlin' Dervishes, or even home-grown Druids… with or without paintin' themselves blue. Damme."

  His hands, his fingertips were nigh-black with ink smudges, and his coffee was cold. "Uhm, Spears… a fresh, hot coffee, and a wet hand towel, if ye please."

  He (gingerly) returned to The Morning Post, delving further into it, past the front page, in search of something labelled "Tattler."

  "Aha!" he chortled when he found it, buried on page six. Court doings, scandals, upcoming Bills of Divorcement rumoured 'twixt unhappy spouses-mostly for adultery, which would make such salacious reading in the near future; there were publishers who would obtain the transcripts and print them up for sale as mild pornography for those who got their jollies from such accounts.

  Last night in Ranelagh Gardens there occurred a contretemps between one of our Naval Heroes, mentioned prominently in the news of late, and a wealthy lady of Greek extraction now residing in London, engaged in the overseas currant trade… ''

  Now there was a slur; Trade was not a gentlemanly endeavour and for a woman to run such a business was even worse a mortal error to Society's mores, even were she English-born, and to be Greek, well…!

  Oh, Mrs. Denby had done him proud, Lewrie decided after finishing the article. Tears, a hint of a scandal, false charges of paternity, with prominent note taken of Lewrie's supposition that her late husband had quickened the child in question, and those letters sent in jealous spite… perhaps by a mad woman! Confrontation before her doors, loud protestations of condemnation for her actions… Theoni was, Lewrie smugly thought, ruined in London! Mrs. Denby had even interviewed last night's witnesses for anonymous comment after he'd gone, as if to spread jam-currant jam-on this particularly savoury duff. Outraged amusement was the carefully selected consensus opinion, with much sympathy for the "un-named Naval Hero" and his tortured wife, and nothing but loathing and revulsion for the perpetrator!