“With a lady,” Lewrie corrected him, hoping to leave it at that.
“Oh ho! Anyone I know? Or, would care to know?” Peter leered.
“She may be known to you,” Lewrie hinted, off-handedly.
“Well, it can’t be that Rooski wench, Eudoxia Durschenko. Her circus and all’s on tour for the Summer,” Rushton said, puzzled. “Off somewhere far north and nasty, where the locals offer sheep dung for admission, haw! And, I hear Percy Stangbourne’s mad for her, anyway. Who else do we both know you could hunt up on short notice, hmm… my word, that’s a poser.”
“And it ain’t Tess… or a parlour guessing game,” Lewrie rejoined with another laugh. “How is Tess, by the way?”
“Still utterly delightful, old son!” Peter boasted. “Found her a very good place, convenient to Parliament… it can be days between real business… and I must confess I’ve become rather fond of her. I thank you for introducing us, and feel forever in your debt for it… even if the wife won’t.”
“Spoilin’ her proper?” Lewrie teased. “And, you’re welcome.”
“Oddest thing… she seems pleased and content with the simplest things. Doesn’t pout for gew-gaws, and all that, as your run-of-the-mill courtesan or mistress will. Simple, conservative tastes, and… comes of bein’ bog-Irish poor so long, I s’pose,” Peter said with a shake of his head in wonder. “Should I give her your regards?”
“Only if you think it best,” Lewrie told him.
“Really, now… who is the lady in question?” Rushton said more animatedly, leaning forward on his elbows and leering. “You leave me most perplexed.”
“A gentleman never tells, Peter,” Lewrie gently chid him.
“The Devil they don’t!” Rushton hooted with glee. “If one can’t boast, then what’s the point o’ chasin’ quim?”
“My lips are sealed,” Lewrie said, shaking his head “no.”
“Well, if you won’t you won’t,” Rushton said with a sigh as he leaned back and took a sip of his brandy. “I s’pose you’ll be back at sea in a week, anyway, with no time for sport, so whoever she is, take what joy you can before. Keep the French in line, on their side of the Channel, there’s a good fellow.”
“Crossin’ the Channel ain’t like puntin’ down the Avon,” Lewrie dismissively said. “I haven’t spent all that much time in it, but it’s a nasty piece of work, one day out o’ three, and a right bastard on the fourth. Hellish-strong tides sweep up and down it, and a contrary wind can whistle up when you’re halfway across. It’s hard to feature just how the Frogs intend t’manage it, at all.”
“You’ve not been following the papers, old son,” Rushton objected, shifting impatiently in his chair and leaning forward again. “Where the Devil have you been, you haven’t kept up?”
“West Indies,” Lewrie told him with a grin.
“Soon as the war began again, last May, Bonaparte started shifting nigh an hundred thousand troops to the coast, and began building an armada of boats… might’ve launched it all before May. There’s umpteen thousands of boats of all descriptions, barges, gunboats, sailing craft, rowing craft as big as Cleopatra’s that might be able to carry whole batteries of artillery, limbers, caissons, forge waggons, and the horses!” Rushton hurried to explain. “They tell us in Parliament that they’re massin’ ’ em round Boulogne, Dunkirk, and Calais, mostly, for the shortest trip cross the Dover Straits, but they’re buildin’ ’em in any port or river, from Brest to Amsterdam. I tell you, old son, Bonaparte means to try it on, sometime this Summer we’re told to expect, and if ‘Boney’ does, then all our Sea Fencibles, Yeoman militias, and our pathetically small army won’t be able to handle ’em!” Peter gravely insisted, jabbing a forefinger on the table top. “We can build all the Martello towers we wish, but the French will just sweep round those and head for London, laughing all the way.”
“What the Hell’s a Martello tower?” Lewrie asked, frowning.
“Looks like a big, tall drum, with lots of guns, but they’re too far apart from each other to deny the ground between ’em, and the garrisons’re just large enough to defend themselves, penned up inside.”
Lewrie would have asked Rushton what a Sea Fencible was, too, but that might have been confessing a tad too much ignorance. He supposed someone could inform him, sooner or later.
“Can’t exceed the budget, after all,” Rushton sneered, tossing back a dollop of brandy. “The nation’s survival mustn’t reduce the subsidies to our good allies, the Austrians!
“Now, when he was still First Lord of the Admiralty, Earl Saint Vincent assured us the Navy could handle things… told us, ‘I do not say the French cannot come, my lords, what I say is that the French will not come by sea’! Reassurin’, ’til that dodderin’ Pitt reclaimed office and turfed him out for Lord Melville, who most-like don’t know what an oar looks like. God, for all we know, Alan, the French might float over in really big hot-air balloons and land soldiers right in Whitehall. We’ve heard they’d experimented with the bloody things… s’truth!” Rushton barked, in response to Lewrie’s stunned look. “The bloody snail-eatin’ bastards might have two hundred thousand men in arms round Boulogne,” he said on, leaning on his elbows again, looking wearied and depressed. “We all just hope that you and the rest of the Navy can handle ’em when they come. I like bein’ a philandering rake-hell, with lashings o’ ’tin’ and a lovely mistress t’spend it on, Alan. A free English gentleman, who’d prefer t’die in my bed, and not get beheaded by a French guillotine. All that stands between us right now are our stout ‘wooden walls.’ And salty sods like you!”
* * *
That rant had been a tad too depressing for the both of them, so Lewrie had not stayed at Lloyd’s much longer after that one brandy was drunk. He walked back to the Madeira Club, hoping for a long nap to restore his flagging energies, but… it wasn’t Lydia’s promised note that the day-servant who manned the desk and cloak room held out to him. It was a letter from the First Secretary to Admiralty, William Marsden, requiring him to report at his earliest convenience upon the morrow to be briefed upon “certain confidential matters pertaining to the threat of possible invasion.”
“Good Christ, I guess it’s serious!” he muttered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Oh Dear Lord above,” Lydia Stangbourne muttered, setting down her tea cup and sighing resignedly. “The bloody papers, the bloody scribblers!”
She was back in the gossip columns again, as was Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bart. Though no names could be mentioned, anyone in London who followed the news could figure out who was involved.
Last evening, a dashing Naval Person, recently made Knight and Baronet, was seen in the company of a Lady best-known to our readers for obtaining a Bill of Divorcement, which was an infamous marvel in our pages two years running. Perhaps the Lady in question may teach the heroic “Sea-Dog” some new parlour Tricks, or, has our Jason obtained a fresh sheet-anchor for his good ship Argo?
If it had been the Times or the Gazette, the jape might have been printed in Latin or Greek, though both papers were not immune to such smirks in English, these days, she realised, laying the newspaper aside. She shook her head and let out another sigh, thankful that the damnable “observer” had only seen them together at supper, not later as they entered Willis’s Rooms for the night.
“Hallo, sister, and aren’t you a picture?” her brother, Percy, commented as he came breezing into the small, informal dining room, as chipper as ever.
“Good morning, Percy,” Lydia said, forcing a smile on her face… and folding the paper so that that item would not show. “Cook will be delighted that you came to breakfast on time, for a change. Have a good night, did you?”
“Smashing night!” Percy crowed, sweeping his coat-tails as he sat down. There was a pot of coffee for him on the side-board, and a servant poured a cup for him at once. “Good ho! Bacon and kippers! I’m famished. Thank you, James,” he said as his plate was delivered. After creaming and
sugaring to his taste, and a first sip, he went on. “Yes, the cards were with me… at Almack’s, not the Cocoa Tree. The change was good for me. Oh, I was down about five thousand for a bit, but finally broke even, and then a couple of side wagers put me a thousand to the good. What did you do with your evening, and was it enjoyable?”
“Most enjoyable,” Lydia said, colouring a little at the memory. “I went to supper with Captain Lewrie. He knew of this perfectly fine chop-house in Savoy Street, and you simply must go there, Percy! They have… it’s like an ‘all-nations’ dram shop in a way. Emigre French chefs, a Neapolitan who specialises in fish dishes, even a Hungarian who prepares the most marvellous medallions of veal or lamb, something called a ragout, one they call a goulash, and there was an appetiser of smoked oysters in a sweet, hot sauce that was heavenly!”
“With Captain Lewrie?” Percy said, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, took his bite, chewed, then got a sly, teasing look. “Damn my eyes, Lydia. Has the gallant Sir Alan caught your interest?”
“He is most charming and amusing to me… without the unctuous smarm of most of the men I know,” Lydia replied, going arch, bland, and imperious. “He’s a most admirable fellow. Soon to leave us, more’s the pity. Admiralty’s ordering him back to Sheerness on the morrow… a confidential matter, was all he could tell me of it. He should be at the Admiralty this minute, being told what it may be.”
Lydia strove to make it all sound of no real concern to her… concealing the smile that threatened to betray her as she thought of when, and where, Lewrie had told her of his letter from the Navy, and what they had been doing minutes before.
“He hasn’t thawed the coldness of your heart?” Percy japed.
“I do not have a cold heart, Percy,” Lydia rejoined with a languid drawl. “But, after that beast, Tidwell, I’ve a wary one. Had our late parents not settled so much on me, and upon you, my wariness might not be necessary. Or, my fear that one day you will squander it entire on one bad turn of the cards. Should you render us both penniless, I’d have to settle for one of those… those!” She produced a real shiver of disgust. “Who most-like would not have me, did I not fetch them a fortune!” she tossed off with a brittle laugh.
“Oh, don’t start on that, Lydia, not this lovely morning,” her brother protested. Both looked to the windows that looked out upon the back garden; it was a misty morning of light rain, and they both had a laugh over it. Percy took another bite or two, then returned to coffee, looking over the rim of his cup. “I didn’t get the impression that our heroic Captain Lewrie was all that well-to-do. Perhaps he’s just one more of your avaricious suitors? Wary, wary, wary, pet!”
“We’ve known him for not quite two whole days, Percy,” Lydia scoffed with another light laugh, busying herself with her tea. “I’ve seen no sign he intends to woo me, and besides… wooing’s rather hard to do when one’s a thousand miles out to sea, or halfway round the world!”
“Well, there’s that… though you could do a lot worse,” Percy tossed off, intent on a nicely smoked kipper and his scrambled eggs.
“He said something over supper last night,” Lydia continued with her own attention on her own breakfast, “that may aid you getting your regiment posted to the coast.”
That was a lie; she had brooked the subject to Lewrie.
“Oh, really!” her brother said, perking up.
“If Horse Guards seems loath to accept, might it not help to go down to the coast and meet the general in charge, or ask for an audience with the Lord-Lieutenant for Kent?” Lydia laid out. “Were they aware of a regiment of Yeoman Cavalry so well horsed, equipped, and trained, and readily available, might not a request from them to Horse Guards turn the trick for you?”
And a regiment so hellish-expensive, even for people with their wealth and incomes! As much as Lydia approved of Percy’s new “hobby,” for it got him out in the country and away from the gaming tables, the few times her brother had let her see the accounting ledgers, with his typical male “tut-tuts” about why a woman would wish to, or was able to understand them, she’d been simply appalled at the costs. If they did not go “smash” due to Percy’s gambling, then his “toy soldiers” would drag them down to poverty!
She was thirty-one, whilst Percy was twenty-seven. There had been a brother born between them, but he’d not lived a year, and after Percy, their mother had not produced another. She felt older-sister-protective of him, but frightened, too, by how boyishly he’d fling himself into things. Kicking his heels in London, he could gamble every night of the week but Sunday; with his regiment called up and out in the field, living rough, soldiering would put a stop to all that, for the duration of the emergency, Lydia hoped.
She reckoned that he could just as well have gone shopping and purchased whole brigades made of lead, foot, horse, and artillery, and been just as content arranging them on the long formal dining table!
The pity of it was that so many people who mattered, the Prince of Wales included, who already had regiments named as “His Own,” had told Percy what a dashing and patriotic thing he was doing that it was far too late for him to turn the endeavour over to someone else to let them bear the expense. His pride, his repute in Society, would suffer! And that was just as un-imaginable as Percy swearing off gambling!
“That’s a shrewd thought, by Jove!” Percy exclaimed. “Your Sir Alan Lewrie’s a sly one, no error, to have thought of it. An admirable idea, hey? Get it? An ‘admiral’-able idea from a Navy officer?”
Well, Percy found it amusing.
“He is not my Sir Alan, Percy,” she pointed out. “Though, it may be good to strike while the iron is hot. He will have to coach to Sheerness tomorrow. We could go with him. Offer our own coach, then stay to tend to your business.” She tossed that off between sips from her cup, as if it was spur-of-the-moment.
“Tomorrow?” Percy frowned. “With Lewrie?”
“Quite early, I’d imagine,” Lydia mused, gybing him for his slug-a-bed ways. Despite the vigour of her night, she had been back in her own bed by 2 A.M., and had risen, remarkably refreshed and enlivened, at 8. Almost singing, she would own.
“Crack o’ dawn, all that?” Percy queried, furrowing his brow and pulling a face. “No, no, it couldn’t be done tomorrow. There’d be need of letters written, first, the ledgers to gather… next week, maybe.”
“Well, if you will not, Percy,” Lydia said, feeding a strip of bacon to their springer spaniel, who’d been begging and whining, “then I will take the coach and offer conveyance to Captain Lewrie, myself.”
“You’d what?” her brother exclaimed, appalled. “Alone? All the way to Sheerness, then back without a man to protect you?”
“I am almost your equal at shooting, Percy,” she breezed off as if it was no bother. “Father taught us early and well, do you recall? Our coachees are good shots, too. They should be, since you’ve recruited them into your regiment,” she pointed out with a smirk, and one of her eyebrows up. If Percy could not be cozened into it, then she would be brazen; she gave him a very level and determined look.
“To the further ruin of your reputation, and it might not be…,” he said, scowling.
“Percy, good Lord…,” she said, “do I ruin my reputation even more, that may be a good thing. The parents of my damned admirers at last could put their feet down, I’d no longer feel hunted like a stag through the woods, and be spared all the grasping bother!” she blurted, laughing in his face.
She busied herself with a bite of buttered toast, chewing while Percy got his wind back.
“What decent family would have the likes of me, anyway, Percy,” she went on with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Were it not for my ‘dot,’ they’d most-like tell their young men to find someone a lot more attractive, more…”
She would have added a scathing “Assuming your gambling leaves me anything” but thought it was the wrong time to nag.
“Oh, Lydia, I don’t know where you ever got the idea you’re not attrac
tive. Why… you’re as fetching as most,” Percy tried to assure her, though it was back-handed and clumsy. And it irked!
Lydia could have told him where she’d gotten the idea! Their father had loved her dearly, though he’d naturally hoped for a boy and heir. Despite having a girl-child as his first-born, he had delighted in amusing her, talking to her, and calling her “my little funny face” or “you little monkey face” with the tickles and treats and affections that made her squeal with joy; it had been as dear to her as if he had said “my little princess.” ’Til other children began to taunt her as “Miss Monkey Face!” most cruelly, and she’d seen the why in her mirrors.
Her father had not been handsome; perhaps that was why he had married so late in life. He’d been all craggy-faced, with prominent cheek bones and bushy brows, and a Cornish beak of a nose, and as tall and rangy as a Clydesdale. Her mother, though… no matter his looks, he was immensely wealthy in lands, rents, and investments, and titled, a proper peer, whilst her family had been nigh as well-off, but commoners. Like had called to Like when it had come to land and wealth, and she’d brought almost an equal portion, along with her great beauty, of the sort that Society had applauded and worshipped.
“Lydia, I swear, you’re as thin as a rope, dear child! You eat like a sparrow! Do you wish to be called a ‘gawk’? No man will have you, then!” she’d said once, with a brittle laugh. And the once that Lydia had overheard them discussing her, her mother fretting that “she is such a plain child. Pray God she blossoms late, as some do, before being presented at Court, and to Society for her first London Season, else we must consider settling a large sum upon her to tempt the right sort of young gentleman!” And Lydia had been heart-broken.
Her debut at eighteen had been a miserable affair. Though her parents had deemed her pretty, by then, and her looks had rounded and softened to the point that she could, now and then, think herself adequate, even what little hope she’d had of success had been dis-appointed.
The Invasion Year l-17 Page 23