Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1)

by Benerson Little

From France he had escaped to sea, returned home, and put his investors off long enough to return to sea again, this time as a volunteer to lead boarding parties. He’d saved the ship from capture by the French after her captain was killed. In the process, he’d captured the French corsair. For this, these same powerful investors had rewarded him, first by making him a Freeman Gratis on the nomination of the Mayor, and then denying him loans and investments in his present venture. But perhaps they had heard of Sir William’s likely financial support and were now more willing to invest, as long as someone else took most of the risk.

  Edward tucked his mail beneath his waistcoat and fell asleep, chin on chest, feet stretched out before him. It was late afternoon when he woke, grumpy as ever he was from afternoon naps. He bid his farewell to the coffeehouse, walked swiftly yet circuitously to his apartments on narrow New Market street—he could almost stretch his arms out and touch the buildings on each side—just off Tower Lane, was pleased to see his baggage had been delivered, greeted his landlady and housemaid, gave each gifts of Irish linen, and went straight to bed.

  He was awakened early the next morning by his landlady, who delivered him a letter brought to the door by a boy.

  Edward broke the seal, read it, and cast it into the fire.

  An hour before noon she interrupted him at his desk.

  “Sir, there’s a lady to see you,” she said coldly.

  “Indeed? Unfortunately, I rather expected a visit after the letter you delivered this morning. Lydia Upcott, is it? Show her in, please.”

  “I know you don’t like to hear it, but I don’t like this woman, even if she is supposed to be a lady! I don’t like her sluttish ways, though I’m sure it’s why you tolerate her company; and I don’t like the people she keeps company with, actors and actresses, and those gallants and highwaymen at Bath, not to mention those notorious lords and such.”

  “Some say I’m notorious.”

  “Ridiculous! There’s a difference between a rake and a legitimate gentleman of fortune! You only rob the Spanish of their silver, not young women of their virtue.”

  Edward laughed. Mrs. Barlow had been his landlady since he first made Bristol his home port. She was also his liaison for the mending and washing of his clothing, the purchase of his necessaries, and his wigs being sent out to be combed. Formerly a housekeeper, born and raised in Bridgwater, she had moved to Bristol after she’d inherited several apartments, not long after the surgeon who’d employed her was arrested as a rebel in the aftermath of the Monmouth Rebellion and was transported to the West India colonies, from whence he had escaped and, some said, turned pirate.

  Mrs. Barlow showed Lydia Upcott and her maid from the tiny foyer into his parlor-cum-office. Edward received them casually, wearing a somewhat threadbare quilted Calico morning gown.

  “Good morning, Lydia.” He nodded at her maid, Bridget.

  “Edward,” she replied softly, smiling and cocking her head slowly to the right.

  She was tall and slender, too slender almost, and pale with blonde tresses. She resembled Elizabeth Barry, the great actress whom he had once met in London, or perhaps even more so Marie Louise, later known as Maria Luisa, queen of Spain, for whom Edward had once done a secret service. Her forehead and cheekbones were prominent, eyes and eyebrows dark, nose aquiline, lips full and sensual. Her resemblance to these famous women may have been much of the attraction, although her willingness to be bedded surely added to it.

  “Edward, I’ve been so worried. So many rumors! I wrote a letter this morning as soon as I heard you’d returned. I had a boy deliver it here,” she said, then whispered, “but I don’t trust your landlady; I hope she gave it to you.” Edward remained expressionless. In her normal voice she continued. “I feared you might not receive it, so I rushed over here, which I know a woman of my station ought never do. To be frank, I want to reclaim our friendship, and then I want to hear all about your adventures in Ireland!”

  Edward cleared his throat. “Lydia,” he said blandly, “thank you for coming to wish me well. I received your letter, which I interpret to say that your recent gallant is off to the wars or another mistress, that you’ve heard that I’m in a better situation with my creditors and investors, and that you wish to tease me into courting you again, even as you’re doubtless spending time with some other man, and even though you persuaded a bully to seek me out and stick me with his sword before I left for Ireland.”

  Her cheeks flushed slightly. “Iain, you always were direct with me, but always in silent action, not words.”

  Edward ignored her use of his middle name. His parents had given him two names, unusual in those days. “If the Stuarts, kings though they be, can have more than one name, then surely a MacNaughton can, too,” his father had said. The name was reserved only for those close to him, family primarily. She used it to bait him, to draw him into an argument or petty confrontation which would end up with both of them tearing at each other’s clothes and the neighbors muttering, with a knowing wink, “There goes that she-cat again.”

  For some months prior to his trip to Ireland, Lydia had off and on again been his mistress, always with an eye for men of greater wealth and station. She played the game well: she was slightly too sophisticated to be a coquette, slightly too willing to be a tease, and slightly too discriminating to be a whore. She wished to possess what she did not have, and then cast it aside once possessed, wishing for something else—an endless cycle of desire, possess, discard, desire.

  Alas, having no fortune herself, for her father had lost the last of his when he backed King James over King William and Queen Mary, and had then died of apoplexy soon after his arrest, she was not desired by men with fortunes, but only by those who would be fortunate with her. The few lovers who would perhaps have spent more than their seminal passion upon her, she abused their favor with inconstancy, her carnal allure ultimately failing to dissuade her lovers from taking their passion elsewhere.

  Another woman who’s lost her place, he thought, trying to survive like the rest of us.

  Even so, Edward knew to keep his distance, and was even more so inclined after his Irish adventures.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Iain,” she said. “I didn’t send that beast Lynch after you. I would never send one man to harm another. He’s just a jealous fool, and for no reason—I’ve always kept him at distance.” She paused, pretending to look embarrassed, then continued. “I’ve come to ask if you will escort me to Bath tomorrow,” she said. “I know you might be busy, but surely you could use some rest and pleasure after your long trip, and the waters might help your wounds. It is all about the town how you’ve killed another man in a duel, in Ireland this time.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said dryly, and thought, First attack, then flatter my sense of valor. He knew her too well.

  He knew she sensed his annoyance and disinterest. Now she would attempt to wear down his defenses, using a liturgy he had seen employed worldwide by prostitutes and fortune hunting ladies on reticent men. She would begin with flattery, the innocent young virgin standing in awe of the hero. When this did not work, she would move on to various other forms of feminine attraction, playing the roles, one after the other until one found its mark, of friend, mistress, sister, mother, damsel in distress, teasing coquette, dominating woman, and brazen harlot. Failing all these, she would scorn him, usually subtly, as a man socially and sexually inferior, a pale shade compared to all other men she knew, finishing with, “I don’t know why I waste my time on you, all other men I know are greater men than you—bigger men than you.”

  And then she would look away and wait for him to come to her, to take her and screw her, to show her off in the city and screw her again.

  But not today. He had meetings to plan, a commission to seek, dangerous letters still in his possession, and a philosophy to prove. Her association with Lynch, whatever it was, had almost waylaid his plans.

  “Lydia, I won’t accompany you to Bath and I won�
�t forget that, in spite of your protests, you may well have sent that fool to name me a Jacobite and so challenge me, for whatever perverted purpose your jealous mind invented or for whatever other intrigue you might have been up to.”

  Anger, and what might have been a hint of pain but probably was only injured pride, flashed across her face. After a moment she was smiling again.

  “Bridget, go away; keep Mrs. Barlow company in the kitchen.” She looked at Edward, her face all innocence. “Edward, you know well that my father was a Jacobite until his death. It’s not so shameful a word. I didn’t send that jealous fool after you; he challenged you of his own accord, using me as an excuse. I told him not to, that you would kill him. But if you’re sure you want me to go away, Edward ….” she said, slipping back into the use of his first name.

  She sat down on the day bed, then leaned backward, half-reclining. She raised the skirt of her dress several inches above her ankle, revealing a long, fine, delicate leg in a pink silk stocking.

  Edward was disappointed, although as usual her wanton displays did arouse him. He had expected, or at least hoped, for something more subtle from her this time.

  “Mrs. Barlow,” he called, “please send Lydia’s maid in here, as she will be accompanying her mistress out shortly.”

  Bridget entered the room; Lydia sent her out again.

  Edward strode directly to Lydia, looking hard into her eyes.

  Lydia smiled broadly. She knew that he would kiss her, and take her right there on the day bed, oblivious to her maid and his landlady in the kitchen, deftly removing only her dress and petticoats, leaving her shoes, stockings, shift, and jewelry, her long legs wrapping around him as he pressed himself onto her and into her, kissing and caressing her lips, her neck, her small, delicate, pink-nippled breasts that peeked at him as he slid his hands down her back and across her flat belly and round buttocks, ignoring her cries and moans of pleasure.

  “Mrs. Barlow!” Edward called again loudly, mind overruling flesh, sense overruling lust. Almost immediately his landlady was at his door. “Please show the ladies out. Mistress Upcott, Bridget, a good day to you.”

  They departed, Lydia livid, an act perhaps, and her maid glaring, not an act at all. On the way out Lydia struck a vase of flowers on a side table, knocking the vase to the floor.

  Edward regarded his landlady. “Don’t give me that ‘I told you so’ look,” he said, then laughed and shook his head. “I’ll replace the vase and flowers.”

  “Then I’ll say it, sir; I told you so,” she said, and called for the maid to clean the mess. Moments later, she was called to answer the door, and escorted Mr. Graham to his room.

  “Jonathan!” Edward said warmly, “I could have used your counsel in Ireland.”

  “Looks like you could have used it a quarter hour ago,” he replied. “Did the baggage strike you?”

  “Just knocked a vase over. You don’t see any blood, do you?”

  “You’ve a hard head, my friend, and besides, you might not have any more blood to give. Beware: it was a woman scorned I saw leaving here. I’ve already warned you once about her. I’ll say this for your jades, they’re never submissive. I thought you had done with this one, especially after she tried to have you killed.”

  “Not scorned, it’s just a squall. She’ll be back within a fortnight at most, more likely within a day or two. She’s up to something, I don’t know what, but I’d like to find out,” Edward said, leading Jonathan into the long, narrow room that served as his salle d’arms. They stopped by the fireplace, where there was a small table with glasses and several bottles of wine.

  Above the mantle and below a pair of crossed swords was a certificate attesting to Edward’s skill as both swordsman and fencing master, inscribed “Society of Sword-Men in Scotland” at the top and signed “Wm. Machrie” and “Wm. Hope Kt.” at the bottom. Next to it, from a ribbon hung the society’s badge. On the fireplace mantle lay several copies of Edward’s book on swordplay, published a year past in small quantity, much at his expense, with a handful of decent copperplates: The Practical Sword-Man: Advice for the Novice and Artist for Fencing with Sharps in Duells, Affrays, Battels, and Sea-Fights. It was to his knowledge the only fencing book that gave advice on the use of the sword in a sea fight.

  Each man poured a glass of claret. “To the swordsmen and privateers of Scotland!” Edward toasted, raising his glass first to Jonathan, then to the certificates and swords above the mantle.

  In this room, and also in the narrow courtyard next to it, Edward gave the fencing lessons that produced the small income that helped get him by while he sought his privateering commission. His students varied from gentlemen, merchants, tradesmen, and the occasional nobleman wishing to learn true dueling technique as opposed to mere “school play,” to sea officers and seamen who wished to learn the aggressive offense and defense of swordplay during boarding actions, to the occasional military officer who came to refine the technique of thrust, cut, and cut-and-thrust. Jonathan Graham—friend, factor, agent, supercargo, swordsman, Scot, and expert in all matters of maritime business affairs—often assisted him.

  “Is that a good thing that she’ll be back, that damn woman?” Jonathan argued as he inspected Lynch’s sword where it still hung on the wall with three other smallswords for sale. “She’s too lean anyway, not enough ballast in her narrow beam, nor enough sail on her yards. But I suppose a man must have his wenches, even those who try to have him killed. Anyway, how are your wounds? Nothing to prevent you from going to sea for a year?”

  “I’m well enough, and a few more weeks will see me entirely healed.”

  “Excellent. Hearing yesterday evening that you’d returned, I procured an audience with Lord Deigle tomorrow at Bath—you did write me that you must see him immediately about the business you conducted on his behalf in Ireland, didn’t you? I don’t know what private matters are between you, although I have my own ideas, but he’s now more keen on the idea of our venture. He has influence in London and is also a close friend of Lord Bellomont, the governor of the New York and Massachusetts colonies. Bellomont recently supported the outfitting of a ship to pursue pirates, the Adventure Galley, I think she is called, captained by a man named Kidd. Such a venture should’ve belonged to you. Perhaps if you hadn’t offended Thomas Wharton in Bath last year? I’ve heard he’s a silent partner. By the way, why did you fight with him? Two successful duelists and superior swordsmen—it must have been an impressive display.”

  “A successful duelist may be a superior swordsman, but he must also be a fortunate one, this I know from experience,” Edward said indifferently. “And I don’t recall the nature of the offense.”

  “Of course you remember why you crossed swords with him. Only a swashbuckler or bretteur”—he pronounced it breeTOOR in spite of the fact that he could speak French well enough when necessary—“never recalls and never cares why he fights. A woman is my guess,” Jonathan said dryly.

  “I don’t fight over women,” Edward responded just as dryly. “But back to the matter at hand, this pirate-chasing is a bad idea of Bellomont’s, and is in the hands of an arrogant fool. No good will come of it. Indeed, no good will come of it no matter who the captain is. I know Kidd. He’s an able seaman but no true leader of men. He’s the sort who can lead well only when his crew are of his own mind.”

  “Well, Handsome Harry, as Deigle’s taken to calling himself lately, they say he invented the name himself, wants to be associated with a similar venture but lacks money, as many noblemen do. He can only provide influence, but we desperately do need influence. Speaking of money, did Sir William send a bill with you?”

  “A small goldsmith’s note to help with expenses, but otherwise no, he had some business to clear up first, said he would send a bill of exchange within a fortnight, three copies to ensure arrival. He did send me with a letter promising to help finance the expedition,” Edward replied.

  “We’ll need a ship, obviously, or there’s no point to t
he rest.”

  “I’ve one in mind, the Virginia Galley.”

  “I thought you were trying to convince the Marquess of Carmarthen to design and build a privateer for you? Or that he might lend you his Bridget Galley?”

  “Peregrine Osborne, a marquess since when, ‘94? How nobly advance these nobles, Jonathan. I served as a volunteer with him at Brest, yet he’s ignored my inquiries.”

  “He wasn’t interested in helping a former comrade-in-arms?”

  “It seems he’s too busy designing a new swift ship, a sixth rate or yacht. Plus his duties as a naval officer—is he an admiral now?—keep him too busy to deal with new projects. A man can have only so many mistresses.”

  “Maybe you inspired him in his new design.”

  “Doubtless he’ll try to sell it to His Majesty rather than waste his effort on a common privateer.”

  “No matter,” Jonathan said, dismissing the speculation. “The Virginia Galley is a swift ship, and her owners are in trouble with their creditors. A French frigate legère, as the Monsoors call their sixth rates, I think her name was Mermaid or Siren, or Sirène I suppose, designed by Cochois or something like that; the French do this sort of little cruising ship well, as well as Carmarthen, so bugger him. She was purchased by some investors as a letter-of-mart ship but ended up only being used for trade. Surely we can make a deal for her if her owners want to sell. Otherwise, to Bath, then, tomorrow.”

  “Has Deigle hinted at his terms?”

  “No, but terms there will be.”

  Edward scowled. “He can’t have too many, not if he has no money to invest.”

  “We’ll work on it, Edward, but you must realize we may have no choice but to accept many of them. How long have you been seeking a ship and a commission? How long have you gone begging to merchants and noblemen? Call it what you will, it’s still begging. By the Heavens, Edward, I don’t know what’s worse, your Highland pride or your Lowland stubbornness. I’m a Scot myself, I know of what I speak!”

  “Go on, my friend.”