"Never catch English folk capering like this, sir," Lieutenant Knolles declared firmly.
"Be surprised, Mister Knolles." Lewrie smirked. "Not at home, at any rate. Overseas, now… in a flock o' foreigners… with no one they know watchin'…"
"Have to be drunk as badgers, sir, e'en' so," Knolles countered.
"That, too, sir." Lewrie chuckled wryly. "Or that first! And then… out comes the bed-linen, and it's a Roman orgy!"
Sumptuary laws were being flouted on every hand, the strictures against ostentatious display of wealth broken by every hemline. Lewrie felt, even in his very best shore-going dress-uniform he was pretty much like a sopping-wet wharf-rat among these glittering, preening peacocks. A liveried servant's uniform was more ornate, more impressive! And he wondered when he or Captain Charlton might be instructed to go fetch a fresh tray of drinks… or clean up someone's mess!
The ridotto was another Trieste, though, when it came to bodily odours. As grand as a king's palace though it was, as high and baroque its ceiling, well… it was quite close, the air still, and filled with hundreds of revelers, strollers and gamblers, and the only breeze came from idly waving hands, the coquetry of ladies' fans or the uprush of wind from a full thousand flickering candles.
For a people supposedly "married" to the sea… and all the water that went with that, Lewrie smirked… the Venetian aristocracy didn't seem to hold much with water! No matter how layered in Hungary Waters or Colognes, they were a pretty stale bunch!
The landing-party strolled, glasses in hand, trying to be pleasant, searching for the officials Charlton had planned to meet. Knolles, free of his arduous, unending duties as First Officer for a rare evening, and the other lieutenants or midshipmen, who were rarely let off the leash of Duty, either, ogled the women. Alan saw that Commander Fillebrowne was nodding, raising an appreciative eyebrow, smiling a rogues smile for every likely-looking lady-all but stroking a moustache he didn't have, in fact! All to no avail. "Ahem!" that worthy coughed finally, frustrated, his neck aflame below his fair hair.
Damme, the Venetians think we're funny! Lewrie gawped silently.
He took a diffident stance, their second tour of the gigantic salon, returning the cool, imperious, nose-high glances of the Venetians with a matching coolness, striving for Distant-But-Charming. But he saw amusement, a flicker of faint disgust-a subtle tilt of their heads, a tiny lift of expressive brows, or eyes that crinkled in mock horror to discover barbarian foreigners among the privileged. And it was the women most of all whose moist ruby lips cocked at one corner in faint revulsion. Worse, Lewrie could conjure… scant pity for the rude, crude, party-crashing English interlopers!
"Uhmm, this feels like a rum go, sir, why don't…?" Alan said from the corner of his mouth to Captain Charlton as he came level with his, shoulder.
"Cuts a bit rough, I know, Lewrie, but…" Charlton said with a shrug, his own face frozen in a polite smile for one and all.
"Well, I've run dry, sir," Lewrie whispered, tilting his stem-glass. "You'll excuse me for a moment, so I may put in to 'water'?"
He broke formation and headed for a long buffet table where the wine was cooling, to snag a glass of something to soothe his bruised ego. It wasn't that he was trolling a line to hook a new doxy, after all, he told himself; that madness with Phoebe Aretino had been daft enough, thankee! Isn't as if I've been soundly rejected by Venetian ladies if I wasn't tryiri to put the leg over one of 'em, now, is it?
Still, he felt abashed and curtly dismissed. Like a stable man allowed in the parlour for the first time, stead of the kitchen garden. He wondered if he should pull a forelock of hair, or…
No, lads, you haven't a hope, he sneered, as he watched some of the junior officers craning their necks to look at a pair of approaching beauties. Neither have I, mores the pity. Oh, well… I s'pose that's best. Last thing I need is another dalliance, really. Another mistress, specially a rich Venetian one. The Venetians have covered their bets on amour round here.
He got a second glass of wine, savouring this one more slowly, as he began to observe the social doings of the Venetian elite; for his own edification, naturally… nothing more than that. How would the most beautiful women in Europe, in the most romantic city in the entire civilised world, carry off their affairs? he idly wondered.
After a few minutes, though, he cocked an eyebrow in wry amusement of his own. "Romantic, mine arse," he whispered softly. "Seen more enthusiasm from Greenwich pensioners!"
Lewrie had been raised in London, in Saint James's Square (not the good side, admittedly) under the indifferent care of his sire, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, in a house where a pretty chambermaid had two choices-getting "stuffed," or developing a fair turn of speed. In those times before Sir Hugo had gone smash, when they'd had "blunt" and some measure of social acceptance, he'd had entrй to routs, drums, balls, salons and teas among the better sort. Well, perhaps not quite the better sort-rather the ones who'd admit the bastard son of the bastardly Sir Hugo.
When he wasn't being bounced from one public school to another, and that the result of his own actions, the result of drink, idleness and low companions (though he did post some rather good marks before the usual ouster!), he'd been under a rough sort of tutelage, when Sir Hugo could spare the time away from his usual pastimes-such as quim, money, gambling, quim, profit, pleasure, brandy and quim. Along with huntin', quim, shootin', fishin'… and quim. There were Belinda and Gerald, his half-sister and half-brother, as examples, too. One now a high-priced Drury Lane trollop, the other a sodomite, and, if God was just, still a press-ganged landsman in the Royal Navy-after Lewrie had discovered him in a London Docks buggery-hell, and pressed Gerald himself! Dead-drunk, conked on the noggin to begin with, and tattooed with fouled anchors before being delivered downriver to the Nore. It was the best three shillings, for that tattoo, that Alan had ever spent!
Anyway, with that family of his as tutors, Alan had come early to a prodigious knowledge of pleasure and romance, of the eternal verities of Love, such as… "Always get yer cundums from the Green Lantern in Half Moon Street. Sheep-gut's best. You get a maid 'ankled'-it's twenty pounds. You get a spinster girl of a good family pregnant, and I'll bloody kill you! Widows're best, 'grass' or real 'uns."
So he knew what flirtation looked like, what veiled passion or desire looked like. And this wasn't it.
Oh, there were men and women strolling together, heads close in simpering whispers. Fans, brows, mouths and lashes fluttered in what seemed the age-old game of Eros. Yet they looked so unutterably and listlessly bored by it all! As if just going through the motions of coyness, seduction, betrayal or flattery. To be polite, so please you!
No, the only thing that seemed to set their blood truly aflame were the gaming-tables. That was the only sport in the house that set bosoms heaving, lips atremble or breaths ashudder; made those painted, rouged, pasty-pale mannequins of men roar or whimper. Only a roll of the dice, a good card to take a trick, made women cry out in pleasure or distress. No, the gaming-tables were the only animated sign of natural life in the great-hall!
Romantic Venice! Lewrie sneered to himself. Awash in, and tolerant of, cats or not, the city was turning out to be…
"I say, there!" someone shouted. Actually shouted-and in an imperious, aristocratic English drawl, too! "You there, sir! One in the sailor-suit!"
Lewrie swiveled about, trying to espy who was calling, and just who in a "sailor suit" he was jibing!
"Is that a man, wearin' King's Coat?" A tallish fellow in the Venetian tricorne hat and hood-the bauto-disguised by a black-and-white bird-beaked mask, waved. A shorter, squarer version stood at his side,» draped in a cape that seemed to hide a beef-cask figure. "Or is that King's Coat wearin' the man, hah?"
"What the…!" Lewrie began to growl.
Until the taller figure first-then the shorter-ripped off their bau-tos and masks to come forward, hands extended.
"Alan Lewrie, you old rakehell, sir!" The taller one gu
shed. "What are you now, a bloody post-captain? Recall me, do ye?"
"Peter?" Lewrie exclaimed in shock, and stupefied to discover an "old school chum" in Venice, of all places. "Peter Rushton? And… damn my eyes, if that ain't Clotworthy Chute with you!"
Speakin' o' low companions, Lewrie cringed to be reunited with the idlest of the idle, the most Corinthian of Corinthians, boon companions of bottle, brothel or deviltry…! Was this a good idea? Or was Dame Fate slipping him another spoonful of "the dirty"?
"Give ye joy, Alan, me lad!" Peter Rushton shouted for all the world to hear, as he came up to embrace him like the Prodigal Son just come back from the swinery. "Give ye joy!"
CHAPTER 6
Peter Rushton and Clotworthy Chute, of all people! He hadn't seen or heard from them in years-for which he'd thanked a Merciful God more than once. At Harrow, Peter had been the Honourable, a second son not in line to inherit estates or peerage, dissolute and devilish, and out like most second or third sons to enjoy life to the dregs, instead of becoming boresome-but-proper firstborn heirs. The Navy, and the King's Regiments, were positively stiff with such young wastrels. Peter would have gotten the lesser title once his father had gone toes-up-Sir Peter Rushton, Bart., hereditary knight and baronet. Whilst his older brother-from what Alan could recall of a visit from that worthy to Harrow, in the short term Lewrie had spent there, a rather grim and forbidding hymn-singer-would rise from his current knighthood to be the next true baron, heir of all and a true peer of the realm. And Peter would remain on a short leash and a miserly annual remittance for the rest of his natural life-if his stern father and dour brother had any say in the matter! When flush, Peter tended to spread himself rather wide cross the world, beyond even his own rather thin-stretched bounds of sanity, in an orgy of Spending and Getting, rantipoling and gambling, a true Buck Of The First Head who made even the most dissolute and depraved gawp in awe of his daring. Last Alan knew, Peters short leash was Ј1,000 a year-a sum that could go in a single evening.
Clotworthy Chute, well… Clotworthy had always been the oily young swine, who could toady to his betters with the latest jest or the juiciest gossip, could badger and terrorise his inferiors, knew where and how to obtain drink, whores, copies of exams or alter test results, made small loans or steered fellow students who were "skint" or overextended to usurers of his own ilk. Tuppence here, sixpence there… then on to shillings, half-crowns and pounds. Last he'd seen of Clotworthy in London, winter of '84, he'd become a polished "Captain Sharp" who lured newly inherited young "Chaw-Bacon" heirs, or "Country-Put" heiresses into both vice and poverty, posing as their smiling guide to what was Fashionable and Fast; finagling a hefty commission for his services, if not a loan he'd never repay. Chute knew to the pence just how much a body was worth, at first sight-and exactly how much he'd be able to "touch" them for.
Ain't the sort o' people I could ever introduce to Caroline, he told himself; nor the sort one wants down to the country for a week or two, either! Besides-they know too much about my younger days, and damme'f I want any o' that comin' out, now!
"So, what brings you to Venice, Peter?" Lewrie began charily. "Kiss his ring, Alan, old son," Clotworthy wheezed. His fast life had included many good feeds, Lewrie noted; Clotworthy Chute was quickly going to tripes-and-trullibubs. "Or his big toe, haw haw! I name to you, sir…" Here, Clotworthy had himself another good whinnying wheeze. "… the Right Honourable Lord Peter Rushton… Baron!" "Mine arse on a band-box!" Lewrie recoiled in utter shock. "That's 'mine arse on a bandbox,' milord)." Peter whooped with glee. "Gawd, Alan… the look on yer face!" "Well…"
" 'Turne, quod optanti Divum promittere nemo-auderet, volvenda Dies en attulit ultro,' you old scoundrel," Lord Peter cited. "I blieve they beat that'un into us, hey? 'What none of the gods would have dared promise to your prayers, see what rolling Time has brought, unasked'? Pater passed over, round '86. Spent a horrid three years in the country… Desmond swore 'twas the Army for me or nothing; nor any money, either. Bought me a set of Colours with the 17th Dragoons. Not a captaincy, damn him, and told me to live on my Army pay. Army pay, I ask you! Why, the mess-bills took that the first week! But then, last year, Desmond had the good grace to pass over, as well-"
"Food poisoning, they said," Clotworthy interjected gaily. '"A Frenchified, saucy something wasn't it, milord?"
"A made-dish remove, a la Mayonnaise," Peter gushed. "Took him off by morning… fiancee, too, damn near. And her parents."
"The last time she tries to impress a suitor with her cookin', I Warrant!" Clotworthy barked. "Avoid 'em, Alan, old dear. Avoid made-dishes like the very Plague!"
"… just shy of his wedding, d'ye see, Alan, so there wasn't an heir left standing," Peter breezed on, still sounding amazed by such a turn of fortune. "Acres, rents, title, seat in Lord's… Christ, can you feature it?"
"So, what brought you…" Lewrie insisted, not anywhere near being able to feature it. And wondering, with Clotworthy Chute along to help Peter spend his newfound fortune, if there'd be a farthing of that immense wealth left in six months!
"Grand Tour, old son." Peter chuckled. "Late to the game, but here we are, seein' the sights and all."
"Pete… uhm, milord," Lewrie amended, "I don't know you quite noticed, but… anyone tell you there's a war on?"
"Well, of course there is, Alan!" Peter hoorawed. "Spent time in the Light Dragoons, after all. But that's way over there. No, we came over to Copenhagen on a Swedish ship, neutral as anything. Spent some time there… lovely little city, stap me'f it ain't! By coach, into the Germanies. Dreadful boresome, that…"
"Women like blacksmiths," Clotworthy shivered. "All arms an' moustachioes. Spit a lot, too. All that German, I expect."
"… Berlin, too." Peter laughed easily. "Lord, might as well be in Roosia. Flat as a tabletop, and cold as charity. Sullen brutes in the streets, worse than the London Mob. Bavaria, though…!" Peter said in awe. "Then, Vienna, too! Splendid place!" he brayed. "Then down to Venice for Carnival Season. Leagues away from the fighting… bloody leagues away! Might even do Florence, Rome… there's talk of Constantinople 'fore we're done. See the splendours of the mysterious East, hmm? Or the Holy Land."
"Well, hmm, milord…" Clotworthy demurred. "That's Shockley's little side-trip, him and his new bride. And he can be a stodgy sort."
"Our traveling companions, Alan…" Peter told him. "Met them in Vienna. Sir Malcolm Shockley, baronet. Int'restin' fellow, do you enjoy investments, enterprises and such. Beastly rich, d'ye see…"
"More int'restin'z his bride, rather," Clotworthy snickered as he snagged a brace of champagnes from a newly arrived tray: one for his "patron" Lord Peter-and one for himself, of course.
"Well, yayss…" Peter drawled, lifting a brow significantly. "A little batter-puddin'… all peaches an' cream. A few years on her, but… still a 'goer.' "
"And, has she 'gone' yet for you… milord?" Alan drawled back, lifting his own brow.
"Hang it, Alan, 'twill always be Peter and Alan betwixt us!" "Then…?" Lewrie prompted suggestively.
"No, damn her eyes." Peter sighed. "Not sayin' she don't have the rovin' eye, but… so far, she ain't rove in my direction. I just may be too poor. Told you Shockley was beastly rich. Iron, coal and Lord, I don't know what else!"
"Leather-goods, wool-spinnin' and cardin'," Clotworthy related with a sage tap on his noggin. And if anybody would know a rich man's business better than that man himself, trust Clotworthy Chute to know it, Alan told himself with a wry grin. "Five years ago, he was little more'n a Midlands farmer… bringin' in the sheaves, hey? Vast estate, but poor soil, so I heard. The sober, hardworkiri squirearchy sort."
Clotworthy seemed to shiver at that image he presented, as if it were an unnatural condition beyond the pale.
"But when the war began, he… bless me!… went into Trade! Or the next closest to it." Clotworthy posed with a faint sneer for an un-gentlemanly nearness to made money. As if this Shockley were the cobbler or miner himself! Sh
rewd investments, crops and such, were one thing in English Society-but dealing with it directly, with no agent or solicitor as a buffer, was quite another!
"Now he makes uniforms, boots and knapsacks, saddles and all." Peter frowned in amused disdain. "That rocky estate of his turned out to be just riddled with oceans of coal and iron ore! So, he turned out his tenants and started grubbin'. Mines, smelters, foundries… steam engine woolen mills…? Makes just about everything now. And rakes in his guineas by the hogshead. By the hogshead, I tell you, Alan! Put some funds in with him soon as I get back home, I believe."
"Long as you don't spend 'em 'fore you get there, Peter," Alan chid him gently. "Still gamble deep?"
"Found religion," Peter quipped.
"You… bloody what?" Lewrie hooted. "You?"
"Income, and out-go, Alan," Peter joshed. "The ledgers. Long as Pater was payin' my bills… well, he couldn't let a son of his be known as a public debtor, now, could he? So, he covered me. Then it was Desmonds turn… such as it was. Inherit, though… know there's damn-all to fall back on if I squander it. Mean t'say…"
"Now it's your money, that is," Lewrie interpreted.
"Exactly!" Peter barked. "And nowhere near what I suspected… well. Ill take a hazard now and again, still. But…"
Lewrie looked at Clotworthy, who looked back at him and then tossed his gaze heavenward and rolled his eyes in failure, as if to complain that his free ride had gotten wary, and what he'd expected as his due wasn't to be forthcoming. Lewrie had to smile in commiseration. He remembered Peter as a charmingly amusing wastrel… but no one could ever have called him a stupid wastrel. And Peter had known Chute's wily ways, ever and anon. Amused by them, certainly, but never so much so as to be lured that far. No gullible cully, he; no calf-headed innocent! "So, what brings you to Venice, Clotworthy?" Alan wondered. "An heir." Clotworthy shrugged. "Series of young heirs, rather, who put their silly heads together and realised I'd gulled 'em. Before the Bow Street Runners and the magistrates could be sicced on me… and I still had all that lovely money!" He chuckled with bald-faced honesty. "Mean t'say, Alan…! I worked damn hard for it, if I do say so myself, and damme if they'd get a groat of it back before I'd had my joy of it! A long vacation in foreign climes seemed to be in order. And since Peter was off to soak up Culture…"
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