A Jester’s Fortune l-8

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Can you ever go back, though, Chute?" Lewrie asked him. "Year'r two…" Clotworthy shrugged, appropriating an entire tray of champagne for the three of them from an irritated servant, who was clad in some livery that was grander than most full admirals back home. "Under another name, perhaps? The old fox never… ah!"

  "Lord Peter!" some woman called out gaily. "Look at all I've won! Oh, aren't Venetian casinos simply heavenly?"

  They turned to greet the newcomer, a short, petite blonde, who came forward with a spread lace handkerchief literally heaped with an entire pint of glittering Venetian sequins and ducats. Dribbling gold coins, which her maidservants scurried to retrieve before some Venetian loser found a way to retrieve his own fortune from her cast-offs. She was clad in a frothy but slimmer new-style gown, all shimmering silks and gauzy half-nothings which bared her arms and upper breast. A most impressive, milk-pale, sweetly cherubic breast, Lewrie noted, first of all. Infantlike, and only slightly pudgy arms, sure to be as soft and yielding as a baby's bottom, every toothsome morsel of her.

  She was with a greyer older man, one who dressed neatly, soberly in bottle-green "ditto," though his watch-chain and fob, shoes and the gilt buckles upon them, the fineness of his linen, announced him as a man of great, though refined and subdued, wealth.

  "Ah, Sir Malcolm… Lady Lucy," Peter began smoothly. "Allow me to name to you an old friend-"

  "Oh, my God!" Lady Lucy Shockley shrilled aloud, causing a hitch to the orchestra. "It is you!" She declared, quite forgetting her new-won gold and strewing it over the marble floor in a tinkling shower.

  "Is it… you?" Lewrie gasped in return, though thinking, Damme, one bloody surprise a night is quite enough!

  And shivering in stupefaction to see her again, after so many years. Shivering, too, to see the furrow of irritation form on Sir Malcolm Shockley's brow. The man was the size of a Grenadier Guard, and people that big and brawny-and that bloody rich!-were best not nettled! No husband, in fact, with a face that wroth!

  "Ma'am…" Lewrie tried to most-civilly purr, to begin a saluting "leg" of a bow. But she was up to him, upon him, before he could put one foot forward, and squealing with a most public delight. "S-so good to see you…" Lewrie stuttered. "Been years and years, what?" He added, for Sir Malcolm's benefit. And his own safety.

  "Alan Lewrie!" she whooped. "Why, just look at you!"

  "Lady Shockley… Lucy… Lady Lucy, uhmm…!" He gawped back.

  Lady Lucy Shockley now… but long before, back in 1781, when he'd been a "newly" in the Caribbean-HMS Ariadne had been condemned, he'd served aboard the Parrot schooner, had come down with Yellow Jack, and had awakened to a vision from Heaven-Lucy Beau-man, niece to his admiral, Sir Onsley Matthews, sent to Antigua to avoid the slave rebellions on Jamaica-and his unofficial "nurse" as he'd regained health. So fair-complected, so fair-haired, so petite and promisingly rounded! So blessed with eyes the colour of tropical shoal-waters! So unbelievably rich!. And, at seventeen, so smitten with him.

  Unfortunately, Lewrie recalled, about as ignorant as sheep! And pray God she's gotten wiser, since! he sighed.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Shockley," Lucy gushed to her new and suddenly testy husband, "Alan was my first love. Now, after all these years… ! So dashing and brave a midshipman he was. Why, he fought a duel for my honour with that beastly soldier… whatever was his name?"

  No, she hasn't learned a bloody thing. Lewrie sighed to himself again, determined to put a bold face on it anyway, and wishing there was a way to clap a gag in her mouth. Sir Malcolm gave him a look; one of those looks-the sort that promised swords or pistols.

  "Lord, an age ago and more, Lady Lucy," Alan forced himself to chuckle. "Back in our childhoods, what?"

  Well, let's not trowel innocence on, Lewrie warned himself. If he protested too loudly, it'd be a sure sign of guilt. Even if he had never even laid a finger on Lucy… not that he hadn't ached for a shot at her, God knows. Even if he'd "rattled" his way out of a union with her-and all her father's lovely money!-by having an affair with a Kingston town "grass widow," which had redounded to his bad repute when it had become public.

  Sir Malcolm still wore a chary leer, one dubious brow up. What did the dedicated duellists call the situation? Lewrie wondered. "Grass Before Breakfast?" The grass one ate, facedown and dying… or those turfs of sod laid atop a fool's grave!

  "And here you both are," Lord Peter blathered on happily, "and in Venice, of all places, for your rencontre. And both wed."

  "Yes!" Lewrie enthused, ready to kiss Peter's ring, big toe or buss his blind cheeks for his statement. "Though I cannot recall you ever meeting Caroline, did you, Peter?"

  "A brief glimpse, in '84… some chop-house on the Strand." Lord Peter frowned. "I think. Lovely girl, though. Wasn't she, Clothworthy?"

  "We're in Surrey now… near Guildford," Lewrie rushed out. "We rent from her uncle, Phineas Chiswick. Three children now."

  "You don't say!" Peter gawped.

  "So what brings you to Venice, Sir Malcolm?" Lewrie enquired, turning to him.

  "Ah, Captain Lewrie-"

  "Commander," Lewrie corrected, tapping the single plain epaulet on his left shoulder.

  "Commander Lewrie… as to why… we're on our honeymoon, as it were," Sir Malcolm related, unbending a little. "A Grand Tour I never had the chance for, as well, though Lucy did hers before, in company of her family. Surrey, hmm… rather a lot of sheep down there, now? You raise sheep, sir? Sell your wool to whom? A lot?"

  "W-why…" Lewrie stuttered, unsure what happened to wool after it'd been shorn. That was Caroline's arranging, and as long as it gave them income, he wasn't particular. "Various agents, Sir Malcolm. Depending on the best offers. I've been away since '93, but for a brief refit at Portsmouth. Didn't even get home to Anglesgreen, so-"

  "Oh, Shockley!" Lucy chid her husband. "Not business, now! Do give Alan a chance to get his breath before purchasing his output."

  "Couple of hundred head, Sir Malcolm… sorry. Not much worth in comparison to others roundabout." Lewrie shrugged. "A glass with you, sir? To your good fortune and your happiness," he offered, snagging a brace of champagnes. "And many glad years of both, sir!"

  "Commander Lewrie, we thought you'd gotten lost," Captain Charlton interposed, completing a third circuit of the salon, with the rest of his officers in tow. With a great sigh of relief, Lewrie did the honours for introductions, happy to trot out a Right Honourable Lord to his superior.

  And Charlton, for all his stiffness, practically fawned upon Lord Peter, was aware of who Sir Malcolm Shockley was, and impressed by him as well! He gushed, as they all did, over Lucy's hand, offering slavering congratulations to the "happy new couple." After the cold shoulder they'd gotten from the haughty Venetians so far, to run into some fellow Britons was doubly welcome-and most especially that they were titled and rich… and, in Lucy's case, damned handsome! Commander Fillebrowne was almost ravishing her hand!

  As for how they were all known to each other, Peter Rushton and Chute were glad to fill them in, relating those episodes of their days at Harrow together-including the Coach-House Incident, when they'd blown it to flinders and burnt it to the ground in revenge upon the school's new governor, who'd dared crack down on his riotous, rebellious students.

  "And you the one with the port-fire, Lewrie… tsk-tsk," Captain Charlton mused. "The things one learns at public-school these days…"

  "And a quick end to my days at Harrow, sir." Lewrie blushed.

  "He was always forward and dashing, you know, Captain Charlton," Lucy supplied. "Burned a French privateer to the waterline, too, when he was a midshipman. And fought a duel for my good name at Antigua?"

  "Cut the fellow, Lewrie?" Fillebrowne enquired archly. "Or did you blaze with pistols?"

  "Cutlasses, sir," Lewrie told him smugly. "Killed him dead."

  "Ah, hmm!" Lieutenant Knolles gasped, learning something new about his captain. Though with much more enthusiasm and appreciation than t
he "Ah, hmm!" that was forced from Fillebrowne.

  "And have we made contact with our Venetian hosts yet, sir?" Lewrie asked.

  Charlton sighed, cutting his chin toward a pair of men across the salon, who were being fawned upon by a whole herd of sycophants. One was garbed in a baggy, colourful harlequin's costume, jingling the bell-tasseled head of a Court Fool on a stick, and guffawing in a silly bray that sounded much like a drunken, demented donkey. The other of the pair was caparisoned in back-and-breast armour of the fifteenth century, such as one would see on ancient heroes who'd fought the Battle of Lepanto against the Turks, or sailed in Spain's Armada, with the long hose and puffy pantaloons, the leg-o'-mutton sleeves and stiff ruff collar, to boot. Though, on closer inspection, the man's plate-armour was very light papier-mвchй, not steel. Nor was the enormous chopper of a harem-guarding eunuch s sword at his hip anything more than a silver-painted wooden caricature.

  "One, would you believe, sirs, madam," Captain Charlton sighed, much put-upon, "is a member of the Three… the senior overcouncil of the Venetian Senate… more powerful than the figurehead Doge, it is said. T'other, well… I was told he was a senior general. I leave it to you as to which is which. There will be no business done this evening. They're having too good a time to be interrupted, don't you know! Tomorrow, perhaps… ten in the morning. An aide said ten, though our trade consul informs me that may mean noon or later. Before dinner… and siesta. The next morning, else."

  "Ah, hmm..," from all, in one form or another, at that dismal news. "Commander Lewrie, with Captain Rodgers off to Trieste, you're next-senior to me, sir," Charlton ordered. "Do you stand in my stead, tomorrow… a trip to their Arsenal, whilst I wait upon their Senate? I'm assured we may purchase Venetian charts of the Adriatic. Accurate and up-to-date charts. Something the Austrians at Trieste either will not share or were ignorant of, d'ye see?" Charlton pinched his nose at the bridge between his eyes, as if suffering a monumental headache.

  "Of course, sir. Happy to oblige." Lewrie nodded. "A chance for a look-'round, at what their fleet-"

  "You come ashore tomorrow?" Lucy interjected. "Oh, Shockley! We simply must have Alan to our lodgings for dinner! There's so much to catch up on. And I'm simply positive you both will get along like a house afire, why…"

  Why don't I just slit my wrists now, Alan groaned, and avoid a bloodbath later? After making such an ass of himself over Phoebe Aretino, he was mortal-certain he didn't need another woman mucking up his life. Even were Lucy still single, still just as cow-eyed, just as… my word, Dumb! … as she'd been long before.

  "I couldn't intrude 'pon your honeymoon, Sir Malcolm," Lewrie countered with a bluff and, he hoped, seemly modesty. "We're in port, and a neutral port, so briefly, with so many things to see to. Ships, d'ye see…" He shrugged. "You were married how long ago? Pardon my enquiring?"

  " 'Bout six months, sir," Sir Malcolm replied.

  "Well, there you are, then… still in the first magic year of bliss!" Lewrie chuckled. "Ain't relatives and such to leave the new couple alone, sir? Besides…"

  Something had gotten the Venetians excited at last, diverting his attention to the far end of the vast salon. Costumed people were shouting and waving their hands, the music was slithering to a halt and gamblers snatched up their wagers or winnings, left off their moans or sighs of pleasure to join one throng or another, swirling about like suddenly hostile mobs against each other, advancing up the great hall.

  "Montagues and Capulets, ready to fight?" Lieutenant Knolles pondered.

  "Must have run out of the good wine," Captain Charlton snickered.

  118

  "I francisi!" Someone wailed. "I frandsi!"

  The French! Lewrie didn't like the sound of that. Something with the Frogs involved was always rife with disappointment.

  "The Austrians…" Captain Charlton translated, bit by bit, from the gist of a full hundred stammering commentators. "Bloody hell. Your pardons, Lady Shockley. The French have come east, it seems, sirs. And fought the Austrians… Montenotte… Millesimo… Dego. Wherever those places are. Beat them, by God!"

  "Beat the French, sir?" Lieutenant Stroud of Myrmidon exulted in joy. "Why, that's marvelous news!"

  "Ah, no." Charlton gloomed, of a sudden. "Seems the French have beaten the Austrians."

  "Montenotte, that's inland from Savona, west of Genoa, Captain Charlton," Lewrie supplied. "The others are, too, I recall. We were there last year, working out of Vado."

  "Marshal Beaulieu and his Austrians are in full retreat. Falling back on Alessandria." Charlton continued to interpret from snatches.

  "Why, that's…" Fillebrowne blanched. "That's halfway between Genoa and Milan, sir! Fifty miles or better, from Savona or Genoa."

  "Marshal Beaulieu, mean t'say!" Lord Peter Rushton barked. "I do believe… didn't we meet him in Vienna, Sir Malcolm?"

  "We did, milord," Sir Malcolm averred, looking as irritated as he had with Lewrie's presence. "Damn impressive soldier, he seemed to me. Why, the man's reputed to be another Caesar, an Alexander! Off to join his troops for the spring campaign… military genius."

  "Splendid party, that was, too. Lucky to be invited." Rushton chuckled. "Short introduction… their Emperor, too, why-"

  "Fought the Piedmontese, too, it sounds like," Charlton grumped, interrupting. "Their General Colli. Is he reputed to be a military genius? Anybody? Well, then…" He clapped his mouth shut and went iron-spined, his face a natural mask as hard as any the Venetians wore. The eyes of the room were gradually shifting to them, their British guests: the only men in the room in real uniforms, the only men present wearing real steel at their hips. Allies of the Austrians, representatives of the government that sponsored the First Coalition against revolutionary, Republican France. People looked towards them to see how they handled this news, to read omens from their demeanour, for good or ill.

  "My word," Charlton whispered to them. "Routed the Piedmontese, do we believe the tale. San Michele… Ceva. Hmm, it would appear this General Colli is not another Caesar or Alexander. Now, where are Ceva and San Michele? Fillebrowne? You're our Italian student."

  "In Piedmont, sir," Fillebrowne muttered back. "I mean… they lie north and west of Genoa, sir."

  "Anywhere near this Alessandria the Austrians are running for, though, Commander?" Charlton snapped. "Uhm… I don't believe so, sir. Sorry."

  "So, that means the Piedmontese are being pushed one direction… back into their own country," Captain Charlton summed up. "And the Austrians are being driven east, away from the Piedmontese. Don't like the sound of this. Rout, something… massacre, something. Venetians are either the most excitable people in Europe… starting at baseless rumours… or all four wheels have come off the coach!"

  "Damme, sir, how could the Frogs…" Sir Malcolm Shockley said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Never was in the Army, d'ye see, but… they're led by corporals and sergeants, I heard. Poor-equipped as they are, as poorly led… peasant hordes, not real soldiers! How can they defeat the best army in Europe? Add up the pluses and minuses, do your sums… why, it's unheard-of!"

  He made it sound like a solid business transaction, done between two honest tradesmen, which had inexplicably gone-sour; as if the "art" of war were a hard, immutable science.

  "New French general…" Charlton gleaned further from the swift, liquid Venetian Italian that swirled around them. And noting that even the gaily begarbed senator of the Three and that Venetian general were chewing their thumbnails and looking pasty-faced. "French column's just about everywhere they turn… foot, horse, artillery… like a flood of Frogs. Avalanche. Some fellow… Buony… no, Buonaparte. Bonaparte."

  "Bonaparte?" Lewrie croaked aloud. "Or Buonaparte? Why, I've met the bastard, sir!"

  "You what?" Several gasped as one.

  "Siege of Toulon, sir," Lewrie explained. "Knew him then as a colonel of artillery. Buonaparte, he called himself. A Corsican. My… someone I knew from Corsica, at San Fiorenzo Bay, told me … he had
known the family, 'fore they moved to Marseilles and we took Corsica."

  Close, Alan thought; almost blurted out "my mistress" and "she"!

  "Buonaparte was the one arranged the fall of the forts on those Heights of de Grasse, 'twixt the Little and the Great Road, which made Admiral Hood withdraw. Couldn't hold the anchorages with guns against us from there, sir. Sank my ship, too. Off to the east, in the Great Road."

  "Do tell, sir," Charlton urged, fascinated.

  Aye, give me a willin' audience, Alan smirked to himself, preening a bit. Married or no, impressing Lucy, and Sir Malcolm!

  "Z йlй was a floating mortar-battery. Mixed crew, Spanish bombardiers, Royalist French Navy gunners, and 'bout twenty hands off my last ship, HMS Cockerel. This Colonel Buonaparte spotted fire for the Frog mortars at Fort Le Garde and sank us. We got ashore, he rode down and took us prisoner… those of us that lived. She blew up, sir. Took my sword. My old sword," he added, clasping the hilt of his new hanger. "Before Spanish cavalry showed up from Fort St. Margaret to save us."

  "So you've met him… face-to-face, sir," Charlton pressed.

  "Aye, sir. Young fellow, 'bout early twenties or so," Lewrie expanded further, as they urged him to divulge all. "A wee sprog, bit taller'n a hop-o'-my-thumb. Slim, handsome in away… eyes as old as Moses, though, sirs. Very grave and wily-looking. A knacky sort."

  "And he took your sword?" Lucy wailed. "The one your captain gave you for saving your ship from that French privateer, the one you burned when he was down with Yellow Fever? That lovely hanger, with all the silver seashells?"

  Lewrie almost winced!