The Invasion Year (33 page)

“What’s the time?” Lydia asked in a whisper, breaking off from kissing his mouth, his shoulder, and rolling off him a bit to peer at a mantel clock, with her hair mussed most prettily, and some longer strands dangling over her face.

“Uhm … a bit after four,” Lewrie told her after a squint of his own. “Should I be going, before the house wakes?” He felt like crossing his fingers to hear her answer, for he certainly didn’t wish to go!

“Not quite yet,” Lydia said, swiping her hair back in place and bestowing upon him a sly, impish, and teasing look as she settled back half atop him and resumed her kissing. “We’re the
idle
class, Alan. We take cocoa and toast at ten, and don’t stir out ’til after noon, do you know. At least Percy has his regiment, his clubs, coffee houses, and a seat in Lords, when he bothers to attend. The servants don’t stir ’til half past five. Or so our butler tells us.”

“No sleep-walkers on staff, are there?” Lewrie japed.

“All sound sleepers, for all I know of them,” Lydia told him, chuckling. “There’s still time … for us. If you wish, that is? If you find me pleasing?” Oddly, that struck Lewrie’s ear as a
plea
to be found pleasing, and pretty.

“Aye, by God I
do
 … and there’s no other place I’d rather be right now for a … for a bloody knighthood!” he told her, which caused them both to laugh, almost loud enough to wake the house for a bit, ’til he drew her down to him and held her close, and their lips met in sweet, light brushings, curled with glee at first.

“Make love to me, Alan,” Lydia whispered, urgently, but sounding shy, as if amazed at her own daring to even ask.

“Make love to
me,
Lydia,” Lewrie whispered back, his own voice grave and earnest, peering intently into her eyes and wondering why he had ever thought her
less
than hellish-handsome. With her hair down, and her bored and arch expression blown to far horizons, she was very lovely … to him, at least; which was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Here, this moment, she even seemed vulnerable. Not a stiff member of the aristocracy, but an ordinary woman with wants and needs.

And so she did, and he did, make love one more time before he had to go, more hungrily this time, more fiercely, thrashing and panting to an almost simultaneous bliss. Then lay entwined and cuddling and kissing and gently stroking ’til the mantel clock reached 5.

*   *   *

“Where did we leave our shoes?” Lewrie muttered, his head well fuddled by then, as he peered about the parlour; they hadn’t been in the bed-chamber.

“We left them by the settee,” Lydia whispered back, giggling. “How remiss of us.”

“How embarrassing that could’ve been,” Lewrie said as he found his and sat to slip them on.

“Oh, I am loath to let you
go,
though I must!” Lydia declared as he got to his feet again, and she came to embrace him, dressed only in a silk robe, almost as soft as her flesh, and warmed by her warmth. Lewrie slowly ran his hands up and down her slim back, down to her narrow hips and wee bottom, purring in her ear. “I must.
You
must, else … it’s almost half past five.”

“ ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’…,” Lewrie said, chuckling.

“… ‘that I should say goodnight ’til it be morrow,’
yes
! And all that,
but
…!” she insisted, laughing again and breaking away to lead him by the hand to the foyer, and the front door. “I’ll not send you out into lawless London un-protected, Alan. Here.”

“Well, hullo!” Lewrie said; she had handed him a wee one-barrel pocket pistol to shove into his uniform coat.

“Even here in the West End, there’s foot-pads aplenty, and I’d not wish any harm to come to you,” Lydia assured him. “Mind, now … I expect you to
return
it!” she teased, her eyes alight.

“Let’s set a time for that,” Lewrie said with a grin. “Supper tonight? There’s a grand chop-house I know in Savoy Street. Hellish-fine wine cellar, and
emigré
French
chefs,
t’boot. Eight-ish? And no clubs after. As few of your host of admirers as possible.”

“Sir, I would be delighted to accept your kind invitation,” she said, dipping him a graceful curtsy, grinning back. “But, you must go at
once
!” Lydia insisted, play-shoving him to the door.

There was just one wee problem with his leaving; the door was locked tight, and though several bolts could be withdrawn, there was no key in sight!

“
Un emmerdement,
as the Frogs’d say,” Lewrie whispered. “Don’t think askin’ yer butler’d do much good, would it?”

“Oh, God!” Lydia breathed, opening every drawer in the massive oak side-board table where the mail, page-delivered notes, and calling cards ended in a large silver tray. “Here’s one!”

“Too small … that’s surely for one of the drawers. Let me look,” Lewrie offered, infected by Lydia’s urgency. “Aha!” Far back in the lowest drawer there was a
huge
housekey, strung with a hank of ribbon and a pasteboard tag. “This’un’s big enough for the Bank of England.” He inserted it, gave it a turn, and let out a happy sigh as the main lock clanked open.

Thank God for efficient house-keepers!
Lewrie thought as the door yawned open to the front stoop and the street with nary a creak; the hinges had been well-oiled!

“You’re off to your Madeira Club?” Lydia asked as he stepped out to the stoop, clutching her robe about her more tightly. “I will send round a note.”

“Hmm?” Lewrie asked, wondering why a note was necessary, if he had set the time when he would coach to collect her.

“My treat … a surprise,” she told him, smiling inscrutably. “Here … your lodgings? Neither is suitable, are they, Alan?”

“Damme, but you’re a grand girl, Lydia!”

“Now shoo, scat! Begone! And thank God it isn’t raining!” she urged, swinging the door shut yet blowing him a kiss just before it closed completely.

Damme if she
ain’t
a grand woman!
Lewrie told himself as he plodded east down Grosvenor Street, looking for a carriage, beaming and whistling “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” the tune used when the rum issue was fetched on deck aboard
Reliant
. At half past five
A.M.
, it was not quite dawn, but milk-seller wenches with cloth-covered buckets yoked over their shoulders were already stirring to cry their wares to the waking houses. Horse- or pony-drawn two-wheeled carts and traps were clopping along, their axles squealing, filled with fruit or vegetables, and young girls yawned as they carried baskets of fresh flowers. The tin-smiths and tinkers were out, the rag-buyers and -sellers halloed their goods. Knife sharpeners, bakery boys with their trays of hot loaves and rolls, old women with baskets of eggs, venomous-looking, un-shaven men with fletches of bacon … the street vendors of the city were already out in force.

And all found it amusing to see a Navy Post-Captain, a man with the sash and star of knighthood, walking when he could ride, and the fellow appeared stubbled, mussed, and perhaps even a trifle “foxed”—did he even know which part of London he was in?

Lewrie took great delight in doffing his hat to the vendors, offering cheery “good mornings.” He could not recall being happier in years!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A hot bath and a close shave, a hearty breakfast and six cups of coffee, and Lewrie still felt like Death’s-Head-On-A-Mop-Stick, but … there were things to meet and people to do, to make the most of his brief time in London. There was the College of Heralds, where grave people who put a lot of stock in such arcane things as coats-of-arms hemmed and hawed, suggested, and queried him over what he would like, or what was suitable to his career, to paint on a parchment, and … “the, ah, fees will be so much, and might you wish to pay by a note-of-hand, or a draught upon your bank, Sir Alan?”

No fear the Crown’ll run short o’ “tin,”
Lewrie sourly thought;
They must do a whoppin’ business handin’ out honours, if they cost the recipients so bloody dear! I could buy a
thoroughbred
for that much!

With the promise that preliminary sketches, in full colour, mind, would be forthcoming, Lewrie toddled off for dinner, then a visit to his bankers at Coutts’ for more cash, and a review of his accounts. He was pleasingly amazed that the Prize-Court on Jamaica had completed their surveys of the four French warships they had taken at the Chandeleurs—captured warships always seemed to breeze through quickly since the Fleet was in such need of new ones—deciding on a sum of £50,000. Lewrie’s frigate’s share was a fourth of that, and his own two-eighths amounted to £3,125! Nothing to sneeze at, for certain! He left £1,000 in savings and transferred £2,000 to the Funds, where it would earn a tidy £60 per annum. He pocketed the remainder, with plans to splurge, quite frankly.

Later, passing a bookseller’s bow-window display, he was taken by the sight of not one but two books written by his old steward and cabin servant, Aspinall! He dashed in and flipped through their pages, which were un-cut, so he only saw half. Just as Aspinall had promised, one was an illustrated guide to all the useful knots employed aboard a ship, and the other a compendium of music and songs popular in the Royal Navy.

“Good God!” Lewrie exclaimed as he read the dedication in the first one about knots.

To my old Captain of HMS
Jester,

Sloop of War, and the Frigates

Proteus
and
Savage

An Officer of un-paralleled Energy,

Courage, and Skill, whose determined

but pleasant Nature won the Affection

and Admiration of every Man-Jack,

Capt. Alan Lewrie, RN

“Damme, that’s gildin’ the lily, ain’t it?” Lewrie muttered.

“A most useful guide, that, sir,” the bookseller told him, “yet one that instructs even the humblest beginner. We’ve done quite well with it, as well as the music book. In the coming year, we plan to bring out yet another, on the making of intricate items of twine, which the author informs me that sailors will do in their idle hours, as gifts for their dear ones.”

“On ‘Make and Mend’ Sundays, aye,” Lewrie said, unable to resist boasting, “He’s dedicated this’un to
me,
it seems.”

“
You
are that Captain Lewrie, sir? My shop is honoured!”

“I’ll have three copies of each,” Lewrie quickly decided. “I’ve sons in the Fleet,” he explained. “You are the publisher, or…?”

“I am, sir,” the bookseller told him.

“So Aspinall’s in touch with you, regularly? Then you have his home address, so I could write and congratulate him?” Lewrie asked the fellow. “And, might I purchase some paper and borrow a pen, I’d like to write a short note, first, that you could send on at once?”

“Done, sir, this very instant!”

At least someone from the old days is doin’ well!
Lewrie gladly thought as he strolled out with his purchases. When Aspinall had left his service, the lad’s plans for the future and making a way in civilian life had sounded a tad iffy, but … so far he seemed to prosper. Lewrie didn’t think that he would have enough time in London to look him up for a natter; the best he expected would be a reply sent to his lodgings.

Damme, I should’ve bought a set for Desmond!
Lewrie realised;
If he’s still in the American Navy.
He was
forever
forgetting Desmond McGilliveray, the bastard son he’d quickened with Soft Rabbit, a Cherekee slave he’d been forced to “marry” by his Muskogee Indian hosts during the American Revolution, on a doomed expedition up the Appalachicola river in Spanish Florida to woo the Muskogee and Seminolee into war against the Rebel frontiers. Their guide, half-Muskogee himself, had given the child his own name after the British survivors had left, and taken Soft Rabbit for his own. And, when they had both died of the Smallpox, little Desmond had been delivered to the McGilliverays in Charleston, South Carolina, and raised as White. During the so-called Quasi-War ’twixt America and France, the American Navy and the Royal Navy had secretly co-operated, and Lewrie had been completely stunned to meet the boy, hear him speak of his Indian mother by name, and realise who he was!

Well, he don’t write
me
all that often, either,
he mused.

*   *   *

A stop in at Lloyd’s coffee house for tea and a place to use his pen-knife to slit the pages so he could read the books later, and wonder of wonders, there was his old school friend from Harrow, Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, holding forth with a table of gentlemen on the reality of the threat cross the Channel, and what was the Pitt administration doing about it, et cetera and et cetera.