Sea of Grey

the maimed and gutted, to those men now minus limbs or sight, and doomed to a lifetime of poverty ashore, with but a pittance of a pension to atone for a too-brief moment of glory.

Nineteen killed, listed with the simple 'D-D' in ship's books for Discharged, Dead and interred at sea, out of sight and mind. And twenty-nine wounded, too, with fourteen of those merely Discharged… landed ashore at Sheerness and lumbered off to a naval hospital, never to return to duty, should they survive the ministrations.

For the Dutch, it had been a slaughter-pit, as well; over sixty dead and over an hundred cruelly wounded. That was the sort of harvest that England 's public liked; the greater the number of enemy slain, the higher

cost in British lives, well… the greater the honour! Losing captains had been knighted for bravery after such fights, since they'd run up a high 'butcher's bill' of their own people before striking!

Perhaps he should tell them the cost, he speculated; they might get a vicarious thrill from so much distant blood! All due to his work, his cockiness, his famed 'luck,' and his 'tradition of victory'!

While they cheered and clapped, his beloved Proteus languished in a Sheerness graving dock, her guns and stores warehoused ashore as the shipwrights repaired her many hurts. She was as nearly shattered as the captured Orangespruit! Damn 'em all! he thought; no matter what face I put on it, 'twas a costly damn' victory. Something I could never say even to Caroline in strictest privacy. My father, well… he knows of it, he's a military man, I spilled my secret to him, but… Caroline!

He almost felt like breaking down and blubbing in public, after all! And fearing that Dame Fortune had decided to turn on him and feed him to her wolves!

'A flutter of the cards, Captain Lewrie?' Mr. Lumsden asked.

'Ah, no,' Lewrie soberly replied. 'I feel as if I've stretched my luck far enough, lately. Haven't heard from the Prize-Court yet…'

'Our reckoning, I should think,' his father quickly suggested as he spotted his son's wavering. 'We should be gettin' home, son, gettin' some part of a good night's rest. Do you gentlemen excuse us? I keep at Willis's Rooms when in town. Do call upon me, and we could pursue the matter of a gentleman's club further, perhaps discover some backers who might also find the notion intriguing…?'

They said their good-nights, gathered their hats and cloaks from the tiler, then stood chilled at the kerb outside whilst a young 'daisy kicker' servant of The Cocoa Tree whistled them up a hired carriage to bear them home.

CHAPTER THREE

It was 'fashionably' well past midnight before they entered the lodging house, with but a yawning servant to unlock the door for them and offer candles so they could light their way abovestairs. Willis's was otherwise dark and broodingly silent, the cheery fires in the common and public rooms banked, the equally cheery bar now shuttered. Sir Hugo assured his son that, failing the publican's commerce, he had a bottle of good Frog brandy in his room.

Lewrie by then was exhausted, and not much in need of a drink; he'd had half-enough for a lifetime, thankee very much!

The spirit's willin, but the body's weak, he thought, in awe of the other diners' capacity, of his father's ability to put it away with nary even a slurred word. Navy's ruined me, damn 'em, he decided, as he fumbled out his key, peering about owlishly.

Lewrie hesitated before the door to his set of rooms, key finally in hand, wondering should he knock or scratch first. With a sorry curse, softly muttered, he rued again fleeing the park with his father, of coming back so late and so 'in the barrel' and bedraggled, instead of rushing back to Willis's after merely an hour's pause to argue things out with Caroline, and defend himself, once she'd cooled down.

'Devil with it,' he grumbled, inserting the large key; well, he tried to, but there was but one wee candle in the passageway, the key was perversely upside-down, then backwards, and the slot, though large, seemed to be queerly mobile!

At last he managed to unlock the door and enter the rooms, glad to see a fire in the hearth, low and orange, flickering scant light off the brass reflector plate. Only a single candle guttered on the tiny wine-table near the settee, upon which a form huddled.

'Bless me!' the form groaned, sitting up, half-scaring Lewrie out of a year's growth! 'Oh, 'tis you, sir,' his manservant Aspinall said, rubbing sleep from his eyes like a toddler. 'Meant t'sit up an' wait for ya, Cap'um Lewrie, but…'

'No matter, me lad, no matter,' Lewrie replied, waving overly wide, and unsteady on his 'pins.' 'The wife's asleep, I trust?'

'Erm, uhh… no sir,' Aspinall said with a wince. 'She's gone, sir… her and the children, all. Packed up an' took the coach back to Angles-green, Lord… hours ago, sir. Not long after she come back by herself. Long 'fore dark, for certain.'

Aspinall had tricked himself out in snowy white slop trousers, a clean new shirt, a red neckerchief, and a short sailor's jacket with a set of shiny brass buttons. He sloughed off a dark blue grogram greatcoat under which he had been napping, and felt about with his toes for his new shiny-blacked shoes, those with the real silver buckles that Lewrie had bought for him after coming ashore.

'Ah,' Lewrie replied, after a long, deep sigh. 'I see.'

'Can I get ya anything, sir? Didn't know as how you'd dine, so I sent down for some…'

'No thankee, Aspinall,' Lewrie said, removing his cocked hat and boat-cloak, which Aspinall rushed to gather in.

'Still some cold roast pork an' bread, sir. Make a good snack. There's some wine, and…'

'I dined, not so long ago, no,' Lewrie replied, trying not to snap at his manservant; it wasn't his bloody fault. Though, from the half-empty carafe of wine, the skimpiness of the remaining slices of pork, and the half-loaf, Aspinall had dined well, he thought. And why not? Stuck in the middle of a domestic battle- royal, not knowing the details, and loath to step out to visit his ailing mother here in London, to go much beyond the public rooms belowstairs 'til his master returned… Lewrie could picture poor Aspinall standing well out of the way, wringing his hands, unsure whether he should help them pack, or scurry off and hide 'til the thunder had subsided.

'Go get some rest, Aspinall. Turn in. I can mangage. I might even discover my own bed, if my luck's in,' Lewrie throatily said.

'I'll build up the fire, sir, an' heat a warmin' pan. Won't be a tick,' Aspinall uneasily offered, overly anxious to please. Simply plain anxious, Lewrie could imagine. 'What shall become of us?' as Sophie had fretted earlier today… was it yesterday, by now?

'Well, then…' Lewrie demurred, tearing at his neck-stock and collapsing upright on the settee.

'Uhm, Missus Lewrie left that note, sir…'

How could he have missed it, leant against the carafe of wine. Was that a not-so-subtle slur about his 'beastly' nature?

Aspinall became even more cringingly unobtrusive as Lewrie took up the note, broke the seal, and unfolded it. For being penned in the heat of the moment, Lewrie decided, it was as forebodingly chilly as a hunk of Arctic ice! Though claiming she'd never suspected a blessed thing at the time, Caroline's worst suspicions had been confirmed, in the blink of an eye. The gist of that accusing, anonymous letter she had gotten, enumerating her husband's sins, was proved true! Back in their rooms after the row, she'd dredged confirmation from poor Sophie de Maubeuge, their ward; yes, he'd had a mistress in the Mediterranean, Phoebe Aretino, kept at Gibraltar 'til his return in '94, kept as well on her home island of Corsica… the dread secret that Sophie had held all these years, spilled at last! Phoebe Aretino, a conniving, mercenary Corsican whore he'd met at Toulon, the damning letter had described her, Lewrie's long-term mistress, so any dalliance could not be excused as a lone moment of weakness, and even much worse than any passing idea Caroline had had about Theoni Connor, whose appearance in the park had set all this off! Though confirmed in Caroline's mind was his adultery with Theoni, now, for the anonymous letter had spelled it all out for her… both the first back in the spring, and the latest!

How he had cossetted Theoni Connor, perhaps the first night he'd taken her aboard HMS Jester after rescuing her from Serbian pirates in the Adriatic, how he'd schemed and finagled to have her and her actual son Michael sail