The King

'That'd be wondrous fine, sir! I liked the Chiswicks!'

'And there'll probably be a dram or two in it for you, and some of the mother's ginger snaps. I'll leave the letters on the tray by the door,' Alan promised. 'Tell one of the housemaids to do for me, so you can depart early as you like.'

'Aye, thankee, sir.'

'And I expect you'd be needing some cash, hey?' Alan teased his longtime hammockman, wardroom and cabin servant. 'Can't make a grand show with the young ladies without a shilling or two.'

He dug out his purse and gave Cony his four shillings.

'Thankee, sir, thankee right kindly, sir,' Cony said, pocketing the coins and almost skipping down the hall to his own bed belowstairs with his week's wages ready to burn a hole in him.

'Damme,' Alan spoke to himself aloud (a habit he'd developed in those few weeks he'd inhabited the captain's great cabins aft in Shrike), 'I don't believe I've been home this early in weeks. And by myself, at that. What a novelty it is!'

He trailed into the bed-chamber and shucked his street clothes for a silk nightshirt, and a dressing gown thick and heavy enough to serve as a horse blanket. Sleet rapped on the panes, and the glass was frosted almost opaque as a muscovy-glass lantern on the windows.

Alan surveyed his little kingdom, the first home of his own he had ever had that the Navy or his father hadn't provided. He'd had it repainted a cheery pale yellow before he moved in, with snowy-white wood work. The mantel and hearth were milk-veined grey marble-the genuine article instead of some painted slate most builders tried to foist off on the unsuspecting. There were some nature scenes hanging on the walls, the anonymous sort of thing sketched on some aristocrat's Grand Tour of the Continent. Roman ruins, Greek temples, viaducts with tall poplars lining narrow roads, almost awash in happy peasantry and well-rendered animals of indeterminate breed- cattle, mostly. There was a copy of some Frog artist's imaginings of a Sultan's harem, though the women weren't as Junoesque as the classics depicted them. Alan suspected the copyist had used some slimmer Covent Garden whores as models. And he wasn't so sure but that the one reclining on the couch in the foreground wasn't 'Change Court Betty, who had been one of the first whores he'd ever sprung money for. Once he saw it being loaded into a cart to be auctioned off with the rest of a household's belongings, he had to have it. Besides, the painting was so inspiring, and a harem had been one of his favorite fantasies since puberty.

A portrait of his mother Elizabeth hung on the inside wall of the sitting room near the door, over the sofa. His granny had given it to him on his visit to Wheddon Cross. A portrait of himself as a naval lieutenant hung beside it. He'd had one done for his granny, and had thought a second copy could always come in handy as a present for some future amour.

The furnishings were quite good-half London was always selling up and moving to stay a step ahead of creditors, or buy their way out of debtor's prison, so the selection had been quite varied. Deep blue velvet, sprigged with bright vines and flowers, covered the sofa and two upholstered high-backed chairs. The tables and exposed wood shone with bee's wax and lemon oil, and no one hardly ever noticed the odd nick or scratch the previous owners had caused. And he had the bench before the fire, and the two side chairs as well. The dining table, sideboard and wine cabinet made the far end of the room a cheery, cozy place to eat or play cards. Cards, mostly. The most fashionable young men dined out at clubs or chop-houses, sending down to an ordinary for meals if at home. And if he did have to entertain and feed guests, he could send Cony out shopping, and trust the kitchen in the basement of the lodging house to come up with something presentable, though he did it seldom.

He could maintain this lifestyle for some time yet, if he was careful with his money. Three hundred pounds a year had been enough to keep a single gentleman in style before the war, and with no need for a horse or coach of his own, and only the one servant, two hundred would do now. He could not purchase every book that struck his fancy. Could not entertain lavishly. Would have to watch for bargains instead of spending like a lord on the Strand.

Oh, he'd had to buy plates, saucers, silverware and serving utensils for the first time. Stock that wine cabinet. In his reverie of accounting his possessions, he opened it and poured his glass of brandy back up to full. Yes, it could be a good life, he decided. Best he'd lost Dolly Fenton, after all. She'd have turned expensive.

'Speaking of Dolly,' he said aloud again with a weary mutter.

He had notes to write. One to Dolly, a parting shot to salve his ego. One to the Chiswicks, and Caroline, laying the ground for a proper reunion with her. And one to Lady Delia, to let her know she could expect him by early afternoon, if the weather would allow.

Chapter 3

Mwack. A carping little sound, half trill in the back of the throat. Then the rustle of cleverly parted bed-curtains, and a heavy weight hitting the mattress down near the foot of the bed.

Mwack, again. Something stalking up the side of the bed to the pillows. Then a leap from one side to the other that for one moment put all four paws in an area no larger than a pocket watch. Right in the center of Alan's belly.

'Oh, for Christ's sake,' he groaned, opening one eye.

He was confronted by a round, furry face, and two yellow eyes staring back at him somberly from three inches' range. Mwack! More petulant, louder this time. William Pitt had his best pout on.

'And what the hell do you want, you little bastard?'

William Pitt had been the best mouser aboard the Shrike brig, a ship absolutely infested with the creatures-his former captain, Lieutenant Lilycrop had adored the little beasts-the king ram-cat and the one with the worst disposition of any feline even Lilycrop had ever met. Why he, at long last, took a liking to Lewrie (who had always thought a cat was better drowned at birth), no one could ascertain.

He'd moved into the great cabins once Alan had gotten command. More than that, William Pitt had startled the officer initially appointed into Shrike at the entry port and sent him crashing back into the longboat to break his unfortunate skull before he could even introduce himself.

They'd paid off at Deptford Hard, laying Shrike up in-ordinary, and sending the crew off to civilian pursuits. Somehow, he'd followed Alan's belongings down the gangplank at the stone pier, and into the coach. The cat had an open door to depart anytime he felt like it, but so far, had shown no signs of taking advantage of it, other than a stroll out into the back-gardens, or sunning himself when the miserable London weather allowed. There were queens enough in the neighborhood for him to roger when they came into heat, and Alan grudgingly let the cat be fed in his apartments.

Pitt slept near the hearth, either in the below-stairs kitchens where the housemaids and other servants slipped him some tucker on the side, or in the bed-chamber. William Pitt wasn't picky. Nor was he of a disposition that doted on much affection from humans, so he could be tolerated most of the time.

Alan put out a hand and rubbed the top of the cat's grizzled head. Pitt allowed himself to be greeted, then shook his head vigorously and sank down on his haunches to scratch at his offended ears with a back paw. One did not make the mistake of touching Pitt more than he liked more than once. Not if one enjoyed having fingers.

'How'd you get in here, anyway?' Alan mumbled, sliding up to the headboard and plumping up his pile of pillows.

'Mornin', sir?' a tentative voice called from beyond the bed-curtains. 'Your man Cony said to come wake you, sir? 'Us Abigail, I am, sir?'

An 'Abigail' named Abigail, Alan grinned lazily. How rare.

'Aye, I'm awake, thankee, Abigail.'

Alan slid the bed-curtains on the inner side of the room back to let the heat of the fireplace in. The room was cold as charity.

The girl was kneeling down by the grate, dropping fresh coal on the embers and stirring them up with a poker.

'Hollo, you're a new 'un, ain't you?' Alan commented.

'Started las' week, sir,' the girl said, turning to give him a grin. She was a lovely little thing with new-penny coppery hair and blue eyes, not a minute older than fifteen or sixteen, he noted. 'Your man already done took your