bastard!'
The ship that had taken his convoy at Bordighera, the British ship that had savaged La Flиche and taken another convoy… killed a promising fellow Malouin, a Breton champion, Lieutenant Michaud… they were the same?
'Oui, Capitaine, quel dommage…'
'Send for Bayard. I must know what his story was about. There was a name he mentioned, but…!' Le Hideux ordered, seething. 'This one, this Jester. We must destroy her, Etienne. And her captain, too! This I vow. Whoever he is. I will eat his brains and shit in his skull!'
'Oui, Capitaine.' Etienne nodded, mouth agape. He'd never seen this ginger-haired ogre this angry, not even when presiding at a trial of an 'aristo'! Trial? he thought. A good excuse to become scarce.
'Ah… I have the charges drawn up for your signature, Capitaine. Becquet's?'
'Oui, give them here, Etienne. Once you've sent to La Resolve for Bayard, finish searching all the files for any further mention of this Jester. I must know her. Him. Pouzin promises, but I cannot wait on him…'
Le Hideux-Brutto Faccia-Die Narbe-he went by an entire host of sobriquets; none of them flattering or reassuring. He dipped his quill and signed Becquet's fate; charges and expected sentence:
Citoyen Guillaume Choundas-Capitaine de Vaisseau.
A best-silk-stockings evening, Lewrie elated, all tricked out in low-cut shoes and breeches, and his best full dress. Feeling the winds though after getting used to slop trousers or his London-made Hessian boots with the gold braid and tassels. His shoes, it must be admitted, as well as his conscience, were pinching him sore.
Letters come from Caroline, and from Phoebe, in the same post, and held aboard Agamemnon for Jester's return to Vado Bay. Fond, and loving devotion from Caroline, now quite recovered, as gay as larks at being able to ride their acres, again, of how glorious was an English country summer, how desperately she missed him, and would never withhold vital information from him again! A note from Sewallis, replete with paw prints from his dogs, a scrawl from Hugh, and…
And from Phoebe, such desperate longing, tearful phrases, words of love and… devotion, too, dammit! Chatty, newsy, delightful, as if a light touch might cajole him into believing their relationship had never suffered a grounding. Time and distance from her had caused him to forget just how delightfully cheery she really was. Her use of English had grown so skillful that he might have imagined (minus news of children, of course!) that the signatures of wife and mistress were interchangeable, that either missive could have come from the other!
'A welcome and diverting amusement,' Nelson had promised them, so he had scrubbed up, shaved, and donned his best for a night ashore in Genoa, as welcome guests of a very influential and powerful member of their Senate, one extremely close to the Doge, himself.
Genoa was indeed more distracting, and impressive, than Naples. And Lewrie had been most impressed by Naples. Every other house was a magnificent palace, he could have sworn, each one richer and grander than the last, in a merchant city that had been rich as far back as Julius Caesar's times, and had hoarded and multiplied its vast seaborne wealth ever since. Surely, he thought-a sailor would find warm welcome in Genoa!
Their host's palace was truly magnificent, if a bit overdone. Gilt, coin-silver, solid gold gewgaws, silk wallpaper, silk hangings, crystal chandeliers ablaze with two hundred or more beeswax candles at a time. Precious… everything in sight was precious, rare, priceless, including the clothes of the guests, their jewels and fripperies. Bare-shouldered ladies, bodices half exposed, the heat of candles and too many bodies gusted the confined night air, fanned overly sweet or musky scents of Hungary Water, gentlemen's cologne, or ladies' perfume over him like a Levanter, along with the dry talc aroma of face powder or hair powder, the tang of rouges and pastes. And admittedly a sour reek of past and present perspiration from those expensive suitings or gowns, and the poor toilette or bathing habits of the rich and noble.
A bit off-putting, certainly; but a flower bed compared to the odors of a warship full of men.
Nelson and his Lt. George Andrews, Cockburn and his Thomas Hardy, Lewrie, and Knolles, along with a gaggle of midshipmen from their respective ships, were led down the receiving line by Mister Francis Drake, their Sovereign's representative to Genoa, a grossly untidy man who appeared most unlike what a king's agent should be. Nelson had wondered if he was even an English gentleman!
'Lovely place,' Cockburn commented.
'His town palace,' Drake muttered, swiveling about like an ill-tempered bear, as if looking for a place to spit. It was rumored that he chewed. 'You should see his real one, up in the hills. Tremendous estates, owns half of the Republic, damn' near. Quite handy place for him to leave the wife and kiddies.'
'Really, ' Cockburn drawled with a dubious note in his voice.
'Quite small in comparison, this pile,' Drake tittered, with a rogueish nudge in Cockburn's ribs. ' 'Tis said he's a mistress cached in either wing. Rough life, hey, Captain? Ah, here we go, then.'
'Ahum!' Cockburn sniffed in displeasure as he was left astern; as they queued up to be introduced. Drake did the honors in passable Italian with their host, the Genoese Senator, Marcello di Silvano.
'… further allow me to name to your excellency Commander Alan Lewrie, captain of HMS Jester.. . Commander Lewrie, our distinguished host…' Drake simpered like a mastiff after a bone.
'Your servant, sir,' Alan offered in his best social purr.
'Signore Comandante, benvenuto,' Marcello di Silvano replied in a deep, cultured basso. He was, for a senator of a Republic that gave at least lip service to electing its leaders (though only from the rich or noble) dressed more like a prince. Di Silvano wore a glaring white suit of figured satin with silk cuffs, pocket flaps, and lapel turn-backs of a very regal reddish-purple. Cloth-of-gold satin waistcoat, white silk hose, and solid gold knee buckles on his breeches, solid gold shoe buckles, set with rubies and diamonds! A sash of office crossed from one shoulder to a rosette on his hip in Genoese colors. A gold chain and medallion of office rested on the snowy white breast of his heavily laced shirt. There were some civil or military decorations on coat and sash, as well. Signore di Silvano was a devilishly handsome man in his mid- to-late forties, with a lean, hard, firm-chinned patrician face as genteelly weathered as Lewrie might expect to see on old Roman coins in celebration of a successful general, or a new emperor; as if di Silvano spent time at sea or out hunting, and didn't care a fig for a courtier's more-fashionable, powder-aided pallor. The signore offered his hand, a rough-textured hand, taut and muscular, and as strong as a sailor's. Alan imagined a gilt-wreath corona would suit the man better than the high white periwig he wore. The hand was withdrawn, and sensing that his time was done, Lewrie began to turn to his right…
Merciful God in heaven, he gasped to himself, quite nonplussed; nobody has poonts that big! The ethereal, bewitching beauty next to…!
'Cara mia… Comandante Lewrie, capitano di 'Asch-Emma-Essa'… Jester… simile il motteggiare, hmm?' Senator di Silvano informed her, inclining slightly to her and leering with amusement. 'Comandante Lewrie… Signorina Claudia Mastandrea.'
'Your servant, signorina.. .' Lewrie said with a deeper incline of his head and bow than his usual wont. So he could peer at those impressive tits directly, instead of ogling her under his lashes.
I've died and gone to heaven, he exulted as she dropped him her curtsy, leaning forward a bit to incline her own head, and…! And to rise from that curtsy to look him directly in the eyes and smile, curl the corner of her mouth up with a veiled, mischievous amusement, as if she knew exactly where his eyes had been. She kept her head inclined to the side, in wry acknowledgment, her entrancing amber-brown eyes
