A King`s Commander

twinkling as she looked him over as if taking his measure.

'Uhm, aye…' he stammered, turning to lumber down the line.

'A pleasure to meet you, Commander Lewrie,' she murmured in a more than passable English, in a surprisingly husky, seductive voice.

'Pleasure was all mine, ma'am,' Alan assured her, fighting for an air of gracious, gentlemanly gravity. And to keep his hands to himself! He broke off, at last, wondering if he'd been slobbering on his shoes, feeling the urge to wipe his chin free of drool, to be introduced to the lesser lights. But could not help glancing back, furtively now and again, just to see… idly curious, no more'n that…

Damme, he gasped again, feeling his innards lurch! She leaned forward a bit, past some shoulders and wigs, looking back at him. A miss-ish sort of minx might have ducked her head, hidden behind lashes or a fan. Nothing brazen about her, but…! He met a hooded smile, a long, approving blink, which was as good as the nod, anytime!

'Dear Lord,' he muttered, free of the line at last, desperately in need of drink, and male company, to buck up those tattering vows of his. 'Mister Knolles!' he cried in relief, snagging a passing waiter with a tray of fine cut- crystal stems of spumante. 'For you, sir?'

'Thankee, Captain, I'm fair parched a'ready.' Knolles beamed, as he handed his first officer a glass. 'Can't they open some doors, some windows? So bloody hot in here…'

'Must be his mistress, that, uhm…?' Lewrie speculated. 'D'ye think? That Claudia Mastandrea? Wonder if she's his East wine or his

o

West wing ride?'

'Rich as he is, the Friday'un, I'd say, sir,' Knolles said with an appreciative leer of his own. 'Were I that 'John Company' nabob-wealthy, I'd have one for every day of the week, save Sundays. Wonder what his wife's like, if…?'

'I'll lay you odds, Mister Knolles, we'll not discover that!' he snickered back. 'Doubt there's even a miniature of her, hereabouts.'

Gorgeous bloody creature, though, Lewrie thought; brown-eyed blonde, I'll wager. Those eyebrows were… pale down on her arms… those catheads! He was forced to gulp again, and slosh back most of his champagne. And took another surreptitious look across the room.

Most fashionable ladies he knew used tight corset laces to push themselves anywhere near such bounty, attain such a deep cleavage. Or crammed cotton stockings up underneath. He'd been rooked before, hey? Those few who had been so… blessed] he groaned… fought it, laced or banded themselves flat under a higher bodice so they'd not be taken for strumpets. Or fondled by the bully-bucks in the streets! This'un, though…

He watched Signorina Mastandrea gaily swirl beside her keeper on the way to а wine table. Four or five inches shorter than his five-and-three-quarter feet, he recalled, almost petite, which was why her husky voice had surprised him, coming from such a slip of a girl. Woman, he corrected himself as he snagged another glass of wine. Styles changed, though, and he didn't think a corset could explain her slim back, her narrow waist. Acres of underpinnings and petticoats were passй, as were hip pads and concealing whalebone frames. The way her matching white satin gown clung to her, swished against her limbs… why, she'd be slim as an eel, he speculated! Very slim legs, narrow hips, almost childish bottom…! He'd seen a few like that, those who seemed overblessed by nature in one area, but deprived in the rest of their person. And that was a damned intriguing…

Stop it, damn you, he told himself; take a deep breath, a round turn and two half hitches! Can't keep a vow, with a pistol to my own head! Tup a senator's doxy? Mine host's doxy? Jesus!

'Excuse me, sir, but… do you think there will be dancing later?' Midshipman Hyde asked at his elbow. He turned to give the wiry, ginger-haired lad a peek, but Hyde was casting a shy but ardent look off toward the walls; where stood a slim, light-haired beauty, perhaps no more than fifteen or so, in the tow of a female chaperone, who was gazing back at Hyde with wide-eyed admiration, the coy, covert art of a fan quite forgotten.

'Close your mouth, Mister Hyde…' Lewrie chuckled. 'Before a fly pops in. Aye, let's hope there is dancing… for your sake. Just be careful. She more'n like don't speak the King's English. And they take the ravishin' o' their daughters more serious. Or promises, hmm? As in betrothals?'

'God yes, sir!' Hyde replied, blushing furiously. Yes to what, Lewrie hadn't a clue, and expected he'd prefer not to know.

'Well, hold the British end up, Mister Hyde,' Lewrie warned. Lewrie expected there would be dancing, later. Large as Signore di Silvano's town palazzo was, he could see no sign of a hall set for dining tables. Almost like a basilica, it was-a round central hall or rotunda, beneath a soaring dome with marble stairs and balconies up at least three stories, with three projecting wings. The longer two, to east and west, lay open to the rotunda, salons each as big as two 1st Rates lying hull to hull. One was lined with chairs around its entire girth, the handsome and intricate inlaid tile floor bare, with all the carpets removed. A chamber orchestra played from the balcony above its entrance. All they had do was turn their chairs to face the salon, to supply music for dancing.

'Sparse damn' place,' Lewrie muttered. In spite of all those rich silk hangings, the drapes, the wallpapers and such, it sported more dressed stone than people would be comfortable with back home… niches filled with rare old vases, amphorae and statuary that ran to the Classic, Heroic vein. Like a Roman basilica when they were homes or palaces, or imposing public buildings-before they'd been turned to churches. The matching salon on the other wing did seem to be the public offices, the parlors and libraries, the music room… lined up one after the other with all the massive, impressively tall doorways opened to flaunt and overawe. Marble columns, painted wood columns, arches, and insets… Some few civilians dared tread the carpets down that wing, oohing and ahhing-and careful with their drinks.

The rotunda, though, held the food and drink. Table after table groaning under their host's largesse; there a long table for twenty-four minus chairs, topped by a tapering pile of pastries, surmounted by a statuary group of winged cherubs and doves. Another bore taxidermied wild fowl, suspended on the wing or roosting in the branches of tree boles and short limbs-that was where the goose, duck, partridge, or pheasant meat could be found.

Wine tables, too, each with a fountain plashing colored water-or real wine?-down a series of miniature waterfalls; each in the color of the wine offered. The white wines and spumante tables bore statuary carved from ice, resting against what looked to be snowfields in which spare unopened bottles chilled!

'A bit… gaudy, d'ye think?' Cockburn commented to Nelson as they wandered by, nodding pleasantly to one and all. They'd sampled the victuals already, having visited the pork table, with its gigantic papier-mвchй porker and nursing piglets, the fruit table with its titanic cornucopia, the fish table, the pasta, and made-dish table. Alan goggled in wonder, noticing that Cockburn and Nelson were eating from real gold plates, held gold-and-silver damascened utensils!

'Knows how to impress, I must admit,' Nelson whispered back to Cockburn, using his free hand to pull at his nose, and play up a nasal Norfolk twang in ironic commentary.

'Makes King Midas look like a publican at a two-penny ordinary,' Lewrie japed. 'What fine greasy wooden trenchers you gentlemen hold. Anything particularly good, sir? Or merely showy.'

'All quite good,' Nelson allowed, still too much in awe. 'But do allow me to recommend the vinegared pressed beef. Levant-style, I was told. Particularly spicy and tangy.' Cockburn agreed, though he and Nelson both bore a dubious look, as if to say that an Englishman'd never act the fool so, as to lay on such a raree-show. It was heathen… Hindu Grand Moghul… and not quite the hearty country thing.

The aromas, stronger and more alluring than those of the guests around him, drew Lewrie to the tables, where he began to graze, taking a small taste of everything before finding something exceptional that pleased him most. Nod, smile… shrug and chew. Nod, smile, shrug in perplexity… and take a sip of wine. Knowing Latin didn't do him the slightest bit of good when it came to conversing in Italian; one word in twenty, perhaps… just enough to get him in trouble. All he could be was mutely agreeable.

Making the rounds, he crossed Drake's hawse, winced to watch him load his plate to overflowing, then tuck it in quickly, all the while gabbling and gesticulating with both hands in hearty conversation with the Genoese. Lewrie encountered Cockburn and Nelson again, hands free of plates, at last.