A King`s Commander

drifting into the salon readied for dancing, circling the rotunda counterclockwise.

'Marcello is of very ancient family, you see?' Claudia imparted, walking so close their hips brushed, sending a shock through him. 'Of a patrician, senatorial family since the days of Rome 's first wall. So what is more apt, that he is a senator now? The di Silvanos come from the Silvanii, a prominent Roman clan. Many senators, tribunes, and generals.

Pagans, even after the reign of Constantine. Or so he tells me. You will see how fond Marcello is of Rome 's ancient glories. Statuary, the picture gallery, the armory that holds so many things he has had unearthed, or purchased from others. Perhaps the library, at the far end…?' she cooed, as promisingly as a new bride after the last of the wedding guests had been shooed away.

Dear Christ, I'm trying, he groaned! Some credit in that, hey?

'So he surely must be upset that Italy is fragmented, controlled by Austrians, not what it once was. Or could be,' Lewrie temporized. 'And he wishes there would come a new Caesar? Himself, perhaps?'

'Ah no, he is not a professional soldier,' Claudia pouted quite prettily as they neared the first massy double doors leading from the rotunda to that dimly lit far wing. 'But he believes he might be the new Cato. The one who might arouse the passion for a unified Italy… a New Republic… in people's hearts. A liberated Italy, a power to be reckoned with. There is a map, in the library… you must see it. Do you wish to see it, Alan? A map of what might be. Should be.'

She had come around a little before him, looking up in his eyes, no longer veiled in her meaning or her carriage.

'Uhm… the dance, signorina,' Alan flummoxed. 'Isn't it just about to…?'

'Oh, pooh.' She breathed in a sultry, silken mutter. 'You are more interested in a silly dance or two, than in allowing me to display Mar-cello's most-prized treasures to you?'

He looked down at two of 'em, in a hellish quandary. Firm, and big as bloody pineapples, or coconuts, shifting up and down along with her every deep breath, larboard or starboard as she swayed sideways as if keeping time with her own dance.

Christ on a Cross, he begged; just a little help here! Didn't bring my cundums ashore o' purpose, just in case some mort was just too temptin'… oh my God, look at her…!

The intricately pleated and ruched folds of her already strained bodice wnpleated, as two proud nipples hardened and puckered behind a single layer of cloth-all that stood between him and bliss. Lewrie tore his gaze upward to her face, to a smile that seemed to promise everything, those amber eyes going so wide…

'Perhaps, uhm…' He coughed, unable to look away, mesmerized. ' 'Tis been so long since I've danced, d'ye see… enjoy it, rather, and… two years or more in active commission, and a short refit back home. The wife and I… ah…' Hmm… didn't hurt so much to say…

By God I do have self-control, he exulted! Lookit! I'm turnin' down the bounciest quim ever I did see! See, God… morals?

'We had no chance to dance at Portsmouth. And, with our kiddies along…' he felt emboldened to add. 'I would request you save me at least the one turn around the floor, signorina. For a wondrous memory of Genoa, but… perhaps we should enter the salon. And dance?'

'So honorable,' she whispered, so softly he had to lean to her to hear. 'So decent an English gentleman,' Claudia crooned, eyes wet in wonder. She glided a half step to him, her breasts brushing at his shirtfront and waistcoat buttons, her lips open in a half smile, her eyes going even wider and more besotting. Within inches of a first kiss, her lips opening. And Lewrie knew he was a lying hound, after all.

God, just a dab o' backbone, he pleaded, ready to succumb, in spite of his best efforts; I'm a cunt-struck cully, always was, always will be, I'm tryin' t'help meself, so where's yer…?

'Ahem, Commander Lewrie?' A very welcome voice intruded behind him, a very plumby, cultured English voice!

Thankee Jesus, Alan thought, whirling in alarm, and an immense relief. Which turned to wide-eyed amazement, seasoned with just the slightest dash of terror, when he beheld his rescuer.

How the Devil'd he get here? He gawped. And should I be glad or not.

'Allow me to name myself to you, sir.' The impossibly tall and skele-tally lean old beak blathered on quickly, stalking up to offer a hand to be shook. Thin hair brushed back severely, above a weathered face that was all angles and hollows in the cheeks, temples, and eyes. Agate-y buzzard's eyes that glinted hard and merciless as gunflints over a long hawk's nose. 'Simon Silberberg, sir. Your servant, sir. From Coutts's Bank, in London?' he purred as he shook Alan's quite-nerveless hand.

'Mister… Silberberg, sir,' Lewrie continued to gawp, clapping his astonished mouth shut.

'Agent of the bank, sir,' Silberberg rattled on. 'In Genoa on business, don't ye know… commercial interests… well, when I heard we were both invited to the same ball, Commander Lewrie, I took it 'pon myself to make my acquaintance of you. Hoping we might meet… your solicitor Mister Matthew Mountjoy mentioned you to me, just before I sailed? Wished me to convey his greetings. Do you have a moment, sir? Just the one triflin' moment. Took it 'pon myself, sir, to list ev'ry bank customer in the Mediterranean, make them familiar with me, impart details of new services for serving officers on foreign stations.' The lean old fellow in his 'ditto' suit of somber black almost whinnied in shy urgency, playing the perfect overeducated, underemployed fool of a tradesman. 'Can't hope to rise in Coutts's, sir, 'less…'

'Of course, Mister… Silberberg,' Lewrie allowed. 'This won't take much time, though, will it? The dancing, d'ye see.'

'Of course not, sir. Won't interrupt yer pleasures,' Silberberg promised, casting a sidelong, significant glance at Claudia Mastandrea.

'You will excuse me, signorina,' Lewrie said to the mort. 'Do save me at least the one dance, I pray you. Until later, hmm?'

'The night is young, Signore Lewrie,' Claudia huffed, a bit beyond 'cooled' from her ardor; downright snippy, in fact. 'Perhaps you will accompany me later. Ciao, signore.'

'Should I escort you…?' Lewrie offered, but she swept away.

'Up to your old tricks, are we, Lewrie?' Silberberg sniffed in aspersion, his lips suddenly hairline thin and cramped together. And suddenly not half the hand-wringing senior clerk he'd seemed.

'Up to yours, are we… Twigg?' Lewrie scowled back.

'Yes,' the spy from the Foreign Office, the cold-blooded manipulator Lewrie had known in the Far East as Zachariah Twigg drawled in a toplofty sneer. 'In point of fact… I am.'

CHAPTER

9

'Silberberg?' Lewrie sneered softly. 'However did you come by that? And, ain't you slightly out of your usual bounds, sir?'

'A half-addled banking clerk of the Hebrew persuasion may be an object of amusement, Lewrie… of some derision,' Twigg replied with a conspirator's mutter, though sounding pleased with his alias. 'Hardly one to suspect as a spy, though. We, after all, finance their wars for them. Apolitically, mind… with suspected loyalties only to the bank, the guinea, and one's tribe. As for my presence, the Far East became more a military, or a naval problem, of the overt sort. And, too, our last escapade made me too well-known there. With French influence limited to Pondichery or their Indian Ocean islands, their trade dried up, and with trade their hopes to service informers, agents provocateurs, pirates, well…'

Twigg shrugged expressively, then with the dropping of his arms he seemed to fall back into his assumed character. They paced toward a wine table, Twigg all but fawning and bobbing, anxious to please.

'You will remember it is Silberberg, not Twigg, from now on, I trust, sir?' He wheedled in a whisper, laying a finger to his fleshy-tipped nose, the end-pad of which would have made a walrus jealous. A louder voice for his next statement. 'So very sorry to take you from your