A King`s Commander

usual drawstring velvet purse, and a small toiletries satchel shaped like a small chest. A most beautiful young Mediterranean lady, with rich dark hair and eyes, a faint olive hue to her high, excited color. Most fetchin' and handsome, Peel took note appreciatively; quite young, but dressed as grand as any titled London lady-perhaps better. Young heiresses had been ex-Captain Peel's downfall, so he knew best when it came to appraising his woman-flesh; he thought her Ј10,000 on the hoof! Peel bared his teeth and snickered, thinking a wealthy Tuscan father was in trouble, if his daughter was off to sport the night with a caddish, penniless lover.

'No bother, sir… just a single lady,' Peel whispered.

'Hmmph!' Twigg grunted, squirming as the coach clattered away, drowning out his vigil. 'You try, Peel. You've younger ears.'

Peel replaced him at the wall while Twigg stood and stretched to ease the kinks in his back and shoulders, knowing he was definitely too old for this work. He frowned suddenly, turned to share a wary, quizzical look with Peel as footsteps sounded from the stairwell, then from the landing-then in their hallway!

'Damme!' Twigg sighed, drawing one of his own pocket pistols and pulling the right-hand barrel back to half cock. He crossed to the door on cat-feet to press his overstressed ear to the door. He heard voices in the hall, muffled Italian. Light shifted at his feet through the gap above the doorsill. He dared to open the door a crack, to see who it might be, hoping they'd pass on by to other apartments farther along-but no!

He pulled the door open a bit more, stuck his head around it, to see a servant rapping on Lewrie's door! 'Commandante Lewrie?' he said. And the young lady with him, bouncing on her toes in excitement of her great surprise of her unexpected arrival…!

'No!' Twigg gasped, 'you silly slut! Why here, why now…?'

He thought of rushing to carry her off, but that would cause an even greater commotion. And it was too late; the door to Lewrie's apartment was opening!

'Sir?' Peel asked with a puzzled look of ignorance. Then Peel flinched away from the wall, almost dropping his glass in surprise, as he had no more need of it. There was sound, and more than enough, to go round!

'Basta!' came a loud yelp of outrage. 'Espиce de salaud!'

'Good God!' from Lewrie, over the shriek of 'Dio miу, Alan…!' and the slam of a disturbed headboard. 'Che questo?'

French, Italian, English; a gabble of curses, mostly feminine voices raised in high dudgeon in three languages. Imprecations, many slurs, some huffy cat-yowlings. Then the sound of something heavy and porcelain shattering against the wall, preceding a manly wheedling.

'It's his Corsican doxy, Peel,' Twigg growled. 'Why now, why here in Leghorn? Damn her to hell, damn her blood, I say! She's gone and blown the gaff. I'd like to…'

Something else, quite possibly heavier and made of more frangible stuff, such as a glass carafe, hit the wall, evoking a redoubled chorus of alarmed yelping from Lewrie, of a certainty, quite possibly Claudia Mas-tandrea the other. Feet began to drum yonder, bare feet as people were chased, pursued by a constant stream of trilingual invective or weaker breathless excuses or pleas in return. Punctuated, of course, by a continual patter and clatter of things being thrown and broken.

Like spear carriers in the opera, from below-stairs there arose a contrapuntal clatter of shod feet on the stairs, the shouts of landlord and servants to hurry up and shut the noise down, discover what was happening, the hired chorus singing under the principal's trio.

Utterly defeated, Twigg went to the table where he and Peel had shared a surreptitious stag supper, to claw a wine bottle to him, and pour his listening device brimful. Lewrie, he thought; just when you counted on him, he'd always let you down; he'd always bungle his way to disaster! Well, snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, in the end, the old spy-master had to allow, quite grudgingly; but eventual victory had a way with Lewrie of being preceded by disaster.

He went to the double doors to the balcony to sip his wine, to lean his weary old cadaver's head against a cool pane, gazing down at the slick cobbles, the dispiritingly meager rainfall winking as drops fell on puddles or slick spots, flickering with the light of distant torches or lanthorns. All seen through the steamed and streaked condensation of the panes. And wondering what to do next?

There really was a shipment of gold at sea. The lure, dangled with Lewrie as additional bait to trap Choundas, had also been planned to divert him from the real vessel, the real course. If the Austrians didn't receive it, if Choundas intercepted it, then everything Lewrie had surmised might come true, Twigg thought miserably. Careful as he had been, he was sure word of that ship had reached the Genoese, then the French, soon after. Two rumors; which to believe? Which was the most plausible for Choundas to follow? And they had been so close!

By ear, he could follow someone's progress down the stairs, at last, until their footsteps were drowned out by the continuing battle next door, which showed no signs of abating.

Twigg perked up a bit, stepped back into his proper element-the shadows-as a lady appeared in the small nimbus of light before the lodging-house entry. Claudia Mastandrea, whistling up her coach, still nipping and tucking to complete dressing, concealing her hastily donned state with a shawl, and a large, saucy hat. She looked up at the balcony, and Twigg went rigid with fear that he'd been spotted.

'Hullo,' he muttered, though. She wasn't looking at him, she was looking to his right, at the lit windows of the apartment she had just fled. Rather forlornly, he thought in amazement. Even at that distance, in that dim light, her face appeared flushed. She spoke to the ostler, who trotted off to fetch her waiting coach.

Twigg slid sidewise, to peer out the crack between the doors, to have a clear, unmisted view of her, still well back in the shadows.

Claudia Mastandrea, he could see, was dabbing at her eyes, her breathing still deep and hitched. She opened her small string-purse to fetch out a lace handkerchief and… and dry her tears?

'Poor little bitch,' Twigg murmured, as the entrancing-lovely mort allowed herself a shoulder-heaving sob, and buried her face for a moment in the handkerchief. 'Damme, was he that pleasin'?'

She seemed to shake herself into composure, stiffen her back and throw up her head, as her coach arrived with a clatter. Almost archly, with what was left of her dignity, she was handed in. But just before the coach rocked and began to depart, there was one last mournful, and almost wistful, gaze aloft, to that beguiling window-glow. Then, away she went, into the night.

And Twigg allowed himself a smile, after all, and a deep breath of satisfaction.

'B'lieve our boy Lewrie came through, after all, Mister Peel,' he muttered, going back to the center of the room for a top-up, and a long sip of a rather good red.

'How do you come by that, sir?' Peel sighed. 'Thought it was a cock-up?'

'The signorina departed in tears, Peel.'

'Failed, sir. Make anyone weep.' Peel snorted. 'And with that Aretino creature about, no more access to 'im, more's the pity.'

'In tears, Mister Peel,' Twigg pointed out. 'Had she failed, I would have expected an aloof stiffness of carriage, a 'so-what?' flouncing. You know women, Peel. You know how much 'cross' they can put into the swish of their skirts. She didn't leave angry, or disappointed, I tell you. Heartbroken, more like. Embarrassed to be caught, but… I think she got what she came for. And a great deal more, besides. We will know, soon as we put it to Lewrie,' Twigg mused, almost humming with glee. 'But I daresay we may 'bank' on it, now, hmm?'

'Her last letter we intercepted gave no hint,' Peel complained of the fickleness of women. 'Why'd she sail from San Fiorenzo now, at the worst possible time! 'Less she's a French agent, too, sir? Half- French, and all? Working for Choundas, not Pouzin? Or someone else?'

'No no, Peel,' Twigg pooh-poohed. 'Sweet, amusing, but hardly bright enough for this. Just damn' bad luck and timing. Missing her pretty sailor too much, I suspect. Damn her eyes.'

'So what do we do about Miss Aretino now, sir?' Peel queried, his brow still creased in concern. 'He can't explain this away, without he tells her too much. And, can we trust the little mort to keep mum, after, sir?'

'Ah, hmm…' Twigg pondered heavily. There came another gust of shrill shouting, the vituperative accusations of a woman wronged-and the gay tinkling of something else going smash. 'Does Miss Aretino love him half as much as it sounds, Mister Peel, there is the possibility that she'd believe us. And keep mum, for him. After all, a few weeks will expose di Silvano and