A Jester’s Fortune

I tell you, Alan! Put some funds in with him soon as I get back home, I believe.'

'Long as you don't spend 'em 'fore you get there, Peter,' Alan chid him gently. 'Still gamble deep?'

'Found religion,' Peter quipped.

'You… bloody what?' Lewrie hooted. 'You?'

'Income, and out-go, Alan,' Peter joshed. 'The ledgers. Long as Pater was payin' my bills… well, he couldn't let a son of his be known as a public debtor, now, could he? So, he covered me. Then it was Desmonds turn… such as it was. Inherit, though… know there's damn-all to fall back on if I squander it. Mean t'say…'

'Now it's your money, that is,' Lewrie interpreted.

'Exactly!' Peter barked. 'And nowhere near what I suspected… well. Ill take a hazard now and again, still. But…'

Lewrie looked at Clotworthy, who looked back at him and then tossed his gaze heavenward and rolled his eyes in failure, as if to complain that his free ride had gotten wary, and what he'd expected as his due wasn't to be forthcoming. Lewrie had to smile in commiseration. He remembered Peter as a charmingly amusing wastrel… but no one could ever have called him a stupid wastrel. And Peter had known Chute's wily ways, ever and anon. Amused by them, certainly, but never so much so as to be lured that far. No gullible cully, he; no calf-headed innocent! 'So, what brings you to Venice, Clotworthy?' Alan wondered. 'An heir.' Clotworthy shrugged. 'Series of young heirs, rather, who put their silly heads together and realised I'd gulled 'em. Before the Bow Street Runners and the magistrates could be sicced on me… and I still had all that lovely money!' He chuckled with bald-faced honesty. 'Mean t'say, Alan…! I worked damn hard for it, if I do say so myself, and damme if they'd get a groat of it back before I'd had my joy of it! A long vacation in foreign climes seemed to be in order. And since Peter was off to soak up Culture…'

'Can you ever go back, though, Chute?' Lewrie asked him. 'Year'r two…' Clotworthy shrugged, appropriating an entire tray of champagne for the three of them from an irritated servant, who was clad in some livery that was grander than most full admirals back home. 'Under another name, perhaps? The old fox never… ah!'

'Lord Peter!' some woman called out gaily. 'Look at all I've won! Oh, aren't Venetian casinos simply heavenly?'

They turned to greet the newcomer, a short, petite blonde, who came forward with a spread lace handkerchief literally heaped with an entire pint of glittering Venetian sequins and ducats. Dribbling gold coins, which her maidservants scurried to retrieve before some Venetian loser found a way to retrieve his own fortune from her cast-offs. She was clad in a frothy but slimmer new-style gown, all shimmering silks and gauzy half-nothings which bared her arms and upper breast. A most impressive, milk-pale, sweetly cherubic breast, Lewrie noted, first of all. Infantlike, and only slightly pudgy arms, sure to be as soft and yielding as a baby's bottom, every toothsome morsel of her.

She was with a greyer older man, one who dressed neatly, soberly in bottle-green 'ditto,' though his watch- chain and fob, shoes and the gilt buckles upon them, the fineness of his linen, announced him as a man of great, though refined and subdued, wealth.

'Ah, Sir Malcolm… Lady Lucy,' Peter began smoothly. 'Allow me to name to you an old friend-'

'Oh, my God!' Lady Lucy Shockley shrilled aloud, causing a hitch to the orchestra. 'It is you!' She declared, quite forgetting her new-won gold and strewing it over the marble floor in a tinkling shower.

'Is it… you?' Lewrie gasped in return, though thinking, Damme, one bloody surprise a night is quite enough!

And shivering in stupefaction to see her again, after so many years. Shivering, too, to see the furrow of irritation form on Sir Malcolm Shockley's brow. The man was the size of a Grenadier Guard, and people that big and brawny-and that bloody rich!-were best not nettled! No husband, in fact, with a face that wroth!

'Ma'am…' Lewrie tried to most-civilly purr, to begin a saluting 'leg' of a bow. But she was up to him, upon him, before he could put one foot forward, and squealing with a most public delight. 'S-so good to see you…' Lewrie stuttered. 'Been years and years, what?' He added, for Sir Malcolm's benefit. And his own safety.

'Alan Lewrie!' she whooped. 'Why, just look at you!'

'Lady Shockley… Lucy… Lady Lucy, uhmm…!' He gawped back.

Lady Lucy Shockley now… but long before, back in 1781, when he'd been a 'newly' in the Caribbean-HMS Ariadne had been condemned, he'd served aboard the Parrot schooner, had come down with Yellow Jack, and had awakened to a vision from Heaven-Lucy Beau- man, niece to his admiral, Sir Onsley Matthews, sent to Antigua to avoid the slave rebellions on Jamaica-and his unofficial 'nurse' as he'd regained health. So fair-complected, so fair-haired, so petite and promisingly rounded! So blessed with eyes the colour of tropical shoal-waters! So unbelievably rich!. And, at seventeen, so smitten with him.

Unfortunately, Lewrie recalled, about as ignorant as sheep! And pray God she's gotten wiser, since! he sighed.

CHAPTER 6

'Shockley,' Lucy gushed to her new and suddenly testy husband, 'Alan was my first love. Now, after all these years… ! So dashing and brave a midshipman he was. Why, he fought a duel for my honour with that beastly soldier… whatever was his name?'

No, she hasn't learned a bloody thing. Lewrie sighed to himself again, determined to put a bold face on it anyway, and wishing there was a way to clap a gag in her mouth. Sir Malcolm gave him a look; one of those looks-the sort that promised swords or pistols.

'Lord, an age ago and more, Lady Lucy,' Alan forced himself to chuckle. 'Back in our childhoods, what?'

Well, let's not trowel innocence on, Lewrie warned himself. If he protested too loudly, it'd be a sure sign of guilt. Even if he had never even laid a finger on Lucy… not that he hadn't ached for a shot at her, God knows. Even if he'd 'rattled' his way out of a union with her-and all her father's lovely money!-by having an affair with a Kingston town 'grass widow,' which had redounded to his bad repute when it had become public.

Sir Malcolm still wore a chary leer, one dubious brow up. What did the dedicated duellists call the situation? Lewrie wondered. 'Grass Before Breakfast?' The grass one ate, facedown and dying… or those turfs of sod laid atop a fool's grave!

'And here you both are,' Lord Peter blathered on happily, 'and in Venice, of all places, for your rencontre. And both wed.'

'Yes!' Lewrie enthused, ready to kiss Peter's ring, big toe or buss his blind cheeks for his statement. 'Though I cannot recall you ever meeting Caroline, did you, Peter?'

'A brief glimpse, in '84… some chop-house on the Strand.' Lord Peter frowned. 'I think. Lovely girl, though. Wasn't she, Clothworthy?'

'We're in Surrey now… near Guildford,' Lewrie rushed out. 'We rent from her uncle, Phineas Chiswick. Three children now.'

'You don't say!' Peter gawped.

'So what brings you to Venice, Sir Malcolm?' Lewrie enquired, turning to him.

'Ah, Captain Lewrie-'

'Commander,' Lewrie corrected, tapping the single plain epaulet on his left shoulder.

'Commander Lewrie… as to why… we're on our honeymoon, as it were,' Sir Malcolm related, unbending a little. 'A Grand Tour I never had the chance for, as well, though Lucy did hers before, in company of her family. Surrey, hmm… rather a lot of sheep down there, now? You raise sheep, sir? Sell your wool to whom? A lot?'

'W-why…' Lewrie stuttered, unsure what happened to wool after it'd been shorn. That was Caroline's