A Jester’s Fortune

arranging, and as long as it gave them income, he wasn't particular. 'Various agents, Sir Malcolm. Depending on the best offers. I've been away since '93, but for a brief refit at Portsmouth. Didn't even get home to Anglesgreen, so-'

'Oh, Shockley!' Lucy chid her husband. 'Not business, now! Do give Alan a chance to get his breath before purchasing his output.'

'Couple of hundred head, Sir Malcolm… sorry. Not much worth in comparison to others roundabout.' Lewrie shrugged. 'A glass with you, sir? To your good fortune and your happiness,' he offered, snagging a brace of champagnes. 'And many glad years of both, sir!'

'Commander Lewrie, we thought you'd gotten lost,' Captain Charlton interposed, completing a third circuit of the salon, with the rest of his officers in tow. With a great sigh of relief, Lewrie did the honours for introductions, happy to trot out a Right Honourable Lord to his superior.

And Charlton, for all his stiffness, practically fawned upon Lord Peter, was aware of who Sir Malcolm Shockley was, and impressed by him as well! He gushed, as they all did, over Lucy's hand, offering slavering congratulations to the 'happy new couple.' After the cold shoulder they'd gotten from the haughty Venetians so far, to run into some fellow Britons was doubly welcome-and most especially that they were titled and rich… and, in Lucy's case, damned handsome! Commander Fillebrowne was almost ravishing her hand!

As for how they were all known to each other, Peter Rushton and Chute were glad to fill them in, relating those episodes of their days at Harrow together-including the Coach-House Incident, when they'd blown it to flinders and burnt it to the ground in revenge upon the school's new governor, who'd dared crack down on his riotous, rebellious students.

'And you the one with the port-fire, Lewrie… tsk-tsk,' Captain Charlton mused. 'The things one learns at public-school these days…'

'And a quick end to my days at Harrow, sir.' Lewrie blushed.

'He was always forward and dashing, you know, Captain Charlton,' Lucy supplied. 'Burned a French privateer to the waterline, too, when he was a midshipman. And fought a duel for my good name at Antigua?'

'Cut the fellow, Lewrie?' Fillebrowne enquired archly. 'Or did you blaze with pistols?'

'Cutlasses, sir,' Lewrie told him smugly. 'Killed him dead.'

'Ah, hmm!' Lieutenant Knolles gasped, learning something new about his captain. Though with much more enthusiasm and appreciation than the 'Ah, hmm!' that was forced from Fillebrowne.

'And have we made contact with our Venetian hosts yet, sir?' Lewrie asked.

Charlton sighed, cutting his chin toward a pair of men across the salon, who were being fawned upon by a whole herd of sycophants. One was garbed in a baggy, colourful harlequin's costume, jingling the bell-tasseled head of a Court Fool on a stick, and guffawing in a silly bray that sounded much like a drunken, demented donkey. The other of the pair was caparisoned in back-and-breast armour of the fifteenth century, such as one would see on ancient heroes who'd fought the Battle of Lepanto against the Turks, or sailed in Spain's Armada, with the long hose and puffy pantaloons, the leg-o'-mutton sleeves and stiff ruff collar, to boot. Though, on closer inspection, the man's plate-armour was very light papier-mвchй, not steel. Nor was the enormous chopper of a harem-guarding eunuch s sword at his hip anything more than a silver-painted wooden caricature.

'One, would you believe, sirs, madam,' Captain Charlton sighed, much put-upon, 'is a member of the Three… the senior overcouncil of the Venetian Senate… more powerful than the figurehead Doge, it is said. T'other, well… I was told he was a senior general. I leave it to you as to which is which. There will be no business done this evening. They're having too good a time to be interrupted, don't you know! Tomorrow, perhaps… ten in the morning. An aide said ten, though our trade consul informs me that may mean noon or later. Before dinner… and siesta. The next morning, else.'

'Ah, hmm..,' from all, in one form or another, at that dismal news. 'Commander Lewrie, with Captain Rodgers off to Trieste, you're next-senior to me, sir,' Charlton ordered. 'Do you stand in my stead, tomorrow… a trip to their Arsenal, whilst I wait upon their Senate? I'm assured we may purchase Venetian charts of the Adriatic. Accurate and up-to-date charts. Something the Austrians at Trieste either will not share or were ignorant of, d'ye see?' Charlton pinched his nose at the bridge between his eyes, as if suffering a monumental headache.

'Of course, sir. Happy to oblige.' Lewrie nodded. 'A chance for a look-'round, at what their fleet-'

'You come ashore tomorrow?' Lucy interjected. 'Oh, Shockley! We simply must have Alan to our lodgings for dinner! There's so much to catch up on. And I'm simply positive you both will get along like a house afire, why…'

Why don't I just slit my wrists now, Alan groaned, and avoid a bloodbath later? After making such an ass of himself over Phoebe Aretino, he was mortal-certain he didn't need another woman mucking up his life. Even were Lucy still single, still just as cow-eyed, just as… my word, Dumb! … as she'd been long before.

'I couldn't intrude 'pon your honeymoon, Sir Malcolm,' Lewrie countered with a bluff and, he hoped, seemly modesty. 'We're in port, and a neutral port, so briefly, with so many things to see to. Ships, d'ye see…' He shrugged. 'You were married how long ago? Pardon my enquiring?'

' 'Bout six months, sir,' Sir Malcolm replied.

'Well, there you are, then… still in the first magic year of bliss!' Lewrie chuckled. 'Ain't relatives and such to leave the new couple alone, sir? Besides…'

Something had gotten the Venetians excited at last, diverting his attention to the far end of the vast salon. Costumed people were shouting and waving their hands, the music was slithering to a halt and gamblers snatched up their wagers or winnings, left off their moans or sighs of pleasure to join one throng or another, swirling about like suddenly hostile mobs against each other, advancing up the great hall.

'Montagues and Capulets, ready to fight?' Lieutenant Knolles pondered.

'Must have run out of the good wine,' Captain Charlton snickered.

118

'I francisi!' Someone wailed. 'I frandsi!'

The French! Lewrie didn't like the sound of that. Something with the Frogs involved was always rife with disappointment.

'The Austrians…' Captain Charlton translated, bit by bit, from the gist of a full hundred stammering commentators. 'Bloody hell. Your pardons, Lady Shockley. The French have come east, it seems, sirs. And fought the Austrians… Montenotte… Millesimo… Dego. Wherever those places are. Beat them, by God!'

'Beat the French, sir?' Lieutenant Stroud of Myrmidon exulted in joy. 'Why, that's marvelous news!'

'Ah, no.' Charlton gloomed, of a sudden. 'Seems the French have beaten the Austrians.'

'Montenotte, that's inland from Savona, west of Genoa, Captain Charlton,' Lewrie supplied. 'The others are, too, I recall. We were there last year, working out of Vado.'

'Marshal Beaulieu and his Austrians are in full retreat. Falling back on Alessandria.' Charlton continued to interpret from snatches.

'Why, that's…' Fillebrowne blanched. 'That's halfway between Genoa and Milan, sir! Fifty miles or better, from Savona or Genoa.'

'Marshal Beaulieu, mean t'say!' Lord Peter Rushton barked. 'I do believe… didn't we meet him in Vienna, Sir Malcolm?'

'We did, milord,' Sir Malcolm averred, looking as irritated as he had with Lewrie's presence. 'Damn impressive soldier, he seemed to me. Why, the man's reputed to be another Caesar, an Alexander! Off to join his troops for the spring campaign… military genius.'

'Splendid party, that was, too. Lucky to be invited.' Rushton chuckled. 'Short introduction… their Emperor, too, why-'

'Fought the Piedmontese, too, it sounds like,' Charlton grumped, interrupting. 'Their General Colli. Is