A Jester’s Fortune

now held by French troops?'

'Correct, sir. They may now march east into Lombardy at their leisure, using any route they fancy, from the Riviera to the Alps. I will give you and Fillebrowne more details soon as we are all together this evening. Did you see Commander Fillebrowne ashore during your travels, Lewrie?'

'Aye, sir,' Lewrie grunted. 'Dined with him. We were all together at the Shockleys' lodgings.'

'So, he should be back aboard Myrmidon soon. Good.' Charlton nodded. 'And we may sketch out our operations, now we own such fine charts. Dine you both aboard, say… four bells of the First Dog?'

'Looking forward to it, sir,' Lewrie told him with a pleasant grin, though inwardly less than enthusiastic from all he'd just heard. And what he'd seen and heard earlier.

In his own shirtsleeves, he pored over his new set of Venetian charts, in the privacy of his great-cabins aboard HMS Jester. Andrews was puttering about, polishing the fittings of his sword's scabbard to get rid of the smuts of a morning's handling. A glass of cool Rhenish sat near his hand on the desk. Toulon didn't care for the scent of any wine, so he left it alone after a tentative sniff. Though he did like the crinkly feel of those new charts! And those corners that didn't bear any tooth-marks yet…!

'Fine navigator you are,' Lewrie cajoled, shifting the cat off the middle for a third time, exposing a maze of islands off the Balkan shores. In keeping with the times, he supposed, their original Venetian names were now in very small letters, and were mostly labeled with odd Slavic names, which mostly began with otok-followed by a string of consonants that only the very inebriated would even try to pronounce. Like someone had slapped the entire Bahamas or Windward Isles from the West Indies along the shore… it looked to be a Paradise for any ship bent on escape. Soundings showed fairly good deep water, right up to the steep coastlines, too, and very few shoals to bar a fleeing French vessel from taking any course she pleased, once inside the isles. He and the rest of the squadron would be haring after them like hounds in a game-park back home, dodging the mature oaks and bramble patches, and their prey-the hare-able to double back, then sit and laugh at it all, as they lost the scent where it had crisscrossed itself time and again.

Flop went Toulon, crushing the Balkans once more, on his side… tail lashing and legs outstretched for a tussle. 'Mrrr!' he urged.

'Catlin', why…' Lewrie sighed, then gave up. He began to play pat-a-cake between Toulon's front paws, to touch him gently on the belly, before escaping his grasp. Toulon always started with claws sheathed… but that didn't last a minute, once he got excited.

The Italian shore (the one the cat wasn't smothering) looked to be more promising, though dangerously shoal and marshy. Lewrie thought that any French ships trading in the Adriatic-or any French warships-would stick to that side, to aid their cause in the north, if nothing else. Or distract Neapolitan, Venetian or Austrian troops to another threat, to further their army's successes against Piedmont. There was a slim hope that they wouldn't have to get tangled up in the snares of the Balkan shore and those islands. It was still a backwater to the real war.

He paused, took a sip of his wine and rose from the desk to go rummaging in the chart-space for other sources of information. Toulon padded after him, leapt to the top of the chart-table, and cried for their game to resume. Lewrie unfolded a map of northern Italy-not a sea-chart, but a true landsman's map-over Toulon, of course. And that was a special treat for him, to play Blind Man's Bluff from under cover.

It was frustrating; half the places Charlton had mentioned, such as Ceva and Montedotte, weren't shown. But Alessandria was, and Mondovi and that Cherasco, the Po River, Milan, Turin and Pavia.

'Damme,' Lewrie breathed.

Cherasco wasn't a day's march from Turin, the capital of Piedmont. If the Austrian commander, Marshal Beaulieu, was falling back on Alessandria, then he'd left the line of the Po unguarded! If that little bastard Bonaparte, or Buonaparte, had marched that fast, over such a distance, from Piedmontese front to Austrian front and back… he had a clear shot at Pavia, Alessandria… even Milan, the capital of the Austrian archduchy of Milan! He'd struck Lewrie as a knacky little shit back in '93-active as anything. Oh, but surely not!

There were fumblings and delighted little purrs from beneath the map as Toulon fought it. A tap or two, and he was whirling and clawing, creating an earthquake under Lombardy.

'Peek-a-boo, Toulon!' Lewrie whispered with a smile, peeling the map back to fold up. He was answered with a loud purr, and the cat laid out on his back, all four paws in the air and waving for sport.

Would they be going home, back to Admiral Jervis, after this? Lewrie wondered as he picked up Toulon and carried him back to the desk. With all the excitement for the summer happening far away, it didn't seem reasonable that their squadron could accomplish much for the good in the Adriatic.

Maybe send Fillebrowne for fresh orders, Lewrie speculated, and good riddance to bad rubbish! Before he…

Granted, Lewrie hadn't been in a charitable mood after leaving the Arsenal, after seeing how low the mighty Venetian Navy had fallen. He'd been a tad leery, too, of spending any more time with Lucy or her forbidding husband, Sir Malcolm. Or of having Peter Rushton get cherry-merry with drink and gush out things of the past that were best left in the past. Or dealing with that wily criminal, Clotworthy Chute! What could come out, what more social trouble could he tumble into, once they got to gossiping over old times? And his part in them?

Thankfully, Peter and Clotworthy had been away-off on their own low amusements, he suspected-but, to equal their pestiferous presence, Commander William Fillebrowne had turned up instead!

Of all gentlemen in the Royal Navy, Lewrie knew smarm when he heard it, having dished out more than his fair share in his time. And Commander Fillebrowne had been most definitely smarmy!

'Horrid foreign custom, sir,' Fillebrowne had chortled, 'the Venetian habit of cicisbeo. A proper Venetian lady must have one, d'ye see- with her family's approval, of course. Chosen with more care than her mate, I'm told, from only the finest select of Society. One never chooses from a lower ranking than oneself… that'd be a mortal shame, d'ye see.'

'Why, whatever is it, Commander Fillebrowne?' Lucy had goggled, all coy and frippery as a minx.

'Her guide through life, her amanuensis,' Fillebrowne had sworn in much good humour. Rather a leering humour, Lewrie'd thought. 'This cicisbeo holds her muff, her cloak… trails along and steers her over her introduction into Society. Part dancing-master, diplomatic representative… tea-fetcher, hand-holder, father-confessor… some say her lover…!'

'Sir!' Sir Malcolm had barked, damned displeased by such talk.

'Her catch-fart, d'ye mean, sir?' Lewrie had interjected. 'A simpering twit to stroke her ego?'

'Uhm… that too, Commander Lewrie,' Fillebrowne had agreed. 'It is said, I believe, that he is her lifelong teacher in all things. A male chaperone, admitted to her dressing chamber with her maids.'

'Sure you're pronouncing it right?' Lewrie had scoffed, eager to both skewer Fillebrowne-simply because he'd taken a hot dislike to him- and to reassure Sir Malcolm that he was no danger himself. 'We saw them, didn't we, Sir Malcolm, at the ridotto? Mincing about like so many 'Mollies' in men's clothing? It's certain to be said more like 'sissies-bay-oh.' Sissy-boys.'

'Hah!' Sir Malcolm had barked again; this time with amusement.

'A lifelong triangle… wife, husband and cicisbeo' William Fillebrowne had insisted, sticking to his original pronunciation. 'I have it on good authority. Unspeakable people, the Venetians. Every Italian society, for that matter.' He shrugged off, as if he'd meant no more than to be entertaining, and informative. 'Horrid custom!'

'Ah, dinner!' Sir Malcolm had enthused as the food arrived. Witty, charming and amusing, had Fillebrowne been. Lewrie had let him have the stage, preferring to deal with Sir Malcolm over mills and weaponry, casting cannon, good swords and such. Yet, round the beef course, there'd come a sly, secretive stroking along the side of his boot beneath the table!

Better not be Fillebrowne! Alan had frowned to himself. Secret 'Molly,' is he? Oh, Christ, no!

Dining en famille on a spacious balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, seated at the opposite corners of a four-place table, there was no way Fillebrowne could reach him. And it surely wasn't Sir Malcolm! Lewrie warranted. He was all stocks, money and business talk.