Sea of Grey

after all… and, there's a sum of prize money still owin' that's yours alone.'

'Damn!' was Lewrie's sour comment to that. 'She's my wife, not a deal gone wrong, they're my children, not… oh, why bother trying to explain such to you!'

'Aye, I forgot, I'm a callous ol' bastard,' Sir Hugo replied as casually as if he'd been told he had grey eyes. 'Ah! Breakfast!'

Trilochan Singh entered astern the housemaid, who bore a large tray full of covered dishes, looking like to pinch or goose her, once the tray was safe. Boiling-hot tea was quickly poured, with cream in a small silver plate ewer, and a footed silver bowl of brown West Indies turbinado sugar, pre-pared from the loaf. Aspinall attempted to assist, but was out-bustled by the maid and Singh as they removed the lids to reveal both fried and scrambled eggs, buttered hot rusks, and a choice of sizzly-crisp bacon or sliced roast beef.

Lewrie stared at the repast, pondering and massaging his belly, cautiously inhaling the savoury odours and steams; watching, as his father turned a brace of fried eggs into a soupy mess with knife and fork, spooned up some jam to slather on half a rusk, then dredged it in the eggs and took a bite.

'Only enemies of the Borgias died of eatin',' his father said, chewing and sighing most ecstatically. 'Trust me… the greasier the better, in your condition.'

Lewrie tentatively allowed his plate to be laden. Hot tea with cream and sugar, well… hmm, well, well! More cobwebs cleared. A taste of bacon… a forkful of eggs, which needed pepper and a lot of salt, he discovered. The roast beef was a tad dry and crusty, perhaps leftovers of last night's fare in the common rooms, but… my my, was that mango chutney in the jar with which to liven it up? Yum! Oh, even better, for here came a dab of fried, diced potatoes… his favourite 'tatty hash'!

The rusks were crunchy, but softened with good butter, and the jam was a tangy-sweet lime marmalade, and good God, was he out of tea so soon?

'Lazarus… come forth!' Sir Hugo said with a snicker.

'Mmmmf… something like that,' Lewrie confessed, swallowing.

There was a knock at the door, which Aspinall answered, coming to the table a moment later. 'There's a note come for ya, sir,' he announced, setting it beside Lewrie's plate, sealed and folded shut, with no return address- local? A sudden pall fell over the table.

'Well?' his father pressed at last, as Alan studiously ignored it. 'It can't be from Caroline, surely. She ain't that prolific!'

Lewrie opened it, wishing he had tongs, sure it'd scald…

'Ah,' Lewrie commented, after reading the salutation, with the sangfroid he rarely displayed aboard ship. 'Of a sort… it regards Caroline,' he lied (main-well, he thought!) as he refolded it and stuck it in his waistcoat pocket. 'From my solicitor, Mountjoy. She must have sent him a note before coachin' back to Anglesgreen. He asks me to come round.'

Actually, he'd meant to call upon Mr. Matthew Mountjoy that day, to make an equitable arrangement-or one that wouldn't break him!

'I see,' his father replied, going back to his breakfast, but with a leery cast to his eyes; too blasй-bland for comfort!

Not a total lie, Lewrie consoled himself; but, damme, do I dare? All I can do with Theoni is accept her sorrow that she caused a mess in the park yesterday! Be a damn' fool t'go, but… Gawd, what if she finally cries 'belly plea to a court and takes what I've left to keep up her… our son? No, surely not, not Theoni, she's rich as Croesus in her own right… the currant trade, an all? Hmmm… still.

And he thought it deuced odd that, far from having his breakfast turn to lead in his stomach from even more to worry about, he was digesting rather well, thankee very much! Catastrophe can be stood, he decided!

CHAPTER SIX

South Montagu Mews was a very fashionable street, Nor'east of Oxford Street and its confluence with Park Lane and Hyde Park, within non-strenuous walking distance, really. Though not quite as costly an address as the more stately Montagu Square, it was better than passing-fair as a place to hang one's hat.

Much like the Navy, London houses were under The Rates for tax purposes. A house that took up 900 square feet of footing, no matter how tall, was a First Rate-and Mistress Theoni Connor's was!

'Done herself proud,' Lewrie muttered to himself as he climbed down from the back of the one-horse hack that was little better than a two-wheeled country dogcart with a canvas covering, and paid his cabman.

A sullen rain still fell, but nowhere near the morning's deluge, so, clad in a snugly impervious boat-cloak, and a cocked hat that had already seen its share of 'heavy weather,' he could take time to assay the street and the house before him.

It was a homey red-brown brick, set off with the white cornices and stone bands so popular in the '50s and '60s, with an elevated doorway at the left-hand side, redone Palladian, and trimmed with railings in ornate wrought iron filigree; two wide windows filled the right-hand side. Above, there was the ostentation of a wrought iron balcony across the whole of the first upper floor. It was a four-storey house, with three windows set in each level. Even with a typical two rooms per floor, it was a lot of house!

Up and down the street, Lewrie could see a mix of old brick and the more fashionable Italianate facades that people insisted on putting on lately.

He ascended the steps up from the sidewalk to the door, and lifted the knocker-a grinning Venetian lion's head shockingly similar to the one on his own door, back in Anglesgreen! For a second, he felt his resolve melt, feeling in his bones that seeing Theoni in person was a really bad idea, but… she had asked to see him, for him to call, and they did have a child in common-purportedly. Chiding himself for a coward, he began to rap the knocker.

A cherubic older fellow in a suit of plain, dark grey 'ditto' opened the door and beamed at him with the smile of a well-fed prelate in a rich parish. 'Sir?' he asked.

'Captain Lewrie, come to call… I believe your mistress expects me?' Lewrie replied, a bit more tentatively than he liked.

'Come into the front parlour, sir… Captain Lewrie, and I'll inform Mistress Connor of your arrival,' the old fellow bade, bowing as he stepped aside to wave him in. 'Just this way, sir… I do believe you are expected, though there was no reply to mistress's note…?' he seemed to scold; obviously, the old catch-fart knew more of his employer's business than was good for him, though Theoni could only have hired him in the last year. He accepted Lewrie's hat and boat cloak, but only took them as far as the mirrored coat-stand; easily fetched if she shooed him off, or had no time for him.

The parlour was impressive; pale green walls were nicely set off with stark, gleaming white wood trim. Pastoral artwork was hung, along with gilt-framed mirrors. The massive fireplace was smokey-threaded white marble, and the furnishings were upholstered in pale yellow or in floral-patterned ecru, atop gleaming wood floors carpeted here and there with Turkey rugs. There were rather good books in the cases, and might even have been read once, though Lewrie suspected they'd been picked up at a secondhand auction by the lot, displayed mostly for the ornate gilt bindings-the way most new homeowners who aspired to Society did! Lots of brass and silver plate objects out for show…

'Alan… Captain Lewrie!' Theoni called, spinning him about.

'M-Mistress Connor,' he barely had the wit to say, though in his heart, as deeply in trouble as he was, thinking 'Yum!'

She wore one of those Frenchified concoctions, in an un-widowly azure with white trim, a high waist sash, and no underpinnings, so the gown hung straight, clinging as she walked toward him with her hands out in greeting; puffed upper sleeves, very tight lower sleeves, down to her wrists, and a very low neckline. Her russet-chestnut hair was long and loose, but gathered with matching ribbons.

So exotic-looking, with wide, high cheeks in a fairly lean face, a squareish jaw that tapered to a pert chin, a wide and generous mouth graced by such full, plump lips, eyes so amber-brown and slanted almond-shaped… those gently bobbing poonts!

Their hands met below waist-level, decorously keeping them apart for the servant's eyes, at least, though there