departing Mrs. Connor.
Ka-whap!
Caroline's stinging blow made his jaw feel as if it was broken!
'Oow!' he'd yelped in sudden pain and astonishment, face reddening. 'What the bloody…!'
'You… beast!' Caroline fumed; her upraised hand-just used to slap him halfway into next week-now fisted, as if she'd contemplated boxing his ear, or making his nose spout claret! Her parasol, a flimsy thing good only for languid strolls, was held low and furled in her left hand, its pointy brass ferrule winking in the wan sunshine, putting Lewrie in mind of a sword-point.
'What was that for?' he'd demanded, though he knew damn' well.
'You…faithless… lying… bastard!' she'd accused.
'Caroline… dearest!' he'd assayed, hoping to cozen her from her pet. 'You're sadly mistook! It's not… oww!'
The fragile parasol had swept up high on her right, then slashed downwards and leftwards, catching him on the scalp (proving harder than advertised) and sending his ornate new cocked hat flying over the dun December grass. He'd lifted his wounded left arm in its sling to ward her off, too late, making him grunt with sudden pain.
Christ, she'd hit a wounded man? he gawped as he'd skittered to the rear in retreat; mean t'say, me… and a wounded bloody hero?
And this was the gentle wife and mother who'd spank the unruly child, then go off and weep into her aprons, the most kindly and…?
'Bastard!' Caroline had insisted, moving that parasol into her right hand, taking a swordsman's lunge at his offending groin, making him squeak in alarm and retreat a step or two more.
With a pang of chagrin, he had realized that he'd fired a hulling shot into himself. Caroline might have been chary, and less than sincere with cordiality when presented with the sight of the handsome Widow Theoni Kavares Connor and her youngest drooling 'git' in the perambulator. Impossible to avoid on the park's pathway, since Theoni's party and their skirts took up so much of it, impossible to snub her when here came the bold captain who'd saved her in the Adriatic, here came his father, General Sir Hugo, who'd called upon her before; glorious in his best uniform, glittering with gold lace and chain gimp.
Caroline hadn't voiced the slightest cattiness when shown the pudgy little bastard, who, unfortunately, was enough grown a 'crawler' for the uncanny resemblance to her loyal husband to begin to be evident, no! The vertical furrow in her brows that sprouted when she was wroth with him hadn't sprouted 'til Theoni was leaving. She hadn't accused him of that… yet.
And then he'd blurted out that she was mistaken, before she said a blessed thing, only confirming her deepest suspicion! Idiot! he had chid himself; but if the mort had t'honour me for her salvation, why not call him James Alan Connor, 'stead o' Alan James, for all the damn' world t'wonder at?
No time for rational thought or inventive lying, though, for his wife had begun to slash right-and-left like a trained cavalry trooper; forcing him to retreat and duck that gaily coloured parasol! Him of all people, the very picture of a British sea-dog, two medals jouncing on his chest, sporting an honourable wound taken in arduous Service for King and Country, the tasselled epaulet of a Post-Captain of less than three years'
seniority on his right shoulder… retreating from a woman? Just about ready to cut and run?
There'd been a clutch of fashionable onlookers, tittering and hooting Caroline encouragement, guffawing at him; Royal Navy officers, midshipmen, and tars watching, too, ashore to share the day of celebration. Gawkin' at me? he'd quailed. But, what could he have done, in those circumstances… draw his sword in defence? Slug her senseless?
'Caroline, for God's sake!' he'd pled, instead. 'I've not done anything, honest! Tongue-lash me in private if you like, but…!'
'Liar!' Caroline shrilled, loud enough to startle even the fat park pigeons to flight, slashing at him some more. 'Liar, liar, liar!' she had howled, pleasant, familiar features pinched pale, but oddly dry-eyed, Lewrie had taken ominous note. That had been the very worst sign. Had she wept tears of rage, sadness, or betrayal, he might have held out hope.
'Madam!' he'd huffed, dredging up what shreds were left of his courage, and his husbandly dignity and authority-safely beyond her reach, it must here be noted!-'This is nought for the Mob's amusement. Your uncalled for rage is unseemly, and common!'
That'd stopped her in her tracks. Caroline had always put the greatest stock in their Public Image, her determination to appear as good as anyone of the squirearchy, no matter she and her kin had turned up as poor as church mice after fleeing the Lower Cape Fear settlements of the North Carolina colony after the Revolution, living on charity grudgingly given by her miserly Uncle Phineas Chiswick-thin as that was! And just you wait 'til I get you home!' Hadn't she regularly frozen the children stock-still, arrested in mid-stride, with that'un?
Caroline had hitched a deep breath, and had at last relented, lowering her 'weapon' from High Third to rest the point on the ground, giving Lewrie space in which to look towards his family to see how the dispute was going down with them.
His eldest son, Sewallis, a lanky-lean eleven, looked as pale as death, hands pawed at midchest, ever the miniature parson, the one to shy like a whipped puppy at every start and alarum. His second, Hugh 'the fearless,' had gawped wide-eyed, glancing from mother to father, half-hidden and clinging to their ward Sophie, Vicomtesse de Maubeuge, and her skirts. Daughter Charlotte, now a brisk toddler and Caroline's duplicate, had glared at him as fiercely as his wife, face screwed up in tears, but mortal-certain it was his, a man's fault!
Sophie, who moments before had been lavishing in the grins and tipped hats, the admiring glances of single young gentlemen, now hid her face behind an ivory-and-lace fan that vibrated against her lips in rapid little wing- beats, standing close to his father Sir Hugo, as she always did, eyes full of more sadness than shock.
And his father…! The fashionable old stick looked as if he had bitten into a tart lemon; e'en so, there was the tiniest glint of 'told you so' in his eyes.
So much for sympathy from him! Lewrie had sadly sighed; Oh, it ain't fair! None of 'em meant a fig t'me. Not now, when I've gotten a touch o' real fame!
'Damn you, Alan… damn you!' Caroline had spat, voice lower at last. 'All the years you were at sea, me thinking so trustingly, and now…!' She'd hiccoughed, on the edge of breaking-mellowing at last? No, for she'd hitched a breath, one hand on a hip, one hand on the handle of her parasol as if it was a walking stick. 'You're right, sir!' she'd snapped, the cynicism dripping. 'This is not a public… affair, nor shall it be a private one 'twixt us, either. I know you now for a lying, cheating, dissembling, adulterous hound… sir, and I tell you now that I have no more desire to speak with you, nor see your earnest fool's face… nor even hear your name, ever again!'
She'd been choking, but she'd managed to say all that.
'Caroline…' Lewrie had attempted to say, opening his arms to her and taking a tentative step forward.
'Back, Devil!' she'd cried, bringing her parasol up to Guard and freezing him in place; she was too bloody good with it, as good as a French grenadier with a bayonet-tipped musket! 'You will consider yourself dead to me, sir… to us. For so I, and we, consider you!'
'Uhm, Caroline, m'dear, surely…' his father had at last attempted to placate, but she'd whipped about to glare him to silence, and aimed her parasol at his crutch, too!
'Blood does tell, does it not… Sir Hugo?' she'd purred, all scornful. Which threat and cutting comment forced a quick retreat on that worthy's part, Sir Hugo's drink-wizened 'phyz' suffused as red as his tunic, as he coughed 'courtly' into his fist.
'Come, children… Sophie. We are going back to our lodgings, now!' Caroline had ordered.
'But, Mummy!' Hugh had objected, whilst Sewallis dithered as was his timid wont, and Charlotte had glared daggers at father and her brother both.
'Madame, I…' Sophie had squeaked, lowering her fan, turning to Sir Hugo, whom she adored as her racy, stand-in grand-pиre. 'Oh… what shall become of us, if…?'
'Go along and obey your mistress, Sophie, there's a good girl,' Sir Hugo had said. 'Worst comes t'worst, we'll arrange something. Is that not so, Alan?'
'Hey?' he'd contributed, in his usually 'sharp' manner.
'Gawd!' Sir Hugo had muttered under his breath, despairing.
'I am so sorry, M'sieur Alain, I…' Sophie had whispered, patting his good shoulder with a lace-gloved hand. Looking scared… enough to blab what she knew of Phoebe Aretino, at long last, did his wife browbeat her long
