Troubled Waters

in the Fleet, so I do not understand why Fillebrowne… is he your tormentor… would not have heard of it. Has your wife at any time thrown this particular bastard in your face?'

'The only own she seemed aware of was Theoni Connor's,' Lewrie told him. And, damme, that'un was bad enough! he grimly thought.

'Then it is patently obvious that your unknown scribbler has no knowledge of Desmond McGilliveray's existence, either,' Twigg assumed. 'Hence… not a Navy man, nor anyone of long acquaintance with you.' 'Doesn't narrow the field, much, though,' Lewrie said. 'Yayss, there's a myriad of people with a grudge against you,' Twigg sniggered. 'Damme, Lewrie, but I could spend the rest of my entire career, defending you from yourself.'

Lewrie winced, and hid behind the rim of his own coffee cup.

'Intriguing, this, though,' Twigg muttered, quickly re-reading both letters, and frowning in deep study. 'I've a suspicion, but… I will say no more, for the nonce.' He folded the letters and stuffed them into a side pocket of his sober black coat. A pull on his watch and a peer at its face, and he turned brisk at finishing his last cup of coffee and dabbing his lips before rising and throwing his napkin onto his plate. 'Time we should be going. You're to meet MacDougall by eight. My coach is already brought round.'

Half a chop, half his eggs, and a fresh-buttered slice of toast remaining; Lewrie had barely made a dent in his own meal, but 'grumble you may, but go you must' was the day's motto. Besides, by noon, he could be remanded to gaol in the Old Bailey; which dread thought made what little he had consumed turn to a 12-pounder round- shot.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

But for the circumstances, it might have been a hearty reunion in the grim and dour courtroom, so darkly panelled and gloom-making. Lord Peter Rush-ton was there, all huzzahs, and taking a morning from Parliament (not that he did all that much when he did sit in session!), along with a fancily dressed Clotworthy Chute, another old companion from Harrow, a moon-faced, fubsy 'Captain Sharp,' who looked as if his career at fleecing new-come 'Country-Put' heirs was progressing nicely.

Sir Malcolm Shockley had taken the morning from the House of Commons, along with his wife, Lucy, ironically once Hugh Beauman's sister; still stunningly pretty, blond and fair, with the most amazing aquamarine eyes, bee- stung red lips, short and sweetly rounded figure… and the wits of an addled sheep, one discovered after an hour in her company, and why Lewrie ever thought her a fine match back in 1781, he could no longer fathom.

Beauman money, and those tits, he decided, thinking back on his early years as a penniless, futureless Midshipman.

His father and Burgess Chiswick were both there in full uniforms of their respective services, Burgess attending Miss Theodora Trencher and her parents from the Abolitionist Society, so it appeared that he'd made good progress in his suit… as was the Rev. Clarkson, whom Lewrie had met at the Trenchers' home to gain the Abolitionists' support, and, by God, so were the Rev. William Wilberforce, Mistress Hannah More, and a platoon of the leading lights in the Clapham Sect and reform-minded!

His barrister, Mr. MacDougall, made the introductions to a very well-dressed youngish man as Sir Samuel Whitbread, he of the vast brewery fortune, who led a pack of like-minded younger progressives in both Commons and Lords, all of whom had to pump Lewrie's paw and tell him that he was 'the very Devil of a fellow'! The greetings and introductions took so long that Lewrie could imagine that he was at 'Old Boys' Week' at one of the many public schools he had (briefly) attended, and the captain of the champion cricket team, to boot!

'Your wife and family, Captain Lewrie,' MacDougall fretted in a whisper as they finally neared the defence table, 'they do not attend? T'would have been better, were they to be seen in support.'

'Don't even ask, Mister MacDougall,' Lewrie muttered back, with a forced smile plastered on his phyz, and a cynical roll of his eyes. 'Now we're here, what exactly am I to do?'

'Look innocent, of course,' MacDougall softly instructed, wryly grinning. 'Rise with the others when the Lord Justice is announced… hat off… and, when called upon, enter the prisoner's dock… there,' he said, directing Lewrie's attention to a railed square dais, before the judge's higher, and ornate, bench. 'Identify yourself when asked, and, when put to the question of guilt or innocence, state firmly that you are not guilty… it is pro forma. Not too loudly or emphatically, mind… nil desperando, hmm? Calm, forthright, perhaps with a touch of indignation that you are forced to be here, but not so much of that as to appear arrogant, else you might put off the jury. Once we begin to lay our arguments, you may sit, but you must remain erect and attentive, continuing your calm demeanour. No twitches, shivers, tics, or pulling faces. The Lord Justice will note such as signs of guilt, as would a jury, once empanelled, though I firmly doubt we shall get that far today. You may even evince surprise or disagreement with what Sir George Norman, the prosecutor, may use in his statement, but you must not cry out in protest.'

'Like playin' whist, is it? Stone-faced?' Lewrie asked, ascowl.

'Very like, Captain Lewrie,' MacDougall said. 'Ah, here comes our opposition.

'Can I glower at 'em?'

'Glowering, to a point, is allowed,' MacDougall told him, indicating that he should take a seat behind the accused's table for a bit.

Glower, Lewrie did, developing an instant and instinctive abhorrence for the prosecuting attorney, Sir George Norman, for that worthy was a very sleek and elegant fellow in his early thirties with perfect wavy blond hair underneath his side-curled court peruke, and strutting languid as a peacock in his black silk robe, attended by a pair of law clerks who carried his files and such for him.

Glower even hotter, for right behind him came Hugh Beauman, the stout bastard, glaring angrily at one and all. Hugh Beauman had come as grandly dressed as anyone could wish; his hat was a sleek and fat beaver planter's hat, pinned up on one side, adrip with egret plumes, and trimmed at the brims with silver lace over light blue ribbon, his coat an older frock style richly embroidered in almost a paisley swirl of turquoise, light blue, and light grey satin; under that his waist-coat was a longer old-style, figured and embroidered pale gold silk or some other shimmery stuff. His breeches were the same pale gold colour, but thankfully plain silk or satin, with white silk stockings, and his clunky-heeled black shoes bore real gold buckles inlaid with diamond chips! He slowly paced, employing a long ebony walking-stick with its gold ferrule and a large gold knob atop…

A clompin' breedin' bull, tarted up for auction/ Lewrie thought; tryin 'for languid an'graceful, too. And, a wig like that? Powdered? Haven't seen such a 'Macaroni' in twenty years! Height o' fashion, my arse! Who found his tailor, Clotworthy Chute?

Hugh Beauman's face was set in a porcine, full-chinned, high-nosed look of royal boredom, surely an affected sham taught him far in the past by out-dated tutors… though he did let it slip a bit when he finally deigned to let his slow gaze turn far enough to espy Lewrie at the accused's table, Sprised I'm still alive, are ye? Lewrie sarcastically thought. Or, perhaps Beauman's arrogant demeanour had been shaken more by the rustle of titters and snide whispers that those who attended the court made when they saw his garish suitings.

The snickers among the ladies present certainly nettled the arch woman on Beauman's arm! Whoever she was, or had been before, Beauman's new wife had not been exposed to London fashion, or the harsh judgement of the 'fashionable.' For she was tricked out like a bookend to her husband, too- elegantly gowned in the same embroidered and figured pale gold material as Hugh Beauman's waist-coat, her wide straw bonnet ribboned with cloth that matched his coat, and bound under her chin with a pale blue ribbon. Over her shoulders she wore a gauzy and diaphanous blue shawl figured in silver lace, and Lewrie just knew that her shoes held real gold buckles with diamond chips, too.

She was tall for a woman, about five inches shy of six feet in her heeled shoes, slim and willowy, coolly ash blond, and with eyes of the most disconcerting and icy pale green. She was strikingly