even those sofa-pillow 'Pizarro' hats looked cunning atop her head.
In point of fact, was he forced to choose between Eudoxia and Theoni Connor, Lewrie would have plumped for the exotic Russian girl, hands down… assuming he could wedge himself into her circle of admirers without looking like a total fool or moonstruck cully. Assuming Eudoxia's constant chaperone would let him.
Unfortunately, her father, Arslan Artimovich Durschenko, was at her elbow constantly. Fetching as she was, desirable as she was, her father had once intimated that Eudoxia was still a chaste young maid, and he was determined for her to remain virginal, even if he had to kill the first half-dozen young lechers who got within whiffing distance of her perfume!
It did not improve Eudoxia's romantic odds that her father was just possibly the scariest, and ugliest, patch- eyed old devil Lewrie had ever clapped his 'top-lights' upon. The Durschenkos claimed Cossack origins, so both were expert riders, but Arslan Artimovich could swing a sabre with the best of them. His previous circus act, before the pan of a rifled musket blinded his right eye, had been that of a marksman with any sort of rifle, musket, or pistol, and the recurved Asian bow and arrows-from horseback, standing in the stirrups, standing on the horse's bare back, hanging like a Red Indian under its belly or its neck… the act that Eudoxia now so ably performed. After the accident, he'd turned lion-tamer and kept four of the beasts, grown from cubs to huge, rangy adults. Arslan Artimovich was also able to substitute at the knife-throwing act.
He was, in fine, so menacing and scary that Blackbeard and his pirates would have pissed their breeches in dread of him! It must be admitted that Arlsan Artimovich certainly gave Lewrie the 'squirts'! He had to admit, though, that the risk of his life to her papa's vengeance, or his lions, just might be worth it.
'Kapitan Lewrie, zdrazvotyeh… how good to see you again!' Eudoxia had gushed the first night he'd 'crossed hawses' with her in the lobby of a theatre. She had swept in from the cold, swathed in a sleek, long fur overcoat with hood. Soon as she had carefully removed the hood from her artfully styled hair, she had boldly crossed to him and offered her hand to be kissed, a regal yet eager smile plastered on her face, and her eyes alight with glee. 'My bold Kapitan Lewrie! I was so relieved you are ac… acquitted. My English improves, yes?'
Buzz-hum of talk as he took her hand in his: 'That's 'Black' Alan Lewrie, don't ye know'… 'Princess Eudoxia from Wigmore's circus, begad! What a stunner!'
'Indeed it does, Mistress Durschenko,' Lewrie had purred over her lace-gloved hand. 'It is my pleasure to see you again, as well. You are enjoying London?' he had asked, lingering a trifle longer in his bow as she dropped him a fine curtsy; her gown was low-cut, and revealed a promising pair of poonts!
'It amazes me, Kapitan,' Eudoxia had declared. 'Pooh. You do not use my name?'
'Eudoxia, aye,' Lewrie had said with a sly smile, one that she matched, until they both heard a bear's deep warning growl, making him wonder if Jose was there with his dancing bears, Paolo and Fredo. But it was Arslan Artimovich.
'You remember Papa, Kapitan?' Eudoxia had said with a roll of her eyes and a minx-ish grin.
'Arslan Artimovich, sir,' Lewrie had responded, letting go her hand (rather precipitously, in point of fact) and turning to bow greetings to her father. 'Delighted to see you well, sir. Your servant.'
'Kapitan Lewrie,' the old cut-throat had rumbled, arms akimbo to spread the wings of his own fur coat, revealing a flashy blend of Eastern and Western garb; a fur cap on his grizzled locks, a double-breasted tail-coat made of royal blue wool over a cream-coloured Russian silk shirt that buttoned up the side of his neck; a scarlet waist sash (fortunately, no sign of daggers or pistols shoved into it, God be thanked!), buff-coloured snug trousers, and tall top-boots (minus spurs). 'You still alive,' Arslan Artimovich had added, sounding as if he was rather surprised… or was pointing out a temporary state, dependent upon Lewrie's behaviour. He smiled… evilly.
Lewrie had tried to continue a conversation with Eudoxia after that, just long enough to not seem ungentlemanly, or cowardly, for he had felt a strong urge to toddle off to greet some others. That was hard to do, though, for there came from the glowering Papa Durschenko a constant raspy whisper consisting of fondly recalled Russian phrases such as 'Peesa,' 'Sikkim Siyn,' 'Tarakan,' 'Nasyakomayeh,' and that old favourite, 'Gryazni sabaka'!
What could one do when a lovely girl's father called you Prick, Sonofabitch, Cockroach, Insect, and Dirty Dog? All in stone-heavy Cyrillic letters that sprayed the parquetry like blood from a cut throat!
'You know, o' course, that callin' an Englishman such things is cause for a duel,' Lewrie drawled to Papa Durschenko.
'Then choice of weapon is mine,' that worthy off-handedly replied with a menacing hiss and a broad grin of expectation.
'Papa! Stoi! Stop insulting Kapitan Lewrie!' Eudoxia scolded. 'Is boorish. Ne kulturny,' she said with her nose up. Evidently, she had come a long way from her childhood Cossack village, or her family's nomadic yurt, for all Lewrie knew of her early years. Eudoxia mightn't be a grand actress, but her 'turns' with Dan Wigmore's theatrical troupe had taught her how to play-act well-born hauteur. Her top-lofty air put her papa in his place; all he could do was utter an inarticulate 'Grr!' and, for a moment, share with Lewrie a frustrated look over his willful daughter's new ways.
There was a sudden commotion at the doors to the theatre lobby, with the crowd parting like the sea at a warship's cutwater, with men in royal livery leading the way, the grand fellow in the very front waving a long staff in the bored manner of palace courtiers. 'His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales,' the gaudily clad fellow in a powdered wig intoned in an equally bored manner, and the clench-jawed, nasally tone of the uppermost Oxonian. Men bowed and ladies curtsied deeply, all heads lowered as the Prince swept in, one hand languidly waving to one and all, with a faint smile on his phyz, and a nod to some he recognised. Well, there was also a flirtatious glint, perhaps even a wink, to some of the prettier ladies, though the heir to the throne acted as if his heart wasn't really in it. 'Til he espied Eudoxia, that is.
'My dear,' the Prince of Wales murmured, stopping before her.
'Ah… em?' from the stunned Eudoxia as he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.
'Stunnin',' from the Prince. 'Seen you ride and shoot, what? We were most impressed.'
'Spasiba, em… thank you, your… highness,' Eudoxia replied in a stutter, like to faint, yet reddening with pleasure.
'Yob tvoyemant' from her papa, and Lewrie discreetly took hold of his arm before he reached out to strangle the fellow.
'Fascinatin', hey?' the Prince of Wales asked of one of his simpering courtiers, cocking a brow significantly. Lewrie realised that his courtier looked to be making a mental note to himself, nodding to the Heir as if he caught his meaning. He'd be up 'til dawn, discovering where she lodged, when she rode in the park, and what her favourite colour was.
Royalty bestowed upon her a departing nod, a fond smile, then glided on to the stairs to his reserved box.
'Doh!' Eudoxia said under her breath, employing her fan for its real purpose. 'God Above!'
'Who is pasty fellow?' Arslan Artimovich growled.
'The Prince of Wales… heir to the throne?' Lewrie explained. 'One day, he'll be George the Fourth. A great'un for the ladies, it's said,' Lewrie slyly added, hoping that Papa Durschenko would lose sleep worrying over a rakehell royal, instead of him.
Sure t'God, there's some nice jewelry headed her way, Lewrie thought with a well-repressed snicker; If the King lets him, that is.
'God damn kings and princes,' Papa Durschenko darkly muttered.
'I wouldn't say that too loud, were I you,' Lewrie warned him. 'Paneemahyu?' he added, using one of his very few words of Russian. 'Englishmen take a very dim view of people insulting their rulers… even pasty-faced princes. Calls himself 'Florizel,' don't ye know,' he imparted in a whisper. 'Wants t'be everyone's friend. Young women, especially.'
Which information incited another 'Grr!' from Durschenko.
'Well, I'll take my leave of you, sir… Mistress Eudoxia,' Lewrie said with a grin, emulating the Heir and taking her hand to be kissed. 'I'm off to my seat, and I hope you enjoy the show. Perhaps we may run into each other for a cold collation and some champagne?'
'Grr!'
Leaving it at that, Lewrie had toddled off, leaving Eudoxia to her moment of glory, and the greater adulation from her many admirers, despite what her papa wished!
