CHAPTER TEN
The second week of Lewrie's enforced idleness passed much in the same fashion as the first, but with a lot less relish on Lewrie's part. His last rencontre with Theoni Kavares Connor had turned out to be rather embarrassing, in the vast rotunda of Ranelagh Gardens, of all places. She'd been importunate and a bit of a shrew, all but demanding that he pay court to her, and Lewrie, never one to appreciate being pressed in a corner, and with only the lamest of excuses as to why he had not yet dropped by, namely that his new stature as a Publick Hero would not let him act as he had in the past-'Respectability, and all that, Theoni,' he had claimed, which sounded stage-y even to his ear!-hadn't set all that well with her.
Hissed like a bloody goose guardin' her eggs! Lewrie had told himself at the time; And like t'peck my shins an' flog me!
Theoni's seething, barely controlled anger, then her tears, had made a nasty scene for the crowd in the rotunda, and sent Lewrie on a less-than-dignified trot to get away from her. Thankfully, for the last three days, he hadn't run into her anywhere, after that.
He still slept in late, but he didn't stay out quite as late in the A.M.S as he had the first week. Fear of her, he concluded. So he haunted the Madeira Club's library, which contained rather a respectable collection of books, and the Common Room, with its cheery fireplace and comfortable leather sofas and chairs, was a grand place to read up on all the latest editions. Mind, none of them particularly salacious or interesting; all followed the modern concept of Edifying, Uplifting, and Useful, or completely unworthy to the nineteenth-century gentleman. And damn Priestley, Bentham, and the whole lot of Reformers, Lewrie stewed as he found most of them hard slogging.
He was all but nodding over a book as mystifying as any done by Milton when a club servant ahemmed into his fist and handed Lewrie a note.
'Ah? Hmm,' Lewrie said as he opened it, fearing that Theoni'd run him to earth at last, and wondering why there was nothing on the outside of the folded-over paper to show who had sent it. 'Christ!' he muttered once he had it open, for it was from Zachariah Twigg.
My dear Capt. Lewrie,
A matter has just yesterday arisen which, I am sure, will prove to be of the greatest interest to you. Should this note find you in your lodgings, and not absorbed in your amusements, do, pray, join me at my club, Almack's, for dinner at One of the clock. My man will await your prompt reply.
Yr Obdt. Servant
Twigg
It was worse than Theoni finding him, worse than Eudoxia dashing into the Common Rooms nude, with her father and his lions in hot pursuit and out for Lewrie's blood. It was Twigg, damn his eyes!
When'd he ever call me 'dear'? Lewrie cynically thought; And he just had t'get at least one shot in, 'bout my 'amusements.' Oh, this could be hellish-bad. Who does he want me t'kill? And Almack's; he couldn't remember if that particular club was Tory or Whig, and if it was, did it really say anything about Twigg's personal politics? At least Lewrie knew that Almack's set a splendid table, and Twigg would be footing the bill, so…
'Pen and paper, please,' he told the club servant, 'and I think there's a messenger laddie waitin'?'
'There is, sir. I'll fetch them directly,' the servant said.
'So pleased to see you, again, Lewrie,' Zachariah Twigg said in what could be mistaken for a pleasant tone, almost purring with social oils, as it were, as he extended a long-fingered, skeletal hand to be shaken. 'So pleased you got off. And, have been granted some time to re-acquaint yourself to the joys of London life. Cold enough for you?'
'Thankee for your invitation, sir,' Lewrie replied, civil enough on his own part, but still wondering whose throat those fingers had strangled lately. 'Not as cold as it was last week, no, but still chilly.'
He felt like gawking at his plush surroundings, for he had not been inside any of the grander gentlemen's clubs in London, except for the Cocoa Tree, or one of the others that featured the hearty sort of revelry and gambling open to non-members, and folk of both sexes after dark. He felt like a 'Country-Put' yokel just down from somewhere very dreary, and shown into Westminster Cathedral, for Almack's was a grand establishment indeed, done in the finest, and subtly richest, taste.
'Something warming, perhaps, Captain Lewrie,' Twigg suggested as they strolled into a large library with many sofas and chairs. 'A brandy for me, Hudgins.'
'Yes, sir. And for you, sir?' the distinguished-looking older servant asked in a fair approximation of a courtly Oxonian accent.
'Kentucky whisky,' Lewrie requested, a brow cocked in fun, just to see if Almack's stocked such spirits.
'Would Evan Williams suit, sir?'
'That'd be splendid,' Lewrie replied, impressed even further.
'A quiet corner, over there, ah,' Twigg said, pointing out one grouping of furniture near the tall windows at the far end of the room. The tall and cadaverous Twigg led the way, swept the tails of his coat clear, and took a seat on one end of a sofa, while Lewrie settled for a wing-back chair nearby.
'Cold, that's the bugabear, Lewrie,' Twigg said in a petulant, business-like rasp. 'Enough cold to keep the Danes', Swedes', and Russian fleets laid up in-ordinary, and unable to sail. The Thames here in London is already thawing below London Bridge, and the rest of the river is open to shipping. The passages into the Baltic are free of ice, and time is of the essence.'
He promisin' me a command? Lewrie thought with spurred hope, of a sudden; That'd be of great int'rest t'me, like he wrote!
'I've met some other officers who know some who've served in the Russian Navy, sir,' Lewrie told him. 'Frankly, they don't sound so formidable… conscript crews, and all, and limited sailing seasons in which t'work their people up to competence. In the Baltic, at least.'
'Quite true, yet… with the Russians combined with the Danes… as doughty fighters as the Dutch, and the Swedes with a very competent navy, things could get rather dicey, should they put to sea together. Their numbers would be daunting.'
'So were the Spanish at Cape Saint Vincent,' Lewrie scoffed. 'I think 'Old Jarvy,' and Nelson, put paid to them, despite their numbers.'
'You know that Bonaparte is behind all this,' Twigg said with a sniff and a thin-lipped look of asperity.
'Anything to take pressure off France, and force us to squander our own advantages far afield, aye,' Lewrie contentedly answered as he was handed a crystal snifter half full of amber bourbon, as Twigg got his own snifter of brandy from a silver tray. Both took a moment to swirl their drinks, study the 'legs' of evaporating alcohol which resulted, and sniffed deep, as over a fine wine. Only after their first sips did Twigg continue.
'It's rather more devious than that, Lewrie,' Twigg pointed out. 'Does this so-called Armed Neutrality no longer recognise our right to stop and search their ships for contraband or materials of war, denying the existence of a blockade unless there is a Royal Navy warship off every bloody little piss-pot of a port, and limiting their concept of contraband to weapons, shot, and powder, Napoleon gets everything that he needs but cannon, round- shot, and powder with which to rebuild his own navy, and equip an even larger army, to the detriment of every nation in Europe… including us. Do but consider all that is exported from the Baltic, Lewrie… ''
Oh God, he's lecturin' his worst student! Lewrie thought with a silent groan; Hark t'this, stupid!… have ye the wits t'do so!
'Flax, and woven linen for sails,' Twigg counted off with the fingers of his free hand, pontificating, as was his wont. 'Pine timber for masts and spars, tar, pitch, rosin, and turpentine with which to maintain ships, not to mention fibres for ropes and cables.'
Ye did mention it, didn't ye, Lewrie scoffed to himself.
'As well as the raw materials for gunpowder manufacture,' Twigg said on, almost running out of fingers by then, 'and the wool for uniforms, the leather from Russia's vast herds of cattle for boots, shoes, saddles, and harness, and soldiers' accoutrement pouches and belts… ''
'Swedish iron ore, aye,' Lewrie stuck in, hoping to trump him on one item, at least; or, hustle him along to his main point.
'Em?' Twigg said, looking puzzled, for a rare once, and peering at Lewrie like he would at a talking cat. 'Iron
