'Pour one for me, as well… noir, no sugar,' Twigg ordered. 'For a time, I considered that the letters might have been a French ploy, 'til I realised that no matter the wrath of Guillaume Choundas… the Americans exchanged him home in '99, did you know that?… there was no real advantage in it, not with you so junior and un-important in the greater scheme of things.'
Demean me some more, I ask you. Please! Lewrie fumed.
'That Lombardian female spy they set upon you in Genoa, that Claudia Mastandrea, I therefore dismissed,' Twigg said with a pleased sniff as he sipped his coffee, 'as I did your former mistress, Phoebe Aretino, for, though she may have prospered greatly the last few years, and could buy expensive paper, she is not as literate, nor possessed of a fine handwriting, as our culprit.'
'Leaving…!' Lewrie pressed.
'I even considered that your former ward, la Vicomtesse Sophie de Maubeuge, might have written them, if only to pique your wife and her interference in her early flirtations with that idiot neighbour of yours, Harry Embleton. To escape the dreariness of Anglesgreen for the delights of London… as she managed to do at last.'
'Sophie? Never!' Lewrie was certain enough to declare.
'Indeed, the young lady in question is sweet-natured and kindly… intelligent and commonsensical,' Twigg admitted.
'Leaving…?' Lewrie posed again.
'Theoni Kavares Connor, Lewrie,' Twigg said with a triumphant smile. 'The mother of your bastard.'
'What? Why, the bitch!' Lewrie exploded. 'Not three days ago, she was… well, it could have been embarrassing.'
'I know of it, and it was,' Twigg archly declared, sniggering, quite enjoying watching Lewrie slowly twist in the wind. 'Consider… the letters to your wife began in '96, just after you rescued her from those Adriatic pirates, then bedded her on your passage back to Gibraltar. Did you blab your peccadillos, did you boast your older conquests to her?'
'Christ, no!' Lewrie gawped. 'Mean t'say, what gentlemen'd be that foolish?'
Twigg looked down the length of his long nose at Lewrie as if he suspected that Lewrie was that sort of gentleman.
Superior bastard! Lewrie fumed to himself.
'Right, she was grateful for her life, her son's life,' Lewrie said to fill the embarrassing silence. 'That, and pleasin' sport after Lights-Out, well… and, fleein' the Greek Isles for good to come to England a step ahead of the French? Not sure she'd keep the fortune in the currant trade her dead husband'd made, and fear of how his kin would receive her?'
'She fell in love with you, Lewrie,' Twigg said, 'for all those reasons, and your skill at 'rogering,' I'd imagine. Then, to discover that she would bear your child… and also discover what a rakehell you are, yet still wished to keep you… '' He trailed off with a gleeful smirk, to take a sip of his coffee. 'Amazing, how women find cads so intriguing, and do anything to delude themselves, and wish to keep their unworthy men. Had she any sense at all, given your history with the ladies… soon as she ferreted it out… that she didn't simply write you off as a bad penny. The boy, I expect…'
'As if she needed me t'support him,' Lewrie scoffed. 'She's as rich as the Walpoles… richer! And it's not as if she needed me for the Guinea Stamp. Her husband wasn't that long dead that she couldn't explain the boy's birthing as legitimate.'
'So many bastards,' Twigg pretended to be shocked. 'One of them a Midshipman in the American Navy, of all things! Half yours, t'other half a Cherokee 'princess'? My word, sir! One could refer to your offspring round this world as the Lewriean Miscellany.'
'How'd ye know o' that 'un?' Lewrie asked, much humbled and pale.
'I have my ways, do I not?' Twigg smugly simpered.
'Mmm, d'ye mean there's others ye…?'
'For me to know.' Twigg almost laughed out loud for a rare once. 'And for you to confront in future, Lewrie.'
'Sure it was Theoni,' Lewrie said; it was not a question, really. One thing he was sure of was that Twigg knew what he was talking about, when he finally got round to it.
'Watchers on the house, a street urchin for running messages in my employ always at hand to deliver her correspondence,' Twigg said. 'She don't write her own, ye know… no, she has a cultured personal maidservant for that, who polishes things up, and owns the fine hand.
'Evidently,' Twigg said, reaching inside his double-breasted tail-coat to a breast pocket, and withdrawing one of the poisonous billets-doux, 'your lack of attentiveness to Mistress Theoni Connor of late, and your public sham of respectability for Society the last two years to satisfy Wilberforce and his crowd, prompted her to take desperate measures.'
'Something about Eudoxia,' Lewrie quickly determined. 'She's the only young woman I've been within sniffin' distance, lately. Am I right? Damme, Theoni's little tantrum at Ranelagh Gardens t'other day… desperation?'
'Exactly, Lewrie,' Twigg informed him. 'For here is a fresh one addressed to your wife… one designed to even further infuriate your good… if put-upon… Caroline. The good-scribbling maid was caught red-handed with it, on her way to the posting house so the coach could deliver it to your house in Anglesgreen. We have her confession, are you interested.'
'Theoni knows of this?' Lewrie asked. 'Well, no wonder I've not run into her the last few days. Thought it was our spat, but… ''
'Desperation, indeed, to see her schemes produce so little fruit over the years, and you off at sea, not exactly as diligent as earlier in answering her letters,' Twigg elaborated. 'We have a second, meant for Eudoxia Durschenko… the usual anonymous 'dear friend, you must know,' laying out what an unfaithful cully you are. To deflect her before the girl puts any more stock in you.'
'Hah! Fat lot o' good that'd do!' Lewrie said with a wry laugh. 'Eudoxia's known I'm married since Cape Town, as I said, and her papa already hates me worse than cold, boiled mutton! B'sides, did Theoni have it scribbled in proper English, I doubt either one of 'em could make heads or tails of it.'
'Then why does she seem to run into you so often, Lewrie?' Mr. Twigg sarcastically posed to him. 'And, why… when she does… does she evince such delight to do so, even with her very watchful father at her side… hmmm?'
'Well, er… em,' Lewrie stammered, half intrigued by the sudden possibilities, and half appalled with the image of how dead he'd be should he run the risk. 'Surely, she must see that it's daft. Not to be. Better she takes up with the Prince of Wales, he's int'rested.'
'With 'Florizel'?' Twigg scoffed. 'Now there's a slender reed. Poor fellow… all he wishes is to be liked, to be loved by one and all. Or, merely appreciated. Good a King as he is, George the Third has been saddled with a sorry set of offspring. Oh, there may be some gewgaws and presents from the Heir, but they'd come with social ruin.'
'For actresses and circus performers, that might be good publicity,' Lewrie cynically said, draining the last of his cool coffee and going to the sideboard for fresh.
'You should warn her off, no matter,' Twigg told him, snapping his fingers and pointing to his own empty cup.
'Me? Why me?' Lewrie asked. Talk to Eudoxia, or pour ye bloody coffee, either one! he thought.
'For the good of the Crown, Lewrie,' Twigg told him, impatient to have to explain things to Lewrie, and for more coffee. 'I cannot, for doing so would make it an official matter. The people's love for the Royal Family is paramount to continuing the war effort, and another bloody scandal involving 'Prinnie,' as some are wont to call him, would harm that. Frankly, I serve on sufferance as a partially retired consultant, and to interfere in the Heir's doings would be the ruin of me.'
'But since I'm already ruined, there's no loss?' Lewrie snapped.
'That is pretty much it, yayss,' Twigg drawled, smiling cruelly.
'Mine arse on a band-box,' Lewrie said with a resigned, defeated sigh. He poured Twigg his desired cup, too.
'Hash things out with Theoni… stop her business,' Lewrie said as he sat back down, idly stirring sugar and cream into his own coffee. 'Coach home and confront Caroline with the truth, too? God o' Mercy!'
