Should the gallant Admiral who late entered the Temple of Hymen be sent to sea again, he will leave his sheet anchor behind him.
Which smirking line made Lewrie wonder if the writers at The Morning Post were referring to Nelson, as well; hadn't that worthy left Emma Hamilton behind to hoist his flag in the San Josef?
Wonder who writes this drivel? Lewrie pondered; And how may I get in touch with one of 'em, an' put a flea in his ear?
He supposed that somebody, perhaps a great number of somebodys, fed juicy and lurid tidbits of scandal and gossip to the paper, for The Post, and several other of the dailies, seemed to be marvellously well informed, with many of their racier items printed up the morning after the event, not days or weeks later, so they must have an host of tattlers and informers.
Informers, hmm… Lewrie thought. Zachariah Twigg possessed an army of informers, though he dreaded going to that well too often; he was already too 'beholden' to that top-lofty old bastard. Lewrie also imagined that a clumsy call upon the offices of The Post would result in gales of laughter, and an item mocking his naпvetй printed the very next day. Yet there must be some way to expose Theoni's scandalous letters.
'Where does The Post get all this drivel?' Lewrie said as the waiter poured him a fresh cup of coffee and took his order for fried eggs, a pork chop, and grated potatoes.
'There's thousands o' waggin' tongues, sir,' the waiter replied with a snicker, 'an' Grub Street's full o' scribblers livin' hand t' mouth, in need o' dirt. Don't work for the papers, direct, d'ye see. Might not eat, do they not git a morsel t'write up an' flog t' which ever paper'll take it. Most of 'em make their livin's off the tracts an' such. Hard-fry yer eggs, sir, or do ye prefer 'em softer?'
Grub Street, hmm… Lewrie mused as he stirred sugar and some rather dubious-looking 'fresh cream' into his coffee; didn't they do all those bloody tracts 'bout me for Wilberforce and his crowd? All those anti-slavery things?
While he was no longer the subject of almost-daily printings, the campaign against slavery in the public mind, and the halls of Parliament, continued, with earnest hawkers on every street corner. All it might take would be for him to accept one of the damned things, see who had run it up, and call upon the printer… to offer his gratitude for all his efforts on his, and the Abolitionists', behalf, ha ha! If one of the scribblers could be named, he could approach him. A bit of hemming and hawing as to how one might expose a woman who had caused a British hero's wife so much pain… carefully leaving out the fact of said woman bearing said hero's illegitimate child, of course!… with an authentic anger, which he figured he could manage to convey.
Hmm, with a hint of a public scandal to come? Lewrie wondered; something right out in the open, like his scrambling from her sight at Ranelagh Gardens, he imagined with a wince of chagrin, to make it even juicier a story.
He took a sip of coffee and frowned as he considered how this plan might go awry. Am I devious enough t'pull this off? he thought; Never have been, before! Dim bastard, most people think me. Yet…!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Think nothing of it, Captain Lewrie,' Mr. Leaver, the rotund, ink-smudged proprietor of the printing business told him with a laugh. 'You did us proud, this past year, with all the tracts and chapbooks ordered. Though, 'tis rare for the subject of our firm to come calling with appreciation, ha ha! More like, with an injunction, d'ye see.'
'Reverend Wilberforce and his compatriots did us all proud, as I see it, Mister Leaver,' Lewrie replied, 'with all the financial support. And the well-written articles placed in the newspapers.'
'Well, the texts were not our doing,' Leaver told him as he poured them both companionable cups of warming tea. In the back half of the firm, past a high railing, printing presses creaked and clacked, like to drown out normal conversation, and everyone but Mr. Leaver seemed to be deeply stained and splattered black; the proprietor was nigh-immaculate by comparison.
'The same person who provided the, uhm… copy to you wrote the newspaper items, as well, I s'pose?' Lewrie idly wondered aloud; trying for idle, anyway. 'I did notice a certain… similarity in tone.'
God help me, does he ask for specifics, Lewrie thought, wishing he could cross fingers for luck against that eventuality.‹
'Not exactly sure, Captain Lewrie,' Mr. Leaver allowed, ruminating with a faint frown. 'I usually never met the writers. The text was delivered by someone with the Abolitionist Society, and where they got it was anyone's guess. Now, there was Missuz Denby, who writes for the papers, who also came in with anti-slavery articles about you. She'll write for anybody. Sometimes the most scandalous flummery, ah-hmm.'
'Gossip and such, like in The Morning Post?' Lewrie asked, with rising hope, and striving to not look hopeful.
'Hmpfh!' was Mr. Leaver's opinion of such. 'Missuz Denby styles herself the doyenne of the 'Quality's' doings… though she writes under the pseudonym of 'Tattler.' Poor thing. 'Twas her late husband, God rest him, was a printer like me, and a tract writer, and not a bad hand when it came to turning a phrase, I'll give him that, but… once he'd passed on, Missuz Denby lost the business, and has had to live by her wits, since. Hardly a business for a woman, hey? At least she gained enough from the sale of the presses and such to keep body and soul together. Would have gone under in a year, had she not. Women simply do not have the proper head for business.'
'I wonder how she manages to gather her information. I've seen her articles under 'Tattler,' and she seems remarkably well informed,' Lewrie said, even if he'd never clapped 'top-lights' on that by-line before in his life.
'Attends everything,' Mr. Leaver said with a shake of his head. 'Brags that she's on cater-cousin terms with half the maids and footmen in London, and that rich and titled ladies slip her gossip all the time.'
'Why, if she attends everything, I must have run across her,' Lewrie pretended to gape in astonishment.
'Can't miss her, with all that red hair. Why, speak of the Devil, if that's not her heading into Chester's shop, just cross the street this very minute,' Leaver declared.
Lewrie turned to espy a very chick-a-biddy dumpling of a woman, quite short, but done up in the latest fashionable colours of lavender and puce, and sporting one of those pillow-like 'Pizarro' bonnets atop a towering old-fashioned mountain of vividly red hair.
'Good Christ!' Lewrie muttered.
'See what I mean?' Mr. Leaver said, chuckling.
'Well, thanks again for all your good services, sir, and I will take my leave,' Lewrie announced, slurping up the last of his tea and doffing his hat on his way out the door with undisguised haste. He had a gossip-monger to deal with, and time was of the essence.
'Your pardons, Ma'am, but might you be Mistress Denby?' Lewrie enquired with his hat to his breast, and bestowing upon her a gallant bow as he did so; to which the startled-looking woman replied with a quick, dropped curtsy. 'The one who writes under the name of…?'
'Well, damme!' Mrs. Denby yelped. 'You're 'Black Alan' Lewrie, to the life! Oh, sir!' she gushed as she dipped him an even deeper, and longer-held, curtsy… even if she had to brace herself with her furled parasol. She rose at last, looking as if she had tears in her eyes behind the hexagonal spectacles perched on the end of her nose. 'Noble Captain Lewrie! Courageous Captain Lewrie! Oh, but it is my greatest honour to meet you at last! I could but catch the briefest glimpse of you, 'til your recent trial, o' course. I tried my best to get close enough to you once 'twas over, to receive but a mere press of your hand, in passing. Damme! Might you grant me the favour of an interview? A round dozen papers would bid for it, damme do they not!'
'I was led to understand you wrote many of the Abolitionist chapbooks and tracts, regarding my case… '' Lewrie began to say.
'I felt it the greatest privilege of my life, sir!' Mrs. Denby loudly declared. 'I still do… write their tracts decrying slavery, d'ye see my meaning, Captain Lewrie,' she said with a nervous laugh, all but fanning herself.
'You did me a magnificent service, Mistress Denby, for which I am eternally grateful,' Lewrie told her, clapping his hat back on his head at last. 'I just spoke with Mister Leaver, over yonder, to give him my thanks, and enquired of him who wrote such moving things about me, He told me, and then, like a Jack-in-the-Box, up you pop, ha ha!'
'Fortuitous, indeed, Captain Lewrie,' Mrs. Denby gladly replied. 'And I am quite honoured… ever the more
