'I do, indeed, Ma'am,' Lewrie told her as another liveried servant took his hat, boat-cloak, and walking-stick, and gave him a claim chit.
'I see by your cloak you are a seafaring gentleman, sir,' the older woman said.
'The Navy, Ma'am… just back from years at sea,' Lewrie said.
'And God bless our 'wooden walls,' ' she said back, smiling at last, 'though… years at sea, my my. You sound insatiable.'
'As we say of those who do not stand evening watches, Ma'am, I would like 'all night in,' and a morning departure,' Lewrie told her. 'When the sun's above the yardarm, and the streets are safer.'
'Now that would require a guinea, sir.' The older woman leered. 'Come into our parlour, take seat, and have a glass of something, where you may find your heart's delight.' She offered not an arm to steer him, but a palm to be crossed. Once a pound note, and a silver shilling, had been placed in that palm, she did take him by the arm and lead him into a much larger room.
Where the music was, where other men lolled at their ease with drinks in their hands and young women by their sides; where a waiter with a tray of glasses circulated, and offered him champagne.
'Bottle in the room will be extra, when you're ready' was said in a soft voice. Another pound note went to the manservant, who winked acknowledgement, then drifted away.
Lewrie took a look around and chose a short settee, a bit away from the others. Even as he settled himself, two men made their choice and were led by their Cyprians to the grand old staircase.
Damned if one of the men wasn't Sir George Norman, K.C., the one who had prosecuted him just weeks before, now minus his court periwig… and his rectitude! Sir George jolted to a halt and gawped at him, stupefied for a brief moment, before Lewrie raised his glass in salute and smiled; to which Sir George performed a slight shrug, and displayed a worldly-wise smile, before following his doxy to the stairs.
And damned if the fellow with him wasn't a Member of Commons, a fellow noted for being in the 'progressive,' reforming, and moralising faction. By the gay and bawdy interplay 'twixt Sir George, his choice of Poll, and the other couple, it didn't appear as if they'd be taking separate rooms, either!
'Do you have any preferences, sir?' the older woman in the towering wig enquired after she had seen the foursome up the stairs with fond wishes. She sat beside Lewrie on the short settee, hands in her lap as prim as a vicar's wife at high tea. 'We boast of ladies to every taste. Dark and exotic from the West Indies or Africa, perhaps? Girls worthy of a rajah's harem in India or the Far East? Old, stout… slim and young… dark or fair? Whatever is your fondest wish… short of a child, of course… Here, you may find your heart's desire. And all skilled in every aspect of the pleasurable arts,' she said with many a simper and sly grins.
'Well, hmm…' Lewrie paused, colouring a bit, for it had been years since he'd had to visit a commercial establishment. Christ, wasn't it Charleston, way back in the American Revolution? Or with Cashman in Port-au- Prince, in '98? Had no need o' brothels, he told himself; not with so many willin' sorts about.
'Slim and fair'd be nice,' Lewrie told the 'Mother Abbess' at last, 'as English as plum pudding… and, as sweet.'
'Then I have the perfect one for you, sir,' the woman said, rising to her feet and beckoning to a girl in the far corner near the musicians, who was by herself and nodding dreamily in time to the melody. 'Tess, my dear… come and meet our guest, the naval gentleman.'
The girl seemed almost to jerk from her pleasant musings, as if waking from sleep at dawn. She sprang to her feet with a shy and winsome smile before remembering her 'lessons' in grace, then crossed the parlour to join them in a well-schooled glide. It was a good thing the parlour was well-warmed by two fireplaces, for she wore only a thin and silky chemise, cinched round the waist with a pale blue ribbon, with a darker blue dressing gown over that, un-sashed, so it peeked open with each step to show off her low-heeled shoes, her white silk stockings tied above the knees, and now and then showed off her slim ankles and thighs… though she did keep her hands close to the laced edges of the dressing gown as if wishing to fold it snugger and less revealing.
'Tess, this is, ah… no names are necessary, are they? But he is one of our naval heroes,' Mrs. Batson (for surely it must be she) airily said by way of introduction. 'Sir, this is Tess, new-come with us by way of Belfast. Not quite English, as you said, but now that we are all British, hmm?'
'Honoured t'meet you, Tess,' Lewrie said, rising to greet her, to give her a short bow from the waist.
'Yer servant, sir,' Tess replied, dipping him a graceful curtsy.
'Will ye join me in a glass of champagne, my dear?' Lewrie bade.
'The gentleman requests the rest of the night, Tess,' the older woman said in a soft coo, to which Tess gave a grateful, relieved grin. 'I leave you to your pleasures and amusements, Tess… sir. Do take joy,' Mrs. Batson wished them, then glided away.
Lewrie took the girl's hand and led her to a seat on the settee, then sat down beside her. A second later, the manservant was back with a fresh tray of glasses of champagne for them both.
New-come to us, mine arse, Lewrie cynically thought; Sweet and young she may look, but… they might've sold her virginity to one o' the highest bidders, the last six months runnin'!
She was pretty, though; not painted up or tarted up with artifice, for she had no need for rouge or paints. Pretty in a country way, like a maidservant to a rural squire's house, a goose-girl or milking maid one might meet in a village on market day.
She had a nice oval face with a high forehead, a quite cute nose, and a smallish mouth, with a bit of an overbite that gave her face the sweetest seeming innocence. Her eyes were dark-green-hazel, and her sandy-brown hair, with the faintest hint of strawberry red, was parted missishly simple in the centre of her head, gathered loosely with ribbon at the nape of her neck, and fell in long, lazy curls, with a few wispy strands either side of her face.
'Well, I s'pose I could reveal that my first name's Alan, without spillin' any Crown secrets,' he said, grinning, by way of beginning.
'And ye're really a Navy officer?'
'A Post-Captain,' Lewrie confided.
'Whatever that is, sir,' she said, with another shy grin.
'Warships are Rated,' Lewrie casually explained to her. 'Now, Admiral Nelson's new ship, the San Josef, which he made prize at the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent years ago, is a First Rate of ninety-eight or an hundred guns.' He stretched his legs out a little and put one arm on the back of the settee, shifting to face her. 'Anything below the Rates, a Lieutenant may command, or a Commander, but when you get to a frigate of the Sixth Rate, with more than twenty guns, that's what Admiralty calls an official 'Post' ship, and only a full Captain will command her. Hence… 'Post' Captain. I've had two frigates so far, Proteus was a Sixth Rate of thirty-two guns, and my last was Savage, a Fifth Rate of thirty-six guns.'
'Oh, an are ye goin' t'th' Baltic with Admiral Nelson, then?' Tess enthused, shifting more to face him, too, 'Will ye be beatin' th' BeJesus outta th' Roosians, and such?'
'Speakin' o' Crown secrets!' Lewrie scoffed, almost hooted, in point of fact. 'Why, everyone in England-and ev'ry enemy spy!-must know that, by now. But, no… I'm without a ship, at present. I had t'give up Savage before Christmas. There were some… civilian things t'see to ashore, so another captain has her now. Damn his eyes.'
'Ooh, I think I know who ye are!' Tess whispered excitedly, and squirmed a little bit closer still, almost jouncing on her bottom in sly glee. 'Damme if ye're not that Alan Lewrie wot's been in all th' papers, are ye not!'
'Guilty… of that, at least,' Lewrie confessed with a teasing touch of his finger to her lips, then to his own with a shussh sound.
Gettin' bags o' use from that 'un, he thought; Guilty… or not! Dined out on it for weeks. Ha-bloody-ha.
'Yer secret's safe with me, Captain… Alan,' Tess teased, in return. 'Mum's th' word.' They clinked glasses and drained them and waved for refills as the girl wriggled even closer, under the arch of his arm, with her warm hip and thigh against him. 'Don't know as I've ever… been introduced to a real hero before. Oh, officers an' such from some regiment or t'other, or so they claimed, but…' She checked herself with a pretty moue, a shrug, and a toss of her hair, as if talk of previous clients was discouraged by 'Mother' Batson and those bully-bucks of hers. After all, the illusion was the thing.
'Soldiers, by God,' Lewrie sneered. 'Pack o' cod's-wallops, the lot of 'em. They buy their commissions, whilst Navy men have to work t'gain ours.'
