eyed devil glared daggers, and one hand was suspiciously near his waistband.
'I couldn't impose,' Lewrie quickly said.
'Such an expressive language, Russian,' Lord Peter dithered on. 'Tell me, sir… what did you just say?'
'Have to practice acts… rehearse, I tell her,' Papa Durschenko lied, his grin so feral that Peter leaned back a bit in his chair. 'No time for shopping.'
'All that in two words, hah,' Clotworthy said with a shake of his head. 'Impressive.'
'Russian short and direct,' Arslan Artimovich replied.
'Dangerous fellow, her father?' Lord Peter Rushton asked Lewrie, once they'd taken their leave and had repaired to a tavern that served much-needed restorative drink.
'Cut yer throat for tuppence,' Lewrie assured him, between sips of a calming brandy. 'Determined the girl dies a virgin, I think, and most-like'll be in the bed-chamber on her weddin' night, t'see does it go his way… or else.'
'So you haven't, um…?' Rushton asked, amazed.
'Wouldn't even chance it, 'less he croaks first,' Lewrie admitted.
'Oh, rum go,' Clotworthy said with a sigh. 'Still,… the girl does seem took by you, Alan. Even if there's no future in it.'
'Might prove a challenge,' Lord Peter mused.
'Don't even think it, Peter!' Clotworthy cautioned. If anyone in London was familiar with the truly dangerous, it was Chute, and the old devil had put the wind up him. 'Go for the chamin' little whore, instead… the other'un so took with Alan, here.'
'You rogue, sir!' Rushton hooted. 'Yes, I noted she had eyes for you. No wonder we ain't seen him since the trial. A delectable young beauty. Wherever did ya find her, Alan?'
Lewrie didn't want to tell him, of a sudden, even if Tess was only a whore. Oft as he'd sworn that he'd have made a topping pimp…
'Come come, now… don't make me depend on Clotworthy to ferret her out,' Rushton pressed with an expectant leer. 'Which brothel's she in, and what's her fee?'
'Dare ye risk bein' seen in a brothel, Peter?' Lewrie countered. 'The wife, and all… your seat in Lord's, and reputation?'
'Oh, tosh!' Rushton laughed. 'Easier for me than you, old son. Damme, I'm a peer! Ev'ryone knows how things stand 'twixt me and the wife. It's expected of my sort. Did whoring or keeping a mistress on the side make the slightest diff'rence, there wouldn't be the tenth of a quorum left in Lord's… only those who've outlived their cocks, and I sometimes wonder 'bout them!
'Seriously, Alan,' Peter continued, all atwinkle, 'it ain't like we haven't shared and shared alike before. Where can I sample her, and what does she cost?'
' 'Mother' Batson's… a new place in Panton Street,' Lewrie reluctantly told him, knowing that Clotworthy Chute could smoak her out by suppertime, anyway. 'Her name's Tess. New-come from Belfast. Didn't know she was that young, d'ye see… sixteen or seventeen, Eudoxia thought. Two or three guineas'll do.'
She's just a passin' fancy, Lewrie thought, squirming; So why does it irk me t'pass her on?
'A bloody bargain, is she a good ride,' Rushton snickered.
Rich as Peter Rushton, Lord Draywick, was from what was left from his inheritance, and his marriage into a Trade fortune, there was the possibility that he might find Tess a very pleasing diversion, even go so far as to buy her out and set her up as his mistress; 'under his protection,' the saying went. Certainly
Might be best for her, Lewrie considered; A place of her own, with a maid, and a cook. Rich gowns, and jewelry. Some place warmer than that drab little cubicle she has now. Only the one customer to deal with, too. As much security as she could expect… 'til Peter gets tired of her. Might be best, all round. Might be Tess's fondest wish! And, since when did I care a toss for a whore's welfare, her bloody feelings?
'I thought that bloody bell-wether in charge of her baa-lambs hellish-resembled Emma Batson,' Clotworthy exclaimed as if he'd solved a mystery. 'Famous in her youth, she was, and probably has her first shilling. A clever old baggage, with a head for her business as good as any 'fancy man,' I can tell you. Tess, is she? Tess who?'
'Don't know, really,' Lewrie said, shrugging.
'Well, last names hardly matter, do they?' Lord Peter sniggered, his nose in his brandy glass. 'First names, either, 'Dearie' and 'my Joe,' and 'darling' serve just as well. Sixteen or seventeen? Hmm!'
'She's hellish-sweet, and… endearing,' Lewrie said, his eyes fixed on the far wall as he took a sip of his own drink. 'A new-come, as I said.' He almost shook himself to reject that line of thinking. 'There's a supper every evening, for select patrons and the girls of their choice. It ain't a quick place… even though there's another parlour for the walk-ins. Set a quite nice table, really, and… ya meet the finest set o' gentlemen,' Lewrie added with a bark of sardonic amusement.
'Damn my eyes, are you sweet on her, Alan?' Lord Peter Rushton exclaimed, feigning mock horror. 'I do believe you are. Just like ya were at school… the chamber-maids who did for our rooms? Or that tavern wench at the Crown and Cushion, where we always went? Do you recall her, Clotworthy? Betsy, or Judy, or something?'
'Indeed I do, Peter old son,' Clotworthy seconded with a dreamy expression on his phyz. 'Damned impressive set of poonts, she had, as I remember. And a most obligin' mort. Alan here was so besotted with her, he'd have run off with her… had she not been makin' such a good livin' makin' half the students, and a fair number of the faculty, as happy as clams, haw haw! Made me happy, I can tell you, and only one shilling a throw. Oh, those were fine days. Nights, rather!'
'Ten minutes in the tavern's pantry,' Lord Peter hooted, 'with her skirts thrown up, and sitting on an ale barrel… for six pence! Oh, but Alan was always that way. Mad for quim, then in 'cream-pot' love for them.'
Damme, I guess I always was! Lewrie confessed to himself.
'Poor fellow never figured out that likin' 'em ain't necessary, just 'cause he got the leg over,' Clotworthy said, shaking his head in amusement. 'Just throw down yer money, enjoy 'em, and be done, haw haw.'
Damme, but I don't think I like these shits half as much as I used to, Lewrie thought with an uneasy feeling, a tightening of his innards; Right, I've always been a calf-head cully when it comes to the women… whores or proper, no matter. Fine enough friends when we all were lads, but… have I changed? Did they change? Or, never have.
'So, a good ride is she, this Tess creature, Alan?' Clotworthy goggled at him with a knowing leer.
Lewrie squinted with sudden anger for a second, before tamping it down firmly. 'Well, you'd be the best judge of that,' he said instead, slowly drawling his answer. Damme, am I jealous? he wondered.
'Does she play the shy virgin?' Peter queried. 'Or is she game for any place, time, fashion, or orifice, hey? An acrobat, is she?'
Dammit! Lewrie silently fumed, taking time to answer by sipping on his drink; They're like schoolboys, still… civilian schoolboys! A gentleman doesn't tell such! Have I got so old I can't feel chummy with fellow rakehells any longer? Or, have I gotten wiser?
'That's for you to find out, Peter,' Lewrie told him, faking a sly grin, after he had finished the last dollop of brandy in his glass. 'Now, did I have your purse, I'd buy her out and set her up, for she's that pleasing to me.'
'You'd play Pygmalion with her, Alan?' Rushton japed, not noticing his old friend's reticence; it didn't matter a whit to him.
'On her, most-like,' Clotworthy interjected.
'Next time you call at 'Mother' Batson's, you'll put in a good word for me with the 'Abbess'?' Lord Peter asked. 'With the girl, as well? Is her establishment as fine as you say, and sets such a fine table, I might become a regular caller. Panton Street's convenient to Whitehall, and my town-house. Let her know a wealthy patron's coming, hey?' he said with a wink and a leer at his double entendre.
'Well, of course, Peter… what are friends for?' Lewrie said, trying not to grit his teeth or slap the lecher silly; hypocritical as such an act might be, and ruefully chiding himself for being perhaps but a shadow compared to his old compatriots' lascivious natures.
'Then, a glass with you, sir,' Peter insisted, snapping fingers for the waiter to come top them up. Lewrie would have risen and left, but for that offer, which could not be rejected, or be thought of as a 'sneaker.' Despite his distaste, he stayed on.
'Ah, but we're a merry band of rogues,' Clotworthy said with a cheery smile. 'Remember our old motto,
