The Invasion Year (31 page)

“Didn’t take, though,” Sir Hugo explained. “It turns out that Tidwell was a
very
nasty item, with a taste for more perversion than
I
ever knew existed!” Sir Hugo, in point of fact, had been one of the founding members of the Hell-Fire Club, and knew more than most!

“I rather doubt
that
!” Lewrie shot back with a leer.

“Wish me to continue, hah?” Sir Hugo gravelled, leaning back to one side of his seat. “Fellow was flyin’ false colours, it seems, so it wasn’t more than eight months into their ‘wedded bliss’ than she up and decamped to the family house in London, then to the country, and got her brother t’hire on lawyers. Well, Percy’s in Lords, and their borough is most like a ‘rotten’ one, so their Member in Commons filed her a Bill of Divorcement, quick as ye could say ‘knife.’ Oh, it was just lurid…! Brutality, waste of her dowry, reducin’ her to little more than ‘pin money,’ adultery, demands for carnal acts
no
decent woman should put up with?” Sir Hugo was not quite
drooling,
but he did massage his hands against each other vigourously.

“Soon as hers hit the agenda, Tidwell filed one against her … alienation of affection, refusal of proper congress, and adultery, too,” Sir Hugo related, cackling in glee. “And the charges were the titillatin’ marvel, two years runnin’! She’d’ve had people’s sympathy for her lookin’ elsewhere for affection, seein’ as how she claimed he was poxed to the eyebrows,
and
a secret sodomite, and she feared for her health, but for how
many
other men were alleged, d’ye see, so…”

“That’d make her what, thirty or so?” Lewrie asked.

“About that, perhaps a tad older,” his father said, impatient to continue. “Parliament finally saw things her way, and granted her the divorcement, t’his cost, and she got t’keep all her jewellry and paraphernalia. She’s still in bad odour in Society, but still
in
Society, whilst Tidwell’s retired to his country estates … rantipolin’ ev’rything in sight but his horses and huntin’ dogs, and rumoured t’be so poxed he has t’carry a bell t’warn people off like a leper. ‘Prinny’ back yonder, she and Percy are in his circle, and I heard he’d’ve made a sally at her, ’til the King warned him off. And, I heard that she snubbed him, too … so she must’ve been talked to by one of the palace catch-farts … or has more sense than I imagined of her.”

“D’ye think all the charges were true?” Lewrie asked, intrigued, and finding that those too-snug silk breeches were even snugger in the crutch, of a sudden.

“It’s good odds she and her attorney gilded the lily, but in the main, I expect they got Tidwell to a Tee,” Sir Hugo snickered. “As to Tidwell’s charges, they might be true, too, but he brought it on himself and has no one else t’blame. Why? Fancy your chances with her, what? Ye find her all
that
fetchin’?”

“Fetching, aye,” Lewrie admitted with a wry smile, cocking his head to one side. “But, she’d most-like laugh my sort to scorn, did I try,” he scoffed. “Someone raised so rich and privileged,
born
to the peerage, well … I’m a boot-black in comparison. And, I’m sure that there’s some still chasin’ after her with an eye out for her fortune, so…”

“Know what they say, though,” the old rake-hell rejoined with a nasty cackle, “ye sup on roast beef and lobster mornin’ noon and night … ev’ry now and then bread, cheese, and beer is toppin’ fine, ha ha!”

“So. Where are we bound?” Lewrie asked, noting that their
cabriolet
had just passed through Charing Cross and was bound east for the busy, bustling Strand. “Saint Paul’s for a long kneel-down, and a homily-long prayer from young Reverend Blanding? It appears Westminster Abbey’s out. We’ve long passed that.”

“Don’t know about that part, but
you’re
dinin’ with ’em at that splendid chop-house in Savoy Street you went on and on about, and thankee for tellin’ me of it. I, on the other hand, will coach on home for my townhouse, then dine with a lady I met at the levee, and a
most
handsome mort she is, too! You’ll beg off for me, will you, there’s a good lad.”

“What? Don’t tell me ye made progress with that auburn-haired wench that quickly, with her ‘lawful-blanket’ there!” Lewrie gawped.

“Not her … a ‘grass-widow’ whose husband’s regiment’s been posted to the Kentish coast, in case Bonaparte
does
manage t’get his army cross the Channel. Aha!” Sir Hugo cried as the carriage neared Savoy Street. “Coachman, draw up here, so my son may alight.”

“What? What the Devil…?” Lewrie carped.

“You can whistle up another conveyance once you’ve eat, right?” Sir Hugo said as the assistant coachee got down to open the kerb-side door and lower the folding steps.

“I’m saddled with the Blandings, alone, while you…?” Lewrie fumed.

“Your friends, not mine,” his father said with a snicker, tapping his walking-stick impatiently to force Lewrie to alight.

“I can always count on ye, Father,” Lewrie said once he was on the pavement, heaving a long-suffering, resigned, and I-should-know-better-by-now sigh. “You will always let me
down
!”

“Ta ta, lad!
Bon appétit!
”

*   *   *

Lewrie had changed to light wool breeches that fit more comfortably and a sensible pair of shoes with gilt buckles for his evening out. Lord Percy Stangbourne had swapped slippers for highly polished cavalry boots. “Don’t I look dashin’ and dangerous, hey?” he’d hooted, showing off his elegantly tailored uniform, in which he
did
look very dashing, indeed, and revelled in it.

Lydia Stangbourne came gowned in a champagne-coloured
ensemble
that surprised Lewrie with its lack of translucence. Oh, its under-sleeves were sheer, but it was not as revealing as young ladies, and a fair share of older ones, preferred these days. The top of her gown began almost at the tips of her shoulders, and it
was
delightfully low-cut in the bodice—a grand sight, that, though Lydia was not
amply
endowed—but her gown was rather conservative compared to the rest of the women who dined at Boodle’s. She had seemed happy to see him, and during the coach ride her face had been animated and nigh girlish. Once there, though, that softness had evaporated, and Lydia had worn almost a purse-lipped pout, a royal “we are not impressed” expression.

The Stangbournes—Percy particularly—seemed to be regular customers at Boodle’s, for their party had been greeted with the enthusiasm usually associated with the arrival of a champion boxer or jockey. Liveried flunkies took their hats, walking-sticks, or cloaks with eagerness to serve, and even before they had left the grand foyer for the main rooms, flutes of champagne had appeared. A dining table had been awaiting their arrival, but it had taken nigh ten minutes to reach it, for their entry had turned into what felt like a royal procession. All the young and “flash” sorts, and a fair number of older ladies and gentlemen, had simply
had
to come and greet them with much beaming, bowing, hoorawing, curtsying, and tittering; so many Sir Whosises and Dame Whatsits, Lord So-and-Sos and Lady Thing-Gummies, being introduced to Lewrie—and so many japes and comments passed between them and Percy—that he had felt quite overwhelmed … and, after a bit, irked to stand there like a pet poodle and listen to subjects he knew nothing about sail round his floppy, fuzzy ears! And have them scratched now and again, like “Ain’t
he
a handsome hound, now!” tossed at him.

Another thing that had irked him after a while: scandalous or not, Lydia Stangbourne still drew admirers and “tuft-hunters” by the dozen. He’d lost count of how many young fellows he’d met and shaken hands with, all of whom had looked him up and down and had seemed to dismiss his presence as a potential rival; they all seemed to be civilians, of course, elegantly, stylishly garbed.

And, once returning to their own tables,
laughing
at him behind his back,
sneering
at him for a jumped-up inarticulate “sea-dog,” not worthy to be in
their
select company! His ears had begun to burn.

Lydia had sported that bored, pouty look, as if raised to play “arch,” though she had smiled briefly when greeting admirers and had chuckled over their jests.
What the bloody Hell was I hoping?
Lewrie had thought…’til Lydia had shifted her champagne glass to her left hand and had slipped her right arm into his.
Hullo? She bein’ kind?
he’d speculated, imagining that she had sensed his unease and was just playing the polite hostess, as a
duty
to ease the “outsider’s” nerves!

Once seated, though, she had turned lively, smiling and laughing and seeming as rapt as her brother as Percy dragged tales of derring-do and battle from him, an explanation of his “theft” of those dozen slaves, and the fleet actions he’d participated in. Given a chance to preen, even to a small audience, Lewrie had begun to feel more at ease, as the supper progressed, keeping things light and amusing.

“And are you married, Sir Alan?” Percy had asked. “Even though I hear that many sailors don’t ’til they attain your rank. Was Dame Lewrie unable to attend the levee this morning?”

“My … my late wife, Caroline, was murdered by the French two years ago,” Lewrie had sobered. “We’d gone to Paris, during the Peace of Amiens, a second honeymoon, really…”

“Good God above,
why
?” Percy had demanded, his mouth agape.

“You poor man!” Lydia had exclaimed.

“The shot was meant for me,” Lewrie had told them, laying out how he’d angered Napoleon Bonaparte by presenting him captured swords in exchange for the prized hanger Bonaparte had taken from him after blowing up his mortar ship at Toulon on 1794.

“You’ve
met
the Ogre?” Lord Percy had further cried.

“Only twice, and neither time was enjoyable,” Lewrie had said, having to explain that first encounter long ago, and how he’d refused parole and had had to surrender his sword, to remain with his men and the Royalist French with him, who surely would have been slaughtered on the spot, had it not been for the arrival of a troop of “yellow-jacket” Spanish cavalry to whisk them away to safety.

“Don’t know if it was
really
me and the dead Frogs’ swords, or something else that rowed him, but, he set agents and troops to hunt us down and kill us. We
almost
got clean away, almost into the boat, but, some French marksman…,” Lewrie had tried to conclude, but all the memories had come flooding back, and he had stopped, chin-up and his face hard.

“My most
sincere
apologies for broaching the subject, sir …
but,
to have been face-to-face with the Corsican Tyrant, the Emperor of all the French, well!” Lord Percy had cried, much too loudly, and had proposed a toast, again much too loudly, to Lewrie’s honour. And, by the time for dessert, port, and cheese, the same people who had been introduced once had come to their table for another round of greetings, their names and faces just as un-rememberable as the first time.

Then, with supper done, Lord Percy would not take “no” for an answer ’til they’d made the rounds at Almack’s, and at the Cocoa Tree too, to show Lewrie off and name him to everyone they knew as the hero who had bearded Bonaparte twice, and lived to tell the tale!

Lewrie began to feel like a prize poodle, again, for a whole other reason!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lewrie wished he had begun to play-act yawns and beg off after Almack’s, but there he was in the Cocoa Tree, one of the fastest gaming clubs in London, nodding, bowing, and smiling (a tad forced by then, his smiles) to yet another parcel of simpering “hoo-raws.” Percy was dead-set on entering the Long Rooms to find a game, and Lewrie had to follow along.

“Do you care for a flutter of the cards tonight, Sir Alan?” he asked, craning his neck to find an empty chair and a game he liked.

“I’ve really no head for gambling, mil … Percy,” Lewrie said with a grin and shake of his head. “Got my fingers burned and learned my lesson before I went into the Navy.”

“Are you
sure
you’re English, sir?” Lydia teased, tossing back her head to laugh, her arm under his once more. “Why, wagering is the national disease!”

“Got cured of it,” Lewrie told her, chuckling.

“I wager the wagers Alan makes against the French are deeper than any
I’ve
ever made!” Lord Percy hooted. “Wager
wagers,
hey? Well, you two can support me whilst I take a risk or two. I say, there’s an opening for
vingt-et-un
. Smashing!”