A King's Commander (36 page)

“Ah ha!” di Silvano barked of a sudden, hands on his hips, and seeming terribly pleased with himself.

Have I stepped in the horse turds, Lewrie thought; again? He's too damn' pleased for my liking. I must have fallen into a trap he's laid, some subtle debater's ruse, or . . . When he'd sailed to Naples, he'd been presented to King Ferdinand in his fried-fish shop, told him a tale of British derring-do that had bucked him up, gotten Naples and the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies into the Coalition. Well, that'd been arranged
sub rosa
long before, but he
had
added the last straw to the camel's load, hadn't he? Perhaps tonight, he could cajole Genoa . . . ?

“I mean . . . what could a united Italian army not do, were their kings and princes of the same mind, sir?” Lewrie added quickly, with a view to backing off.

“Perhaps, Signore Lewrie . . . rid ourselves of Germans, at last?” the senator hinted.

“Rid yourselves of a plague of Frogs,
first,
sir,” Lewrie said. “Then, were you of a mind . . .”

“Even though our days of glory are long gone,
signore?
You say Cincinnatus at his plough. Yet, our modern-day Cincinnatuses will not leave their fields to defend the soil. They wish to rest.” His host almost sneered. “A man of his hands,
and
of his head.
Si,
a modern Marius or Caesar is what we need. But where are we to find him?”

“Well, that's pretty much up to you, sir,” Lewrie allowed.

“Up to me?” di Silvano replied, turning almost teasing. “Up to me personally,
signore?
”

“Well, you and your fellow senators, Signore di Silvano.” Alan shrugged, reaching for another shrimp on his plate, at long last. With a generous dredge through the
kai-t'sap.
“I'd expect you'd know your fellow Italians best.”

“You surprise me, Signore
Lewrie.” The senator beamed elatedly. “You really do. I would not think an Englishman . . .”

“Ah, Your Excellency!” Drake bellowed, finally coming to Alan's rescue through a purposely maddening maze of strollers and wine-bibbers. “Have you and the commander been having a good chat?”

“A most excellent one, Signore
Drake,” di Silvano assured him with a pleased purr. “Though he gives me no reassurances for the poor people of the Riviera, my fellow Genoese. But that . . .”

“But that, Marcello,” Claudia Mastandrea interjected with a
moue
of boredom, and a sulky tone, “is best taken up with the good Signore
Drake, or his
ammiraglio piccolo.
Politics, Marcello!” She pouted. “They bore me. And you must argue with
Comandante
Lewrie . . . a guest!”

“Our squadron commander, you mean,
signorina?
”
Drake amended.

“Signore
Nelson,” she said, turning to him with a sly expression. “
Si,
he is
piccolo.
A
very
little
ammiraglio.
”

Lewrie coughed some
kai-t'sap
up his nose as he snorted in appreciation of her wordplay. Piccolo, he thought; have to remember it! Horatio Piccolo, haw haw!

“
Scusa,
Signore
Lewrie,” di Silvano offered, reaching across to shake his hand right manly and gentlemanly. “My enthusiasm, my concern . . . we must speak again. Of Rome and its past glories. Of a new Rome, and its possibilities. Most intriguing.”

“I should be delighted, Your Excellency.” Lewrie beamed, glad to be free.

“You will allow the
Comandante
Lewrie to escort me, Marcello?” Signorina Mastandrea cajoled. “He is in need of more wine. As am I.”

“But of course,
cara mia,
of course,” di Silvano said magnanimously. “You will be in the care of a fine English gentleman.”

Thankee, Jesus, Alan exulted! No,
wait!
Maybe not, there's . . . well . . . oh, to hell with it!

He put down his plate, offered the crook of his arm to her once around the table, upon which she could rest her forearm and hand.

“I apologize for Marcello,
Signore Comandante,
”
she said, with a delicious tilt of her head in his direction, an intimate, conspiratorial tilt, revealing strands of strawberry-gold blond hair peeking from beneath her high-piled white wig. Huzzah, she
is
a blonde, he smirked! “He must be seen concerned, you know. He has many estates, now taken by the French, many
paisans
depending on him as their protector he cannot help, until the French are driven away. But he must show concern for the welfare of all of the people of the Riviera, since none of this was Genoa's doing. Your embargo, or the French occupation.”

“I quite understand,
signorina.
Though it was a bit touch-andgo there, for a bit.” Lewrie decided to shrug off. “I still don't understand why, though, your senator, and his fellows, won't take steps.”

“To complain against you is all they
can
do, Signore
Lewrie.” She shrugged. “All Marcello can do, for the moment. He is of a mind to resist, he alone of them, but . . . what may one out of many do?”

“You are from the Riviera yourself,
signorina?
”
Lewrie asked as they got to a
spumante
fountain.

“Oh pooh,
signore.
”
She pouted again. “Claudia. I allow you.” “Signorina
Claudia, thankee,” he said with a short bow.

“No, I am not from the Riviera. I am from the north. Bergamo.”

“Pardon me, but . . .” Lewrie snickered. “Wouldn't that make you one of his detestable Germans?”

“Marcello has forgiven me my blood, long ago, Signore
Lewrie,” Claudia whispered close to him, leaning toward him as a waiter handed them their glasses of sparkling wine. Husky, breathy . . . A rare, and costly aroma exuded from her shoulders and bountifully filled bodice, a seductive citron and sandalwood. “He assures me that many clans of the Republic and early Empire were
rufios . . .
mixed with the original Celts. Alexander the Great of Macedonia was of the
celtoi.
So you see, he is
so
forgiving. Of almost anything I do,” she promised him with another husky chuckle, her eyes hooded.

“Er . . .” Alan croaked, wishing he could bite a knuckle to fight his urges; bite
something,
“Even when you tell him he's boresome?” he japed, striving for flippancy.

She tossed back her head and laughed a deep-toned guffaw, not a simpering twit's titter or giggle. “You struck a chord,
signore.
Alan Lewrie? I call you Alan, as you call me Claudia,
si? Grazie.
A very
Roman
chord. Come. Walk with me, while we sip our wine.”

He offered his arm again and they began a languid stroll toward the far salon wing, against the tide of guests drifting into the salon readied for dancing, circling the rotunda counterclockwise.

“Marcello is of
very
ancient family, you see?” Claudia imparted, walking so close their hips brushed, sending a shock through him. “Of a patrician, senatorial family since the days of Rome's first wall. So what is more apt, that he is a senator now? The di Silvanos come from the Silvanii, a prominent Roman clan. Many senators, tribunes, and generals. Pagans, even after the reign of Constantine. Or so he tells me. You will see how fond Marcello is of Rome's ancient glories. Statuary, the picture gallery, the armory that holds so many things he has had unearthed, or purchased from others. Perhaps the library, at the far end . . . ?” she cooed, as promisingly as a new bride after the last of the wedding guests had been shooed away.

Dear Christ, I'm
trying,
he groaned! Some credit in that, hey? “So he surely must be upset that Italy is fragmented, controlled by Austrians, not what it once was. Or could be,” Lewrie temporized. “And he wishes there would come a new Caesar? Himself, perhaps?”

“Ah no, he is not a professional soldier,” Claudia pouted quite prettily as they neared the first massy double doors leading from the rotunda to that dimly lit far wing. “But he believes he might be the new Cato. The one who might arouse the passion for a unified Italy . . . a New Republic . . . in people's hearts. A liberated Italy, a power to be reckoned with. There is a map, in the library . . . you must see it. Do you wish to see it, Alan? A map of what might be. Should be.”

She had come around a little before him, looking up in his eyes, no longer veiled in her meaning or her carriage.

“Uhm . . . the dance,
signorina,
”
Alan flummoxed. “Isn't it just about to . . . ?”

“Oh, pooh.” She breathed in a sultry, silken mutter. “You are more interested in a silly dance or two, than in allowing me to display Marcello's most-prized treasures to you?”

He looked down at
two
of 'em, in a hellish quandary. Firm, and big as bloody pineapples, or coconuts, shifting up and down along with her every deep breath, larboard or starboard as she swayed sideways as if keeping time with her own dance.

Christ on a Cross, he begged; just a
little
help here! Didn't bring my cundums ashore o' purpose, just in case some mort was just
too
temptin' . . . oh my God, look at her . . . !

The intricately pleated and ruched folds of her already strained bodice
un
pleated, as two proud nipples hardened and puckered behind a single layer of cloth—all that stood between him and bliss. Lewrie tore his gaze upward to her face, to a smile that seemed to promise everything, those amber eyes going so wide . . .

“Perhaps, uhm . . .” He coughed, unable to look away, mesmerized. “'Tis been so long since I've danced, d'ye see . . . enjoy it, rather, and . . . two years or more in active commission, and a short refit back home. The wife and I . . . ah . . .” Hmm . . . didn't hurt so much to say . . .

By God I
do
have self-control, he exulted! Lookit! I'm turnin' down the bounciest quim ever I did see! See, God . . . morals?

“We had no chance to dance at Portsmouth. And, with our kiddies along . . .” he felt emboldened to add. “I would request you save me at least the one turn around the floor,
signorina.
For a

wondrous memory of Genoa, but . . . perhaps we should enter the salon. And dance?”

“So honorable,” she whispered, so softly he had to lean to her to hear. “So decent an English gentleman,” Claudia crooned, eyes wet in wonder. She glided a half step to him, her breasts brushing at his shirtfront and waistcoat buttons, her lips open in a half smile, her eyes going even wider and more besotting. Within inches of a first kiss, her lips opening. And Lewrie knew he was a lying hound, after all.

God, just a dab o' backbone, he pleaded, ready to succumb, in spite of his best efforts; I'm a cunt-struck cully, always was, always will be, I'm tryin' t'help meself, so where's yer . . . ?

“Ahem, Commander Lewrie?” A very welcome voice intruded behind him, a very plumby, cultured English voice!

Thankee Jesus, Alan thought, whirling in alarm, and an immense relief. Which turned to wide-eyed amazement, seasoned with just the
slightest
dash of terror, when he beheld his rescuer.

How the Devil'd
he
get here? He gawped. And should I be glad or not.

“Allow me to name myself to you, sir.” The impossibly tall and skeletally lean old beak blathered on quickly, stalking up to offer a hand to be shook. Thin hair brushed back severely, above a weathered face that was all angles and hollows in the cheeks, temples, and eyes. Agate-y buzzard's eyes that glinted hard and merciless as gunflints over a long hawk's nose. “Simon Silberberg, sir. Your servant, sir. From Coutts's Bank, in London?” he purred as he shook Alan's quite-nerveless hand.

“Mister . . . Silberberg, sir,” Lewrie continued to gawp, clapping his astonished mouth shut.

“Agent of the bank, sir,” Silberberg rattled on. “In Genoa on business, don't ye know . . . commercial interests . . . well, when I heard we were both invited to the same ball, Commander Lewrie, I took it 'pon myself to make my acquaintance of you. Hoping we might meet . . . your solicitor Mister Matthew Mountjoy mentioned you to me, just before I sailed? Wished me to convey his greetings. Do you have a moment, sir? Just the one triflin' moment. Took it 'pon myself, sir, to list ev'ry bank customer in the Mediterranean, make them familiar with me, impart details of new services for serving officers on foreign stations.” The lean old fellow in his “ditto” suit of somber black almost whinnied in shy urgency, playing the perfect overeducated, underemployed fool of a tradesman. “Can't hope to rise in Coutts's sir, 'less . . .”