Dewey Lambdin - The King

She is getting a little long in tooth, Alan told himself. His putative mistress was getting on for thirty. There were the first hints of wrinkles around her mouth, kissable as it was. The first crow's feet around her peculiarly dark green eyes, bright as they were still. Or perhaps, it was because she was available for his pleasure so little of the time.

In the beginning, when he'd run into her at a supper dance back in the summer, it had been intriguing to have her again, to pick up where they'd left off on Antigua. And having her free, with another man to pay her keep, and enjoying her between the magistrate's visits, with one ear to the hallway and the latch was exciting, too.

"Just as well," Alan decided. "Come to think on it, I was getting a trifle bored with her."

"Yew say somethin', sir?" Cony asked from the other room.

"Just maundering, Cony; pay me no mind," Alan called back;

"Aye, sir."

Dolly had been so grateful for his assistance, and his money which kept her during the war. She'd made a real shore home for him, an activity he strongly suspected she'd want to do again, if he had enough money to support her as he once had. Dolly Fenton was at the upper end of marriageable age, and her magistrate wasn't doing her much good in that regard. Only the most fascinating widows ever got a second man to take them on, he knew. The best Dolly could hope for was someone incredibly rich to keep her on the side, as her magistrate did. Someone titled, who could keep a mistress openly, care for her all his life and leave her well provided for when he turned up his toes.

Damn hard lot for most women, Alan thought, folding the letter up with a sense of finality. Wonder what Caroline Chiswick's lot's to be? American Loyalist, not a hundred pounds for her "dot" if she did marry. Country girl, even lovely as she is. Service with some family around Guildford? Married to some pinchbeck "Country-Harry" and up to her ankles in dirty children and sheep the rest of her life? God, what a thought, he shivered with more than cold.

"That be all, sir?" Cony asked.

"Aye, Cony. You go caulk."

"Tomorrow's me day off, sir," Cony reminded him. "If there's anythin' you'd be a'wantin' afore I go in the mornin', sir?"

"Hmm," Alan pondered, tossing Dolly Fenton, and her letter, on the coals. "I'll have a couple of letters for you to run about the town. One to St. Clements Street, to the Chis-wicks."

"The Chiswick brothers 'ere in London, sir?" Cony brightened.

"And the mother and Mistress Caroline, too. You tell 'em I sent you, and I expect you'd want to visit them as well after all we went through during the siege."

"That'd be wondrous fine, sir! I liked the Chiswicks!"

"And there'll probably be a dram or two in it for you, and some of the mother's ginger snaps. I'll leave the letters on the tray by the door," Alan promised. "Tell one of the housemaids to do for me, so you can depart early as you like."

"Aye, thankee, sir."

"And I expect you'd be needing some cash, hey?" Alan teased his longtime hammockman, wardroom and cabin servant. "Can't make a grand show with the young ladies without a shilling or two."

He dug out his purse and gave Cony his four shillings.

"Thankee, sir, thankee right kindly, sir," Cony said, pocketing the coins and almost skipping down the hall to his own bed belowstairs with his week's wages ready to burn a hole in him.

"Damme," Alan spoke to himself aloud (a habit he'd developed in those few weeks he'd inhabited the captain's great cabins aft in Shrike), "I don't believe I've been home this early in weeks. And by myself, at that. What a novelty it is!"

He trailed into the bed-chamber and shucked his street clothes for a silk nightshirt, and a dressing gown thick and heavy enough to serve as a horse blanket. Sleet rapped on the panes, and the glass was frosted almost opaque as a muscovy-glass lantern on the windows.

Alan surveyed his little kingdom, the first home of his own he had ever had that the Navy or his father hadn't provided. He'd had it repainted a cheery pale yellow before he moved in, with snowy-white wood work. The mantel and hearth were milk-veined grey marble-the genuine article instead of some painted slate most builders tried to foist off on the unsuspecting. There were some nature scenes hanging on the walls, the anonymous sort of thing sketched on some aristocrat's Grand Tour of the Continent. Roman ruins, Greek temples, viaducts with tall poplars lining narrow roads, almost awash in happy peasantry and well-rendered animals of indeterminate breed- cattle, mostly. There was a copy of some Frog artist's imaginings of a Sultan's harem, though the women weren't as Junoesque as the classics depicted them. Alan suspected the copyist had used some slimmer Covent Garden whores as models. And he wasn't so sure but that the one reclining on the couch in the foreground wasn't 'Change Court Betty, who had been one of the first whores he'd ever sprung money for. Once he saw it being loaded into a cart to be auctioned off with the rest of a household's belongings, he had to have it. Besides, the painting was so inspiring, and a harem had been one of his favorite fantasies since puberty.

A portrait of his mother Elizabeth hung on the inside wall of the sitting room near the door, over the sofa. His granny had given it to him on his visit to Wheddon Cross. A portrait of himself as a naval lieutenant hung beside it. He'd had one done for his granny, and had thought a second copy could always come in handy as a present for some future amour.

The furnishings were quite good-half London was always selling up and moving to stay a step ahead of creditors, or buy their way out of debtor's prison, so the selection had been quite varied. Deep blue velvet, sprigged with bright vines and flowers, covered the sofa and two upholstered high-backed chairs. The tables and exposed wood shone with bee's wax and lemon oil, and no one hardly ever noticed the odd nick or scratch the previous owners had caused. And he had the bench before the fire, and the two side chairs as well. The dining table, sideboard and wine cabinet made the far end of the room a cheery, cozy place to eat or play cards. Cards, mostly. The most fashionable young men dined out at clubs or chop-houses, sending down to an ordinary for meals if at home. And if he did have to entertain and feed guests, he could send Cony out shopping, and trust the kitchen in the basement of the lodging house to come up with something presentable, though he did it seldom.

He could maintain this lifestyle for some time yet, if he was careful with his money. Three hundred pounds a year had been enough to keep a single gentleman in style before the war, and with no need for a horse or coach of his own, and only the one servant, two hundred would do now. He could not purchase every book that struck his fancy. Could not entertain lavishly. Would have to watch for bargains instead of spending like a lord on the Strand.

Oh, he'd had to buy plates, saucers, silverware and serving utensils for the first time. Stock that wine cabinet. In his reverie of accounting his possessions, he opened it and poured his glass of brandy back up to full. Yes, it could be a good life, he decided. Best he'd lost Dolly Fenton, after all. She'd have turned expensive.

"Speaking of Dolly," he said aloud again with a weary mutter.

He had notes to write. One to Dolly, a parting shot to salve his ego. One to the Chiswicks, and Caroline, laying the ground for a proper reunion with her. And one to Lady Delia, to let her know she could expect him by early afternoon, if the weather would allow.

Mwack. A carping little sound, half trill in the back of the throat. Then the rustle of cleverly parted bed-curtains, and a heavy weight hitting the mattress down near the foot of the bed.