Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Coat

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

’You're going because you are despicable, and I'll not have the Willoughby name tied to anything scandalous.’

’As if it isn't already?" Alan muttered. ’Gentlemen's vices, discreetly handled, as befits a gentleman. Not like the git of a twopenny tart who shows the dirt of the gutter every time he opens his lips. And you want to go as a gentleman. Damn what you want.’

’Damned right I do.’

’Alright, Alan." His father relented suddenly, turning so mild Alan was immediately put on his guard for some high-handed move. "One hundred pounds a year. On certain conditions. ’

‘In that case, make it guineas." Alan scowled, leery.

His father tried to stare him down. Alan didn't back down. Sir Hugo finally nodded his assent. Pilchard began to scribble on the document on the desk, muttering to himself as he found room to add the amount, which gave Alan satisfaction. Pilchard presented his amended work to Sir Hugo, who nodded his approval. ’Now sign the damned thing and get your guineas.’

Alan was released from Morton's grasp to free his arms, and took the excuse of massaging feeling back into his arms to take the time to read the document, looking for traps and pitfalls. No more claim to being a Willoughby… that's no loss, is it? Out on my bare arse with one hundred guineas a year remittance. I still think he's gone smash! I was down for five hundred per annum, last time I snuck a look at the will. Leave the City, leave England. I wasn't expecting much more if the old bastard had dropped to hell, anyway. Second sons can't expect much, and God knows Gerald wouldn't give me a dilberry off his fundament, much less a rouleau of guineas once the old boy croaked. What? Hull-oh! "Here, what's this bit about mother's estate?" he asked. ’She didn't have one, did she? She died penniless, you said.’

’That is a legal form only." Pilchard said primly. ’Now I see… you never told me anything about her except she was pretty and dead. Her people have money, do they?’

‘And just what estate do you think a bawd could leave her bastard when she was doing it upright in doorways just before she died?" Sir Hugo sneered, which was something he was right good at. "Explain it to him, Pilchard.’

’Yes, explain it to me, Mister Pilchard.’

’Miss Elizabeth's parents are still alive," Pilchard began. If Alan had had eyes for his father at that point, he would have been amazed to see eyebrows climb for heaven. "They are desperately poor wretches but still with us. They have, for many years, tried to find someone to take them to court to sue Sir Hugo for support, knmving that he bad taken you in. We sent them fifty pounds per annum to keep them satisfied. We do not wish to have them known as part of the family. Or you." He did not add that Alan could be considered an heir through his mother's side. "To spare Gerald and Belinda any legal difficulties upon their inheritance, we included this clause. You shall receive your hundred guineas, as they get their money, as long as you live, for much the same reasons.’

’Better I had left you in your squalor than claim you as mine in the parish register." Sir Hugo busied himself pouring another morning brandy. "It's all a formality to spare us your presence in future. That's it. Now sign the damned thing and be quick about it before I lose my patience and summon the watch and to hell with the Willoughby name.. ‘.

Alan quickly read to the bottom of the long page, noting that his father was still to be his guardian, though he was banished. Much like what some of Alan's wilder friends had faced: exile and frigid relations. Much like living under the old fart's roof! "And what do I do after I sign? Have you arranged that, too?’

‘Overseas would be best.’

’Who pays my way? And what do I do once I get there?’

‘Pilchard?" Sir Hugo snapped, turning his back on things. "To make your disappearance from society credible, and without throwing any light on this despicable incident, we could not have you transported, or 'prenticed, without comment being made.’

’Thank bloody Christ for that, anyway. And I'm to go as a gentleman?" Alan pressed, uneasy still. "Yes, but as a Lewrie, not a Willoughby," the solicitor told him. Right, it's the anny for me. This is going to cost him dear. An ensign's commission must go for at least four hundred pounds nowadays, even in a poor regiment. To buy my colors and my kit will have to cost nigh a thousand pounds…

That meant most likely that he would soon be in the American colonies, facing constant danger from Red Indians and lawless Rebels. But there was a chmice he could prosper; he could ride well, he could fence (he'd already dueled once and won handily) and he was a crack shot at game. With one hundred guineas in addition to his anny pay he could get by, barely. Certainly, they would not choose a fashionable regiment for him, so he would not have to worry about high mess bills. Besides, there were damned few fashionable regiments fighting the war; they were still parading and wenching at home. As a soldier, a gentleman ensign, he could still carouse with a pack of young bucks as much as he pleased. ’Very well," he said carefully. "If you foot the bill for my kit and my commission." He was delighted to see the involuntary responses from both his father and Pilchard. What a discovering little slyboots I am to see to the heart of it, he told himself. "Oh, we shall indeed," his father agreed.

Alan leaned over the desk and took the prof erred quill from Pilchard's outstretched hand. He signed his name to the document and stood back up, waiting while Pilchard sanded the wet ink and glared at him in a prissy, satisfied way. When Sir Hugo smiled broadly, Alan was filled with a sudden foreboding. ’Well, I wish to express my gratitude for all you've done for me, Father. Up 'til now, mind.’

’Piss on your thanks, boy.’

’Need me anymore? No? Well, I shall go pack then. ’

‘That has been done for you." Sir Hugo told him. "You'll not spend another hour under my roof.’

’You will surely give time to gather a few keepsakes-’

‘That has been done as well. Including your hidden money.

I am sure there won't be a dry eye in Drury Lane when word gets out you've gone. Your wastrel friends will think you all brave and noble. Quite unlike you, but we have to maintain appearances. You were born a low bastard in a knocking shop, but thankfully you're no longer my bastard to worry about. Once you leave here, you're welcome to go to hell in your own way.’

’As are you, Father. And what regiment am I due for?’

‘Regiment? Oh, yes. Morton, have that Captain Bevan come up, would you?" The mysterious guest that Alan had seen by the parlor fireplace entered the room a moment later, no longer tented by his dark blue cape. The stranger wore white breeches and waistcoat, a dark blue coat with white turnbacks at cuff and collar, trimmed heavily in gold, with gold buttons that bore fouled anchors. "The Navy." Alan was suddenly aware of what waited for him. "Sweet Jesus, no! Not the bloody Navy. I'd… I'd sooner go to Ireland. Even Bedlam-’

‘I am so pleased by your reaction. Captain Bevan shall take you to Portsmouth, where you shall enter the King's service as a midshipman, a gentleman volunteer. He shall supervise the purchase of your kit, and see you into a suitable vessel.’

’You are now under King's Regulations and the Articles of War, boy," Captain Bevan told him. "Desertion from my custody is a hanging offense. To prevent that I have brought my coxswain with me.’

That petty officer stood in the doorway, a solid block of lowbrowed elephantine muscle with a devilish black expression on his face. He wore a brace of imposing pistols in the waistband of his loose striped sailor's trousers, and a heavy cutlass hung on a baldric over his shoulder. His hands dangled loose, near enough to draw his personal choice at a moment's notice, and while he might appear slow to make up his mind just which instrument he preferred under a particular circumstance, once committed he appeared altogether competent. ’And you call me a bastard?" Alan shook his head. Damn 'em all to hell, they'll sit on me all the way to Portsmouth. Probably some chink in it for them, too. I am so well and truly… fucked. Ah, well, nothing for it but to go game… ’Father, it's farewell, then." Alan said manfully. "And you have my most sincere wish that you rot in hell as soon as possible.’