A King`s Commander - Dewey Lambdin

Their host's palace was truly magnificent, if a bit overdone. Gilt, coin-silver, solid gold gewgaws, silk wallpaper, silk hangings, crystal chandeliers ablaze with two hundred or more beeswax candles at a time. Precious… everything in sight was precious, rare, priceless, including the clothes of the guests, their jewels and fripperies. Bare-shouldered ladies, bodices half exposed, the heat of candles and too many bodies gusted the confined night air, fanned overly sweet or musky scents of Hungary Water, gentlemen's cologne, or ladies' perfume over him like a Levanter, along with the dry talc aroma of face powder or hair powder, the tang of rouges and pastes. And admittedly a sour reek of past and present perspiration from those expensive suitings or gowns, and the poor toilette or bathing habits of the rich and noble.

A bit off-putting, certainly; but a flower bed compared to the odors of a warship full of men.

Nelson and his Lt. George Andrews, Cockburn and his Thomas Hardy, Lewrie, and Knolles, along with a gaggle of midshipmen from their respective ships, were led down the receiving line by Mister Francis Drake, their Sovereign's representative to Genoa, a grossly untidy man who appeared most unlike what a king's agent should be. Nelson had wondered if he was even an English gentleman!

"Lovely place," Cockburn commented.

"His town palace," Drake muttered, swiveling about like an ill-tempered bear, as if looking for a place to spit. It was rumored that he chewed. "You should see his real one, up in the hills. Tremendous estates, owns half of the Republic, damn' near. Quite handy place for him to leave the wife and kiddies."

"Really, " Cockburn drawled with a dubious note in his voice.

"Quite small in comparison, this pile," Drake tittered, with a rogueish nudge in Cockburn's ribs. " 'Tis said he's a mistress cached in either wing. Rough life, hey, Captain? Ah, here we go, then."

"Ahum!" Cockburn sniffed in displeasure as he was left astern; as they queued up to be introduced. Drake did the honors in passable Italian with their host, the Genoese Senator, Marcello di Silvano.

"… further allow me to name to your excellency Commander Alan Lewrie, captain of HMS Jester.. . Commander Lewrie, our distinguished host…" Drake simpered like a mastiff after a bone.

"Your servant, sir," Alan offered in his best social purr.

"Signore Comandante, benvenuto," Marcello di Silvano replied in a deep, cultured basso. He was, for a senator of a Republic that gave at least lip service to electing its leaders (though only from the rich or noble) dressed more like a prince. Di Silvano wore a glaring white suit of figured satin with silk cuffs, pocket flaps, and lapel turn-backs of a very regal reddish-purple. Cloth-of-gold satin waistcoat, white silk hose, and solid gold knee buckles on his breeches, solid gold shoe buckles, set with rubies and diamonds! A sash of office crossed from one shoulder to a rosette on his hip in Genoese colors. A gold chain and medallion of office rested on the snowy white breast of his heavily laced shirt. There were some civil or military decorations on coat and sash, as well. Signore di Silvano was a devilishly handsome man in his mid-to-late forties, with a lean, hard, firm-chinned patrician face as genteelly weathered as Lewrie might expect to see on old Roman coins in celebration of a successful general, or a new emperor; as if di Silvano spent time at sea or out hunting, and didn't care a fig for a courtier's more-fashionable, powder-aided pallor. The signore offered his hand, a rough-textured hand, taut and muscular, and as strong as a sailor's. Alan imagined a gilt-wreath corona would suit the man better than the high white periwig he wore. The hand was withdrawn, and sensing that his time was done, Lewrie began to turn to his right…

Merciful God in heaven, he gasped to himself, quite nonplussed; nobody has poonts that big! The ethereal, bewitching beauty next to…!

"Cara mia… Comandante Lewrie, capitano di 'Asch-Emma-Essa'… Jester… simile il motteggiare, hmm?" Senator di Silvano informed her, inclining slightly to her and leering with amusement. "Comandante Lewrie… Signorina Claudia Mastandrea."

"Your servant, signorina.. ." Lewrie said with a deeper incline of his head and bow than his usual wont. So he could peer at those impressive tits directly, instead of ogling her under his lashes.

I've died and gone to heaven, he exulted as she dropped him her curtsy, leaning forward a bit to incline her own head, and…! And to rise from that curtsy to look him directly in the eyes and smile, curl the corner of her mouth up with a veiled, mischievous amusement, as if she knew exactly where his eyes had been. She kept her head inclined to the side, in wry acknowledgment, her entrancing amber-brown eyes twinkling as she looked him over as if taking his measure.

"Uhm, aye…" he stammered, turning to lumber down the line.

"A pleasure to meet you, Commander Lewrie," she murmured in a more than passable English, in a surprisingly husky, seductive voice.

"Pleasure was all mine, ma'am," Alan assured her, fighting for an air of gracious, gentlemanly gravity. And to keep his hands to himself! He broke off, at last, wondering if he'd been slobbering on his shoes, feeling the urge to wipe his chin free of drool, to be introduced to the lesser lights. But could not help glancing back, furtively now and again, just to see… idly curious, no more'n that…

Damme, he gasped again, feeling his innards lurch! She leaned forward a bit, past some shoulders and wigs, looking back at him. A miss-ish sort of minx might have ducked her head, hidden behind lashes or a fan. Nothing brazen about her, but…! He met a hooded smile, a long, approving blink, which was as good as the nod, anytime!

"Dear Lord," he muttered, free of the line at last, desperately in need of drink, and male company, to buck up those tattering vows of his. "Mister Knolles!" he cried in relief, snagging a passing waiter with a tray of fine cut-crystal stems of spumante. "For you, sir?"

"Thankee, Captain, I'm fair parched a'ready." Knolles beamed, as he handed his first officer a glass. "Can't they open some doors, some windows? So bloody hot in here…"

"Must be his mistress, that, uhm…?" Lewrie speculated. "D'ye think? That Claudia Mastandrea? Wonder if she's his East wine or his

o

West wing ride?"

"Rich as he is, the Friday'un, I'd say, sir," Knolles said with an appreciative leer of his own. "Were I that 'John Company' nabob-wealthy, I'd have one for every day of the week, save Sundays. Wonder what his wife's like, if…?"

"I'll lay you odds, Mister Knolles, we'll not discover that!" he snickered back. "Doubt there's even a miniature of her, hereabouts."

Gorgeous bloody creature, though, Lewrie thought; brown-eyed blonde, I'll wager. Those eyebrows were… pale down on her arms… those catheads! He was forced to gulp again, and slosh back most of his champagne. And took another surreptitious look across the room.

Most fashionable ladies he knew used tight corset laces to push themselves anywhere near such bounty, attain such a deep cleavage. Or crammed cotton stockings up underneath. He'd been rooked before, hey? Those few who had been so… blessed] he groaned… fought it, laced or banded themselves flat under a higher bodice so they'd not be taken for strumpets. Or fondled by the bully-bucks in the streets! This'un, though…

He watched Signorina Mastandrea gaily swirl beside her keeper on the way to а wine table. Four or five inches shorter than his five-and-three-quarter feet, he recalled, almost petite, which was why her husky voice had surprised him, coming from such a slip of a girl. Woman, he corrected himself as he snagged another glass of wine. Styles changed, though, and he didn't think a corset could explain her slim back, her narrow waist. Acres of underpinnings and petticoats were passй, as were hip pads and concealing whalebone frames. The way her matching white satin gown clung to her, swished against her limbs… why, she'd be slim as an eel, he speculated! Very slim legs, narrow hips, almost childish bottom…! He'd seen a few like that, those who seemed overblessed by nature in one area, but deprived in the rest of their person. And that was a damned intriguing…

Stop it, damn you, he told himself; take a deep breath, a round turn and two half hitches! Can't keep a vow, with a pistol to my own head! Tup a senator's doxy? Mine host's doxy? Jesus!

"Excuse me, sir, but… do you think there will be dancing later?" Midshipman Hyde asked at his elbow. He turned to give the wiry, ginger-haired lad a peek, but Hyde was casting a shy but ardent look off toward the walls; where stood a slim, light-haired beauty, perhaps no more than fifteen or so, in the tow of a female chaperone, who was gazing back at Hyde with wide-eyed admiration, the coy, covert art of a fan quite forgotten.

"Close your mouth, Mister Hyde…" Lewrie chuckled. "Before a fly pops in. Aye, let's hope there is dancing… for your sake. Just be careful. She more'n like don't speak the King's English. And they take the ravishin' o' their daughters more serious. Or promises, hmm? As in betrothals?"

"God yes, sir!" Hyde replied, blushing furiously. Yes to what, Lewrie hadn't a clue, and expected he'd prefer not to know.

"Well, hold the British end up, Mister Hyde," Lewrie warned. Lewrie expected there would be dancing, later. Large as Signore di Silvano's town palazzo was, he could see no sign of a hall set for dining tables. Almost like a basilica, it was-a round central hall or rotunda, beneath a soaring dome with marble stairs and balconies up at least three stories, with three projecting wings. The longer two, to east and west, lay open to the rotunda, salons each as big as two 1st Rates lying hull to hull. One was lined with chairs around its entire girth, the handsome and intricate inlaid tile floor bare, with all the carpets removed. A chamber orchestra played from the balcony above its entrance. All they had do was turn their chairs to face the salon, to supply music for dancing.

"Sparse damn' place," Lewrie muttered. In spite of all those rich silk hangings, the drapes, the wallpapers and such, it sported more dressed stone than people would be comfortable with back home… niches filled with rare old vases, amphorae and statuary that ran to the Classic, Heroic vein. Like a Roman basilica when they were homes or palaces, or imposing public buildings-before they'd been turned to churches. The matching salon on the other wing did seem to be the public offices, the parlors and libraries, the music room… lined up one after the other with all the massive, impressively tall doorways opened to flaunt and overawe. Marble columns, painted wood columns, arches, and insets… Some few civilians dared tread the carpets down that wing, oohing and ahhing-and careful with their drinks.

The rotunda, though, held the food and drink. Table after table groaning under their host's largesse; there a long table for twenty-four minus chairs, topped by a tapering pile of pastries, surmounted by a statuary group of winged cherubs and doves. Another bore taxidermied wild fowl, suspended on the wing or roosting in the branches of tree boles and short limbs-that was where the goose, duck, partridge, or pheasant meat could be found.