King, Ship, and Sword

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

What an odd but charming couple," Caroline determined as they readied for bed. She yawned a couple of times, for such late hours in the almost-midnights was foreign to her rural life of early rising and early retiring. They had supped divinely well, with lashings of wine beyond her usual partaking, at one of the most elegant restaurants in Paris, packed to the rafters with the most fashionable and lively of Paris's elite, and had been regaled by Sir Pulteney's and Lady Imogene's quick wit and repartee. Silly though half of it had been.

Afterwards, there had been the theatre, and a grand comedy-Moliиre, of course, an immortal of French theatre-which the Lady Imogene, who indeed had once been a star on that very stage a decade before, still knew by heart; she had translated the cleverest, funniest parts for them in gay whispers in their box closely overlooking the stage.

Lewrie was yawning, too, though he'd managed a few short naps at the Comedie Franзaise, despite Lady Imogene's excited whispers and Sir Pulteney's cackles, guffaws, and donkey brays. Sir Pulteney also had the annoying habit of making idle comments on just about everything and everyone, disparaging a badly tied neck-stock on one gentleman in the box opposite theirs, or the colour of some fetching young woman's gown, the tackiness of too much jewelry-"Cheap paste, most-like, Begad, that! What was she thinking?"

Charming, aye; annoying, as well. Still, the Plumbs had paid for everything, so what was one to do?

"So fortunate that Sir Pulteney married her away from France, before the Revolution, and the Terror," Caroline said as she brushed out her hair. "And she is lovely… in a way. Or was, once."

Meow! Lewrie thought, grinning. Lady Imogene Plumb was petite and wiry, with large, elfin green eyes and a wealth of shining raven-black hair, though her face was that of a slightly "over-the-hill" pixie. "She uses paints… the actress in her, I'd s'pose," he said to show Caroline that he agreed with her, and had not found her pretty.

"Yes, she does!" Caroline agreed. "Even so, though… Lord, that gown of hers! Sir Pulteney must be hellish-rich, indeed, I'd not wish to ascribe Lady Imogene's motives for marrying such a… daft fellow like Sir Pulteney," Caroline cattily said, pausing her brushing, looking pensively into the mirror as if drawing a comparison, "but… a chance to flee France and all the bloodshed, and to a man with so much money… seeming money, rather… "

"Silly as a goose," Lewrie agreed again.

"He does laugh rather a lot, doesn't he," Caroline said, chuckling, beginning to under-brush. "I must admit, though… they seem to be besotted with each other, still. Did you not notice, Alan?"

Usin' my first name, hey? Lewrie exulted; that sounds promisin!

"Can't say that I did, my dear," he said, tossing his shirt at one of his old sea-chests, and donning a dressing robe. "But it takes all kinds, don't it?"

"I suspect a great, mutual passion," Caroline said, done with her hair, and swivelling about on her stool to face him. It sounded wistful.

I'm up for passion! Lewrie told himself, feeling frisky; should I break out the dental powder or settle for a swill-out with brandy?

"Did you think her fetching, Alan?" Caroline teased; it seemed like romantic teasing, at any rate, Lewrie hoped.

"Well, I was too busy tendin' to you on the packet, Caroline," he replied with a non-committal shrug. "Only really met her tonight. Aye, I s'pose she's handsome… in her own way."

"Lady Imogene and I will go shopping tomorrow," she said as she put her toiletry items aside in a roll-up "house-wife," then stood to go to the far side of the inviting bed, nearest the last candle. "You will have another day to yourself. If we are to be presented to that ogre Napoleon Bonaparte, I will need something truly grand to wear, and she has promised to advise me. We cannot let the French form a low opinion of how British people dress. Oh, she has such an exquisite sense of style and taste… as does Sir Pulteney."

"Well, I s'pose I could find something t'do with myself," he allowed, sweeping back the covers on his side of the bed.

"So long as you don't go in search of scents," Caroline said, much more coolly.

"Scents? Hey?"

"Most especially at a shop called La Contessa's in the Place Victor," Caroline said on, her expression and tone hardening, the furrow 'twixt her brows appearing. "A shop run by a Corsican baggage by name of Phoebe Aretino?"

"Uhm, er…! Who? Honest t'God, Caroline, how was I to know she was in Paris?" Lewrie flummoxed. "Mean t'say, rather…!"

Shit, there it is! Lewrie quailed; fourty-two-pound coast guns!

"And it did not give you pause that Lady Imogene and your… whore!… resemble each other remarkably closely… my dear? Here!" she snapped, handing him the candle from the night-stand. "It trust you find the settee in the parlour a pleasant bed for the night!"