The King's Marauder Read Free

I’d admire a brandy. I think it’s late enough in the day to indulge. Sun’s under the yardarm, hey, Captain Lewrie?”
    “Somewhere in the world, aye, Mister Giles,” Lewrie agreed.
    “In cold weather, he’s a permanent fixture by the hearth, is our Mister Giles,” Showalter wryly whispered as the older fellow departed. “And, none too keen on some of the newer members. Why, half of them are junior partners in their concerns, not owners. An attorney or three, fellows from the ’Change, even some serving officers. Poor Giles is sure they’ll steal his seat if he’s not careful!”
    “Sounds as if things might become more lively round here than in the past?” Lewrie speculated.
    “Only partially,” Showalter seemed to mourn, “and that only ’til bedtime for the oldsters. After that, it’s funereal, more’s the pity. At least, the mood’s brighter at mealtimes, and the victuals are still excellent!”

CHAPTER TWO
    “Will there be anything else tonight, sir?” Pettus asked after he’d tugged Lewrie’s top-boots off, hung up his suitings, waist-coat and shirt, and handed him a thick robe.
    “Don’t think so, Pettus, no,” Lewrie told him. “I think that I have all that I’ll need ’til morning.”
    His best-dress Navy uniform was hung up on a rack in a corner, brushed and sponged for his appearance at Admiralty, the coat with the star of the Order of The Bath attached, the blue sash that went with it freshly pressed wrinkle-free, as was his neck-stock and shirt. Snowy white duck breeches awaited the morning, as did a pair of gold-tasseled Hessian boots, newly daubed and brushed. There was a carafe of water with a clean glass atop, for rinsing sleep from his mouth and brushing his teeth with tooth powder. His “housewife” kit for shaving was laid out by the wash-hand stand, and a half-pint glass bottle of whisky stood on the nightstand. The chamberpot was clean and empty, so far, and in all, he was set for the night.
    “Six in the morning, sir?” Pettus asked.
    “Aye, six, and have a good night, Pettus,” Lewrie bade him.
    Once alone, Lewrie poured himself some whisky and went to the chair by the fire, taking along a candelabra so he could at last read one of the London papers, abandoned in the Common Rooms after supper.
    The supper, well! As toothsome as his personal cook, Yeovill, prepared his meals, the club’s cooks could give him a run for his money. There had been breaded flounder, sliced turkey with red currant sauce, and prime rib of beef for the main courses, with lashings of green peas, beans, hot-house asparagus, and potatoes, both mashed and au gratin, with sweet figgy-dowdy to finish it off, then port or sherry, nuts and sweet bisquits to cap it all off.
    Showalter had been right; the company at-table had been most lively, witty, and amusing, more so than Lewrie could recall from his earlier stays. Nobody had broken into song, but they could have!
    Of course, after supper, a good part of the diners had left to return to their regular lodgings or go about the town to seek their further amusements, or pleasures, and but for a few hold-outs in the Common Rooms, the club had gone quiet once more, with most of the members who lodged off to bed at an early hour. After a brandy by the fire, Lewrie had toddled off, too.
    Even with the four candles and the light of the fire reflected off the brass back plate, reading the paper was hard going. He gave it up and went to bed, doffing his robe and quickly sliding under the thick covers, snuffing all but one candle to savour his whisky.
    Lewrie did, before pulling up the blankets and coverlet, raise his right leg and look once more at his thigh, grimacing again at the ragged, round, and dis-coloured puckered scar from a lucky long-range shot by a Spanish sailor, made even worse by the rough and un-gentle ministrations of his Ship’s Surgeon, Mr. Mainwaring, as he’d probed deep for the bullet, the patches of cotton duck from his breeches,