Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"So, we're… you're running a secondhand shop for whores and such," he stated flatly.

"Non!" she declared, aghast, and suddenly losing her gay confidence and pride. "To shop, on'y, Alain, never to… I s'ought you be 'appy, zat I do so well. Zat I mak' ze 'ome beautiful, an' eet cos' you nossing!" She began to blubber up, her pouty little lower lip beginning to tremble. "I… I s'ought you be proud of me!"

"Phoebe…"he crooned, abandoning his champagne to take hold of her before she fled in tears, to slide her down onto his lap where he rocked her and stroked her like a heartbroken child. "There there, don't take on so, my girl. Of course, I'm proud of you. 'Bout pleased as punch, don't ye know! You're a marvel, so clever, so enterprising…"

Hold on there, he thought, though: let's not trowel it on too bloody thick! I still don't know what people think of this place. Or my association with it!

"It's just such a surprise, that's all, Phoebe. Ma chйrie," he told her softly, cradling her head on his chest. "Aye, you have done a miracle with this house! I'd not recognize it. And so tasteful! Grand as the Walpoles, grand as the richest house ever I've seen back home in England! But I thought I'd be coming back to our… to you, my girl… and our little hideaway, where we could be private and intimate. Cozy and pleasant, hey, like you said? And I find people crawling about underfoot, jam-packed to the deck heads with stuff like a chandlery, too damn' busy a bustle, bad as the 'Change back home. And some of 'em not the elegant sort you should-a lady should-be knowing. Now, where is our privacy in all that, hmm?"

"Ees jus'…" Phoebe hiccuped, snuggling closer even as she dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. "You' Prize Court… zey tak' so long, an' eef I mak' monnaies zen you non worry 'bout eef you can afford me, Alain! Merde alors, eef I lose you, what is zere for me to do? Become ze putain, again? Non. Never again, mon amourl"

"Phoebe…" he gentled, stroking her back. Touched, though, to his heart by her concern for him. He plucked a dainty, gauzy silk handkerchief from the bosom of her elegant gown and began to dry her tears.

"Someday, oui …" she whispered, turning her face up to his to be gentled. "You go 'way to sea, return to Englan'. Or, we grow tired of each ozzer? I pray zat do non 'appen for trиs beaucoup anй, mon amour] All zese I do, so you 'ave nossing to s'ink about but 'ow much you love me, ow much I love you! An' 'ow 'appy we are. Zose zat come 'ere…" She sniffed, taking the handkerchief for a vigorous swipe at her nose, "Zey non shame you, Alain… or moi. Zey do non come to trade wiz ze leetle 'hore 'oo 'ave e'spensive s'ings," she swore, all but making the sign of the cross over her heart.

"Non, zey s'ink zey deal wiz йmigrй royaliste from Toulon. Our 'ouse ees non ze salon, or ze maison public. Ze courtyard, on'y, ees market. Non 'ere, in 'ouse. Oh, la, I store gowns an' jewelry, in ze ozzer bedchamber, for sйcuritй, mais … I do non entertain! An' I am non for sale, ever again, Alain! Eef I mak' monnaies, honestly… zen I am 'ave sйcuritй so I never 'ave to sell myself to men, ever. Give to a man I love, wiz all my 'eart, oui … but, never sell."

"Dear God," he whispered, in awe of her. "Forgive me for rowing you, Phoebe. Forgive everything I said, or thought. You really are a wonder. A bloody knock-down wonder!"

"Oh, Alain!" she relented, flinging herself upon him once more, this time shuddering with relief, her tears turning to ones of restored joy.

And a poser, and a puzzle, and God knows what else, Alan thought, damned well relieved, himself; but above all, girl… a sweet, cunning little… entrancing dear'un!

CHAPTER

4

"Contessa!" the street vendor greeted her from his flower cart. Followed by some liquid Italian, and the offer of a nosegay of local blooms.

"Contessa?" Lewrie frowned anew. It had been the sixth time in their short evening stroll that he'd heard the word, but the first that he'd associated it directly with her.

"Zey call me zat, Alain." Phoebe shrugged, a bit too artlessly, and with too much nonchalance, though she could not hide her blushing.

"Why is that, exactly?" he inquired, striving for an equally offhand air.

"I do ze bus'nees wiz zem, loan ze une peu monnaies, so..," She blushed again. "A lady cannot be padrone, hein? Zat ees for men. I 'elp eem buy donkey for 'ees cart, an' now 'e pay me back, wiz 'ees profits, oui? Like ze padrone does, mais .,."

Several gentlemen and their ladies, out for a stroll of their own, bowed or curtsied to them-to her, specifically-in the next half block, doffing their hats. Fawning over her, chatting away mostly in Italian, making raving sounds over the miniature portrait of Pascal Paoli that hung on a gold chain about her neck.

"Zey are patriotes, Alain," Phoebe said, blushing even more prettily. "I tell zem where I fin' eet, an' zey wish to purchase, aussi."

'Don't tell me you paint 'em in your spare time," he teased with a droll expression. "Assumin' you have any, that is."

"Non, non moi, Alain." She grinned impishly. "Une of my cousin, 'e ees artiste, in Bastнa. 'E do ze portraits, 'ave ees own shop. 'E 'ave now three ozzers work for eem. 'E sen' zem to me, I sell for 'eem, place orders for more. For on'y ze une peu, petite commission, n'est-ce pas? Mon Dieu merde alors … 'e ees kin!"

She'd already explained to him, long before, on the intricacies of Cor-sican kinships. Which were pretty much on a par with a Scottish clan, with commerce of the most cutthroat kind thrown in. Immediate family, down to distant cousins, came first; second was clan loyalty; then God and Church, with Self coming in a poor fourth, usually. One obeyed the family padrone, then the feudal lords of one's extended clan, who, it seemed, were forever feuding with each other as bad as Capulets and Montagues in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Blood was always answerable in blood, and they had longer memories, and grudges, than an entire pack of abused hounds. The vendetta, they called it.

Paoli, everywhere he looked, it seemed, too. Portraits, names of children, names of shops and favorite horses. Troop a large painting or effigy of Pascal Paoli through the streets, and one might imagine the Second Coming-or a Saturnalia, with one and all kneeling in tears or hosannahs like Roosian serfs did to their icons, or their masters. Hero, Saint, Liberator, Caesar-all of them, was Paoli, in the Corsican mind.

"Hmmf!" Phoebe sniffed suddenly, turning her head, and turning up her nose in remarkable imitation of a grand dowager who'd just delivered the "Cut Sublime" to some mountebank on The Strand back home.

"What?"

" 'Eem!" She sneered, inclining her head toward a party farther down the street. "Zat Messieur Jheel-ber' Elliot of you's."

"He's viceroy of the island, Phoebe, representing our good King George," Lewrie told her patiently. "What's he done to you?"

"Alain," she rejoined, scandalized and reproving, " 'e ees tyrant! Mon Dieu merde alors, Corsica fight ze Genoese hun'erd year, to be independent. Genoa give Corsica to France, an' zen Signore Paoli lead us in fight zem for year an' year."

"And back in King George the Second's reign, Corsica offered to become English, as I remember. Sign the whole island over to us," he countered.

"Oui, to rid us of Genoese, so we non become part of France, be free!" she argued.

"Wait a moment." He scowled, perplexed again. "You're French!"

"Papa was Franзais, Maman was Italian, mais … Alain, I am Corsican, you see? An' now, you' Messieur Elliot, 'e will mak' us British, wiz monarch. Like you' Scotland… poor relation? When what we wish ees to be Corsica independent. Papa come from France, so long ago, 'e was Corsican. Maman be born 'ere, in Italian clan, but she was Corsican firs', hein? Say Corsican, non Franзais or Italiana. You' Elliot, 'e say we mus' 'ave king an' parliament, but mus' be Corsican king an' parliament, we say. An' zat ees quel dangereux … 'oo ees king, what clan. Ooh la, you s'ink you see vendetta now …! So," she summed up with another snooty heave of her bosom, "ze man 'oo open zat box belong to Pandora, zat man ees ze fool grande]"

"But not Republicans," Alan hoped. "Mean t'say, if you don't have a king, you might as well be like those anarchist Americans. Or the French, these days."

"Mon Dieu, Alain, non!" Phoebe chuckled. "Oo ees say ev'ryone ees йgal, zat ees stupeed! People are non born e… equal, ever. 'Ow you 'ave padrones an' clan lords, eef paissans conardes be jus' as good as ze noblesse? Zat ees seelly idea!"

Add perplexing to the list, Alan thought of his earlier appraisal of Phoebe Aretino; paradoxical…

"I 'ope you 'ave ze appetite grande, Alain, ze cuisine 'ere ees so ver' good!" she urged, changing subjects, and moods, as quick as the mercurial little minx she was. "Non Franзais, but Corsican!"

The Ristorante Liberatore, with a portrait of Pascal Paoli for its centerpiece, of course, was packed with diners and doing a stock-jobbers' business. But a table was always reserved, it seemed for "la contessa bella" Aretino. And, with much smacking of lips, kissing of fingers, crooning "oohs and ahhs!" of welcome joy-along with an occasional smacking of a forehead-they were led to that table that had a commanding view of the harbor and docks, as well as the rest of that crowded dining room, on a slightly elevated upper terrace. And, as they made their way to it, several of the more fashionable diners paid Phoebe "passing honors" with even more glad cries, some almost groveling at her feet in gratitude for some earlier favor. Her hand was kissed and wrung so often Alan thought she seemed more like a Member of Parliament on the hustings, right after he'd trotted out the free gin and roast beef for purchased votes!

Hell of a welcome, he thought; for a little slip of a girl. And a retired courtesan, he could not help himself from adding; there must be some-thin' Latin in that, surely. God, what a country!

With an almost regal air of true nobility, Phoebe smiled and inclined her head, responding to their greetings, before allowing a squad of unctuous waiters to seat her. And grinning, her eyes alight, gleeful as the cat that ate the canary, over her newfound adulation.