Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"Yes, in a way, I am," she chuckled, a bit moodily. "Everyone tells him what a delightful and wondrous adornment I am to his house. Like his vases and kraters. As if I should be in a niche somewhere, in one of the galleries, where the light's best. One man even dared to say-in my hearin', mind!-that I was a credit to the station to which I'd been raised!"

"Yet you're not on display. You put a foot forward, bold as I ever did see," he cooed to her, blowing her a kiss, which she turned and intercepted, leaning over him to bestow the real thing. "An ear for languages… on familial terms with royalty…"

"God, sometimes I wish to God I was a man!" she huffed, and he tried to jolly her out of her pet, in his own, inimitable fashion. But she was having none of it, at that moment.

"How far may a woman go in this world? Aye, I've sense, more'n most. An ear for languages, music… books and learning. Not just the frightful novels. What you described this morning, about fighting the pirates and all. I'd love to be able to do something meaningful… be a voice people heeded. Wield as much influence as you did. Hamilton… well, he is happy with me. He tolerates my… enthusiasms, yet…"

And you know which side your toast is buttered, Lewrie thought.

"His passion, though… I think he saves his passion for diplomacy, for antiquities… studying volcanoes. We're comfortable together as old shoes. Because I ornament him so well, like his marbles." She sighed and took a deep sip of brandy. "He bought me, you know. Same as his ancient urns," she confessed with a shrug and pout-lip sigh.

"He bloody what?"

"Charlie Greville is Sir William's nephew, Alan," she told him, snuggling close, confidentially, her head on his shoulder. "I lived quite happily with him, but… he wanted to improve his estate. He'd more than enough, I thought. Though his condition was not of the very best, it was more than comfortable. He had a chance to make a rich marriage, and… I'd have been quite content to stay with him, but for that. Anyway, Hamilton came home on leave, to palaver with the Foreign Office or something, and… blink of an eye, I sailed away, here to Naples."

"The cads. Both of 'em," Lewrie groused, slipping a protective arm about her shoulders.

"Oh, no! Never say that about 'em, Alan," she dissented, sitting up and away. "Charlie Greville was wonderful to me! He's still a dear friend. Before Charlie, I hadn't two letters in my head, and as for my cyphers…! He saw I was tutored. Speech, singing, music and cultural attainments. He brought my mother down from Neston, to be my companion. Bought both of us the best of everything, paid for… well, paid for what Sir Harry would not, settled… well. And as for Hamilton! He's such a dear, true gentleman. Mentor, companion, loving friend to me! He's opened my eyes to so much, introduced me to so many wonderful people. Goethe? Where'd a chit from Neston ever have the chance to meet Goethe, sit at table with him and chat him up? Haydn… kings and queens?"

"I see your point. Like being royalty yourself? Ennobled?"

"Exactly!" she giggled. "Why, tonight, after supper, I went up to Maria Carolina's chambers, swept in like family, and had a chat at her bedside… all sorts of womanly matters, frank and first-name as a sister. Think of it, Alan! That's why I love Naples so, it's so accepting. Here, I can be who I was truly born to be. Not like sneering London. Cold and hateful, stay in your place… well, when Hamilton and I go back to England, authors of a treaty that won the war and put every royal house in Europe in against France… and France is done to a turn. You will do France to a turn for me, won't you, Alan? Do just think how people will have to take to me, no matter what!" Emma boasted, brazen, yet wistful for what-was-to-be. "Heavens! Is that the timeT

She sprang from the bed, bouncing prettily, though without much grace, and bent for her discarded chemise.

"Hamilton and Acton said they'd be up late. Gave me a chamber, in case I wished to stay and coach home with him later. Two down, not to worry. Do me up, dear man," she ordered, stepping into her petticoats, hoops and pads.

Lewrie went to the armoire and retrieved a silk Chinee dressing gown for himself before obeying. It was fiery red, lambent with moire dragons in green and blue, with ivory eyes and teeth.

" Hamilton won't take much notice, but Sir John might. And Lord, mother! She has eyes in the back of her head, I swear!"

"Your mother's still with you?" Lewrie asked, ready to hand her her gown as she carefully aligned her underdresses and hair in a tall oval-framed gilt mirror.

"Companion, adviser, cook," she chuckled throatily. "She goes by Mistress Cadogan now. Though, you're not to know that, when you come… Great God! What a horror!" She stopped primping suddenly, on espying his dressing robe in the mirror. "Wherever did you get thatV

" Canton, China, if you must know," Alan said, a trifle sulkily. Nobody seemed to care for it, it seemed. It had been relegated to his sea-chest-out of sight, out of mind-lest he embarrass others back home. "I rather like it," he continued, self-mocking yet defensive. "Though my wife… uhm…" OH, DAMME!

"Your wife," she replied evenly, cocking a brow. After a moment she grinned ironically. "Yes, well… were I your wife, Alan, I would object to it, too. Let me hazard a guess. You've been wed… at least seven years?"

"Uh, as a matter of fact, just barely seven… and a bit," Alan blushed.

"Dear Lord, seven years, the two of us," she sighed, surprising him by stepping to him and hugging him close. "Each to our own fashion, mind. Dear Alan, it does seem such a mile-post in Me, don't it?"

"Amen," he sighed with an afterglow of pleasure, kindled by her scent and the warmth of her flesh. They kissed again, soft, lingering-almost a fare-thee-well, instead of a goodnight.

"Come to Palazzo Sessa," she ordered, taking her gown from him. "It would help if you express a keen interest in antiquities. Hamilton will be delighted to tour you round. In the afternoon, he has his 'grampus-puff.' His nap, silly goose! A most sensible Neapolitan custom, is siesta. Especially for a gentleman his age. Do me up whilst I preen, will you? Then… the view from my chambers is just as good. And there are so many galleries, full of art… full of nude statuary. Quite inspiring, some of 'em," she taunted, leaning her bottom back to his groin as he coped with getting the right hook or button in the correct slot or eye.

"Sounds delightful," he murmured against her neck as she lifted her hair and began to pin it properly.

"Perhaps we may even dine you in," she went on matter-of-factly, a pin in her mouth. "And after supper, I will pose for you. I will do my 'Attitudes.' Hamilton loves them. I was known for them, when I was still in the theatre. He helps me with the lights, the drapes…"

"A menage a… something?" Lewrie gawped. "Mean he takes part?"

"Not like that, silly man," she laughed, turning to view his work in the mirror. "I do poses. Tableaux! Dressed, mind," Emma said with a fetching moue. "Classical figures, famous people, the ancient gods… with a tambourine and shawl, very few props. Ecco!"

She stepped to the sideboard, picked up a silver salver, struck a pose with her profile to him. "For you. 'Britannia, Mistress of the Seas.' " Quickly she changed, moving to another, announcing what allegory she represented. "A poor girl of the streets… an Amazonian warrior queen… Pallas Athena… d'ye see? Oh, pish! I've spoiled it for you! You'll know mem, and they won't be a surprise!"

"I swear I'll show all gape-jawed wonder, Emma," he promised.

"I must go. But we're not done yet, Alan. We cannot be!" She sighed, bitter at their parting, clinging to him and kissing him, dewy and full of promise of delights to come. "Dear as my life's become, I sometimes have to dare, to feel alive again. Swear you'll dare all as well. God save me, but I cannot thrive on esteem and companionship, I must have passion. Rare as it is in this world… rare as it's been in my life. But, when the right man appears and I feel so half-seas-over, like a girl again… then hang the risk!"

"Uhmhmm," Alan commented (sort of), nodding against her hair, and wondering just what half-cocked idiocy he'd gotten himself into this time. And what sort of swoony lunatick he was dealing with.

She broke free of his embrace at last, strode to the balcony doors, and turned… to pose, one hand high on the door sill. "For all the time you remain in Naples, dear Alan. All the time we have, be my bold captain. Fortune favours the bold. Buona node, caro mio. Until tomorrow, and tomorrow… and tomorrow!"

And then she swept away dramatically, making a grand exit, back for her secret passage to her borrowed chamber. Back to an air of respectability.

"Whew!" he exclaimed at her departure. Speaking softly to himself, in case she had lingered to count the house. "Buona notte, me dear. Grazie, o' course. Damn' grazie! Lord, though… wonder what Italian is for 'daft as bats'!"

Chapter 7

Aye, sir, their mountebank was here," Mister Pruden told Lewrie on the quarterdeck. He didn't sound impressed by a high-flown Italian physician. "Same nostrums as I had aboard, Jesuit's Bark and such, in a tea. He went from cold to hot, 'bout the end of the second dog last evening. Sweated it out, I should think. Mercury and laudanum, that raises a sweat."

"I have to see him," Lewrie commanded.

"His 'top-lights' are still out, sir. Dead to the world."

"Still, Mister Pruden, as first officer…"

"Very well, sir."

Captain Braxton was still unconscious, and the fever hadn't done his appearance much good. He lolled on the pillows, face slack as some dead man, his mean little mouth canted to leeward, his skin as sickly a buff yellow as old parchment, his shortish hair tousled and glued to his scalp by perspiration. Mister Pruden lifted the captain's wrist to feel for a pulse.

"Thumpin' away like a band, still, Mister Lewrie," Pruden smiled. "No more shivering ague, no more hot flushes and sweats. Feels cooler, too. I think this bout's over."

"How much longer will he be unable to command, sir?" Lewrie asked.

"Mmm, Lord… no tellin', Mister Lewrie, sir." Pruden shrugged in puzzlement. "Man his age, fit as he is… well as he appeared before the fever took him? It may be several days before he regains strength enough to hobble about. Then again, it may be a week or better."

"Should he be sent ashore to convalesce, sir?" Lewrie hoped aloud.

"No need for that, sir, not since the fever burned itself out. A spell of bed rest, of a certainty. Depending on how the fever debilitated him," Pruden countered, a bit sadly. "God has a wicked sense of humour, Mister Lewrie. Here He strikes our tyrant down, raising our hopes. And then restores him to health, just when we believe we're liberated."

"Well, at least we're spared his rod, long as he's horizontal," Alan sighed, shaking his head. "Had he informed you of his infirmity before, sir? Any cause for wariness over his health?"