Free A King's Trade by Dewey Lambdin Page A

Shockley in his gentlemen’s club enterprise…. Sir Malcolm thinks the world of him, and of
you,
more to the point… though I’ve yet to see a valid reason
why,
other than gratitude for getting his wealthy arse out of Venice and the Adriatic before the French took it in ‘97.
And,
wonder of wonders, Sir Malcolm is wed to Lady Lucy Hungerfford,
nee
Lucy Beauman, of the Jamaica Beaumans who wish you hung for stealing their slaves. Well, well, well! Quite the coincidence, what?”
    â€œAnd Hugh Beauman’s already written Lucy and told her all about it?” Lewrie said with a groan, feeling an urge to slide bonelessly or lifelessly under the table, and
stay
there, unfindable, for, oh, say a century or so. “Christ, I’m good as dead!” he moaned, his brow popping out a sweat that was not
entirely
the fault of the spicy soup.
    â€œAnd…here comes the roast!” Twigg enthused as Lakshmi entered, bearing a tray of sliced kid goat, and a heaping bowl of savouried rice, mango
chautney,
and such. “Done to a
perfect turn,
I am bound!” he added, not without a purr and glare that Lewrie took for sheer maliciousness—making him feel even more inclined to slink beneath the table,
un-fed!
    â€œI take it, an …” Lewrie managed to croak, “that Sir Malcolm’s mentioned it to Father?”
    â€œB’lieve so, Lewrie, yayss,” Twigg responded in a further purr of hellish delight at his predicament, all the time hoisting slices of goat onto his heaping plate of rice and mild, baked red peppers.
    Lewrie felt his face flush (not from the spicy soup!) picturing Sir Hugo’s reaction to his folly, not so much anger or disappointment, really, for they’d never really been
proper
father and son, leaving it quite late—in India in ‘84 or ‘85—to
tentatively
reconcile, thence to keep a wary distance ever since, so whatever rage Sir Hugo might display was water off a duck’s back. No, what upset Lewrie more was a firm suspicion that he’d chortled his head half-off that Alan had gone and done something so goose-brained,
and
been caught at it, red-handed!
    â€œDamme…
Lucy
knows, ‘tis a safe wager that all
London
knows, by now!” Lewrie muttered, dabbing his brow with his napery. “The hen-headed, blabbery…baggage!” he nigh-stuttered in new dread. “’Tis a wonder I’ve not been taken up, already, with…!”
    â€œOne’d be surprised, Lewrie,” Twigg loftily told him. “Do try the kid. There’s a
dahee
to go with it, one of those yogurt gravies I recall you liking when in Calcutta.
Tandoori
-roast chicken to follow!”
    â€œChrist!”
    â€œYou and Lucy Beauman were, at one time in your misspent youth, quite fond of each other, Lewrie,” Twigg breezed on, come over all amiable, as he spooned spiced
dahee
on his goat and rice. “She went on to wed a rich’un she met at Bath, her first Season in England… dare we speculate on what is called the ‘rebound’ following her family showing you the door for the utter cad you proved to be, hmm? Lord Hungerford, Knight and Baronet, surely was a great disappointment to her, since he proved to be just about as huge a rake-hell and rantipoling ‘splitter of beards’ as you…though, Lady Lucy seems to have been spared revelations anent your poorer qualities, for some reason. The illogic, and the blindness, that the fairer sex possess towards their un-deserving men, no matter proof incontrovertible served up on a gilt platter, hah!
    â€œShe still has, as they say, Lewrie, a ‘soft spot’ in her heart for you, therefore, and, so far as I am able to ascertain, has yet to utter the first word to anyone, other than her husband, Sir Malcolm, of the matter.”
    â€œYou
must
be joking!” Lewrie exclaimed, almost leaping from his chair in amazement at such a ridiculous statement.