A King's Trade (26 page)

Perhaps she really
was
a whore-transport!
Lewrie had sniggered;
Pays for new costumes… atones for poor salaries, and damme if those camels and “zebras” o' theirs don't need a
lot
o'fodder!

Now, as he paid only half his attention to the magic act which followed the
girl's performance, the rational half of his mind warned him that Eudoxia, or whatever her name was in real life…Mabel, or Peg most-like, from Liverpool?… might be a
well
-used strumpet, but…that
other
moiety of his higher faculties kept nudging him with an elbow to remind him that he was the owner of a round two-dozen sheep-gut cundums of Mother Green's very best construction, purveyed in old Half Moon Street, and English, by God, the finest in the world, and in the end, if she
was
for temporary hire, then her socket-fee, no matter how steep, would be more than worth it with a body so slim, her legs so long, lean, and shapely, “cat-heads” so bountiful, and so athletic and strong a ride that he very likely might only half-survive it! No commitments, no embarrassing entanglements, no… !

His
sane
moiety pointed out that, surely, “Eudoxia” might have a lover or protector among the circus or theatrical troupe, already, someone jealous, hulking…someone like Jose, perhaps, who'd proved his skill with knives, who had wild beasts to sic on him, someone who might pester him to death with
clowns,
if nothing deadly fell to hand.

No matter, he felt…”Invited.”

And, damme, I
am
curious!
he told himself;
What harm in that?

So, now without a certain amount of trepidation, lest he'd misunderstood the wench's broad gestures, he alit from the stands once it appeared that the night's entertainment was winding down, and casually
ambled,
as innocently as he might, over towards the circus's screened-off area, even going so far as to stick his hands into the pockets of his breeches, most un-officer-like, and attempt to whistle a gay air to disarm the squinty looks he was getting from the thickly-muscular “Hindoo strongmen,” and some equally strong and daunting sailors off
Festival,
who did double duty as roustabouts and guards over Wigmore's property. He could reassure himself that he still
owned
a watch, and a full purse, if nothing else!

Before he got quite to his destination, though, the curtained-off backstage area
erupted
performers and beasts, out to take a final parade and their last bows from an adoring audience, and he ended up standing there looking foolish. A minute later, he felt even more of a Cully as smarmy, slick-looking local young gentlemen and pretenders came stroking their mustachios and leering, with flowers in hand, on much the same mission as his!

Oh, bugger this!
Lewrie scowlingly thought, feeling hot under the collar, and even more embarrassed to be lumped in with such sprogs. He turned away and shaped his stroll out towards the empty end of the vast plaza, towards the fountains, statuary, and such, when…

“Cap'm Lewrie!” Daniel Wigmore gaily called out, as the torches and
lanthorns were doused, and the tinny little band strangled their last notes and fell silent. “Why, bless me soul, Cap'm sir, but ‘ow'd ye h'enjoy me show?” Wigmore came bustling up through the departing crowd, beaming and bobbing at one and all to take bows of his own from them for a successful performance.

“Why… I thought it was simply capital, Mister Wigmore, sir, and I dearly wish my sailors could come ashore to witness it!” Lewrie cried back, stopped in his tracks and removing his hands from his pockets to doff his cocked hat. “Enjoyed it immensely, especially…”

” ‘Owever not, then, sir?” Wigmore wondered aloud as he came up and not only doffed his own huge, Austrian-style fore-and-aft bicorne, adrip with gilt lace and egret plumes sufficient to stuff a large and fluffy pillowcase, but stuck out his hand for a hearty shake. “Fetch ‘em ashore t' next night's performance, why don't ye?”

“Ah, that'd be up to our Captain Treghues, Mister Wigmore, and he'll not allow shore liberty, not in Recife, at least,” Lewrie said. “Perhaps at Saint Helena, which is more a garrison than a civilian, and desertible, liberty port. My lads'd relish that, aye, sir.”

“Aye, that'd bulk th' gate, ‘sides th' few poor sodgers stuck h'out there wif nary a di-wersion,” Wigmore happily agreed, the sound of silver coins dropping into his receipts sack in his mind's fantasy. “Why, there must be ‘undreds o' th' buggers, ah ah!” he purred, with his hands rubbing greedily together. “Promise me, Cap'm Lewrie, ye'll do all ye may t'git yer sailors, all
yer
sailors, an' them off t'other warships, ashore so'z we can h'amaze ‘em, an' I'll give yer officers an' ye free h'admittance, h'often'z ye'd like!”

“That'd be grand, too, Mister Wigmore,” Lewrie told him, “and, at Saint Helena, you'd be staging your plays, as well, so, did Captain Treghues allow, we might even be able to attend several nights… one night the circus, the next a comedy, the next a drama, or opera, or, in this case, what they call an
operetta.
I was quite taken with how your performers filled so many roles. Surely, what they may do on a stage would be even more interesting, revealing such a well of talent, so to speak. Does, erm… Eudoxia, for instance, or whatever her real name is…play dramatic roles, as well?”

I sound like a “Country-Put” sniffin' round a Pimp!
Lewrie chid himself, feeling a burn rise up from his collar once more;
like a young buck tryin' t'sneak backstage at Drury Lane!

“Why, h'Eudoxia
h'is
‘er real name, sir,” Wigmore declared with a wry squint of understanding at him, “th' ‘princess' part's a bit of a stretch, but she
did
come from somewheres ‘round th' Greek or Turkish ‘Ellespont… s'truth! ‘Er King's h'English h'ain't all that good t' play
h'important
talkin' parts, but she
goes down well when it come to
supportin'
roles, h'at comedies an' such… chorus singin', and, wot we calls in th' trade the
h'ingenue.
Like
‘er
show, par-tic'lar, Cap'm Lewrie?” he asked with a knowing nod and smile.

“Most impressive, indeed,” Lewrie confessed, reddening more.

“Why, ye should
tell
‘er ‘ow much ye were h'impressed!” Wigmore exclaimed, all but taking Lewrie by the elbow to steer him towards the tentage. “Come backstage wif me, an' we'll do that this werry minute!”

“I'd be, ah…delighted!” Lewrie agreed, much took quickly to make it sound casual, so he amended, “if that would be no imposition on your performers' privacy, o' course, ah…”

Wigmore looked at him
most
disbelievingly, damn' near
goggled
in point of fact, as he led him past the hopeful, leering local
senhores
and into the backstage area. And, knowing the goal of Lewrie's wish to “congratulate” his performers, took his own sweet time getting round to the object of Lewrie's quest. Lewrie was, perforce, made acquaintance with the horses; the parrots, who made use of his shoulders and arms for roosting branches; the terriers of the dog act, who found the permanent scent of cats on him equally delightful; a joyful
rencontre
with Fredo, and his brother Paulo (once the dog pack had been forcibly removed), both of whom seemed devilish-glad to see him, again; and both mother and baby camel, which involved rather a great deal of slobbers.

Hello to Jose, hello to almost everyone; a handshake with that eye-patched skeleton who made the lions perform, though without having to ruffle any lion fur, for those beasts were already back in a stout iron cage, gnawing on what little was left of their earlier supper.

Finally…

“An' surely ye remembers our darin' h'archer, Cap'm Lewrie,” Wigmore said with a sly simper. “H'Eudoxia, darlin'…ye recollect Cap'm Lewrie o' th'
Proteus
frigate, wot stopped us?”

“Da,
I do…yes,” Eudoxia purred, cocking a brow at him as if to ask what took him so long. The scanty outfit and wig were now gone and she sported a thin silk dressing robe belted at the waist, looking as if she'd had a quick sponge-off right after the final parade. Her own hair had been brushed back into a single long mane, and the garish makeup she'd worn in the ring had been removed, as well. No cosmetics of a more conventional nature had replaced it, either; even so, Eudoxia appeared nigh-flawless, fresh-scrubbed, with her natural colour still high from her satisfaction with her performance, and her excitement at being in the public eye for a bit.

There was no curtsy or bow; she stuck out her hand man-fashion to shake with him, catching him in mid-“leg,” forcing Lewrie to shift his hat from his
right hand to his left to respond in kind, and finding her grip surprisingly strong, her slim fingers tautly lean.

“Your servant, Mistress Eudoxia,” Lewrie said by rote.

“You are havink parrot shit on your shoulder, Kapitan Lewrie,” she said, instead, reaching for a damp towel to sponge his coat, with an impish grin on her face; which kindness and care for his appearance required her to step overly close to his left side. With her in flat slippers, Eudoxia's chin was just below the point of his shoulder; shod in shoes with fashionably, and sensibly, low heels, she might stand within two or three inches of his own height of five feet nine. Looking larboard at her work, her face
seemed
solemn, but her eyes glittered and crinkled with well-hidden glee.

“Very kind of you, Mistress Eudoxia,” Lewrie told her. “Normally sponging off my coat would involve cat fur.”

“You havink pet cats?”

“Two of ‘em… Chalky and Toulon,” Lewrie said. “Grand company for sailors, cats. For a captain.”

“A lonely think,” Eudoxia agreed, stepping back at last. “I am seeink Kapitan Veed liffing alone in… great-cabins, da?
Weed,
I am to say, not Veed. New to the
Engliski,
but learnink quickly, do you think, Kapitan Lewrie?”

“Doin' main-well, Mistress Eudoxia… extremely well,” Lewrie amended, since “main-well” was an idiom she hadn't yet met, it seemed. “Mister Wigmore says you came from beyond the Hellespont? Turkish, or Greek, or …?”

Her face hardened of an instant, her almond-shaped, almost Oriental eyes slitted in fury, and her nostrils flared; Eudoxia all but stamped a foot! “Turkman,
nyet!
Greek, nyet!” she fumed. “Ve beink
Ukraine
people…
Cossack,
not Mongol, not Tartar! What fool Wigmore know, hah.
Not
Muslim, but Russian Orthodox,
yob tvoyemat!
*
Come from Volga! East of Volga!”

“The, ah…river, aye,” Lewrie said, shrivelling up and shying from her sudden fury.

“Mans who say Cossack be bastard Tartars or Turkman is damn
lie
they tell!” Eudoxia snapped; this time she did
stamp
her foot, dainty though it was. “We Christian, see?” She opened the throat of her robe to display a silver cross with an odd diagonal extra bar, showing him the proud top-swell of her breasts, an expanse of flawless skin, and a promising depth of cleavage, too… though Lewrie didn't think that was her intent at the moment.

Why, I'll wager she's that yummy, right down to her toes!
Lewrie told himself;
Creamy…
damn'
creamy!

“I apologise for any misunderstanding, Mistress Eudoxia. Maybe I did not hear him right, and I was not aware of your…heritage,” he said, red-faced. “Forgive my ignorance of your part of the world, but I've never been near the Volga, in the Black Sea.”

“Um, I beink sorry, too, Kapitan Lewrie,” Eudoxia meekly replied, looking down and all but biting her lower lip for a moment. “For saying the bad think…
yob tvoyemat. Pajalsta…
please, forgive? It mean to…do something bad vit' your own mother.” She half-whispered that, blushing and lowering her gaze again, though finding it a
tad
funny.

“Would that be with, or without, bells on?” Lewrie asked with a grin. “An English expression, to…go do something to
yourself,
ye see… with bells on? Of course, you're forgiven, and thankee for a new phrase to add to my vocabulary. Should I ever sail to the Russias…d'ye think I might find it useful?”

“Get you killed,” Eudoxia all but giggled, looking up at him, directly, and with all her impishness back. “Is
very
bad. My poppa hear me say, he beat me.”

“Then don't tell him you did,” Lewrie leaned closer to suggest, snickering and laying a finger alongside his nose for a sage tap. His experience with foreigners was fairly broad, though he could not claim a working knowledge of any tongue but his own, and he was thankful that flirting with the girl wouldn't require a hired interpreter or a glossary of useful phrases. Her accent, thick as it was, was nowhere near as incomprehensible as that Hungarian officer in the Austrian Navy, Lt. Kolodzcy, he'd been saddled with in the Adriatic back in ‘96, sailing along “the Bal-gan goast” in search of “Zerbian pirades,” and, “bud ov gourse, ve must fint our-selfs some wirgins”! All delivered with his double heel-click of precise
punctilio!

“So… are
all
Cossacks from the Volga as skilled in archery as you, Mistress Eudoxia?” Lewrie enquired. “I came to congratulate you on your skill, and accuracy. I've heard that Cossacks are superb horsemen, o' course, but my word, I must say that you are possessed of a fine seat, as well.”

They hit another language snag, for Eudoxia furrowed her brows at that compliment, and all but groped her slim bottom, peeking over her shoulder to survey her arse.