"Ah, something, sir," Peel began to say, perking up.
"Sssst!" Twigg hissed, straining to hear. "Damme, just…"
Even without their improvised devices, they could now hear what transpired in the apartment adjoining theirs. Not the whispery billing and cooing of muttered pillow talk, which might contain the questions a woman spy had been tasked to ask, nor the beginning of Lewrie's replies in which he'd been strictly coached, to be tossed off casually, feigning alcohol-and-lust-inspired carelessness, either.
"My God, man's a bloody stoat!" Peel whispered, rather in awe of the passionate noises coming through the wall. "Both of 'em. Thrice in the last hour, I make it." He sighed enviously as he went to the table to pour himself some wine, putting his listening device to a more prosaic use. Twigg remained, sitting lumpish, twiddling his long thumbs, with a scowl on his face as the carefully placed bedstead next door, up against the wall so they could hear better, began to cry out-slats, side rails, and ropes creaking. He grimaced as names were whined or mewed, between groans and muffled enthusiasms for impending bliss.
"Doesn't have to make a meal of it," Twigg carped. "Get on!"
"What man wouldn't, given the chance…" Peel chuckled to himself, wondering if there would ever come a time in his Duty to Twigg, King, and Country when he was the actor in such a delightful bit of spy-craft-instead of the listener, or the arranger.
"Damn this rain," Twigg muttered, sour. "Damn him …!"
"Following your last advice, he is, sir," Peel commented, a bit tongue-in-cheek, as he discovered a neglected roast-chicken thigh among the supper plates. "Lay back, grit your teeth… and think of England."
"Pahh!" Twigg spat, rueing that cynical parting shot of his.
A soft keening, a frantic yowl of abandon arose, as the headboard began to thump against the wall, in rhythm with audible bull-like pants, and quavery shouts of "God, Claudia darlin', you lovely…!" And those "… si, si, Alan, Dio miу, si!"
"Pahh!" Twigg reiterated, swiveling on a hard dining chair.
"Sounds as if she's beyond thinking of France, and her revolutionary ardor, too, sir," Peel dared to snicker. Twigg's hugely unamused glower was enough to silence him, to chew on the thigh, as a framed picture on their side of the wall went askew with the last triumphant thuddings, and half screams of mutual rapture. Followed by many groans and weepy, shuddery sighs of content.
"Now get on with it, you two," Twigg snarled, impatient for intelligent speech again.
She really is a blonde, Alan thought, most happily spent, and so pleasantly nestled with her sprawled half atop him, his hands stroking such a wee bottom, a cunningly small waist, and the tops of her thighs. Bouncers on his chest, God yes, big as twelve-pounder shot, but Claudia was so exquisite a miniature. Thankee, Twigg; never say another bad thing about ya, he vowed!
"Alan," Claudia huskily whispered, purring and sensuously cat-soft alongside. "I knew… moment I saw you, we would be lovers, mi amato. But I never guessed, so. .. meraviglioso, so uhmm!"
"Cara mia," he purred back, hoping her clinging fondness, her passion, hadn't been completely sham. Her eyes going so dewy, open…
"Caro mнo," she chuckled gently, after a long soul kiss. "You will have long in Leghorn, to be my caro miу, my soul, si? And after. We will both be in Genoa, to share this bliss, Alan?" She pressed her face to his shoulder, hugging strong, shifting a thigh across his loins.
"At bloody last!" Twigg whispered, glued to the wall again.
Peel remained standing, to finish his wine, so he could put his glass back to King's Service. The rain still trickled, echoing in the spouts or plonking loudly in the collection barrels at ground level. He went to close the balcony doors, though it would be stifling without the faint cooling breeze the rain had brought.
Another damned noise, on a street chosen for light traffic after dark, where carriage wheels on cobblestones wouldn't intrude! Now, at the very worst time, came the clopping, mill-wheel grinding of a coach-and-four in the street below!
"Close those…!" Twigg directed, snapping his fingers at Peel, who shut the doors down to a tiny crack, from which he could see, back in the shadows of their darkened room. Hullo, stopping here? he winced.
Warily, he felt in his pockets for a pair of small double-barrel "barkers," in case the coach's occupants were French bully-bucks, despite Twigg's blithe assurances that there was no physical danger.
"Sir!" he alerted in a small voice. "Stopping here, sir!"
"Not now!" Twigg waved off, too intent on listening.
A lodging-house tiler emerged with a lanthorn in the small nimbus of torchlight before the doors, and the postillion boy from the back of the coach alit to open the door and hand down a fashionably dressed young lady. Peel relaxed when he saw her pay off the driver, that she'd come alone. No luggage to speak of, either, just the usual drawstring velvet purse, and a small toiletries satchel shaped like a small chest. A most beautiful young Mediterranean lady, with rich dark hair and eyes, a faint olive hue to her high, excited color. Most fetchin' and handsome, Peel took note appreciatively; quite young, but dressed as grand as any titled London lady-perhaps better. Young heiresses had been ex-Captain Peel's downfall, so he knew best when it came to appraising his woman-flesh; he thought her Ј10,000 on the hoof! Peel bared his teeth and snickered, thinking a wealthy Tuscan father was in trouble, if his daughter was off to sport the night with a caddish, penniless lover.
"No bother, sir… just a single lady," Peel whispered.
"Hmmph!" Twigg grunted, squirming as the coach clattered away, drowning out his vigil. "You try, Peel. You've younger ears."
Peel replaced him at the wall while Twigg stood and stretched to ease the kinks in his back and shoulders, knowing he was definitely too old for this work. He frowned suddenly, turned to share a wary, quizzical look with Peel as footsteps sounded from the stairwell, then from the landing-then in their hallway!
"Damme!" Twigg sighed, drawing one of his own pocket pistols and pulling the right-hand barrel back to half cock. He crossed to the door on cat-feet to press his overstressed ear to the door. He heard voices in the hall, muffled Italian. Light shifted at his feet through the gap above the doorsill. He dared to open the door a crack, to see who it might be, hoping they'd pass on by to other apartments farther along-but no!
He pulled the door open a bit more, stuck his head around it, to see a servant rapping on Lewrie's door! "Commandante Lewrie?" he said. And the young lady with him, bouncing on her toes in excitement of her great surprise of her unexpected arrival…!
"No!" Twigg gasped, "you silly slut! Why here, why now…?"
He thought of rushing to carry her off, but that would cause an even greater commotion. And it was too late; the door to Lewrie's apartment was opening!
"Sir?" Peel asked with a puzzled look of ignorance. Then Peel flinched away from the wall, almost dropping his glass in surprise, as he had no more need of it. There was sound, and more than enough, to go round!