"Ah, there ye are, at long last," his father, Major-General Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, grumbled as he entered their rooms.
"Father," Lewrie answered, heading for the bedrooms.
"I'd not dare go in there, at the moment, me lad," his father cautioned. "A massive bout of the vapours, all's not quite 'tiddly,' and I heard voices raised in high dudgeon not a minute past. Brandy?" Sir Hugo laconically offered, lifting a squat bottle to him.
"Ah, no, thankee," Lewrie demurred. "Not before the ceremony's done'd be best. They're in a pet? At logger-heads, or…?"
At one time, Caroline had been all Christian sympathy and welcoming, doting "step-mother" to Sophie, when she'd first arrived from Gibraltar. But, once those anonymous "you must know of your husband's doings" letters had come, and kept coming, and had suggested that he and Sophie had been lovers, Caroline had turned spiteful on the girl, which was why Sophie had fled Anglesgreen in tears of betrayed trust, and ended up with Lewrie's father, the most unimaginable "port in the storm," for Sir Hugo was known far and wide as an infamous lecher and. "beard-splitting" rakehell. It was Caroline's duty to stand in lieu of her real mother at such a time as Sophie's wedding, and to every outward sign, she was fulfilling that role, but… what she actually thought was anyone's guess.
Lewrie took a dithering step closer to the bedrooms.
"Suit yourself," Sir Hugo said with a sigh as he leaned back in his chair and crossed one knee-booted leg over the other. " 'Tis not a shrieking pet, thankee Jesus. Last-minute 'where's me pearl drops?'-I gather-a general bout of the 'fantods.' Women's nerves," he scoffed. "So… now you've met the Langlies, what was your impression?"
"Not the 'Chaw-Bacon Country-Puts' I expected," Lewrie said as he made the wise decision to seat himself at the table with his father. "So gracious and straight-forward, the French'd call 'em suave. I do imagine, do we dine 'em in back home, they'll even eat with knives and forks, as mannerly as kiss my hand."
"And, did they goggle when they clapped eyes on you?" Sir Hugo asked with a snicker.
"Like greetin' a crocodile, aye," Lewrie told him, chuckling in spite of his own twangy nerves. He'd not had that much experience at getting people married off, could barely recall his own, and getting Anthony Langlie and Sophie de Maubeuge "long-spliced" was as demanding a proposition as arming, rigging, and commissioning a warship. And, as pleasing an occasion as it was, it took time away from seeing to that proper commissioning of HMS Savage; kept him pent ashore whilst awaiting the Beaumans' arrival, was a day stolen from possible escape on the King's Business once Savage was able to sail…!
"Well, won't be a patch on what the Langlies think, when they clap eyes on me, haw haw," Sir Hugo said with an evil little smile.
"You'll do nothing to spoil the…?" Lewrie fretted. He'd seen his father in action before; his eyes glittered something Satanic!
"I will simply be my usual self," Sir Hugo archly replied. "God help us, then," Lewrie muttered under his breath, for his Corinthian sire, despite his sterling success in the field in Indian Army service, the nabob's pile of plunder he'd fetched home, and his long-ago knighthood for bravery during the Seven Years' War to scrub the smuts off his repute among the "better sorts," had been a member of Lord Sandwich's Hell-Fire Club in his early days, and had whored and rantipoled with the strumpets and "bare-back riders" in the undercroft cells of Medmenham Abbey, before the club had been exposed and broken up. Indeed, so eager a member was he that, after a night or two of swilling, gorging, and "putting the leg over," Sir Hugo had been one of the few orgyasts who rose Sunday morning to attend the "Divine Services" that Lord Sandwich, in "dominee ditto" attire, preached against fornication and other deadly sins… mostly to the hundreds of farm cats that his labourers would herd into the church to improve their own amoral natures!
And, despite the good service Sir Hugo had rendered the Crown in the field during the Nore Mutiny at Sheerness, people would gossip and goggle him, women gasp behind their fans (whether in disgust or carnal curiosity, it was sometimes hard to tell), men cut him "direct" or displayed taut grins of envy, to this very day, for once a rogue, always a rogue; an unsavable sinner bound to Hell on the fast coach, or the man one might like to spend an evening with, just to pick up some pointers!
Least he's turned out proper, Lewrie told himself as he turned a leery eye on his father; damme if he ain't sober, too! Mostly.
To match the uniformed naval members of the wedding, Sir Hugo had donned his very best Army uniform; a smartly tailored red coat all adrip with gilt lace and gilded chain gimp, lace and gilt buttons up the sleeves above the blue cuffs; blue facings and collar with gilt-outlined button holes, atop a scarlet waist-sash, and breeches, shirt and waist-coat as white as snow. There was also the star of the Order of the Garter, and the cross-chest sash that went with it. Sitting on the table between them was a cocked hat the size of a watermelon, just as laced with gold trim and gilt cords as his coat, and a gold-bound black silk cockade on its left-hand forward face.
At his hip, the sly old rogue sported not the usual hundred-guinea straight small-sword like everyone else, but a Moghul tulwar, reputedly one he had taken off the corpse of a Rajput rajah whom he'd chopped to chautney sauce. It was a short sabre with a shiny Damascene blade, but so studded with pearls, emeralds, and rubies that it was worth a rajah's ransom in its own right, and Lewrie hadn't seen a gaudier one in Zachariah Twigg's vast collection at Spyglass Bungalow when he'd been forced to ride up to consult the old cut-throat a year before. Gilt hilt and hand-guard, an engraved and gold-inlaid blade, sheathed in a bright-steel scabbard with gold (not gilt) throat and drag, with even more inlays, engravings, and inset gems. Pretty as it was, it was no toy, and was as keen-edged and dangerous as a barber's razor.
And, of course, Sir Hugo also sported a tight-curled white peruke with short queue, for his own hair was mostly a thing of the past, and his nigh-bare pate was now age-spotted. All in all, did one meet him on a daytime street, and be unaware of his scurrilous nature, one might be mightily impressed… almost to the point of gambling with him, or loaning him money!
There came the thuds of travelling chests being shut, a light patter of soft-soled shoes, then the bedroom door was flung open, and Caroline emerged, followed not a tick later by the bride, and a brace of maid-servants, one a stout and red-faced country girl from Anglesgreen who did for his wife, and a slimmer, darker, but just as shiny-faced and beaming maid-servant whom Sophie had engaged in London, all cooing and twittering at the joy of the occasion, and how splendidly the bride had been arrayed, how radiant she was at that instant. "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie," Lewrie commented as he and Sir Hugo got to their feet, "give ye joy of the day, my dear! And, allow me to say how absolutely lovely ye are!"
"Merci… thank you, Captain Lewrie," Sophie replied, shiny-eyed, as if about to burst out in tears of sheer delight, or tears of last-minute qualms.
"Breathtakin', ye are, dear girl," Sir Hugo added. "Pretty as a picture. This Langlie fellow's a fortunate dog, damned if he ain't."
"Merci, grand-pere… merci beaucoup," she said to him, for she had always been closest to the old roue, depending on him to learn how to adjust to being British. She gave him a twinkling smile and bowed a graceful curtsy to punctuate her gratitude for the compliment, along with his years of amusing aid.