"We… rather, our superiors in London, dream a tad bit larger than merely occupying Corsica, Leftenant Lewrie," Sir William grudgingly admitted, leaning forward himself to whisper more confidentially. "I grant you, all you say is true. Yet, there is also resistance to Paris and the revolutionaries in France, as well. The Midi… Var, Provence… along the Biscay coast in Vendee, there are many adherents to the royal family. Regions openly in rebellion versus the Republicans. What you are told now is to be held in the strictest confidence, sir, but… Admiral Hood may be able to exploit Royalist sentiment in Southern France. He is charged by Henry Dundas to attack Marseilles, if at all possible, blockade Southern France, bottle up or destroy the French fleet, and in the last instance, exploiting Royalist sentiments, lay siege to, thence capture the naval port and fortifications of Toulon. So you see, Leftenant Lewrie, Corsica would be a poor second. A sideshow. That is the aim of the coalition in the Mediterranean. And that is why I have courted the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies so ardently."

"Good God!" Lewrie exclaimed in a covert mutter, leaning back in amazement. "Yes, I see, Sir William. So your hoped-for treaty is just about completed."

" Hamilton has it, Leftenant Lewrie," Emma Hamilton boasted, giving her old stick of a husband a supportive grin. "It's a pat hand already, really. Naples isn't powerful enough to resist France alone, in the long run, so they must side with us. He is too modest about his accomplishments."

"I'm not to know that, I presume, nor anything about the treaty," Alan spelled out aloud, partly for his own use. "But, asked my opinion, I should express the belief that France should be crushed quickly. And that the Royal Navy is more than able to defeat or blockade the French. I just have to avoid saying or doing anything stupid."

"Heavenly! Aptly put!" Lady Hamilton cheered, rewarding him with another encouraging smile. "One might allude to Toulon and Marseilles… as hotbeds of Royalist sentiment, though, sir. Without belabouring the subject."

Good God, Lewrie thought, a bit shocked; who exactly is the ambassador to Naples? She's the nutmegs of a Grenadier Guard-and when excited, as she was at that moment, could lapse into most unladylike speech; a trifle too loud, too. She was a forward piece, no error, Alan thought.

Emma Hamilton was not the typical batter-pudding most men of the age preferred, the sort who could snuggle under a fellow's chin on her tiptoes. Nor was she fubsy, either, though she was more of a pillowy kind than he usually liked. A dimpled chin, nicely dimpled cheeks when she smiled. Bright, pale blue eyes, huge 'uns! A good brow, and her eyebrows and hair were almost raven, dago-dark. A somewhat coarse complexion, though free of smallpox scars. Her teeth, as she displayed them in a pleased grin, were a little irregular. But then, what person didn't have a few missing by her age, or erose teeth to begin with, he realised! How old was she, he wondered?

There was an intriguing cast, a tiny brown mote, in her left eye, he noted, as she continued to lecture in a very vivacious, hurried way: damn' charmin', he thought suddenly; no, not a bit fubsy. Just the tad bit stout… or would be later in life, like a country girl. And, when excited, she sounded a bit country, too! Midlands, Alan decided; Nottinghamshire, Staffordshire or Cheshire, by her accent, which surfaced, in spite of obvious coaching, in a more genteel London style.

In her thirties, he asked himself? No, late twenties, at best. And with this old colt's tooth how long? Hmmm?

"… II Re Lazzarone," she was saying, lifting her hands to talk dago-fashion to stress her syllables, twiddling short, com-monish fingers on hands a tad too rough for a woman born to the idle aristocracy. "Do try it, sir. Lots-ah-roan-ay!" she giggled.

"Eel Ray Lots-ah-roan-ay," Alan parroted, warming to her infectious vivacity. "And… uhm… Eel Vekee-oh Nah-sohn-ay."

"Oh, very good, sir!" she laughed. "Buon giorgno… that's good morning… buona notte is goodnight. Scusi, that's excuse me. And one can't go wrong with grazie. Thank you. Grazie, signore… grazie, signorina, or signora, if she's married, d'ye see. You are a… tenente, so if you hear someone say tenente, you may be sure it's you they're speaking to. King Ferdinand would adore a few choice Italian phrases. He speaks Italian better than ever he did his native Spanish. Though they are similar."

"You'll only confuse him, Emma. Or arm him too tightly, just enough to encourage him," Sir William grumped, though gently. Dotingly.

"Your first name, sir?" she demanded suddenly. "Isn't it so very stiff, calling you Leftenant Lewrie, and me Lady Hamilton? I am Emma."

"Were Sir William to allow me? Thank you, Sir William, I am honoured by your condescension. Lady Emma, then," he experimented, with a smile. "Uhm, you say His Majesty is not too formal…?"

"The most unassumin' monarch ever you did see, Alan," she cried boldly. "Goes about the town afoot, on his own half the time, chatting up just anyone of his subjects he comes across. For a Spanish Bourbon… what you call a stiff-necked don…!"

"Emma, really," Sir William interjected, merely pretending to be scandalised.

"His people love him, and he truly loves theml" she prattled on, all but squirming on her coach seat. "He gives them festa, form, et farina. Oh, see how much Italian you're learning, Alan? Festa, forza et farina… festivals, force and flour. For bread and pasta. There are some think it boorish, but he realises there's more commoners than rich, and if the commoners… the lazzarone … support him, then his crown is safe. And, of course, what he calls the other three pillars of his reign… church, crown and mob. Heavens! So much to relay, and so little time, Hamilton," she said, almost breathless in her haste. "Quite another reason King Ferdinand and Queen Maria Carolina are dead set against the revolutionaries… they're Catholic monarchs, in a Catholic country, and not only did the Republicans supplant royalty when the king and Queen Marie Antoinette were beheaded… the French are preaching atheism! All sorts of vague, humanist prattle… Deist at best! All the churches turned into Temples of Man… priests thrown out, called to the armies to get them out of the way… churches closed, and rich properties seized for the state… it is a pity, Hamilton, that Alan cannot be presented to Maria Carolina."

"I believe she is in the last weeks of her confinement, Lady Emma? And in grief over her royal sister's… murder."

"Exactly. God, you should see her. Big as a housel" Emma hooted with earthy good humour. "But, were you to meet her, and get to see her resolve, her mind, Alan… you'd meet one of the most formidable women in Europe, she's so…"

"Ah, we're here," Sir William announced as their coach jangled to a halt. And with the slightest sound of relief from his wife's enthusiasm in his voice. "I will, of course, alight first, sir. Would you be so good, once you have done likewise, as to hand Lady Hamilton down?"

"Like the Navy, Sir William? Seniors last in, first out?" Alan snickered. "It will be my pleasure to assist Lady Hamilton."

Dear God, I hope so, he thought, giving her what he also hoped was the sort of significant grin that had worked in his past. Coarse and too damn' forward she might be, but she was, by that very nature, damned intriguing and exotically exciting. Like Naples itself.

He slid near the door, waiting for the tall Sir William to set foot on the iron coach step, to plant his shoes on the ground and move far enough away to give him room to alight. He was taking his own, old sweet, arthritic time about it. Lewrie glanced meaningfully to her once more as she gathered her skirts.

She lowered her gaze slowly, in what looked to be a most covert nod of agreement. Slowly she glanced out the windows of the coach, to Sir William, who was huffing, grimacing and accepting the arm of a liveried postillion boy. She looked back to Lewrie just as slowly, smiling a bashful smile over her husband's infirmities, as if to say, "What may one do?" Then inclined her head to one side, ever so slightly, presenting a strong yet graceful neck. Her gaze became less bashful, turned forward and bold. She appraised him, cocked hat to well-blacked shoes. And gave him another brow-lifted nod of acceptance.

Thankee, Jesus, we're aboard, Lewrie thought triumphantly!

He alit at last, once there was space enough, and reached in to hand her down safely, in front of what appeared to be a most plebeian fried-fish shop. Her silk-hosed ankles winked for a dizzying moment as she emerged. She took his offered hand, and as she departed their coach (with only moderate grace) she gave his fingers a firm and intimate squeeze, and both their grasps lingered far longer than his gentlemanly task demanded.

"Old Nosey's a caution, Alan," she whispered, leaning close to his head in final warning; using that final warning as an excuse for a public intimacy. "A bit on the loud side. A touch… vulgar… for what most deem acceptable behaviour for royalty. More exuberant than British visitors are wont. I'd tell you more, but time does not admit it."

"Perhaps later, Lady Emma?" Alan suggested, almost leering now. "I'm asea, with need of tutoring. And you the most capable. And the most handsome."

"I expect you have very little need of tutoring, Alan," she said with a light laugh, which quickly became a full-throated guffaw. "Come. Be presented."

And she brushed past him to join her husband, leaving him wondering if she'd been teasing after all, and had just laughed all his lustful pretensions to scorn.

Chapter 5

King Ferdinand the Fourth was a touch more than crude. II Re Lazzarone was as vulgar as a horse-coper. For a moment Lewrie was not sure which of the low figures in the cook shop he was, until a tall, beaky fellow came from behind the counter, dressed in a flamboyantly figured black-and-silver waist-coat, silk shirt and laced stock, in fawn breeches and gleaming top boots. He wore a white publican's apron, which he cast aside as he approached.

Sir John Acton presented him, then stood in as translator. A moment later, after the latest news had been digested, Lewrie ended up in a bear hug, being bussed on both cheeks over and over, lifted off his feet, and danced round the cook shop, as a pack of wastrels and idlers cheered lustily.

"His Majesty cannot express his joy upon learning…" Sir John condensed for him.

"He's doin' main-well, consid'rin', Sir John…" Lewrie muttered as he tried to maintain an innocent, unabashed fool's face as the ruddy-featured monarch jounced him around.

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