"Not that kind of devotion. She is yours for the duration of your visit. To do with whatever you please."
I stopped. "That is deplorable."
"A bit disgusting, yes."
"You knew about this? Why did you not refuse?"
He shrugged. "If I refuse, they might ask me to go. Bring in another journalist in my place. I must write about Jack Sharp and what they get him up to. All else is unimportant."
I did not find the honor of a lady unimportant, and I told him so. He took my admonishment with good nature. But after all, I myself had not departed in high dudgeon. I stayed because I needed to investigate Breckenridge and Eggleston, and I would have to bear with their idea of entertainment for as long as it took. Like Egan, I had come here for my own purposes.
Egan wanted to walk farther, but I was tired from the journey and decided to retire. We parted, he strolling away through the flower beds, and I turning back to the house.
As I neared the garden door, I glimpsed a movement in the shadows near the south wing. I was strongly reminded of what I'd seen at the inn near Faversham, and my senses came awake.
I walked toward the shadows, loosening the sword in my walking stick as I went. I wondered briefly if James Denis had sent one of his trained thugs to drag me back to London. I had the feeling, however, that Mr. Denis would be somewhat more direct than hiring someone to skulk about the gardens.
I walked purposefully toward the darker shadows under the trees, but when I reached the spot where I thought I’d seen the movement, no one was in sight.
I waited a few more minutes, listening hard, but I heard nothing, saw no one. Still, the space between my shoulder blades prickled, as it had in Faversham, and did not stop until I reached the house and closed the door behind me.
Grenville made his grand appearance early the next afternoon, after closeting himself with his valet for hours. When at last he emerged into the drawing room that opened out to the garden, the gentlemen of the party, including me, had been assembled for several hours. I still had not met the ladies.
What there had been of conversation-Breckenridge and Eggleston had been exchanging insults, I had been pretending to read, and Egan had stared at paintings-ceased when Grenville strolled into the room. He wore trousers and boots, a casual black frock coat, a brown and cream striped cotton waistcoat, and a simply tied cravat. Eggleston stared with his overly round eyes, running his gaze over every crease of fabric that hung on Grenville's body.
Grenville sauntered past us all, murmured a vague "Good morning," then opened the French door and went out. As one, the party followed him. I brought up the rear.
I had never yet seen Grenville submerge himself into the role of the famous fashionable dandy. I decided, watching him now, that if I had witnessed it, I possibly would never have accepted his overtures of friendship.
He ignored his train of followers and wandered to a stand of rosebushes. He drew out his quizzing glass and peered through it at a half-blown bud for at least five minutes. He raised his eyebrows at it, then said, "Lovely."
Eggleston giggled. "I will tell Lady Mary you said so."
For one moment, Grenville blanched. When I had informed him this morning, over breakfast in his chamber, that he'd drawn Lady Mary's card, he had shot me a look of horror. "Good lord, I ought to have gone down."
"You knew about this game?" I asked in irritation. "Why did you not warn me?"
"Truth to tell, I forgot about it. I do apologize. You are of course not obligated to do anything more than escort your lady and make certain she has her fill of macaroons and lemonade. Breckenridge and Eggleston will disparage you, of course, but I have the feeling this will not offend you."
"I drew Lady Breckenridge," I said.
His brows shot up. "God help you. She is-well, interesting. But I do not pity you too much. I have Lady Mary. She loves only one thing, and that is her roses. I am pleased she has found a pleasant pastime, but she never stops talking about the bloody things."
Grenville, now recovered, turned to Eggleston. He lifted his quizzing glass again, frowned through it at Eggleston's cherry red and lavender striped waistcoat, then shook his head and dropped the glass back into his pocket. Eggleston paled. Breckenridge gave one of his snorting laughs.
Grenville ignored him. "Where is this pugilist?"
Eggleston, still white-faced, summoned a servant, who presently returned leading what Mr. Egan had termed the prize exhibit.
Jack Sharp was a smaller man than I'd thought he would be, standing only as high as my chin. His arms, however, bulged with muscle and his shoulders and back filled out his frock coat. He greeted us all cordially and shook hands with me in a friendly manner. He showed no awe of the great Grenville, and Grenville betrayed no awe of him.
The match, or exhibition, so I understood, would be held later that afternoon. Eggleston expected crowds to come from miles around to watch. He boasted of Sharp's prowess, punctuating his sentences with giggles. Breckenridge laconically asked Sharp to remove his coat and demonstrate a few moves.
I soon grew weary of standing about admiring Sharp's muscles, though I found little in his character to object to. Sharp had a cheerful good nature and an intelligent eye. I would have been far happier talking to him in a public house over a warm ale, but he, like Grenville, was doomed to exhibit status here in this beautiful garden.
The advantage to being a nobody was that the company did not notice when I drifted away and reentered the house. The morning had turned hot, and the sun beat through a white haze that made my eyes ache. The echoing coolness of the house, however gaudy, was welcoming.
But I seethed with frustration. I had spent the entire morning attempting, without success, to turn Breckenridge's and Eggleston's conversation to the Peninsular War and happenings there. A handful of veterans of the Peninsular campaign finding themselves together would invariably discuss the English victories at Salamanca, Vitoria, and San Sebastian, usually with some anecdote of what they had done during the battle.
Yet Breckenridge and Eggleston seemed to have forgotten that the entire Peninsular campaign had ever happened. When I tried to broach the subject, they stared as though they'd never heard of any of the places and events I mentioned. I began to wonder whether they'd been Belemites, officers who'd contrived to miss every battle, every dangerous encounter with the enemy. They could do it, volunteering to transfer prisoners or carry messages to headquarters or other jobs that would take them away from the lines of battle. The Forty-Third Light had done little during the siege of Badajoz so the two gentlemen could have been far from it, but I knew they had at least returned to the town after it had been conquered. Westin's letters and Spencer's investigation put them there.
The only reference to army life came from Breckenridge, who made comments on officers who could barely afford their kit. He also told the tale of a handsome cavalry saddle he'd bagged from a downed French officer. Breckenridge used the saddle for his early rides every morning, never missed since the day. He'd boasted of the pilfering as though he'd won some great battle, but likely he'd come upon the officer and horse already dead and had simply stolen the saddle.
My errand was beginning to seem for naught. My mind turned over possibilities for wringing information from the two gentlemen as I made my way toward the front of the house in search of my elusive hostess.
What I found-or rather heard, as I approached open double doors to a sunny drawing room-were violent, choking sobs and a shrill female voice endeavoring to shriek over them.
A slap rang out. "Shut up, you impertinent slut!"
The weeper screamed. "Cow! Skinny cow! He don't love you, never did."
I halted in the doorway. Two women stood in the middle of a grand room whose high ceilings were covered with the same sort of gods and goddesses that adorned the main hall. The weeper was a large-boned young woman in apron and mobcap. Her face was scarlet, and the white outline of a hand showed stark on her cheek.
The young w
oman who faced her hardly deserved to be called a cow. She was a slender, birdlike girl with soft ringlets of brown hair and large blue eyes. She could not have been long out of her governess's care, and I wondered if she were the daughter of one of my fellow guests.
She could rightly be termed skinny, however, because her slenderness was most pronounced. The fashion these days was for women to have very little shape at all, but I, always out of date, preferred a females with a bit more roundness. This girl's body was as narrow as that of a twelve-year-old boy's.
The maid saw me. Covering her face, she rushed out of the room, bathing me in a scent of warm sweat.
The young woman transferred her gaze to me, unembarrassed. "Who are you?"
I made a half-bow and introduced myself.
"You are Mr. Grenville's friend," she announced, looking me up and down. "Did you draw my card?"
Since I had no idea who she was, I did not know. "I drew Lady Breckenridge."
"Oh." She looked neither disappointed nor elated. "She is in the billiards room. She is mad for everything billiards. I hate her."
The gods and goddesses above us seemed to laugh. I stood silently, at a loss as to how to respond.
She went on, "Did Mr. Grenville draw me, then?"
"Mr. Grenville drew our hostess."
"I wanted Mr. Grenville." She toyed with her lower lip. Her white summer frock was thin and wispy, and she looked far too young to be playing the gentlemen's wretched card game. "It was not Breckenridge, was it?"
"He drew Mrs. Carter."
She made a face. "I hate her, too. She is fat, like Lady Breckenridge. Do you know how I stay so slender, Captain?"
Of course, I had no idea. I'd had conversations with eight-year-old children that had baffled me less.
"I eat what I like," she explained. "Then I put my fingers down my throat and bring it up again. Lady Breckenridge could do that. Then she would not be so fat."
I wondered what she wanted in response. Praise that she was so clever? Admonishment for a disgusting practice? I was beyond my depth.
I assumed, from process of elimination, that this young woman must be Lady Richard Eggleston. I found it difficult to believe that the oily Eggleston had been paired with this flower-like creature, but marriages in the ton produced some odd bedfellows. She could not have been more than seventeen years old.
"Can you direct me to the billiards room?" I asked.
She did not even blink. She pointed with a small, bony finger. "The north wing. Last door along. She will be there. I hate billiards."
I was not certain whom to feel sorrier for, Eggleston or his bride. I supposed I should give Richard Eggleston's young wife my compassion. She had no doubt been thrust into marriage to fulfill her family's ambitions.
My own father had wished me to marry the daughter of a nabob-those businessmen who made their fortunes on the plantations of Jamaica and Antigua and returned to England to live in high style. I suppose the woman in question had been no better or worse than any other, but I had defied my father and married a pretty girl of poor gentility with whom I'd thought myself madly in love.
I turned from Lady Richard after a polite leave-taking, at least on my part, and sought the north wing.
Chapter Nine
The windows in the billiards room at the end of the wing faced west. Sunlight dazzled me when I entered, and the character of the room became clear only after I'd blinked a few moments. Every flat surface of the pale green walls and white ceiling was filled with plaster motifs of rams' heads. Two billiards tables stood in the center of the room, and gilded armless chairs rested against the walls where players could lounge while they awaited their turns.
A woman bent over the far table, cue poised in competent fingers. She had a mass of dark brown hair pulled under a lace cap, and wore a dark blue, high-waisted, long-sleeved gown. She was thankfully older than Lady Richard Eggleston; I put her age to be close to thirty.
She had a long, sharp nose that did not mar her face but drew attention to deep-set dark eyes, which showed hard intelligence. Lady Richard Eggleston had called her "fat," but this was a misnomer. Lady Breckenridge was plump of arm and leg, but her rounded physique was much more pleasing than Lady Richard's starved appearance.
A thin string of smoke rose from the lit black cigarillo that rested on the varnished edge of the table. Lady Breckenridge glanced at me once, then her cue moved expertly forward, connecting with the ball with a sharp crack.
She lifted the cigarillo and inhaled from it for a long time, all the while watching me. "Well, come on then," she said, smoke mixing with her words.
I hesitated. A game with Lady Breckenridge could provide me the perfect opportunity to quiz her about her husband, but no one played without wagering on the outcome, and I could not afford to lose.
I resigned myself. I chose a slender cue from the rack at the end of the room then returned to the table. Lady Breckenridge watched while I gathered the balls and positioned them for a new game.
She handed me the cigarillo. "Be useful."
I took it. A wisp of smoke curled into my eyes, stinging them.
She leaned over the table again and quickly shot. Her balls rolled into precise position. "Is the commotion over?" she asked. "I mean Serena shrieking at that damned maid."
I took Serena to be Lady Richard. "It seems to be finished."
Lady Breckenridge lined up another shot. "They were rowing over my husband, if you want to know. Lord knows why. The little bitch can have him."
I wondered if she meant Lady Richard or the maid. I leaned against the table as Lady Breckenridge went on with the game. The cigarillo burned steadily and a bit of ash floated to the floor.
Balls clacked. "She's already put an heir in the nursery," Lady Breckenridge went on, "and Eggleston does not want her. Breckenridge does not really either, but the silly fool believes herself enchanting."
She missed her shot. She straightened and almost snatched the cigarillo from my hand. She drew a long breath of it. "Oh, do not look so shocked, Captain. Are you a Methodist?"
"No," I answered.
I leaned down and sighted along my cue. Three balls plus one cue ball occupied the table. We would generate points for ourselves by sending balls into the six pockets about the table, or by caroming the cue ball from the table's side into one of the other balls. A simple game, but one that took some skill.
I shot. Balls clacked to the corner of the table, and one disappeared.
As I leaned down for another shot, Lady Breckenridge asked suddenly, "Why are you here?"
As she probably had intended, I started, and my cue slipped. I straightened it, not taking the shot, and answered, "I came with Mr. Grenville."
"I thought you were a journalist. Like Egan."
"No," I said.
But like Egan, I'd come to pry. I shot, and missed. She gave me a triumphant look and handed me the cigarillo.
"You do not say much for yourself," she observed.
I leaned on my cue. "Grenville is more interesting."
"Of course he is. My husband worships him like a god. Lord Richard wants to sleep with him."
I hid a start, but upon reflection, I was not terribly surprised. Grenville had attracted such attentions before, though he did not return them. Such were the hazards, I supposed, of a raging popularity.
Lady Breckenridge was staring at me again. She glanced at the cigarillo, then at me, and her lip curled derisively.
I preferred my tobacco in the form of snuff, but under Lady Breckenridge's dark stare, I lifted the cigarillo to my lips and drew its smoke into my mouth. She watched me with calm dispassion until I exhaled slowly, then she lifted her cue and shot both cue ball and secondary ball into a net pocket.
She won that game and suggested another.
Fortunately, though she was obviously prepared to trounce me at billiards, she had no qualms about discussing her husband, not even when I asked a direct question about the incident with Captain Spenc
er on the Peninsula.
"I suppose you are asking because Westin managed to kill himself last week and so escape a trial," she said. "Serena told me. Full of glee she was. But she is sordid and likes sordid things to happen."
"And do you?"
She gave me an amused smile as if my fishing delighted her. "The entire incident was entertaining. Mrs. Westin holds herself above everyone else, and yet, her husband was about to be arrested for murder. Happy escape for her when he died, was it not? Her marriage was cold, Captain, very cold. That is why she is so brittle."
"She has borne much," I pointed out.
"As have I, married to Breckenridge. Pity me that the war ended and he came home." She carefully sighted down her cue, then shot. The cue ball slammed into the table's side then hard into another ball. "Do you know what happened when the Westins stayed at Eggleston's in Oxfordshire? Lord Richard proposed the card game. Mrs. Westin grew so upset when she learned what it was all about that she nearly swooned. She begged her husband to take her away, which he meekly did."
She leaned over the table again, and proceeded to gather up ten more points. At long last, she missed and I took my turn. I lined up my cue.
A sudden flake of hot ash landed on my hand. I jumped. Lady Breckenridge gave me a malicious smile. "So what do you think of her?" she asked.
"Of who?"
"Lydia Westin, of course." The smile broadened. "Oh, come, Captain, it is all over the newspapers. You and the wife of the deceased colonel. It is the delight of Mayfair."
I ground my teeth, silently cursing Billings.
She touched the lapel of my coat. "You are a gallant gentleman, leaping to her side. And not without ambition, I wager."
I stared at her. "Ambition? I beg your pardon?"
"You are penniless, Captain. Mrs. Westin is a wealthy woman. It is natural, but do not expect warmth from her. Gentlemen have dashed themselves to pieces on those rocks before."
I was rapidly tiring of Lady Breckenridge. "What are you suggesting?"
"I am suggesting that you are in want of a bit of blunt." She traced her finger down my coat. "To pay your tailor's bill, to settle your billiards losses. Not to mention a soft bed to lie in, a comfortable chair at supper. What gentleman would not want this?"
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