A Regimental Murder (10 page)

Three gentlemen sitting at the long walnut
table broke off their conversation and looked up when I appeared in
the doorway. They were the only inhabitants of the room; Lady Mary,
my hostess, was nowhere in sight.

I seated myself after murmuring a greeting. A
spotted-faced footman appeared, plunked cold soup into my bowl, and
shuffled out.

The gentlemen at the table seemed already to
have dined. Two of them noisily slurped port, the third merely
toyed with the stem of his glass and watched the others with amused
eyes.

The man across from me leaned forward. He had
dark, rather wiry hair that fluffed about his flat face. His eyes
were light blue, round like a child's, and he watched me, slightly
pop-eyed, as I proceeded to eat the tasteless soup.

"Where's Grenville?" he asked.

"Resting," I answered truthfully. "He felt a
bit unwell from the journey."

The man jerked his thumb at the gentleman at
the head of the table. "Breckenridge here brought along a tame
pugilist. Wants to know what Grenville thinks of him."

The gentleman referred to as Breckenridge
looked already far gone in drink. His hairline receded all the way
to the back of his head, but a mane of hair, thick and dark, curled
from there to his neck. His jaw moved in a circular motion, even
after he swallowed, almost like a cow chewing cud. The movement was
not overt, but it was distracting. He wore a fine black suit and a
cream-colored waistcoat, and he regarded my regimentals with an
obvious sneer.

The third gentleman said, "Jack Sharp,
beloved of the Fancy."

My interest perked. I had heard much of Jack
Sharp as well as the Pugilist Club, the members of which were often
called the "Fancy." The club sponsored boxing exhibitions and
helped pugilists gain fame and fortune. True prize fighting had
been outlawed long ago, but wagering at exhibition matches remained
just as fierce.

"Lady Mary's got him set up in the kitchen,"
the first man said. I concluded he must be Lord Richard Eggleston,
the second of the men that Lydia wished me to investigate. "Except
for bed. She's put him in old Farty Forty's room."

"Really?" the third member asked. "Where is
Lord Fortescue sleeping?"

Eggleston looked blank. "Devil if I know. In
a bed, I suppose. He's in Paris."

"Lord Fortescue is not at home?" I asked,
surprised.

The blue-eyed man shook his head. "He don't
care what Lady Mary gets up to. Hell, she is one of the cards." He
cackled.

What he meant by this, I could not
fathom.

Eggleston lost interest in me and turned to
the topic of women. His childish eyes shone with the enthusiasm of
a Methodist preacher as he described the gyrations in his bed of a
lady he'd met in London before his journey down.

I tried to ignore him and concentrate on my
soup. I had at last recognized the third man. His name was Pierce
Egan, a journalist whose specialty was pugilism. He'd written
scores of articles on boxing and horse racing and generally was
hailed as the most knowledgeable of men on the subjects.

I disliked journalists, like Billings, but I
made an exception for Egan. I appreciated his dry, observant style
that painted pictures of boxers and the men who watched them. He
seemed to find London an endless parade of fascinating characters.
He fixed his attention now on the two aristocrats, rather like a
member of the Royal Society might observe two particularly
intriguing insects.

"Damn me, but she was a big-arsed whore,"
Eggleston concluded, then stumbled to his feet. "Bottle's empty.
Why the devil do they not bring more?" He marched to the door,
wrenched it open, and staggered through, calling for the
butler.

Breckenridge took a noisy gulp of port.
"Talks about women as though he actually beds them."

I remembered what Grenville had said about
Eggleston's proclivities, and about how he and Breckenridge often
disparaged one another in public. Breckenridge certainly gave the
door Eggleston had disappeared through a derisive stare.

Egan lifted his brows at me, then went back
to studying Breckenridge. I finished the lukewarm soup and hoped
more courses would follow, but the footman did not reappear.

Eggleston shuffled back in, a bottle under
each arm. He poured another glass for himself and shoved the bottle
at Egan. Egan studied it a moment, then quietly passed it to me. My
glass had stood empty the entire time.

I poured for myself and drank thirstily.
Fortunately, though the soup had been less than palatable, the port
was rich and smooth. Lady Mary had obviously allowed us the best of
her brother Lord Fortescue's cellar.

Eggleston leaned across the table as I drank
and began asking me questions about Grenville, his blue eyes
glittering. Did he truly change his suit twelve times a day? Was
there truth to the gossip that he'd thrown a valet down the stairs
when the man had slightly creased his cravat? Was it true that he
and George Brummell, the famous "Beau," had been the deadliest of
enemies? That once at White's they'd met in a doorway and had, for
the next eleven hours, each waited for the other to give way?

Grenville, I knew, had been on quite friendly
terms with Mr. Brummell, and each had regarded the other as the
only other man in London with dress sense. Brummell had fled
England for France earlier this year, his extravagant spending and
debts at last catching up to him.

Eggleston rose suddenly, tottered to the
sideboard, opened the lower right-hand door, and pulled out a
chamber pot. So might a gentleman at a London club, who could not
bear to leave his games too long have done. I turned my head
quickly as Eggleston unfastened his trousers and sent a stream of
liquid into the pot. The sound competed with the noise of
Breckenridge clearing his throat.

"When do we join the ladies?" I asked
quickly. I'd had enough of male company that night, and I still
wanted to greet my hostess.

"Ah, yes, the ladies," Eggleston said,
buttoning his trousers. "We must draw."

He returned to the sideboard and came back
with a deck of cards. I pushed away my empty soup bowl and watched
as he leafed his way through the pack, pulling out cards as he
went. I wondered what game he meant to play, and why here on the
cluttered dining room table that the footman had not cleared.

Eggleston set the deck aside, and flourished
the four cards he'd pulled out. "Gentleman," he intoned. "I give
you--the ladies."

* * * * *

Chapter Eight

He slapped the four cards facedown on the
table. Breckenridge, without preliminary, reached out and drew one.
I watched, puzzled, as he turned over the queen of hearts. He
grunted.

"Mrs. Carter," Eggleston announced. "Lucky
man. Lacey?"

Following Breckenridge's example, I drew a
card and turned it over. The queen of clubs.

"Ah," Breckenridge said. His jaw moved.
"Mine."

I looked at him. "Yours? I beg your
pardon?"

"My wife. Lady Breckenridge."

Egan's hand darted forward, and he turned
over the queen of spades. "Hmm. The lovely Lady Richard."

Eggleston grinned. "Best of luck to you." He
flipped the remaining card, which was the queen of diamonds. "And
Lady Mary for Mr. Grenville. You'll tell him, will you not,
Captain?"

"What about you, Lord Richard?" Pierce Egan
inquired.

Eggleston made a dismissive gesture at the
cards. "I do not play. Bad for my health."

Breckenridge made a noise like a smothered
laugh and Eggleston shot him a sharp look.

The soup sat heavily on my stomach. I looked
at the queen of clubs with an uneasy feeling. It did not go well
with the soup.

"Have a walk, Captain?" Egan said, rising. He
tossed his card into the pile. "The weather's cooled a bit."

Anything was better than sitting here with
Breckenridge and Eggleston. The smell from the chamber pot that
Eggleston had left on the floor was not pleasant, and his aim had
been a bit off.

I rose and followed Egan from the dining
room. He led me to the French doors at the back of the house and
out into the long stretch of garden.

We strolled silently together, our feet
crunching on the gravel to the brick path that led through
well-tended flower beds and trimmed topiary. A fountain trickled
quietly in the center of the garden surrounded by scarlet geraniums
and deep blue delphiniums. However rude Lady Mary's guests, her
gardeners were of superb quality.

"What do you think of them?" Egan asked. He
was gazing at a pair of trained rose trees that climbed through a
trellis set over the path. I had the feeling, however, that he did
not mean the roses.

"I have only just met them," I said
diplomatically.

He snorted. "You think them vulgar, and I
agree with you. The only reason they let me sit at table with them
is because they are anxious for me to write all about their pet
pugilist." He fixed me with a knowing look. "Why do they let
you?"

"Because I came with Grenville," I
answered.

"Exactly. The pugilist is the prize exhibit.
Mr. Grenville is the other prize exhibit, unlooked for. Happy
chance for them that he came along. You and I are tolerable second
choices while the prizes are elsewhere."

I had to agree. I asked tentatively, "What
was the business with the cards?"

"Ah. Their game. They have been playing it
for years. Each card represents a lady in the party. You are to
devote yourself entirely to the lady you drew."

I was puzzled. "A gentleman should devote
himself to all ladies present, especially his hostess."

"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."