A Regimental Murder (11 page)

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 woman 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 Spencer 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.