A Regimental Murder (12 page)

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?"

Of course, she was saying, any man would
rather make a whore of himself to a wealthy woman than live the way
I did. "I would not take such a thing from Lydia Westin."

Her smile deepened. "You would, Captain. I
read it in your eyes. If she offered, you would, in an
instant."

She drew on the cigarillo. "But she will
not," she said through the smoke. "I've told you. Gentlemen have
dashed themselves to pieces against her. You will do the same." She
touched my lapel again. "But other ladies would not."

Her breath, scented with acrid smoke, touched
my face. Her eyelashes were sharp points of black.

I decided I very much disliked her.

*** *** ***

We finished that game, her smiling, me
uncomfortable. After that, commotion began in the drive as guests
and observers began to arrive for the exhibition match of Jack
Sharp. Lady Breckenridge announced that I owed her five guineas,
which I doubted, but I led her from the billiards room and to the
pavilion set up for the fighting at the end of the garden.

A flock had descended upon Astley Close to
witness Jack Sharp's fight. Boxing attracted men from all walks of
life, from landed peers and wealthy nabobs to publicans and
hostlers. These same gentlemen could be seen in the studios that
enterprising pugilists set up to teach the fine art of boxing. I
had accompanied Grenville to Gentleman Joe Jackson's rooms in Bond
Street more than once, where we watched dukes eagerly strip down to
shirtsleeves to fight Gentleman Joe.

Today they arrived in fine carriages or in
hired hacks, on elegant blooded steeds or on broken-down cobs. They
streamed from the road and across Lady Mary's brother's park,
intent on obtaining their fill of boxing satisfaction.

Grenville shot me a weary look as I entered
the pavilion. A woman who must be Lady Mary--this was the first I'd
seen of her--clung to his arm and chattered loudly in his ear, no
doubt about roses. A woman in her fifties, she wore a fantastic cap
puffed like a Yorkshire pudding festooned with ribbons. Her chin
sank into her neck, and she seemed to have plucked out all of her
own eyebrows and drawn in new ones. The hem of her white gown was
coated with mud and grass stains, as though she'd busily dragged
Grenville all over the grounds.

Lady Richard Eggleston entered on the arm of
Pierce Egan. Mrs. Carter, the fourth woman of the party, appeared
now with Lord Breckenridge. I recognized Mrs. Carter from the
stage--I had recently seen her in a production of
As You Like
It
in Drury Lane. I had not gone with Grenville to sit in his
elegant box, but paid my shillings and watched from the gallery. I
had enjoyed her performance as Rosalind, and she looked as Rosalind
should--tall and straight, with hair a natural yellow, an elegant
face with a long and straight nose, and a pair of shrewd gray
eyes.

That she had been won by Breckenridge was a
crime. He paraded her about as though she were a prize mare, sleek
and groomed and beautiful. That his wife stood not five feet from
him while he whispered in Mrs. Carter's ear and nearly drooled on
her neck seemed to bother him not at all. At one point, he slid his
broad hand down to cover her backside and squeezed.

She reddened, then burst into forced
laughter. I gave him a cold glare. If he did it again, I would
begin a boxing match of my own.

Lady Breckenridge did not seem to notice or
care about her husband's behavior. She slipped from my side and
made for the center of the ring with Lady Mary. They, like Egan,
had eyes only for Jack Sharp.

Sharp waited in the center of the pavilion,
dressed in shirtsleeves and knee breeches. His brawny arms
stretched out his linen shirt, and his tanned legs bulged with
muscle. A bench waited for him to one side, along with a pail of
water and a fold of sacking. Here he would rest between rounds,
attended by his seconds. He smiled cheerily, his round face beaming
at all assembled.

I stopped next to Grenville. "Whom will he
fight?" I asked. I saw no second pugilist, and Eggleston had not
mentioned the name of Sharp's opponent.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Grenville
replied. He sounded tired. "Lady Mary forced me to view every one
of her roses. She has thousands."

I could not hide my smile, and he gave me an
irritated look.

Another gentleman, older, but with the same
physique as Sharp--probably a former pugilist--stepped to the
center of the pavilion next to Sharp. He rubbed his hands. "A treat
today, friends. An exhibition by one of the most lauded pugilists
of all time. Mr. Sharp will defend himself against all comers. Come
along, gentlemen, who is willing?"

There was a moment of surprised silence, then
a clamor began that grew to a roar. Gentlemen shouted that they
would be first and pushed and shoved their way to the ring. The
retired pugilist pointed them out in turn while Jack Sharp stood
still and grinned.

The first to fight was a boy of about twelve.
He ran at Sharp and pummeled him repeatedly in the stomach. Sharp
lifted the lad by the shoulder, one-handed, and held him there
while the boy flailed futilely. The crowd screamed with laughter.
Sharp gently tossed the boy away, smiling hugely.

The matches began in earnest then and the
wagering started. I heard numbers that made me nervous, and I
inched my way to the back of the crowd.

I watched from there, enjoying the display of
Sharp's skill. He did not land every blow, and sometimes he was
hit, but he knew how to assess his opponent's competence and adjust
accordingly. He won bout after bout against the array of men thrown
against him--local bruisers, farmhands, coachmen--to the joy of the
crowd.

"Do you not like it, Lacey?"

I looked around. An hour had passed, and I
had moved beyond the circle of the hooting, cheering crowd as they
shouted for Sharp.

Eggleston stood at my elbow. His flat face
gave him a squashed look, and his nose looked as though it had been
pressed against his cheekbones. The mirth in his bright blue eyes
made me wary. He looked like a child who had done something
naughty, and was just waiting for everyone to find out. "Not your
sort of thing?" he asked.

"Indeed, I enjoy a good match," I answered
neutrally.

Breckenridge stopped next to his friend.
Where Eggleston looked like a child, Breckenridge regarded me with
the hard eyes of a man who did as he pleased and damned anyone who
got in his way.

"Wager on Sharp," he grunted. "You cannot
lose."

"I imagine every man here is wagering on
Sharp," I said mildly. "Whom would I find to oppose me?"

Eggleston rocked back on his heels. "Wager
how long it takes Sharp to lay someone out, then. That is what most
are doing. I will see you."

He gave me a fairly nasty smile. He knew I
dared not lose a bet, and the inability to wager made me persona
non grata in these circles. I should wager anyway, and take my
losses like a gentleman.

"You can always take him on yourself,"
Breckenridge suggested. Eggleston cackled.

I stared in surprise. "I could not stand
against him." I gestured to my walking stick. "I would be foolish
to try."

Breckenridge only looked at me. His dark eyes
held a coldness that I sensed was far more dangerous than
Eggleston's boyish pranks. "Fight him, Lacey."

I stared him down. "I said I shall not."

They arrayed themselves before me like a pair
of inquisitors. Breckenridge gave me a steady look. "It's no good,
Lacey," he said. "We know why you have come down. Best if you take
your pet dandy and hie back up to Town. Yours is a fool's errand.
You've come for nothing."

From under the canopy came the sound of a
fist hitting flesh, and the collected company roared their
approval.

"I came to accompany Grenville," I said.

Breckenridge pointed a large finger at me.
His breath smelled heavily of brandy. "You are the Westin's lover.
She hates us and makes no secret of wanting to bring about our
downfalls. As though anyone gives a horse's ass about a captain
dying in the war. Westin killed that captain, depend upon it. End
of the tale."

"What about John Spencer's investigation?" I
asked. "He has found witnesses to the event."

"He found a Spanish whore," Breckenridge
said. "And drunken soldiers. Who will believe them?"

"I might," I said.

"Take your example from your own colonel,"
Breckenridge went on. "He knows what is what."

I nodded. "I'd wondered whether you had
instructed Colonel Brandon what to say. A colonel's word counts for
much, am I right?"

Breckenridge's gaze was chill. "It no longer
matters. Westin is dead. Did us all a favor."

"Did you visit him the night of his death?" I
asked.

Eggleston looked puzzled. Breckenridge turned
brick red. "What has that Westin bitch been telling you?"

"Did you visit him?" I asked evenly.

"
I
did not," Eggleston broke in, a
little breathlessly. "I stopped at home that night."

Breckenridge fixed me with a glare. "The
Westin is quite comely, is she not? A gentleman who has poked
between her thighs might believe anything she tells him. That is,
once he's broken through the bitch's wall of ice to get there."

Anger seared through me, blinding me to
anything but Breckenridge's lined face and small eyes. I knew he
deliberately provoked me, but I no longer cared.

I punched him full in the face. I had not
visited Gentleman Joe's boxing rooms for nothing. My knuckles
contacted neatly with his jaw, and I held my elbow bent just right
to absorb the shock.

He rocked back, his mouth popping open in
surprise and pain. He swung his fist in a sloppy, roundhouse
strike. I blocked it and delivered him another blow. He ducked
back, blood running from his nose.

Those in back of the crowd turned. A cheer
went up. "A match, a match! Go to, gentlemen!"

My blood was up, though I realized that I was
behaving like a fool. I tried to step away, end the fight, but
Breckenridge came at me again. I defended myself, fists raised. The
crowd surged around us, hemming us in, calling wagers.

Breckenridge swung blindly at me, like the
little boy had at Jack Sharp. Blood ran down his face in scarlet
rivulets and dropped from his chin. His eyes were wide, his lips
pulled back into a snarl. I blocked his blows and struck back.

The crowd cheered first me, then
Breckenridge. I fought on, letting my anger at him and men like him
flow through me and into my fists.

I landed a blow on his face, and his cheek
split open. Blood gushed from the new wound. I stepped back,
waiting for him to recover himself. He staggered forward, then
suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped to the
ground like a felled ox.

I drew a long breath. Blood ran from my nose,
and my knuckles were raw and bloody.

"Gentlemen." Jack Sharp stood with fists on
hips at the edge of the pavilion, looking at us. He was breathing
hard, but grinning. "You're spoiling me match."

"Your pardon," I croaked. "I believe we are
finished."

* * * * *

Chapter Ten

I arrived in the supper room on time that
evening, and at least got to eat. Breckenridge did not appear, but
the rest of the house party was there, as well as several
additional gentlemen who had attended the match. Pierce Egan and
Jack Sharp were notably absent.

I had expected Grenville to ply me with
questions about the fight, such as why the devil I had let
Breckenridge provoke me at all. But he had said nothing, only
watched speculatively as his valet, a small dandified man called
Gautier, had washed and bandaged my hand as though he patched up
bare-knuckle boxers every day.

Lady Mary thanked me for livening up the day.
A pugilist who won every match was dull, she said, but a
spontaneous bout between her guests was always entertaining. She'd
pinned a half-blown white rose to my coat.

Jack Sharp had, in fact, at last lost a
match. Bartholomew reported to Grenville while I was being bandaged
that Sharp, after standing against all comers, had finally fallen,
his face a bloody mess, to a burly farm lad. Upon inquiring,
Bartholomew had learned that Eggleston had hired the farm lad to
take Sharp on once the man had been thoroughly tired out from the
rest of the exhibition.

Eggleston giggled now about the incident,
praising himself for his own cleverness. "Should not have missed
it, Lacey. It was a sight to see, the famous Jack Sharp flailing
under a whirlwind of blows. Blood spattering the crowd four deep."
He took a large swig of wine.

Across from me, Eggleston's child bride ate
with gusto. I remembered her telling me that she would rid herself
of her meal not long after she ate it. She seemed determined to
enjoy herself and spoke very little. Lady Breckenridge sat on my
left and spent the meal ignoring me.