A Regimental Murder

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."

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.