In the village square I indulged myself in a few fresh strawberries, picked that morning, then strolled back to the inn, hoping Grenville was ready.
As I entered the yard, I spied a furtive movement, as though someone had ducked back out of sight behind the wall. As a light dragoon, I had become very familiar with signs that someone wished to observe without being seen.
Silently, I retreated through the yard gate and moved as quickly as my bad leg would let me to the corner of the wall. I stopped and peered around it, then made a noise of annoyance. I had thought the inn wall connected to the end house of the village, but closer examination showed me a narrow passage between house and inn, one of those crooked, windowless paths between buildings. I heard a step at the far end, but by the time I hurried through and emerged on the other side, no one was in sight.
Trying to suppress my feeling of disquiet, I returned to the inn yard. I might simply have disturbed a stable lad who was shirking his duties or the publican's daughter, whose smile may have won her success elsewhere. But I did not think so, and I could not shake my feeling of foreboding the rest of the day.
Chapter Seven
Grenville was on his feet and looking slightly better by the time I gained the parlor again. He gave me a weak nod and marched down the stairs to the carriage like a soldier preparing to face battle.
I looked warily about as we climbed aboard the carriage, but saw no shadowy figures or furtive persons watching. Still, I could not shake the feeling, born of long experience, of being watched.
We turned south here and made for the edges of the North Downs. The second part of the journey was quite similar to the first except that the woods became a little thicker on the edges of the hills.
We reached Astley Close, the Fortescue manor house, at seven o'clock that evening. It being high summer, the sun still shone mightily, though it was westering. We rolled through the gates and past the gatehouse to a mile-long drive that curved and dipped through a park and over an arched bridge to the main house.
The house itself extended long arms from a colonnaded facade. A hundred windows glittered down on us like watchful eyes, their eyebrow-like pediments quirked in permanent disdain.
A butler wearing a similar expression stalked from the house and waited silently while Grenville's two footman sprang down from the roof.
Bartholomew placed a cushioned stool in the gravel while Matthias opened the door and reached in to help his master. Grenville descended, put his hat in place, and tried to look cheerful. He greeted the stoic Fortescue butler, who merely flicked his eyebrows in response. Grenville's own majordomo always greeted guests by name and made it a point to inquire as to their health or other events of that guest's life. The Fortescue butler looked put out to have to receive guests at all.
Matthias assisted me out in such a way that an observer would think I needed no assistance at all. In truth, my leg was stiff with hours of riding, and the ache when I unfolded it made my eyes water.
The butler did not even bother with an eyebrow flicker at my greeting, and turned and led us silently into the house.
The cool foyer swallowed us, and we emerged into a three-storied hall that ran the depth of the house. Far above, octagon-framed paintings of frolicking gods and goddesses radiated across the ceiling from a central point. A staircase rose to a railed gallery that circled the hall below.
The butler took us up these stairs and then into the left-hand wing. The house was strangely silent, with no sign of any other inhabitants. I wondered when I would meet my hostess.
The butler showed us to our bedchambers, mine next to Grenville's. He announced that a light supper would be served in a half-hour's time, and departed. Grenville stumbled into his room with a look of relief, and I left him to it.
My chamber was only slightly larger than the one in which I'd stayed in Grenville's Grosvenor Street house that spring. His guest chamber had been quietly opulent, but this one contained so much gold and silver gilt-on the panel frames, ceiling moldings, chandelier, and the French chairs-that it was almost nauseating. I hoped Grenville's stomach calmed down before he looked hard at his surroundings.
I washed the grime of the road from my hands and face and changed into my dark blue regimentals, the finest suit I owned. I returned to Grenville's chamber and found him, to my surprise, in his dressing gown just settling down with a book and a goblet of port.
'What about the light supper?' I asked. 'Shall we go down?'
He took a sip of wine. 'No. We let them wait. And descend when we are ready.'
'Is that not a bit rude?'
He gave me a wry smile. 'Rudeness is in fashion, my friend. Hadn't you noticed? They expect it of me. And I think it a bit rude to have supper at the boorish hour of half past seven. I am certainly not going to hurry down like a schoolboy called by the headmaster.'
He seemed out of sorts and ready to sit there all night. But I was hungry, and I could not bring myself to snub my hostess after she had so graciously invited me. Grenville raised his brows, but bade me go and enjoy myself.
I left him alone and descended into the cold gaudiness of the front hall. The servants seemed to have deserted the place, forcing me to make my own way to the dining room. I at last found it in the rear of the house, a huge, darkly paneled room lined with portraits of frowning Fortescues.
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
