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.
