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?'
