She leaned over the table again, and proceeded to gather up ten more points. At long last, she missed and I took my turn. I lined up my cue.
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
