try.'
Breckenridge only looked at me. His dark eyes held a coldness that I sensed was far more dangerous than Eggleston's boyish pranks. 'Fight him, Lacey.'
I stared him down. 'I said I shall not.'
They arrayed themselves before me like a pair of inquisitors. Breckenridge gave me a steady look. 'It's no good, Lacey,' he said. 'We know why you have come down. Best if you take your pet dandy and hie back up to Town. Yours is a fool's errand. You've come for nothing.'
From under the canopy came the sound of a fist hitting flesh, and the collected company roared their approval.
'I came to accompany Grenville,' I said.
Breckenridge pointed a large finger at me. His breath smelled heavily of brandy. 'You are the Westin's lover. She hates us and makes no secret of wanting to bring about our downfalls. As though anyone gives a horse's ass about a captain dying in the war. Westin killed that captain, depend upon it. End of the tale.'
'What about John Spencer's investigation?' I asked. 'He has found witnesses to the event.'
'He found a Spanish whore,' Breckenridge said. 'And drunken soldiers. Who will believe them?'
'I might,' I said.
'Take your example from your own colonel,' Breckenridge went on. 'He knows what is what.'
I nodded. 'I'd wondered whether you had instructed Colonel Brandon what to say. A colonel's word counts for much, am I right?'
Breckenridge's gaze was chill. 'It no longer matters. Westin is dead. Did us all a favor.'
'Did you visit him the night of his death?' I asked.
Eggleston looked puzzled. Breckenridge turned brick red. 'What has that Westin bitch been telling you?'
'Did you visit him?' I asked evenly.
' I did not,' Eggleston broke in, a little breathlessly. 'I stopped at home that night.'
Breckenridge fixed me with a glare. 'The Westin is quite comely, is she not? A gentleman who has poked between her thighs might believe anything she tells him. That is, once he's broken through the bitch's wall of ice to get there.'
Anger seared through me, blinding me to anything but Breckenridge's lined face and small eyes. I knew he deliberately provoked me, but I no longer cared.
I punched him full in the face. I had not visited Gentleman Joe's boxing rooms for nothing. My knuckles contacted neatly with his jaw, and I held my elbow bent just right to absorb the shock.
He rocked back, his mouth popping open in surprise and pain. He swung his fist in a sloppy, roundhouse strike. I blocked it and delivered him another blow. He ducked back, blood running from his nose.
Those in back of the crowd turned. A cheer went up. 'A match, a match! Go to, gentlemen!'
My blood was up, though I realized that I was behaving like a fool. I tried to step away, end the fight, but Breckenridge came at me again. I defended myself, fists raised. The crowd surged around us, hemming us in, calling wagers.
Breckenridge swung blindly at me, like the little boy had at Jack Sharp. Blood ran down his face in scarlet rivulets and dropped from his chin. His eyes were wide, his lips pulled back into a snarl. I blocked his blows and struck back.
The crowd cheered first me, then Breckenridge. I fought on, letting my anger at him and men like him flow through me and into my fists.
I landed a blow on his face, and his cheek split open. Blood gushed from the new wound. I stepped back, waiting for him to recover himself. He staggered forward, then suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped to the ground like a felled ox.
I drew a long breath. Blood ran from my nose, and my knuckles were raw and bloody.
'Gentlemen.' Jack Sharp stood with fists on hips at the edge of the pavilion, looking at us. He was breathing hard, but grinning. 'You're spoiling me match.'
'Your pardon,' I croaked. 'I believe we are finished.'
Chapter Ten
I arrived in the supper room on time that evening, and at least got to eat. Breckenridge did not appear, but the rest of the house party was there, as well as several additional gentlemen who had attended the match. Pierce Egan and Jack Sharp were notably absent.
I had expected Grenville to ply me with questions about the fight, such as why the devil I had let Breckenridge provoke me at all. But he had said nothing, only watched speculatively as his valet, a small dandified man called Gautier, had washed and bandaged my hand as though he patched up bare-knuckle boxers every day.
Lady Mary thanked me for livening up the day. A pugilist who won every match was dull, she said, but a spontaneous bout between her guests was always entertaining. She'd pinned a half-blown white rose to my coat.
Jack Sharp had, in fact, at last lost a match. Bartholomew reported to Grenville while I was being bandaged that Sharp, after standing against all comers, had finally fallen, his face a bloody mess, to a burly farm lad. Upon inquiring, Bartholomew had learned that Eggleston had hired the farm lad to take Sharp on once the man had been thoroughly tired out from the rest of the exhibition.
Eggleston giggled now about the incident, praising himself for his own cleverness. 'Should not have missed it, Lacey. It was a sight to see, the famous Jack Sharp flailing under a whirlwind of blows. Blood spattering the crowd four deep.' He took a large swig of wine.
Across from me, Eggleston's child bride ate with gusto. I remembered her telling me that she would rid herself of her meal not long after she ate it. She seemed determined to enjoy herself and spoke very little. Lady Breckenridge sat on my left and spent the meal ignoring me.
Tonight, at least, I was served every course and my port glass kept full at all times. I consumed more port than usual, trying to deaden the fact that my right hand hurt like the devil. The company was maddening, and I was frustrated with my ineffectualness. By the end of the meal, I was well on the way to being foxed, and the brandy I consumed after the ladies went up to bed completed the process. A few snifters' worth set up a pleasant buzz in my ears that at last drowned out Eggleston's voice.
He suggested cards, but he had a sly gleam in his eye, and I bowed out. I'd had enough of his card games.
Grenville had already gone upstairs, his politeness strained. I decided to follow him and said good night to the company, who behaved as though they cared not one whit whether I stayed or departed. The world was fuzzy about the edges as I made my way upstairs; the gods and goddesses above me writhed and whirled in obscene frenzy.
I stopped in Grenville's chamber and he and I spent another hour in companionable silence, both of us relieved at not having to make conversation. When he began to yawn, I sought my own bed.
I reached my chamber and opened the door. Lady Breckenridge lay on my bed, fully clothed, stretched out on her side, asleep, her head on my pillow.
I stopped, fingers frozen on the door handle. Had she come here in hopes I’d play the card game to its fullest intent? Or had she simply not wanted to face bed with Breckenridge? I wondered whether they even slept in the same chamber.
Asleep, her face lost its acerbic nature, lines smoothing to display her natural prettiness. She didn’t stir as I stood there, watching and wondering.
I softly crossed to the bed, pulled a quilt up over her, and left the room. She never woke.
I slept that night in an empty chamber far down the corridor, making my bed on an uncomfortable divan. I awoke at dawn, both my head and my hand competing for which could throb the most, but I was alone.
Though it was barely light and very early, I decided I wanted a dose of fresh air. Coffee would have done me
