A Regimental Murder Read online

  She won that game and suggested another.

  Fortunately, though she was obviously prepared to trounce me at billiards, she had no qualms about discussing her husband, not even when I asked a direct question about the incident with Captain Spencer on the Peninsula.

  "I suppose you are asking because Westin managed to kill himself last week and so escape a trial," she said. "Serena told me. Full of glee she was. But she is sordid and likes sordid things to happen."

  "And do you?"

  She gave me an amused smile as if my fishing delighted her. "The entire incident was entertaining. Mrs. Westin holds herself above everyone else, and yet, her husband was about to be arrested for murder. Happy escape for her when he died, was it not? Her marriage was cold, Captain, very cold. That is why she is so brittle."

  "She has borne much," I pointed out.

  "As have I, married to Breckenridge. Pity me that the war ended and he came home." She carefully sighted down her cue, then shot. The cue ball slammed into the table's side then hard into another ball. "Do you know what happened when the Westins stayed at Eggleston's in Oxfordshire? Lord Richard proposed the card game. Mrs. Westin grew so upset when she learned what it was all about that she nearly swooned. She begged her husband to take her away, which he meekly did."

  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 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, stret
ched 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 better, but I disliked to wake a servant for it. I rose, shrugged on my frock coat, and let myself out.

  I hobbled along the path that led from the house, drinking in the welcome chill of morning. I speculated upon whether Lady Breckenridge had gone back to her own bed or still slept in mine.

  I wondered suddenly what Louisa Brandon would make of all this nonsense. I realized I missed her deeply. She would have found some joke or quip to steady me and we would have laughed together. Also, I could have told her everything, all my fears and frustrations. She would have lent me some hint or suggestion of how I could proceed. She had helped me in the past and I longed for her help now.

  I found myself turning toward the stables. Stables had a comforting smell about them, horses and leather and grain and dust. I had never realized how much a part of my life horses had been until I'd given up the cavalry and could no longer afford to keep a horse of my own.

  A ride would soothe me, I decided, more than a walk. I let myself into the stables. Quietly, so as not to disturb the lads sleeping above, I chose a steady-looking bay gelding and in a trice had the horse bridled and saddled.

  I did have the devil of a time making the horse stand still next to the mounting block. My injury made it impossible for me to climb onto a horse from the ground. A legup was best, but a mounting block or a box helped much--from there, I could simply swing my right leg over and quickly transfer my weight to the saddle.