I dropped the letter into his hand, and let him assist me into the carriage. Grenville waited for me there. He was correctly dressed for traveling--well-fitting trousers and square-toed boots topped with a subdued brown coat and a loose cravat.
I had few suits to my name, so I simply wore breeches and boots with a threadbare brown frock coat. The dust of the road could hardly render it worse for wear.
Bartholomew arrived with my case and secured it in the compartment beneath the coach. Denis's minion was nowhere in sight, and Bartholomew had a slightly satisfied look on his face. He joined his brother on top of the coach, and our journey began.
As we made for the Dover road, I told Grenville what I had discovered in Westin's letters, which had not been much. He listened with interest then related that he had made inquiries about John Spencer and found that the man and his brother had left London. This was not surprising; most families departed the hot city for cool country lanes in the summer. The Spencer brothers apparently made their home in Norfolk. Grenville suggested we travel there after we found what we could in Kent.
The Dover road led through pleasant countryside, the most pleasant in England, some said, although I, used to the rugged country of Spain and Portugal and before that, France and India, found the endless green hills, ribbon of road that dipped between hedgerows, and emerald fields dotted with sheep and country cottages a little tiring.
But it was high summer, and the soft air, cooler than the baking heat of London, soothed me. I watched farm laborers bending their backs in the fields, hoeing and raking, following strong draft horses behind plows.
Grenville confessed to me as we started that he did not travel well. We had journeyed together in his coach as far as Hampstead that spring, but a longer journey like this one, he said, brought out his motion sickness. I offered him the seat facing forward, but he declined it as manners dictated. I thought this damn fool of him because as soon as we began rocking along the country road, he turned green and had to lie down.
He smiled weakly and assured me that it mattered little whether he sat facing front or rear; his illness was not particular. Besides, he had fashioned his carriage to cater to his malady--the seat pulled out to offer him a cushioned platform upon which he could lie.
"Odd thing in a gentleman who enjoys travel as much as I, is it not?" he observed shakily.
"How do you fare aboard ship?" I asked.
"I moan a great deal. Strangely, though, a ship in storm does not affect me as much as a ship on waters calm as glass. Odd, I think, but there it is."
He spent most of the day lying on his back with his hand over his eyes. I perused the stack of newspapers provided for us and served myself the smooth and velvet-rich port contained in a special compartment in the paneled wall. Silver goblets and a crystal decanter reposed there, along with snowy linen and a box of sweet biscuits. Everything the pampered gentleman traveler could want.
I wondered, uncharitably, how Grenville would have fared crossing water in the naval ships I had boarded that transported my regiment across the Channel and down through the Atlantic to our destinations. Officers fared only slightly better than the men on these trips--which was to say, we had room for a hammock and a box and had first choice of rations.
Many times, what we ate and where we slept depended entirely on the competence and charity of the ship's captain. I'd voyaged with captains who were intelligent and competent, then again, I'd sailed with those who spent the time drunk and dissolute, locked in their cabin with their whore of choice, while their lieutenants ran the ship like a pack of petty tyrants.
As we rolled onward, I regretted my speculations. Grenville did not sleep but remained still, breathing shallowly, obviously miserable. I supposed a strong stomach was something to be thankful for.
The newspapers I read contained several more spurious stories about Mrs. Westin and her new devoted dragoon, the friend of society's darling, Mr. Grenville. How long would Mrs. W-- remain a widow? they wondered.
I threw the newspapers aside, the country air spoiled for me.
We paused for lunch at a wayside inn near Faversham. Grenville hired a private parlor, and we were waited on by the publican himself. I feasted on a joint of beef and a heaping bowl of greens, while Grenville watched me shakily and took only brandy and a few sweet biscuits.
Grenville wanted to rest before we departed again, so I took a short walk through the village to stretch my cramped leg. The publican's daughter, a plump young woman with a space between her front teeth, sent me a hopeful smile, but I resisted her charms and simply enjoyed the country air.
In the village square I indulged myself in a few fresh strawberries, picked that morning, then strolled back to the inn, hoping Grenville was ready.
As I entered the yard, I spied a furtive movement, as though someone had ducked back out of sight behind the wall. As a light dragoon, I had become very familiar with signs that someone wished to observe without being seen.
Silently, I retreated through the yard gate and moved as quickly as my bad leg would let me to the corner of the wall. I stopped and peered around it, then made a noise of annoyance. I had thought the inn wall connected to the end house of the village, but closer examination showed me a narrow passage between house and inn, one of those crooked, windowless paths between buildings. I heard a step at the far end, but by the time I hurried through and emerged on the other side, no one was in sight.
Trying to suppress my feeling of disquiet, I returned to the inn yard. I might simply have disturbed a stable lad who was shirking his duties or the publican's daughter, whose smile may have won her success elsewhere. But I did not think so, and I could not shake my feeling of foreboding the rest of the day.
* * * * *
Chapter Seven
Grenville was on his feet and looking slightly better by the time I gained the parlor again. He gave me a weak nod and marched down the stairs to the carriage like a soldier preparing to face battle.
I looked warily about as we climbed aboard the carriage, but saw no shadowy figures or furtive persons watching. Still, I could not shake the feeling, born of long experience, of being watched.
We turned south here and made for the edges of the North Downs. The second part of the journey was quite similar to the first except that the woods became a little thicker on the edges of the hills.
We reached Astley Close, the Fortescue manor house, at seven o'clock that evening. It being high summer, the sun still shone mightily, though it was westering. We rolled through the gates and past the gatehouse to a mile-long drive that curved and dipped through a park and over an arched bridge to the main house.
The house itself extended long arms from a colonnaded façade. A hundred windows glittered down on us like watchful eyes, their eyebrow-like pediments quirked in permanent disdain.
A butler wearing a similar expression stalked from the house and waited silently while Grenville's two footman sprang down from the roof.
Bartholomew placed a cushioned stool in the gravel while Matthias opened the door and reached in to help his master. Grenville descended, put his hat in place, and tried to look cheerful. He greeted the stoic Fortescue butler, who merely flicked his eyebrows in response. Grenville's own majordomo always greeted guests by name and made it a point to inquire as to their health or other events of that guest's life. The Fortescue butler looked put out to have to receive guests at all.
Matthias assisted me out in such a way that an observer would think I needed no assistance at all. In truth, my leg was stiff with hours of riding, and the ache when I unfolded it made my eyes water.
The butler did not even bother with an eyebrow flicker at my greeting, and turned and led us silently into the house.
The cool foyer swallowed us, and we emerged into a three-storied hall that ran the depth of the house. Far above, octagon-framed paintings of frolicking gods and goddesses radiated across the ceiling from a central point. A staircase rose to a railed gallery that circled th
e hall below.
The butler took us up these stairs and then into the left-hand wing. The house was strangely silent, with no sign of any other inhabitants. I wondered when I would meet my hostess.
The butler showed us to our bedchambers, mine next to Grenville's. He announced that a light supper would be served in a half-hour's time, and departed. Grenville stumbled into his room with a look of relief, and I left him to it.
My chamber was only slightly larger than the one in which I'd stayed in Grenville's Grosvenor Street house that spring. His guest chamber had been quietly opulent, but this one contained so much gold and silver gilt--on the panel frames, ceiling moldings, chandelier, and the French chairs--that it was almost nauseating. I hoped Grenville's stomach calmed down before he looked hard at his surroundings.
I washed the grime of the road from my hands and face and changed into my dark blue regimentals, the finest suit I owned. I returned to Grenville's chamber and found him, to my surprise, in his dressing gown just settling down with a book and a goblet of port.
"What about the light supper?" I asked. "Shall we go down?"
He took a sip of wine. "No. We let them wait. And descend when we are ready."
"Is that not a bit rude?"
He gave me a wry smile. "Rudeness is in fashion, my friend. Hadn't you noticed? They expect it of me. And I think it a bit rude to have supper at the boorish hour of half past seven. I am certainly not going to hurry down like a schoolboy called by the headmaster."
He seemed out of sorts and ready to sit there all night. But I was hungry, and I could not bring myself to snub my hostess after she had so graciously invited me. Grenville raised his brows, but bade me go and enjoy myself.
I left him alone and descended into the cold gaudiness of the front hall. The servants seemed to have deserted the place, forcing me to make my own way to the dining room. I at last found it in the rear of the house, a huge, darkly paneled room lined with portraits of frowning Fortescues.
Three gentlemen sitting at the long walnut table broke off their conversation and looked up when I appeared in the doorway. They were the only inhabitants of the room; Lady Mary, my hostess, was nowhere in sight.
I seated myself after murmuring a greeting. A spotted-faced footman appeared, plunked cold soup into my bowl, and shuffled out.
The gentlemen at the table seemed already to have dined. Two of them noisily slurped port, the third merely toyed with the stem of his glass and watched the others with amused eyes.
The man across from me leaned forward. He had dark, rather wiry hair that fluffed about his flat face. His eyes were light blue, round like a child's, and he watched me, slightly pop-eyed, as I proceeded to eat the tasteless soup.
"Where's Grenville?" he asked.
"Resting," I answered truthfully. "He felt a bit unwell from the journey."
The man jerked his thumb at the gentleman at the head of the table. "Breckenridge here brought along a tame pugilist. Wants to know what Grenville thinks of him."
The gentleman referred to as Breckenridge looked already far gone in drink. His hairline receded all the way to the back of his head, but a mane of hair, thick and dark, curled from there to his neck. His jaw moved in a circular motion, even after he swallowed, almost like a cow chewing cud. The movement was not overt, but it was distracting. He wore a fine black suit and a cream-colored waistcoat, and he regarded my regimentals with an obvious sneer.
The third gentleman said, "Jack Sharp, beloved of the Fancy."
My interest perked. I had heard much of Jack Sharp as well as the Pugilist Club, the members of which were often called the "Fancy." The club sponsored boxing exhibitions and helped pugilists gain fame and fortune. True prize fighting had been outlawed long ago, but wagering at exhibition matches remained just as fierce.
"Lady Mary's got him set up in the kitchen," the first man said. I concluded he must be Lord Richard Eggleston, the second of the men that Lydia wished me to investigate. "Except for bed. She's put him in old Farty Forty's room."
"Really?" the third member asked. "Where is Lord Fortescue sleeping?"
Eggleston looked blank. "Devil if I know. In a bed, I suppose. He's in Paris."
"Lord Fortescue is not at home?" I asked, surprised.
The blue-eyed man shook his head. "He don't care what Lady Mary gets up to. Hell, she is one of the cards." He cackled.
What he meant by this, I could not fathom.
Eggleston lost interest in me and turned to the topic of women. His childish eyes shone with the enthusiasm 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 n
ot 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.