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 not 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.