But I seethed with frustration. I had spent the entire morning attempting, without success, to turn Breckenridge's and Eggleston's conversation to the Peninsular War and happenings there. A handful of veterans of the Peninsular campaign finding themselves together would invariably discuss the English victories at Salamanca, Vitoria, and San Sebastian, usually with some anecdote of what they had done during the battle.
Yet Breckenridge and Eggleston seemed to have forgotten that the entire Peninsular campaign had ever happened. When I tried to broach the subject, they stared as though they'd never heard of any of the places and events I mentioned. I began to wonder whether they'd been Belemites, officers who'd contrived to miss every battle, every dangerous encounter with the enemy. They could do it, volunteering to transfer prisoners or carry messages to headquarters or other jobs that would take them away from the lines of battle. The Forty-Third Light had done little during the siege of Badajoz so the two gentlemen could have been far from it, but I knew they had at least returned to the town after it had been conquered. Westin's letters and Spencer's investigation put them there.
The only reference to army life came from Breckenridge, who made comments on officers who could barely afford their kit. He also told the tale of a handsome cavalry saddle he'd bagged from a downed French officer. Breckenridge used the saddle for his early rides every morning, never missed since the day. He'd boasted of the pilfering as though he'd won some great battle, but likely he'd come upon the officer and horse already dead and had simply stolen the saddle.
My errand was beginning to seem for naught. My mind turned over possibilities for wringing information from the two gentlemen as I made my way toward the front of the house in search of my elusive hostess.
What I found-or rather heard, as I approached open double doors to a sunny drawing room-were violent, choking sobs and a shrill female voice endeavoring to shriek over them.
A slap rang out. "Shut up, you impertinent slut!"
The weeper screamed. "Cow! Skinny cow! He don't love you, never did."
I halted in the doorway. Two women stood in the middle of a grand room whose high ceilings were covered with the same sort of gods and goddesses that adorned the main hall. The weeper was a large-boned young woman in apron and mobcap. Her face was scarlet, and the white outline of a hand showed stark on her cheek.
The young woman who faced her hardly deserved to be called a cow. She was a slender, birdlike girl with soft ringlets of brown hair and large blue eyes. She could not have been long out of her governess's care, and I wondered if she were the daughter of one of my fellow guests.
She could rightly be termed skinny, however, because her slenderness was most pronounced. The fashion these days was for women to have very little shape at all, but I, always out of date, preferred a females with a bit more roundness. This girl's body was as narrow as that of a twelve-year-old boy's.
The maid saw me. Covering her face, she rushed out of the room, bathing me in a scent of warm sweat.
The young woman transferred her gaze to me, unembarrassed. "Who are you?"
I made a half-bow and introduced myself.
"You are Mr. Grenville's friend," she announced, looking me up and down. "Did you draw my card?"
Since I had no idea who she was, I did not know. "I drew Lady Breckenridge."
"Oh." She looked neither disappointed nor elated. "She is in the billiards room. She is mad for everything billiards. I hate her."
The gods and goddesses above us seemed to laugh. I stood silently, at a loss as to how to respond.
She went on, "Did Mr. Grenville draw me, then?"
"Mr. Grenville drew our hostess."
"I wanted Mr. Grenville." She toyed with her lower lip. Her white summer frock was thin and wispy, and she looked far too young to be playing the gentlemen's wretched card game. "It was not Breckenridge, was it?"
"He drew Mrs. Carter."
She made a face. "I hate her, too. She is fat, like Lady Breckenridge. Do you know how I stay so slender, Captain?"
Of course, I had no idea. I'd had conversations with eight-year-old children that had baffled me less.
"I eat what I like," she explained. "Then I put my fingers down my throat and bring it up again. Lady Breckenridge could do that. Then she would not be so fat."
I wondered what she wanted in response. Praise that she was so clever? Admonishment for a disgusting practice? I was beyond my depth.
I assumed, from process of elimination, that this young woman must be Lady Richard Eggleston. I found it difficult to believe that the oily Eggleston had been paired with this flower-like creature, but marriages in the ton produced some odd bedfellows. She could not have been more than seventeen years old.
"Can you direct me to the billiards room?" I asked.
She did not even blink. She pointed with a small, bony finger. "The north wing. Last door along. She will be there. I hate billiards."
I was not certain whom to feel sorrier for, Eggleston or his bride. I supposed I should give Richard Eggleston's young wife my compassion. She had no doubt been thrust into marriage to fulfill her family's ambitions.
My own father had wished me to marry the daughter of a nabob-those businessmen who made their fortunes on the plantations of Jamaica and Antigua and returned to England to live in high style. I suppose the woman in question had been no better or worse than any other, but I had defied my father and married a pretty girl of poor gentility with whom I'd thought myself madly in love.
I turned from Lady Richard after a polite leave-taking, at least on my part, and sought the north wing.
Chapter Nine
The windows in the billiards room at the end of the wing faced west. Sunlight dazzled me when I entered, and the character of the room became clear only after I'd blinked a few moments. Every flat surface of the pale green walls and white ceiling was filled with plaster motifs of rams' heads. Two billiards tables stood in the center of the room, and gilded armless chairs rested against the walls where players could lounge while they awaited their turns.
A woman bent over the far table, cue poised in competent fingers. She had a mass of dark brown hair pulled under a lace cap, and wore a dark blue, high-waisted, long-sleeved gown. She was thankfully older than Lady Richard Eggleston; I put her age to be close to thirty.
She had a long, sharp nose that did not mar her face but drew attention to deep-set dark eyes, which showed hard intelligence. Lady Richard Eggleston had called her "fat," but this was a misnomer. Lady Breckenridge was plump of arm and leg, but her rounded physique was much more pleasing than Lady Richard's starved appearance.
A thin string of smoke rose from the lit black cigarillo that rested on the varnished edge of the table. Lady Breckenridge glanced at me once, then her cue moved expertly forward, connecting with the ball with a sharp crack.
She lifted the cigarillo and inhaled from it for a long time, all the while watching me. "Well, come on then," she said, smoke mixing with her words.
I hesitated. A game with Lady Breckenridge could provide me the perfect opportunity to quiz her about her husband, but no one played without wagering on the outcome, and I could not afford to lose.
I resigned myself. I chose a slender cue from the rack at the end of the room then returned to the table. Lady Breckenridge watched while I gathered the balls and positioned them for a new game.
She handed me the cigarillo. "Be useful."
I took it. A wisp of smoke curled into my eyes, stinging them.
She leaned over the table again and quickly shot. Her balls rolled into precise position. "Is the commotion over?" she asked. "I mean Serena shrieking at that damned maid."