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