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 facade. 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 the 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 not cleared.
Eggleston set the deck aside, and flourished the four cards he'd pulled out. "Gentleman," he intoned. "I give you-the ladies."