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hastily, and dropped a pretty curtsey. "I'm pleased to meet you, milord."
    Mrs. Smith, was it? Here was a clanker, thought Lord Warwick as he glanced at Georgie's startled face. "I am de trop, "he said, and made Georgie a formal bow. "I will see myself out."
    Silence reigned briefly in the drawing room. Then Mrs. Smith firmly closed the door, causing the lurking Tibble to abandon his attempts at eavesdropping and hobble back to the kitchen, there to inform Agatha that the household was about to be set on its ear by one Mrs. Smith, and if that was her real moniker, he would eat his wig.
    Marigold tossed her bonnet carelessly onto the sofa. "Georgie, I have heard the most astonishing on-dits!Tell me, do you think Warwick murdered his wife?"
     

Chapter Four
     
    The remaining member of Miss Halliday's household strolled along the Brighton streets. Accompanying him was Lump, whose normal exuberance was restrained by consideration for his companion's painful limp, which necessitated a slow progress, and the employment of a cane. Andrew Halliday bore a marked resemblance to his sister—not that his sister had ever attired herself in nankeen trousers, gleaming boots, brown double-breasted frockcoat—he had the same slender build, classic features, gray eyes, and unruly blond curls. Unlike his sister, however, Andrew's expression was discontent. He had come back from the Peninsula a curst cripple, prey to recurrent fevers which necessitated that he drink copious amounts of cool water, and that his body be rubbed all over with cold water-soaked cloths; that he be fussed over and scolded and made to eat such stuff as barley gruel and calf’s foot broth and stewed rabbits in milk. Of course he was grateful to his sister for her care of him, but he knew he could not but be a burden to a household already perilously near point non plus.Andrew sometimes wondered if it wouldn't have been better for all concerned if, instead of being invalided out of his regiment, he had stuck his spoon in the wall.
    Georgie told him that such fustian was further indication that he was not yet entirely well. Perhaps she was correct. Andrew had to admit that he was not plump currant. Most often he felt fagged to death. Damned if he knew how he'd turned into such a milksop. Much as he might wish to put a period to his existence, he lacked the courage to take the necessary steps.
    Carriages and vehicles of every description, drawn by superb horseflesh, thronged the narrow lanes and winding streets, wound their way among the well-dressed crowds. Andrew would have preferred to stroll upon the brilliant white cliffs, or along the sandy beach, but his curst leg would not tolerate such exercise. With a firm grip on his companion's leash, he ventured onto the Steine. Shops with piazzas and benches lined each side of the brick-paved walk.
    Toys, rare china, lace, millinery, ribbons, chintz and cambric, tea and knickknacks—none of these caught Andrew's eye. His destination was the subscription library, there not to read the London newspapers, or to play cards in the back room, but to fetch his sister a new book. Andrew knew he was being a bloody nuisance. This was his way of making partial amends. He paid no heed either to an advertisement of cocking to be fought at the White Lion in North Street, a pair of cocks for twenty guineas a battle, and fifty guineas for the main—nor to the announcement of a bull bait at Howe, or a military review, or a prizefight. It was not that Andrew had no interest in these diversions so beloved of young gentlemen. His thoughts were many miles away ...
    Bussaco. Coimbra. A city in flames. Terrified prison inmates screaming to be released. The ghastly French retreat that left behind ravines, pits, ditches filled with a shocking collection of skeletons and fresher decomposing bodies, some mangled and half burnt by captors in search of hidden food and wine. A pile of kilts that showed where the pride of the Highlanders had been