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It would be difficult for the lovers to find each other among the sea of picnickers spread across the lawn, but the crowd would also provide coverage. With Mrs. Hessing planted on her chair for the day, they could do as they pleased without worrying the matriarch was scrutinizing her daughter’s every move.
At the end of our last investigation, I’d suggested she use the services of Armitage and Associates to look into Mr. Liddicoat, but I didn’t know whether she’d hired Harry Armitage. As curious as I was to find out, I stayed away from his Soho office. Staying away from Harry when we weren’t investigating was the best for everyone, including me. Especially me.
I grew drowsy after our picnic of pies, jam tarts, salads, sandwiches and ginger beer. The hotel’s cooks had packed more than the three of us could possibly eat and drink, which Floyd’s friends found most agreeable as they finished off what we left. The soporific combination of the warm air and a full stomach would have sent me to sleep if it wasn’t for the loud angry voices coming from the clubhouse steps.
Heads turned to watch the two men arguing, but we were too far away to hear what they said. Either they thought no one noticed or they didn’t care. Both wore the riding outfits of players, although in different team colors. The one on the higher step towered over the other, two steps down, but the fellow wasn’t intimidated and held his ground.
“What handsome specimens,” Flossy murmured.
“How can you see their faces from here?” I asked.
“I can tell by their physiques. Look at those broad shoulders, Cleo. And those riding breeches are hugging their thighs in a most pleasing way. Hopefully they’ll turn around soon so we can see their b—”
“Flossy!”
“I was going to saybacks, but now I know whereyourmind is wandering to.” She giggled and ignored her brother’s raised brows as he questioned what she found so amusing.
“I wonder what that’s about,” I said, nodding at the two men. “Who are they?”
“The captains from the teams competing today,” Floyd said. “The taller one in the light blue jersey is the captain of the Elms team, Rufus Broadman, and the other man is Vernon Rigg-Lyon from the Polo and Gun Club. Today’s his last match. He’s retiring. They’re fierce rivals both on and off the field, apparently.” His smirk implied there was an interesting story behind their rivalry.
Before I could ask, the argument escalated. They pointed aggressively at one another, then Mr. Rigg-Lyon pushed Mr. Broadman. Mr. Broadman tripped up the step behind him but regained his balance without falling. He retaliated by shoving the other man in the chest.
Mr. Rigg-Lyon fell backward onto his rear. The only thing that was injured was his pride, however. He refused the assistance of a third man who’d hurried up to them, arriving too late to be of any use. The newcomer must have said something to both men as the two captains suddenly looked towards the crowd who were paying them more attention than their picnics.
The two captains parted, striding off in opposite directions, leaving the third man on his own. He tugged on his cuff before lowering his head and returning to the picnicking onlookers. It was Mr. Liddicoat, the cousin of Rufus Broadman and paramour of Miss Hessing.
She sat with her head also bowed on the rug near her mother’s feet, her hands twisting together in her lap. Mrs. Hessing pinched her lips as she gossiped with her friends, no doubt voicing her displeasure at seeing her daughter’s paramour’s cousin in a physical altercation. Poor Mr. Liddicoat, the victim of guilt by association. I hoped it didn’t color her opinion of him too greatly.
With the match due to start shortly, Flossy and I retreated to the pavilion, a grandstand overlooking the field with a terrace promenade out the front and tearooms on the ground level. It was far too crowded to stay inside, so we abandoned the idea of taking tea and found a spot in the stand to watch the match. She tried to explain the rules of polo to me, but it became clear that she was no expert when she couldn’t answer even simple questions.
When Floyd joined us with his three friends, I soon learned that the sport of kings was something only the very wealthy could afford to participate in. Horses were bred and trained specifically for the purpose. The animals were magnificent, with their muscular flanks pushing them to incredible—and dangerous—speeds, although Floyd was convinced they could go faster. The horses had steady nerves, too, as others drew close, and riders swung their mallets.
The players were even more magnificent, none more so than the two captains. They were as commanding as generals as they directed their teammates, and as fearless as warriors as they drove their mounts to their limit. It was Mr. Rigg-Lyon who came out on top in such contests, however. Much to Mr. Broadman’s frustration, he couldn’t keep up. His team lost two to nil.
Afterwards, the riders shook hands. All except Mr. Broadman and Mr. Rigg-Lyon. They exchanged glares but not a single word. So much for polo being a gentleman’s sport.
Mr. Broadman’s animosity was nowhere in sight when he gave his speech congratulating the winning team. He even smiled graciously when Mr. Rigg-Lyon thanked the Elms team for playing well and in good spirit.
“Lastly, I want to thank my good friend, Barnaby Hardwick, the best vice-captain a fellow can have,” Mr. Rigg-Lyon finished. “We all wish him and his magnificent horse, Leopard, well on their retirement. The sport will miss them enormously.” He waited for the round of cheers to fade, before adding, “As to the expected announcement about my own retirement, I want you all to be the first to know that I’ve decided to play on with my loyal mount, Panther. We’ve both got a few good years left in us, and we can’t possibly retire now that we have the Champion Cup to defend!”
Barnaby Hardwick’s jaw dropped. He stared at his captain, standing beside him. He was the only one of the team not to pat Rigg-Lyon on the back.
Cheers erupted around me as Mr. Rigg-Lyon held the cup aloft in triumph. Many of the women in the crowd applauded enthusiastically as they tried to catch his attention from behind the wooden fence. Only one was allowed onto the field with the players, however. A red-haired woman approached him, smiling. She placed her hands to his chest and he leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek. She spoke in his ear, her smile having vanished. His own smile tightened before he turned away.
“His wife,” Floyd said to me as we continued to applaud. “She’s French.”
“He’s married? That must be a disappointment for half the crowd here today.”
“Even more of a disappointment if they knew the position of his mistress is also taken.”
I looked sharply at him and he grinned back.
“Have I shocked you, Cousin?”
“Not at all,” I said smoothly.
Floyd chuckled. “The pinkness of your cheeks must be due to the heat then.”
