I worked my way through the masculine idioms: a fistful of vowels were IOUs, caused by a run of bad luck at playing dice. The colonel had been having trouble paying back his debt of honor and Sanderson had offered to discharge the debt if the colonel stood as his second.

Not a motive for murder in any way. In fact, more likely the opposite.

“So you did not know him well?” I asked.

He was mid-mouthful of a large bite of cake and swallowed hurriedly, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin.

“As well as I wanted to,” he finally said. “Not one to talk ill of the dead—bad form, bad form indeed—but he wasn’t up to snuff in any way.” He pondered Sanderson’s deficiencies for a second, then added, “Can’t rightly say I recall anyone who would have called him their friend.”

“What made him so objectionable?” Julia asked.

“He was genial enough on the surface, but his core”—the colonel tapped his chest—“nasty. Took pleasure in humiliating people. Saw him hit a maid once for no reason. When I asked him why, he said she wanted the attention.” He shook his head. “Belonged to a club that—” He stopped. “Well, it was bad. Tried to get me to go, but no, not for me. Not interested in that kind of thing. He probably had friends there, but I could not rightly say.”

So, not many people liked Sanderson, but did anyone dislike him enough to want him dead? I needed to talk to someone who knew more about his life. “What kind of club was it, Colonel? Does it still exist?” I asked.

We came under assessment again. He shook his head. “You do not wish to know about it, Lady Augusta. Not for the ears of ladies, or anyone decent, come to that.” He shook his head. “Bad business.”

Since the ears of this lady were not as delicate as he thought, I said, “You are not referring to the Hellfire Club, are you?”

Beside me, Julia stiffened. “Augusta!”

The Hellfire Club had been a gentlemen’s club created by Sir Francis Dashwood that was notorious for its dark rituals and orgies. I had read about it in one of my father’s journal subscriptions. Not a subject talked about in polite company, let alone the company of two spinster ladies. Nor one that my sister would want to hear about.

I glanced at Julia: Sorry, my dear, I must ask more.

Julia compressed her lips: If you must.

“As far as my knowledge goes, that club disbanded mid–last century,” I ventured. “Although I hear that Lord Byron has tried to revive it.”