The Glass House (25 page)

"How can you ask? Lady Jane is a ruthless and
wicked woman, and I rue the day I met her."

"I don't doubt that. Let me put to you why I
think you are willing to sell her out. Now that Peaches is dead,
The Glass House will revert to another owner, and your days are
numbered. No doubt she is furious. If you killed Peaches, she will
be more furious still."

Kensington's small eyes bulged. "I did not
kill Peaches. I swear it."

"You had better be able to prove that. What
did you and Peaches quarrel about?"

"I don't remember."

I shook him once. "I believe you do."

He wet his lips. "Lady Jane is dangerous. She
may be a woman, but she has men at her beck and call who will do
anything for her. Nasty types who would kill you as soon as turn a
hair. I want to get away from her. You would too, if you
understood. If I go back to Denis, Lady Jane can't touch me."

That, I at least believed. I shook him again.
"You have not answered my question."

"Peaches found out that I wanted to leave The
Glass House and return to Denis. She threatened to tell Lady Jane.
When I remonstrated with her, she laughed at me."

"And you killed her to prevent it?"

"No! I never did. I swear it, Captain. I'll
take a Bible oath on it. I did not kill Peaches. She was alive and
well when she left me."

"To go where?"

"I do not know! She said she had an
appointment."

I shook him again. "With whom?"

"I don't know, devil take you. She did not
confide in me. She never confided in me."

I set Kensington on his feet with a thump. He
drew a breath and loosened the fabric at his throat with shaking
hands.

"She did not like you," I said. "What did you
do to her, I wonder, to make her despise you? To make her turn
around and threaten to betray you?"

Kensington's face reddened. "I do not know.
Amelia was always ungrateful. I took her, poor and innocent,
knowing nothing of the ways of London, and found her a position on
the stage. I introduced her to wealthy gentlemen. I showed her how
to make an income from her property. I helped her when no one else
would."

"For a price."

"Well, yes, of course. I am a man of
business."

"I am not speaking of a commission," I said.
"I am certain you demanded more than money from her."

His face grew red. "I deserved it," he said.
"Everything, I deserved."

"Do not elaborate on what you took from her,
or I might have to throttle you right now. What about Lord Barbury?
Did you kill him?"

"Of course not. I am not a killing man,
Captain. I can't abide murder."

He was such a milksop that I started to
believe him.

"Your protests do not convince me that you
are a moral man," I said. "You have the best motive of all for
murdering Peaches--she threatened to betray you to Lady Jane, the
woman you fear. Peaches had the power by then, not you. She was
married to a barrister, had the protection of the wealthy and
powerful Lord Barbury, who would do anything for her, had the rent
from The Glass House--and profits too, I imagine--and she was free
of you. You could lose everything, and there she was, laughing at
you."

He shook his head vehemently. "No."

"She would have told Lord Barbury all about
it. At least, you would assume so. Lord Barbury shut himself at
home, grieving for Peaches, until her funeral. He saw you there,
threatened you. Grenville invited him for supper while you stood
there listening. All you had to do was wait for him, follow him,
shoot him somewhere in the dark, and drag him home."

"I never did!" Kensington's voice rang with
defiance. "I was nowhere near Mayfair that evening, and I can prove
it."

"You will certainly be hanged if you cannot,"
I said remorselessly. "But it does not matter, because you have
done so many other things. Running a bawdy house, exploiting
children; Peaches was still a girl when you exploited her, was she
not? And I imagine that once you knew Peaches was dead, you forced
the lock on her room and removed any evidence of your dealings with
her, including any money that she might have kept there so that she
could buy herself silver pen trays and pretty dresses."

"There was nothing left," Kensington said.
"She'd spent it all, the ungrateful cow. I did find the box in
which she kept her money, but there weren't enough coins in it to
buy a pig breakfast."

"Serves you right," I said.

"You cannot prove any of this, Lacey. You
cannot take me to court."

"I am sickened by you, and beyond caring. I
am happy to leave you to the mercy of Lady Jane."

Kensington's face whitened. "You cannot,
Lacey. I will confess to anything, to your magistrate or whoever
you like, as long as you help me. Take me to Denis. We will speak
with him together."

"No," I answered.

For a moment Kensington rasped in panic then
the angry light returned to his eyes. "You are a bloody fool,
Captain. I came to offer you a bargain. If you will not help me,
then I cannot answer for what happens to you."

"Don't threaten me. You tell me you are
incapable of murder, but
I
do not claim to be so."

Kensington paused, fear lighting his eyes
again, then the defiant look returned, and he clapped his hat to
his head. "You will regret that you did not help me," he said. "Oh,
yes, you will regret it." He glared at me one last time before he
turned and marched down the stairs.

I slammed the door and stood in the middle of
my chamber, seething with anger. Needing release, I picked up the
ebony walking stick that Grenville had lent me and hurled it across
the room. It made a satisfying crash against the wall, but the
strong shaft remained whole.

*** *** ***

I was still seething when I walked to the
Covent Garden Theatre at the end of Bow Street not long later. I
had wanted Kensington to fall to his knees and confess that he'd
killed Peaches and Lord Barbury, had wanted it badly so I could
grab him by the neck and drag him off to Pomeroy and
punishment.

Marianne's story had portrayed Peaches as a
starry-eyed girl, certain that happiness and good fortune lay in
London. Luck seemed to be with her when an aged relative had died
and left her a place to live. And then she'd met Kensington.
Peaches must have trusted him at first, wanting the fame and
fortune he promised her. But he had drained innocence from her.
Kensington had made her into a grasping woman who'd think nothing
of owning a bawdy house or of cuckolding her husband when she was
tired of him, a woman who wanted and needed excitement and
sensation to make her life livable. I hated Kensington and wanted
to hurt him.

My emotions roiling thus, I was therefore in
no mood to be cut dead by Louisa Brandon.

I saw her just inside the theatre, after I'd
strode past the grand columns and its usual collection of ladies in
flimsy silks and rouged cheeks. I saw her in her long-sleeved
matron's gown of dull maroon, its lighter pink trim matching the
three feathers in her headdress.

She'd said something to her maid and had
turned to make for the stairs to the boxes. Our gazes met for an
instant. I saw, even around the substantial number of people
between us, her color rise. Recognition--and dismay. Just as I was
about to bow to her, Louisa abruptly turned and walked away.

I lost my temper. I strode through the crowd,
never minding the pain in my leg, reaching the doorway to the
stairs before she did. I planted myself in her path and waited for
her to act.

She, of course, had to stop. I made a formal
bow and said, "I remember you promising that you would not cut me
entirely."

A spark of anger flared in her eyes. "I do
beg your pardon, Gabriel. I did not see you."

She lied. She had certainly seen me. "It is
of no moment." My lips felt stiff. "Shall I escort you to your
box?"

"There is no need."

"It would be rude not to."

She gazed at me frostily, and I gazed back. I
remembered us in a similar situation, once upon a time, at a
regimental colonel's dinner. Louisa had been furiously angry at me
for some fault or other, but because we'd been in the colonel's
tent with the other officers and their wives, she had not been able
to shout at me, nor I to retaliate. We could only glare at one
another and offer strained politeness. Later, of course, she had
dressed me down, and I'd shouted back until we'd cleared the air
and become friends again.

We faced another restraining situation, her
glare now twice as angry as it had been at that regimental supper.
But we could not afford to make a scene, and she knew it. Louisa
silently slid her gloved fingers under my arm, and we proceeded up
the stairs, neither of us speaking.

I led her to her box and inside. She let me,
both of us now determined to go through the charade. I settled her
in a chair, draped her shawl over her shoulders, and sent for
coffee, just as I would any other time, but my movements were
deliberate, my questions cold.

I hoped, very much hoped, that she would at
burst out laughing and say, "This is nonsense, Gabriel, do sit
down." But Louisa remained stiff, her responses terse.

I handed her coffee, asked her if she'd like
anything else. She lifted the cup to her lips and said clearly,
"No. Go away, Gabriel."

"Louisa."

Her eyes hardened. "I do not wish to speak to
you. Go."

I looked down at her, my anger undimmed. "You
have been my friend for twenty years," I said. "I will never be
able to simply go."

But I picked up my walking stick and
departed. Several ladies who had spied Louisa entering slid into
her box past me with cries of greeting, barely noticing me.

I hardly felt my sore knee as I stamped
around the perimeter of Covent Garden Theatre to Lady
Breckenridge's box. Louisa and I had quarreled before, but this
felt very different.

She was tired of me. I did not blame her. And
yet I did blame her for being cruel. She was cutting me off from a
thing that gave me joy--speaking to her. Later on, I would hurt.
Now, I was simply angry.

In such a mood, I entered Lady Breckenridge's
box on the upper tier.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixteen

Lady Breckenridge's theatre box rivaled
Grenville's for elegance. A gilt-embellished door led to a small
outer room with a dining table where guests could take a meal
before the performance. An oriental carpet covered the floor, and a
crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling to illuminate the
satinwood furniture. A double door beyond this room led to the box
itself, through which sounds of laughter and conversation drifted
from the theatre proper.

The lackey tapped on the inner door for me,
then opened it and ushered me through.

Six chairs stood in a row overlooking the
stage below. Lady Breckenridge occupied the chair in the middle in
a gown of lavender that left her shoulders bare. Her dark hair was
threaded with diamonds.

Next to her sat a gentleman I did not know,
and on her other side, with an empty chair between them, was Lady
Aline Carrington. The gentleman returned my nod when Lady
Breckenridge introduced us, but without much interest.

I took the seat between the two ladies. Lady
Aline, stout of frame, had her gowns made cleverly, so that the
dress neither pointed out nor hid her rotund figure. She rouged her
cheeks red, outlined her eyes in kohl, and had coiled her white
hair around a feathered headdress.

"Lacey, my boy, I am pleased to see you," she
said warmly.

"And I you, my lady."

"I will forgive the lie. I hear you have been
haring about town again, solving crimes like a Bow Street Runner.
Disgraceful."

I took her admonishment good-humoredly. Lady
Aline liked me, and I her.

"Was that Louisa Brandon I saw you speaking
to?" Lady Aline went on in her booming voice. She waved her
lorgnette, indicating that she'd spied us through it. "I had not
thought she was coming tonight."

I responded that she had indeed seen Louisa
and hoped my tense anger did not betray itself.

"I shall have to call on her tomorrow and
have a good chat," Lady Aline said. She seemed in no hurry to rise
and round the theatre to speak with her now.

I had no idea what the opera was below. The
players seemed not to have much idea either. The audience laughed
at the tragedy and shouted at the comedy, and a group of tall lads,
who each reminded me a bit of the lanky Mr. Gower, sang along at
the tops of their voices.

Lady Breckenridge wore a thick perfume
tonight that smelled of eastern spices. She made little movements
with her fan that sent the scent into my nose.

The gentleman on her other side was called
Lord Percy Saunders, and that his father was the Duke of Waverly.
Lord Percy, somewhere between forty and fifty, with gray hair at
his temples, said little, and occasionally wiped his nose with a
handkerchief. When he did speak, he confined his remarks to Lady
Breckenridge and ignored me and Lady Aline.

When the opera wound to an interval, Lady
Aline gathered her things and rose. "I've had enough of this
nonsense. Good night, Donata. Give my love to your mother."

Lady Breckenridge smiled and gave her a
pleasant, "Good night." Lord Percy rose and bowed, looking
bored.

I escorted Lady Aline downstairs, since Lord
Percy did not seem inclined to bestir himself. I walked with her
all the way to her carriage in King Street, her footman and maid
trailing us. Lady Aline told me I had manners, unlike many a
gentleman, a high compliment from her, and I shut her carriage
door.

When I returned to Lady Breckenridge's box,
Lord Percy had gone.

Lady Breckenridge was just coming into the
little dining room as I entered it. She paused at the doors that
led to the box, an odd look on her face. Then she shook her head
and closed the double doors behind her. The noise from the second
act of the opera faded somewhat.