The Glass House (27 page)

"Sir Montague," Lady Jane said. Her accent
was only slight, barely betraying her origins. "What may I do for
you?"

"I would like you to tell me about a
gentleman called Kensington," Sir Montague began. "I believe you
employ him."

"Possibly." Lady Jane smoothed her skirt and
looked from Sir Montague to me. "I employ many gentlemen."

"He is not quite a gentleman," Sir Montague
said. "In fact, I would like to arrest him."

* * * * *

Chapter Seventeen

Lady Jane looked appropriately distressed.
"Do you indeed?"

"Yes," Sir Montague said cheerfully. "I will
arrest him for running a bawdy house, but I want to be careful.
Witnesses are all very well, but magistrates in the past have been
persuaded to drop the case against The Glass House, and I fear the
same will happen again."

"Will it?" Lady Jane's eyes flickered,
although I could tell she knew bloody well that the case would be
dropped again, if he pursued it. "I sympathize with your
frustration, Sir Montague."

"Therefore, I probably will not be bringing
charges against The Glass House itself, since my aim was simply to
close it. But I would like to not let Mr. Kensington get away. He
would simply find another house to manage."

"You are no doubt correct."

"It would be very helpful if I could find
more reason to arrest him. And witnesses. I would appreciate any
light you can shine on this gentleman and his activities."

The quiet in the room belied the tension
here. The fine silk furnishings, the paneled walls, and high
ceiling, all elegant and tasteful, seemed to cringe at the rather
sordid business taking place among them.

Lady Jane remained still, but I sensed
thoughts moving at rapid speed behind her eyes. If she betrayed
Kensington, she would not be trusted in her world again. But if she
did not betray him, Sir Montague would turn around and have
Kensington betray her. No doubt Denis had thought of this, which is
why he'd arranged for the meeting. I wondered what Denis how
threatened Lady Jane to coerce her to attend.

Lady Jane wet her lips. "I believe I have
heard that Mr. Kensington banks at Barclay's," she said. "He has a
man of business in High Holborn. If Kensington does make money from
this Glass House, no doubt you will find the evidence there. And
perhaps, just perhaps, you will find servants at The Glass House
who might help you against Mr. Kensington in return for being
spared prosecution."

Sir Montague smiled and nodded. "Perhaps. I
had thought of that. Your suggestions are apt." He shifted his
bulk, and the chair legs creaked. "The Glass House is now closed.
The owner has died, the property passed on. A reformer has spread
the word about it, and some members of Parliament have taken
notice, enough to make magistrates in the pay of The Glass House
nervous."

He beamed, happy. Lady Jane simply sat, quiet
in defeat.

Sir Montague turned to me. "Captain? Was
there anything you wished to ask?"

A small smile flickered at the corner of Lady
Jane's mouth. "Ah, yes, Captain Lacey. Mr. Denis speaks highly of
you."

I ignored this. "Last Monday, the woman who
owned The Glass House was killed. Peaches--her real name was Mrs.
Chapman--left the house just after four o'clock. She told Mr.
Kensington, with whom she'd quarreled, that she was on her way to
keep an appointment. I would very much like to know what
appointment, and with whom."

Lady Jane watched me with eyes that were
shrewd and cold. She reminded me of Denis--careful and
unemotional--though she did not share his elegance or smoothness of
character.

"I am afraid I cannot help you, Captain," she
said. "I did not know Mrs. Chapman very well."

"I know she told Kensington she wanted to see
you, to tell you a few things about him. Right after that, she
departed to keep an appointment. Was that appointment with
you?"

"No," Lady Jane said.

"And you have no idea with whom she was
meeting?"

"No, Captain."

"Question the servants, you said. I wonder,
if Mr. Pomeroy arrested your coachman and made him confess, would
the coachman tell us that he was instructed to have the carriage
ready for Mrs. Chapman's use any time she wanted it? Including the
last day of her life? Pomeroy usually has no trouble obtaining
information from those he arrests." Mostly because of his bellowing
voice, which frightened suspects into obedience long before Pomeroy
would have to start using his fists.

The room grew silent again. Sir Montague
watched me, a faint smile on his face.

Lady Jane's long hesitation betrayed her. Of
course, I thought. Thompson had found no hackney drivers that had
taken Peaches anywhere, and he'd concluded she'd taken a private
conveyance, but whose? Not Lord Barbury's. His coachman had been
questioned. Chapman did not keep his own carriage, and Peaches
would hardly use it to visit to The Glass House anyway.

But what if Lady Jane's coach were available
to Peaches as part of payment for Lady Jane's use of the house?
Peaches could start for Sussex on a public conveyance then arrange
for Lady Jane's carriage to retrieve her from a coaching inn and
return her to London. Lady Jane's coachman would have no reason to
run to the magistrate to report this. Better for him all around to
keep quiet.

"I believe," Lady Jane ventured, "that Mrs.
Chapman enjoyed the use of my carriage now and again."

"I am pleased to hear it," I said. I looked
about the elegant room again, which seemed to have brightened. The
maroon and blue hues stood out more, the gold glistened. "Now I
know where we stand."

Sir Montague smiled at me. All was well in
his world.

*** *** ***

I had a second appointment that afternoon,
which I'd nearly forgotten in the week's events, but which I
remembered just in time. I made my way to Hyde Park after Sir
Montague and I left the hotel and reached the stables at my
appointed hour of three o'clock.

Every second Sunday, I met a young man called
Philip Preston and gave him a riding lesson. I had met him during
the affair of Hanover Square, in which he had been much help, and
it pleased me to be able to assist the lad in return. His mother's
doctor still insisted he was weak and sickly, but Philip had grown
stronger and more robust every time I saw him.

I would have to tell him today of my plan to
move to Berkshire, and this saddened me. I would miss Philip,
though he'd told me that his father would send him back to school
sometime this term, so our lessons would have been short-lived in
any case.

Philip's father allowed me to ride a gelding
from his stables when I gave the lesson, a fine beast with good
gaits. When we finished an hour later, and Philip went off home, I
asked leave to ride the gelding a bit longer for the exercise. The
groom saw no objection, and I trotted away, lost in thought.

On horseback, my injury did not hinder me as
much as it did on foot. I could manage to sit a sedate walk, trot,
and canter, though I could ride nowhere near as well or as long as
I had in the cavalry. But mounted, I felt more in league with the
world, and I had missed the time in the saddle. I hoped Grenville's
friend would not object to his secretary borrowing a horse every
now and then and riding off into the Berkshire countryside.

Lost in thought, I did not see Louisa Brandon
and her pony phaeton until I was nearly upon her.

She drove alone, the reins held in her
competent hands, her high, mannish hat set at a jaunty angle. A
Brandon groom clung to the back of the phaeton, his face set
against Louisa's swift pace. She often drove out in the afternoons,
and I realized that I had probably lingered in order to see her. I
had finished with my fit of temper of the night before and hoped
she would allow me to apologize.

In my turbulent life, Louisa had been a
constant. I'd met her when I'd been twenty, and from then until now
we'd spent little time apart. She'd been married to Brandon already
when he'd introduced her, but her friendship had carried me through
fire and storm. Even now, after she'd told me to keep my distance,
the most difficult part about leaving London would be leaving
her.

Louisa turned her head, saw me. I feared for
a moment that she would pass me by without a word, try to cut me
dead as she had last night. As she neared, I saw the indecision in
her face, then she drew beside me and pulled the pony to a
walk.

"Gabriel," she said in her clear voice. "Good
afternoon."

I hid my relief by tipping my hat, then I
turned my horse to ride along beside her.

"I am always pleased to see you on
horseback," Louisa said. "You look almost like your old self."

"A little grayer," I answered, matching her
light tone.

"We all are, are we not?"

"Not you."

She smiled. "Only because gray is more
difficult to see in fair hair. But it is there, I assure you."

The groom, who was about nineteen years old,
stared stiffly ahead, uninterested in our conversation.

"Louisa, I wish to beg your pardon. I was
abominably rude last evening. I am sorry."

"I was rude as well," she said, voice cool.
"May we forget it?"

"If you wish."

We rode for a time without speaking. When she
took up the conversation again, her voice was deliberately neutral.
"Aloysius read out the letter you sent him explaining your decision
to go to Berkshire."

"Yes." I imagined Brandon reading it with
glee.

"When would you leave?" Louisa asked.

"Soon."

Her reins went slack, and the pony, bored,
slowed and stopped. "Such a thing will be fine for you. Do you
believe you have the temperament to become a secretary?"

"It can be no worse than writing reports for
a regimental colonel."

She tried to smile. "We will-- " She broke
off. "I will miss you."

We studied each other, I unwilling to say
anything that might endanger our friendship further. Underneath the
drama between the Brandon and me, Louisa's friendship was a
rock.

Louisa drew a breath, and the moment passed.
"You must write of course." Another smile curved her mouth but did
not enter her voice. "It will be your profession, now."

"Indeed, I will write lengthy and tedious
reports of life in the country. How many flowers wilted at dinner
and whether the vicar's wife has a new hat."

Louisa's smile faded. "We will miss you." I
noted the firm
we
that time.

She seemed to remember that her cart sat
unmoving. She flicked the whip, and the pony woke up and trotted
on, the groom still stoic.

*** *** ***

That evening, I turned up, in my newly
brushed regimentals, at the Derwents' mansion in Grosvenor Square
at the precise hour of seven o'clock. We had supper in the grand
dining room amid the sparkle of crystal glasses and the gleam of
silver. A row of French windows between mirrors gave out into a
garden, which had been lit with festive paper lanterns.

On my first visit with the Derwents the
previous summer, when they'd turned out their finest plate and
cutlery and lit the house from top to bottom, I had wondered who
was the grand guest for the evening. To my amazement, I realized
all the fanfare had been for me.

The Derwent family flattered me, but they had
genuine liking for me. I at first had been bewildered by them, then
I'd decided to let myself enjoy their innocent enthusiasm. They
loved more than anything to hear tales of my adventures in the
Army, would sit for hours listening to me speak.

Sir Gideon was bluff and genial as usual,
very much the country squire. Fair-haired Leland seemed to have
survived public school and university without scars, an amazing
feat. His sister, Melissa, looked much like him, and both had a
frailty that worried me. I hoped that when the time came for
Melissa to marry, she would find a gentleman who would understand
her naivety and not break her. She watched me shyly and rarely
spoke. In the last six months, I believe she had said all of five
words to me.

Lady Derwent did not cough much during the
meal and seemed better. She spoke with a bright animation that
matched her son's and husband's as the butler served champagne.

Mrs. Danbury behaved as though she had
nothing on her conscience. She ate the with good appetite and
chatted with ease. I began to wonder if Lady Breckenridge had
invented the tale of Mrs. Danbury leaving with my walking stick,
but I could not think of any reason Lady Breckenridge would do
so.

We finished supper and adjourned for cards. I
had a lively game of whist with Leland and his father and mother,
while Mrs. Danbury and Melissa played upon the pianoforte and the
harp.

As the light music filled the room, a
marvelous thing happened.
I forgot.
I forgot that I was poor
and lonely and that my career was behind me. I forgot about murder
and deceit and the ugliness of the world, forgot everything but the
pleasant music, the sincere laughter, the soft slap of cards, and
the clink of pennies as we settled up--we never played for more
than a farthing a point. The Derwents drew a curtain between
themselves and the world, and I enjoyed retreating behind the
curtain with them.

I breathed the peace of this place, happy I'd
found a refuge. But I knew in my heart that the peace would not
last. Lady Derwent was dying. It was only a matter of time before
this bright house became one of mourning. Perhaps that was why they
were so cheerfully determined to enjoy themselves now; they knew
that darkness was coming.

After cards, the Lady Derwent proposed a walk
in the garden. The fair weather had lasted all day, and the moon
was bright. I joined them, breathing the clean air, which, though
cold, was refreshing. The paper lanterns danced, spreading blue and
pink and red lights, rendering the garden colorful even in the bare
winter night.