The Glass House (30 page)

"So would I. I am almost free, I think."

I worked madly at the thin rope. My wrists
were raw, pain in the darkness.

"I suppose after this," I said, "I cannot
expect you to speak to me again." I kept my tone light.

"We shall see. If you manage to free us, I
shall be most grateful to you."

My bonds came loose. My hands, wooden, fell
forward. I pushed myself away from Lady Breckenridge and landed
heavily beside her. I lay like a drowning man who has just found
shore, breathing hard, willing the circulation back into my
hands.

"It would be rude of me to cut you after you
saw me home safely," Lady Breckenridge said. Her tone was also
light, but her voice hoarse, as though she'd wept.

She was trying to put a brave face on it, the
English upper-class bravado that remained calm in the face of
danger. Panic was for lesser beings.

I had known a lieutenant in Spain, who, when
unhorsed and facing four French cavalrymen, he having nothing but a
single-shot pistol with which to defend himself, had said to the
lead horseman, "Move to the right a bit, there's a good fellow. I
want to at least get one of you." He'd shot, and then they'd cut
him down where he stood.

I wanted to hurry, to get Lady Breckenridge
far from this place, but my body was tired. The pain in my head had
not subsided, my leg still hurt, and I could barely feel my hands.
But we had to leave quickly. I had believed Kensington when he said
he was not a killer, but that did not mean he would not hire
someone to kill for him.

I had realized, when speaking with Lady Jane,
that Kensington had not murdered Peaches himself. He might have
wanted to, but he had not. I had decided the truth after rowing up
the Thames with Grenville, after learning that Peaches had had no
money in her attic room, and after discovering that Lady Jane
sometimes lent Peaches her private coachman.

Most of it had come to me as I'd lain in bed
this morning, listening to church bells and enjoying a clarity of
mind I'd not had in a while. I had written Sir Montague about my
last witness, and could only hope he would pursue said witness if I
did not survive.

But I wanted to survive. I was angry, and I
determined to see this out. Nor did I want Lady Breckenridge to
come to harm because of my slow stupidity.

"I will try to untie your hands," I told
her.

She nodded, her hair rustling on the
carpet.

An investigation of my pockets showed me that
Kensington's man had relieved me of the small, sheathed knife I
usually carried. I groped for Lady Breckenridge's hands, my own
aching and clumsy, and found the cords at her wrists.

For a long time I tugged and picked at the
bonds.
Hurry
, my mind urged. But I was fumbling and slow,
and beneath my touch, her fingers were like ice.

"I could wish for your butler just now," I
said, trying to keep up our blithe conversation. "My leg hurts like
fury."

"Barnstable would certainly be useful," she
said. "I imagine he and my servants are searching for me by now.
Not that they'd think to look here."

I worked for a while longer, striving for
something to say, something witty and funny that would put her at
ease. But Lady Breckenridge was an intelligent woman, and I could
hear her fear in her intake of breath. She understood that our odds
for survival depended on being free and gone by the time Kensington
or his brute returned, and that the odds of our being free and gone
were slim.

"How was your leg hurt, Lacey?" she asked.
"Not tonight, I mean, but in the Army? It was in the war, was it
not?"

I picked at the knots. "French soldiers
amusing themselves."

Led by a grinning, leering ensign, who'd been
delighted to have captured a lone English soldier. He'd decided to
take out his frustration over the recent French defeats by
torturing me.

I remembered his rather fanatical laughter,
the worried look on his sergeant's face, the glee in the voices of
the men who'd decided to follow their officer's example. I
remembered gritting my teeth against the pain, not wanting to give
them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

"They shattered the leg with cudgels," I
said. "After which, they hung me up by the ankles for
safekeeping."

"Good God," Lady Breckenridge said in
shock.

I said nothing, and the memories faded. The
French soldiers had gotten their comeuppance when an English patrol
had blundered by. The tiny ensuing battle had killed the French
ensign and most of the others. The English had not found me and had
ridden off, leaving me with the dead. I had stolen the ensign's
pistol and water bag and crawled away.

"You are making me feel rather sorry for
you," Lady Breckenridge said.

"It could have been worse. The surgeon did
not have to amputate." When I'd heard this verdict, I had nearly
wept with relief.

Lady Breckenridge's bonds at last gave way. I
slipped the ropes from her wrists and began rubbing them, trying to
restore the blood to them. Once she began to weakly move her
fingers, I moved to untie her ankles.

Another quarter of an hour passed before I at
last got the bonds around her ankles loose. Then I had the devil of
a time climbing to my own feet. I sought the wall behind me, leaned
there, and tried to catch my breath.

Lady Breckenridge sat up and brushed the hair
from her face. She wore a thin silk gown that rested low on her
shoulders, made for attending the opera. Whatever shawl or wrap
she'd had, they must have taken it. I removed the coat of my
regimentals; I had a devil of a time unfastening the cords with my
clumsy hands. I draped the coat over Lady Breckenridge's shoulders,
and she gathered it to her gratefully.

"I will try to get the door open," I said, my
voice dry as dust.

"That would certainly be to our advantage,"
she said.

I had to use the wall for support while I
made my way to the door. The starlight was faint, showing me
little.

I found the door when my groping hand bashed
painfully into the doorframe. The door was locked, not
surprisingly.

I bent to the keyhole and felt a faint draft
on my face. That meant that that no key had been left on the other
side. I remembered that I'd been able to force open the door of
Peaches' room rather easily; I hoped that would be the case
here.

They'd taken the walking stick, of course,
the fine, strong cane that had helped me make short work of the
kitchen door. My bad leg hurt too much for me to stand on it while
I kicked with my right boot heel. The left leg was too weak to make
much of an impression if I kicked with it instead. This door also
seemed much more stout than the one to Peaches' room.

I felt for the hinges and found them, cold
and metal. If I could remove them, I could pry the door loose. I
would need a tool. I fumbled my way across the room, hoping to find
something with which to aid me. My boot crunched glass, then I
tripped over the remains of a mirror frame. I crouched to discover
if anything in the debris would be of use.

I cut myself on the shards as I sifted
through them and grunted and cursed under my breath. Lady
Breckenridge asked if I were all right. I said no. While I picked
through the glass, I explained to her what I planned to do.

"I might need your help," I said.

I heard her struggle to her feet, while I
continued to search the floor.

I found, by cutting myself on it, a fairly
large piece of mirror. It might help, but only if the glass were
strong.

Lady Breckenridge's outstretched hand touched
mine. I grasped her under the arm, before she could cut herself on
the glass, and pulled her with me back to the door.

The mirror did not work. The door's hinges
were old but frozen with rust. I could not pry a gap large enough
to lever out the hinge-pin on either hinge. The mirror slipped and
cut my hand open, and I swore without apology.

"They did not even leave me a handkerchief,"
I muttered, popping the pad of my hand into my mouth.

"They left mine." Lady Breckenridge slid a
warm piece of silk from her bosom and pressed it into my palm.

I promptly ruined the fine handkerchief by
sopping up my blood. I kicked the door, out of temper, but it
remained solidly closed.

"We could try to climb out of the window,"
Lady Breckenridge said. "If we can reach it."

The window in question sat high on the wall,
a dormer that would look out over the street.

"It is a long way up," I said. "We could not
climb down the roofs without breaking out necks."

"We might at least shout out of it," Lady
Breckenridge said. "Someone might hear us and help."

I thought her optimistic; if anyone had heard
me break in through the back door, not to mention the men who'd
brought Lady Breckenridge here, no one had sent for help. Perhaps
they'd put their heads under the bedclothes and gone back to sleep,
having learned to ignore what went on at number 12, St. Charles
Row. I wondered whether the lad I'd paid had actually gone to fetch
Pomeroy. In any case, he'd not come.

The only way to reach the window was for me
to lift her to it. She proved light and agile, and scrambled to my
shoulders without much difficulty.

"I climbed many trees as a girl," she said.
"To my governesses' despair. They might be happy to know it's
proved to be useful."

Standing on my shoulders, Lady Breckenridge
could just reach the window. Happily, the catch moved, but she was
still not high enough to open it.

We decided to try what we'd seen acrobats do;
she would stand on my hands while I lifted my arms above my head.
She agreed shakily, and I promised to catch her if she fell, and
hoped that I could.

Lady Breckenridge leaned her weight on the
wall and braced herself on the sill as I lifted her. At last she
was able to open the window and look out.

"There is a man below," she said, and then
she began shouting, her voice strong.

When she stopped, I heard the unmistakable,
smooth tones of James Denis asking, "Is Lacey with you?"

"Yes," Lady Breckenridge called down.

Why Denis was there and what the devil had
happened to Pomeroy, I could not imagine. Denis and Lady
Breckenridge exchanged more words, which I could not hear, then
Lady Breckenridge was admonishing me to let her down.

"He is coming," she said, her voice shaking,
but with her sangfroid in place. "But there is a bit of a problem.
Someone has set the house on fire."

* * * * *

Chapter Nineteen

We smelled the smoke soon after that. We
stood together against the wall under the window, waiting for
rescue and trying not to think of the fire rising beneath us.

It had started in the kitchen, Lady
Breckenridge informed me, and had reached the ground floor. Both of
us knew how quickly fires could spread, consuming all within its
reach in no time at all. We could hear more commotion in the street
now, as the neighbors in St. Charles Row and the street behind
poured out of their houses and rushed about to stop the blaze from
spreading.

Lady Breckenridge huddled into my regimental
coat, the cording hanging loose. We stood side by side, shoulders
touching, taking comfort in each other's presence.

"Donata," I said in a low voice. I took a
great liberty using her Christian name; a gentleman did not call a
lady, especially not one above his class, by her first name until
invited. My father had always referred to my mother as "Mrs.
Lacey," both before and after her death. "You are here because of
me, and for that I can only beg your pardon. But I vow to you that
the men who did this, who dishonored you, will pay for that
dishonor. I swear it to you."

Lady Breckenridge looked up at me, her hands
resting on the lapels of my coat. "I've heard you described as a
man of integrity, Lacey. I would expect no less of you."

"You are an infuriating woman, but a fine
lady. You do not deserve to be here."

She laughed at my bluntness, then she said,
"You did not expect to find me here at all. You called out for
someone else."

"Louisa Brandon," I confessed. "She is a dear
friend to me. Anyone who wishes to hurt me can do so by hurting
her. I assumed Kensington would have known that."

"Mr. Kensington made a foolish mistake,
then," she observed without rancor.

"He has made many mistakes. And I will not
forgive him for putting you in danger."

"We are still in danger," Lady Breckenridge
pointed out.

We could smell the smoke intensely now, the
acrid, charring smell of burning wood and cloth.

"You do not deserve to be." I put my hand
over hers.

She twined her fingers through mine, and held
on tight.

Not many moments later, the door splintered
open. I stepped instinctively in front of Lady Breckenridge,
shielding her from smoke and flying wood. Blinding light
silhouetted a large man on the threshold, the pugilist turned
coachman from Denis' house. Without preliminary, he grabbed us both
and dragged us out behind him.

*** *** ***

James Denis served us brandy in his elegant
coach and told us how he'd come to find us.

"The boy you'd sent running off for the
hackney was one of mine," he said. "He came at once to me and told
me where you'd gone."

"One of yours?" I asked, my voice hoarse
despite the brandy. "Keeping an eye on me, were you?"

"You do have the habit of trifling with
dangerous people, Lacey. But you will not see Kensington again. In
any case, I believe you are leaving London soon."

Lady Breckenridge, who had not heard of my
decision, looked surprised.

"To Berkshire," I answered Denis. "Which you
doubtless already know."