The Glass House (32 page)

Gower confirmed this at his trial the next
week, at the Old Bailey, he on the wrong side of the dock. The
trial was swift. Gower was convicted of the murder of Lord Barbury
and sentenced to hang.

I left the courtroom, my melancholia
stirring. Gower had tried to brave it out until the last, but he'd
been no match for the prosecutor, a prominent man from Lincoln's
Inn. Lord Barbury's family had paid for the best. Gower's family,
likewise, was there, respectable middle-class people, stunned at
this aberration in their lives.

Such a needless one. If Gower had not
panicked and shot Lord Barbury, he would have been convicted of
nothing. Peaches had died by accident, and there was no evidence to
prove a case of blackmail.

In this mood, I returned home to Grimpen Lane
to finish my packing. I would leave on the morrow for
Berkshire.

I met Bartholomew coming down the stairs.
"Just nipping to the Gull, sir," he said, naming the tavern from
which he usually fetched supper. "Was Mr. Gower convicted?"

I nodded and told him what happened.
Bartholomew looked interested, but also in a hurry. He barely
waited for me to finish before he hastened past me and into the
darkened street.

I made my way upstairs, my feelings mixed. I
had found my villain, and Peaches was avenged.

But I also still blamed Chapman and Lord
Barbury for her death. Each of them could have paid more attention
to her, could have cherished her and protected her, kept her safe.
Instead, they'd gone on with their lives, assuming that Peaches
would be there whenever they wanted her.

Just as, God help me, I had done with my own
wife. They had not understood--they'd not known what a hole you
faced when you turned around, and the one you'd thought would
always be there was gone.

With these dismal thoughts, I opened the door
to my rooms. I heard the rustle of silk and smelled lemony perfume,
and with that, my melancholia eased.

Louisa stretched out her hands to me. I took
them, and she squeezed mine, smiling at me like the Louisa of
old.

"Gabriel," she said. "You look dreadful."

"It's pouring rain and all over mud and I've
been to a dreary trial," I answered, releasing her. "Was it you who
sent Bartholomew racing away for dinner?"

"I told him to hurry, so it might be hot for
you when you returned."

"I would be pleased to share it with you," I
said. "Although it will be barely edible in your eyes."

Our words were light, unimportant, but I felt
the strain of them.

"I will not stay," she said. "I am dining
with Lady Aline this evening." Her eyes went quiet. "You are
leaving tomorrow."

"Yes."

I'd written her and Brandon again this week,
telling them when I was to leave and how to write me at
Sudbury.

"I am quite angry with you," Louisa
continued.

"I know. You have told me."

"This is for an entirely new reason. I spoke
to Mr. Grenville yesterday evening. He seemed quite astonished that
I had not heard of your adventures of last Sunday week. And I was
astonished also. Why the devil did you not tell me?"

I shrugged. "There was little to tell. I
survived, as you can see."

"Do not be flippant, Gabriel." Louisa's tone
softened. "I could have lost you, my friend. And the last thing we
had done before that was quarrel."

"I did not hold that against you." I
smiled.

"Stop." Louisa held up her hands. "Stop being
noble. You are dear to me, you know that. Why do you insist on
making me so angry?"

"It is what dear friends do, Louisa. Quarrel
and forgive over very stupid things. Were we strangers, we would
not care."

Louisa gave me a deprecating look. "You have
turned philosopher. Very well, I will put things simply. If, while
you are in Berkshire, you find that you need help, you will ask me,
and put your pride aside."

"Of course," I said, relaxing. She was still
angry at me, but Louisa was acknowledging that she did not want me
out of her life entirely.

"And if you escape from death by a hair's
breadth again, you will at least have the courtesy to tell me," she
said sternly.

"You will be the first to hear the tale."

She gave me a severe look, then she shook her
head. "We have been friends too long for this, Gabriel. Please know
that I still think you are too stubborn for words. I will not stand
by while you needle my husband, but I am not ready to lose you,
yet."

"And I will never be ready to lose you."

We studied each other, her gray eyes clear in
the candlelight.

"Do not think I have forgiven you," Louisa
said. "I still believe you are in the wrong about Aloysius."

"I know."

I would capitulate to Brandon if she wanted
me to, as bitter as the words would taste. I valued her enough that
I could at least cease hurting her.

We returned to watching each other in
silence. We did not always have to speak; we had said plenty over
the years.

I heard Bartholomew bang back inside, and
then the odor of overcooked beef wafted up the stairwell.
Bartholomew entered the room without looking at either of us,
deposited a tray on the writing table, and bustled around for the
cutlery.

I smiled at Louisa, and she smiled at me.

"I might forgive you not telling me of your
adventures," Louisa said, "if you sit down and tell me everything,
now, from beginning to end. Leaving out no detail, however small. I
told Lady Aline that I might be late."

I accepted her terms. I seated her in the
wing chair, sat down to my afternoon repast, and began my tale.

*** *** ***

The next afternoon, I departed London.
Grenville offered his chaise and four to take me to Berkshire, and
I accepted. While I disliked taking favors, I could not argue that
his private conveyance would be much more comfortable than a mail
coach crammed with passengers.

Grenville declined to accompany me himself,
and I knew why. Lucius Grenville, the renowned world traveler,
suffered from motion sickness and ever did his best to avoid
it.

Bartholomew was proud to be going with me to
Sudbury in his capacity as my personal servant. I knew that
Grenville had admonished him to keep him informed of any excitement
I might find there.

Before we left London proper, I had one more
call to make. I bade Bartholomew wait for me in the chaise in South
Audley Street, while I knocked on Lady Breckenridge's door.

To my good luck, Lady Breckenridge was at
home. Barnstable led me upstairs to her private chambers, and
announced me, after first inquiring about the state of my leg. I
assured him that his cure had done me well, and Barnstable went
away, pleased.

I had not seen or spoken to Lady Breckenridge
since our adventure at The Glass House, although she had responded
to my inquiry through Lady Aline that she was resilient and in good
health. She'd even thanked me for giving her an evening free of
ennui.

Today Lady Breckenridge reclined on a chaise
longue in a lacy peignoir, her dark hair in loose curls under a
white cap. She held a slim, black cigarillo in her fingers, and
woody-scented smoke hung in the room.

"You have come to say good-bye?" she asked me
without rising. "You are always the gentleman, Lacey."

"I try to be."

"Berkshire." Lady Breckenridge took a long
pull on the cigarillo. "The country is hopelessly dull, you
know."

"I'm looking forward to dull," I said.

We regarded each other a moment in silence.
Our silences were not like the silences between me and Louisa
Brandon; I did not know Lady Breckenridge well enough to discern
what she was thinking.

"I came to tell you that any letter addressed
to me at the Sudbury School, near Hungerford, will reach me," I
said.

"Ah." Lady Breckenridge set the cigarillo
carefully on her dressing table. "You wish me to include you in my
correspondence."

"I would honor any correspondence from
you."

Her brows arched. "A lady writing to a
gentleman. How scandalous."

"I believe you enjoy scandal."

She looked at me a long time, a glint of
humor in her eyes. "Yes. I believe I do."

I gave her a military bow. "I will say
good-bye, then. Thank you."

I was uncertain what I thanked her
for--perhaps for simply existing.

"A moment." Lady Breckenridge rose gracefully
and glided across the room to the armoire. "I meant to send this on
to you. But I may as well give it to you now." She withdrew a long
bundle, unwrapped it, brought what had been inside to me and put it
into my hands.

It was a walking stick. The stick had a
polished mahogany cane, burnished a rich red-brown, and a gold
handle in the shape of a goose's head.

Lady Breckenridge closed her fingers over the
handle and gently slid it outward to reveal a blade. "It has a
sword, like your old one," she said. "And it's engraved." She
turned the handle over in my palm and indicated the inscription:
Captain G. Lacey, 1817.

I slid the blade back into the sheath. "It is
a thing of beauty. Thank you."

"Grenville said he would buy one for you. But
I told him I was already having one made and not to spoil my
surprise."

I smiled. "It is a fine gift."

She looked pleased then strove to hide
it.

Friendship, I had learned, was a gift not to
be scorned.

I leaned down and kissed her lips, then
departed for Berkshire.

END

Please continue reading for a preview of Captain
Lacey's next adventure

The Sudbury School Murders

By Ashley Gardner

Book 4 of the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

* * * * *

Chapter One

March 1817

"And I want it stopped," Everard Rutledge
growled.

One week after my arrival at the Sudbury
School, Rutledge faced me over his desk in his private study. The
headmaster had a large, flat face, a bulbous nose, and short
graying hair that looked as though perpetually whipped by high
wind. His coat hung untidily on his large frame, his ivory
waistcoat was rumpled, his yellowing cravat twisted. The effect was
as though a bull had climbed into an expensive suit and then gone
about its business.

He had just told me a story of vicious pranks
that had been perpetrated in the school--a chandelier in the dining
hall coming down, a fire in the maids' attic, threatening letters
written in blood, and three boys falling ill due to poisoned
port.

"Not nice," I remarked. "Worse than the usual
pranks boys play on each other."

"Exactly," Rutledge barked. "What do you
intend to do about it, eh?"

I looked at him in surprise. I had not
thought that discovering pranksters would be in the sphere of the
secretary's duties, but Rutledge glared at me as though waiting for
me to produce the name of the culprit then and there.

"What would you have me do?" I asked him.

"Well damn it, man, is this not why you are
here? Grenville told me you were a master at poking your nose into
things that did not concern you."

"I do hope Grenville did not put it quite
like that," I said mildly.

Rutledge scowled. "He neglected to tell me
how impertinent you are. I cannot imagine you made a very good
soldier."

"My commander would agree with you," I said.
Colonel Brandon, once my closest friend, had often lectured me
about my tendency to disobey orders and tell my superiors what I
thought of them.

"But please continue about the problem," I
said, my curiosity piqued in spite of myself. "If you wish me to
discover which boys are responsible, I will need as much
information as I can obtain."

"You will do it, then?"

I wished I had been asked rather than simply
expected. Lucius Grenville had much to answer for. "I admit
interest," I said. "That these tricks have been perpetrated for
three months without anyone being the wiser is intriguing. Someone
has been uncommonly clever."

"Uncommonly indecent," Rutledge snarled.
"When I put my hands on him-- "

I knew the rest. Rutledge, I had learned in
the week since my arrival, believed in strict and severe
discipline. This was not unusual for a school's headmaster, but
Rutledge seemed to enjoy meting out punishment more than did most
sergeants in the King's Army.

Rutledge's harsh methods so far had produced
no result. I could see that the students here feared Rutledge but
did not respect him.

He leaned across his desk. "I do not think
you grasp the seriousness of the situation, Lacey. The sons of the
wealthiest men in England attend the Sudbury School. Their money
could buy you, and even Grenville, a dozen times over. I do not
wish for fathers to become unhappy at their sons' complaints. Do
you understand?"

"I understand well enough."

The Sudbury School did not house the sons of
lords and statesmen; rather, their fathers were nabobs and
merchants and men prominent in the City. They were the merchant
class, the middle class, the sons of men who had started with
nothing and gained fortune with the sweat of their brows. Boys
finished Sudbury School, went to the City to add to their father's
fortunes, and in turn sent their own sons here.

Rutledge did not care a fig about money,
personally. The unkempt manner of his clothes, his obliviousness to
the comfort of his study, his evenhandedness in dealing out
punishment to the boys, told me this. Rutledge would be as much at
home in Carleton House as in a hovel--in other words, he'd never
notice.

What Rutledge cared about was the Sudbury
School. His form of honor, if you will. Rutledge was gentleman
born, had attended Eton with Grenville. But he'd stuck his claws
into this school for bankers' sons, and by God he intended it to be
a success. Its reputation was his reputation.