The Glass House (8 page)

A heavy wave of French perfume swept over my
shoulder and Lady Breckenridge said into my ear, "If you want to
know about Lord Barbury, Captain, you have only to ask me."

I glanced quickly up at her but as usual, her
dark blue eyes were enigmatic.

Lady Breckenridge left the room without
further word, and a footman closed the door behind her.

She wanted me to rush after her. She wanted
me to wonder what she meant and not rest until I found out.

Devil take the woman, that is exactly what I
did. I rose, made some excuse to the bewildered Mrs. Danbury, and
hurried from the room.

Inglethorpe was on the landing.

"Come again, Captain," his congenial voice
floated after me as I moved past him down the stairs, barely
acknowledging him. "Perhaps next time you will persuade Mr.
Grenville to accompany you."

I did not answer. I reached the ground floor
hall, snatched my coat and hat from the footman, and plunged
outside.

The street had darkened and rain made it
darker still. I did not see Lady Breckenridge at first and balled
my hands in frustration, wondering if she’d simply gone without me.
Then another carriage moved out of the way, and I spied her across
the street, being helped into a closed landau.

She'd donned a jacket and hat, and she smiled
down at me as I made my way to her. "Shall you ride with me,
Captain?"

I looked at the landau, rain streaking its
black leather top. An unrelated lady and gentleman riding in a
closed carriage could be scandalous, although widowed women of the
upper classes had a little immunity. The rain decided it for me, as
well as the fact that I'd made a fool of myself in Inglethorpe's
sitting room and come away with no information.

I accepted.

* * * * *

Chapter Six

The footman assisted me into the landau, and
I found myself in a conveyance as opulent as Grenville's. The walls
were fine parquetry, the upholstery, velvet. Boxes of coals warmed
our feet, and coach lanterns lightened the gloom of the darkening
evening.

As soon as I half fell into the seat facing
Lady Breckenridge, the landau started with a jerk.

I found myself studying the pattern of Lady
Breckenridge’s light yellow-and-ivory striped gown behind the
undone buttons of her dark blue jacket. The gown revealed a modest
amount of breast, the cashmere heavy enough against the chill of
January but fine enough to flow like silk over her legs.

"Did you enjoy Mr. Inglethorpe's little
entertainment?" she asked.

I was still a bit breathless from it. "What
was it? The concoction, I mean?"

Lady Breckenridge lifted her shoulders in a
smooth shrug. "Who knows? I am not a scientist. But you did not
come for the magic air. You came to learn about Lord Barbury."

"I do not recall telling anyone so."

She gave me her usual stare. She was an
intelligent woman, and no doubt had seen Grenville pull Lord
Barbury aside at the soiree.

"You did not have to. I know that Mrs.
Chapman was killed, and that poor Barbury is beside himself.
Servants gossip, Captain. They love to talk about us. My maid is
always ready with the latest tidbit about my neighbors."

I should not have been surprised. Bartholomew
was part of a vast network of Mayfair servants who gathered
information better than any exploring officer did for Wellesley.
Bartholomew had connections below stairs in every house from Oxford
Street to Piccadilly.

"Barbury doted on the woman," Lady
Breckenridge said. "More than he should have, in my opinion. She
was charming to him, but she was only an actress and not a very
good one."

"Did you know her?"

She gave me a disdainful look. "Hardly. She
married above her station and had Lord Barbury quite on a string.
At least Barbury had the sense not to take her to wife."

I wondered why Chapman had married Peaches
and how she'd had persuaded him to. Peaches had been a lovely young
woman; I could imagine her convincing someone like
me
to
marry her--someone with nothing to lose--but a barrister who hoped
one day to take silk?

Lady Breckenridge and Thompson were correct;
most actresses were considered common, not respectable enough for
marriage. It did happen, from time to time, that aristocrats
married actresses, and happily so, but aristocrats got away with
much. Perhaps Peaches had made Chapman believe she'd be a model
wife.

"Did they go to Inglethorpe's often?" I
asked. I assumed Lady Breckenridge had been there before—she’d
seemed familiar with the gas and how to take it. Mrs. Danbury, on
the other hand, had not. She, like me, had been a novice.

"Good heavens, yes. Anything novel or
exciting, Mrs. Chapman could not rest until she tried it. I believe
she was not quite right in the head, if you ask me." Lady
Breckenridge gave me a decided look. "She was always badgering
Barbury to let her do things that were risky and dangerous. If he
denied her, she pouted and fussed until he promised she could do as
she pleased. Curricle races to Brighton, bloody fool things like
that."

I wondered how Peaches had fared with Mr.
Chapman, a man described by his pupil as deadly dull. For a young
lady who craved excitement, living with Chapman must have been
misery.

Of course, if Gower were to be believed,
Peaches rarely saw her husband. She’d have had plenty of
opportunity for excitement without him.

I had been a bit wild and reckless in my
youth, and frankly, stupid, but I had always been able to stop
myself when necessary. There were people, I had learned, who could
not, who always had to have something interesting or, as Lady
Breckenridge said, dangerous, in their lives. Perhaps to remind
themselves that they were alive? Their humors were unbalanced in
that direction, I believed, as mine were toward melancholia, and
they could not help themselves. I wondered if Peaches had been that
sort of person.

"What is your interest, Captain?" Lady
Breckenridge asked, her eyes bright. "You could not have been Mrs.
Chapman's lover. She liked only men of wealth."

I let the remark pass, because it was the
truth, even if rudely put.

I thought again of Peaches lying on the shore
of the Thames, small, pretty, alone. She'd sought danger, and
danger had found her.

"She did not deserve what was done to her," I
said. "She was too young for that. Young and helpless."

Lady Breckenridge snorted. "From what I knew
of her, Mrs. Chapman was never helpless."

"She was certainly helpless against whoever
killed her."

Lady Breckenridge lost her smile. I expected
a sharp or sardonic retort from her, but she turned to look out of
the window. I knew she could see only her reflection in the dark
glass, because I saw it too, a gaze pensive under drawn brows.

"Did you attend the gathering at
Inglethorpe's on Monday?" I asked her.

"I did." She turned from the window again,
her expression composed. "If you mean to ask me whether Mrs.
Chapman attended as well, the answer is yes, she did."

"With Lord Barbury?"

"Not in the least. She arrived alone and went
away alone."

"Do you remember what time she left?"

"Not much past four. She seemed in a
hurry."

Peaches must have gone straight from
Inglethorpe’s to meet her killer. "Did she leave by hackney or
private coach?"

"I am afraid I did not notice. I was not much
interested in Mrs. Chapman. I was just pleased she'd departed."

"A bit early."

Lady Breckenridge shrugged. "She had her take
of the gas, and off she went."

"Does Inglethorpe's gatherings always begin
at four?"

"Always. A man of regular habits, is Mr.
Inglethorpe."

Regular habits and unnatural appetites. I
wondered whether Inglethorpe himself had played a part in Mrs.
Chapman's death. A woman who liked danger, a man who provided it
for her in the form of his magical gas.

We had been rolling through Mayfair as I
asked questions and listened to her answers. "Your coachman can let
me down anywhere," I said. "I did not mean to take advantage of
you."

"Nonsense, this is a nasty rain. I will take
you where you like."

"Grenville's then," I said. "In Grosvenor
Street. It is not far."

Lady Breckenridge tapped on the roof and gave
the direction to her coachman. We rode the rest of the way in
silence, she watching me with frank curiosity. We did not exchange
the small pleasantries that I might with any other lady--Mrs.
Danbury, for example. Lady Breckenridge had made it known the first
time we'd met what she thought of small pleasantries.

She did not speak until the landau was
drawing to a halt before Grenville's house. "I have a box at Covent
Garden," she said. "Quite a fine one." She drew a silver card case
from her reticule and extracted a cream-colored card. "Giving this
to a footman at the theatre door will allow you up to it, any time
you please."

I studied the card held between her slim,
gloved fingers. "I do not go much to the theatre," I said.

"But you might. And you might want to ask me
another time about a murder."

She smiled, but the lines about her eyes were
tense. I realized, in some surprise, that if I refused to take the
card, I would hurt her feelings.

I reached for it, glanced once at the name
inscribed on it, and tucked it into my pocket. Lady Breckenridge’s
expression did not change.

I bade her goodnight and descended before
Grenville’s plain-faced mansion. As the landau rolled away, I saw
Lady Breckenridge looking out of its window at me. She caught my
eye, looked languidly away, and the landau moved on.

*** *** ***

Grenville was home, in his dressing room.
Matthias let me in, but neither Grenville nor his man Gautier
offered greeting while they went through the very important process
of tying Grenville's cravat.

Matthias brought me a glass of brandy while I
waited. Grenville's toilette was always elaborate and could take an
hour or more if he were preparing for a sufficiently important
occasion.

As I sipped the brandy I felt a sudden chill.
I rubbed my arms and took another drink of brandy, feeling the
beginnings of nausea.

Another thing I felt was pain. The concoction
was wearing off, and my leg began to throb with a vengeance. I
gritted my teeth and drank deeply of brandy.

When Grenville finished, I rose to leave with
him, and realized the height of my folly. My leg hurt like fire,
and I had left my walking stick behind at Inglethorpe's.

Matthias offered to run and fetch it for me.
Grenville forestalled him, somewhat crossly, and bade him fetch one
of his own. I accepted with neither protest nor thanks, uncertain
of Grenville's mood.

Not until we were inside his opulent coach,
alone, did I open the subject I sensed he did not want to discuss.
"What have you done with Marianne?" I asked.

Grenville shot me an angry look. "Do not
worry, she is well. I have a house in Clarges Street. She is
reclining there in the lap of luxury with plenty of sweetmeats to
eat."

"She must be pleased." Marianne liked her
comforts.

"Not really. She let me know what she thought
of my high-handedness. But dear God, Lacey." His expression turned
troubled. "I found her in your rooms, eating the leavings of your
breakfast."

"I told her she might have the bread."

Grenville’s diamond cravat pin flashed as he
turned his head. "She was shaking with hunger. If you had seen her
. . . She was furious that I'd caught her eating like a starved
mongrel. I cannot understand it. I've tried to help her, and yet,
my charity seems to do no good."

"Marianne takes what help she likes and
disdains the rest," I said. "That is why I leave my door unlocked.
She pretends to put one over on me."

"Why the devil does she accept your charity
and not mine?"

I shrugged, having no idea. "She has her own
code of right and wrong."

"You are good to her, and good to worry about
her. I have put her in a house where she might eat well and rest
for a time, and she looked bloody indignant about it."

"Rather like caging a feral dog," I said.
"Taking care of it might be best for it, but it still bites."

"Very apt. May we change the subject?"

I nodded, and he looked relieved. Grenville's
motives were good, but I believed he'd met his match in Marianne.
She liked luxury and money, but she also valued her freedom. I
wondered how long she'd trade one for the other.

During the rest of the drive to Whitechapel,
I told Grenville about Inglethorpe's gathering--who I had seen and
what I had observed, and what Lady Breckenridge had related to me
about Peaches and Lord Barbury. I omitted that fact that I had
capered about like a fool with Mrs. Danbury.

I asked Grenville about the gentlemen I had
recognized at Inglethorpe's, and we discussed them until we reached
The Glass House, although Grenville could not tell me much. He knew
them from his clubs, but not much deeper than that. He agreed it
worth investigating whether they'd known Peaches and where they'd
been when she died.

Rain still beat down as we drew up in St.
Charles Row. The sun had long since descended, and early winter
darkness swallowed the street.

We waited in the warm carriage while Matthias
hopped down and darted through the rain to rap on the door. The
same man I had seen before peered out, but this time, the reception
was different. Matthias spoke to him, and the door was opened, wide
and inviting.

Grenville descended, and I followed more
slowly. Inglethorpe's concoction had definitely worn off, leaving
me slow and sore and more fatigued than before.

I entered the house behind Grenville, and the
doorman gave me a measuring look. I pretended to ignore him as I
stripped off my greatcoat and hat. Matthias took charge of our
things, not the doorman, who only watched in silence.