The Glass House

by Jennifer Ashley

  A witness. I turned that thought over in my mind. I would ask Sir Montague to accompany me to speak to the potential witness I had in mind.

  I also thought about Lady Breckenridge. After a heartbreak last year, I was not in the mood to fall in love with another lady, but Lady Breckenridge had demanded nothing of me. She was intriguing and interesting, and, I admitted, refreshingly candid. She took me for what I was and did not ask me to be anything else. Her kisses had been unhurried, without heat. She'd kissed me because she enjoyed kissing me. It was a heady feeling. I lay back to enjoy the first sunshine in a long while and listed to the music of the church bells.

  When I rose, I began to prepare myself for moving to Berkshire.

  Mrs. Beltan was unhappy to learn she'd lose me as a tenant and even said she'd hold the rooms for me in case I changed my mind. I wrote of my decision to the few acquaintances, such as Lady Aline Carrington, who would care, and even to Colonel Brandon. I had Bartholomew hand-deliver these missives as well as a letter to Sir Montague Harris with my information and outlining my ideas of finding a witness.

  I informed Bartholomew I would be dining at the Derwents' that evening, and he brightened at the chance to brush my regimentals again. Dining with the Derwents would also give me the opportunity to question Mrs. Danbury about the walking stick. The questions might pain me, but I would ask them. I needed to know the truth.

  Sir Montague sent a message in return that he'd made an appointment to speak to Lady Jane at a Mayfair hotel, courtesy of James Denis. He invited me to join him there at two o'clock that afternoon.

  I spent the morning putting my affairs together then journeyed to Davies Street to arrive at two, my curiosity high, hoping we'd see an end to The Glass House this very day.

  The hotel on the corner of Davies and Brook streets was fairly new, lived in by those staying in London for the Season but not wanting the bother of opening a house. Lady Jane was not staying there, Sir Montague informed me when I arrived; rather, we were using the hotel as neutral ground.

  We followed a footman to a private sitting room, and there, we met Lady Jane.

  She was a stout matron, and so unlike what I had been expecting that I could only stare at her at first. She wore a widow's cap over her black hair, and her face was round, red, and lined, a provincial woman's face. Her mauve pelisse of fine fabric was tastefully trimmed with a gray fringe, and her gray broadcloth skirt shone dully in the candlelight. The suit spoke of care and expense, but her eyes held a light as hard and shrewd as a horse trader's.

  She extended a hand to me, and I bowed over it as expected. She withdrew, scarcely looking at me, and sat down in a chair. The hotel's footman set a footstool at her feet, fetched another for Sir Montague, and faded away.

  "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, r
endering the garden colorful even in the bare winter night.

  But I had come here for another purpose. Mrs. Danbury had not joined us, and I excused myself, declaring I'd forgotten my gloves.

  I quickly walked back to the drawing room where Mrs. Danbury had stayed behind to cover the harp. The smell of beeswax and the ladies' perfumes lingered in the room, and the laughter and music seemed to as well.

  Mrs. Danbury looked at me in surprise. She settled the dust cover, flapping it like a drapery over a bed. "Will you not walk, Captain?"

  As I moved to her, my expression must have startled her, because she looked at me in alarm. "Is everything all right? Has my aunt taken ill?"

  "No, no," I said quickly. "Lady Derwent is well. I returned because I need to speak to you privately."

  Her alarm eased, but only marginally. Tonight Mrs. Danbury wore a dress of blue and lighter blue stripes, bound by a wide sash, her bodice holding a row of false black buttons down the front.

  "Oh, yes?" Mrs. Danbury asked. "What about?"

  "The fact that you lied to me about my walking stick. You took it away with you when you left Inglethorpe's on Wednesday afternoon, did you not?"

  She froze, and the cloth fluttered from her hands. "Why do you say so?"

  "I am trying to understand what you did and why. I admit I am most puzzled."

  Her color rose. Mrs. Danbury was different from the Derwents in that the she did not share their innocence. She had been married twice, and from what Lady Aline had gossiped to me, neither marriage had been very happy. Her second husband, Mickey Danbury, had enjoyed the beds of many women across London, while sparing little time for his wife. He had been a robust young man and had died breaking his neck while racing his horse from London to Brighton. And a mercy he did, Lady Aline had said.