The Glass House

by Jennifer Ashley

  "Dance for us, Captain," Lady Breckenridge said. "Do, please."

  Several of the gentlemen laughed. The others leaned back, idiotic grins on their faces. Inglethorpe, the only one who had not partaken, watched us all with an indulgent expression.

  I crossed the carpet and held out my hand. "Do you waltz, Mrs. Danbury?"

  She gazed at me in astonishment and through the strange clarity I felt a twinge of embarrassment. Then she smiled, put her hand in mine, and rose to meet me.

  I waltzed Mrs. Danbury up and down the long room and around Lady Breckenridge's settee to the windows. Lady Breckenridge turned to watch us as we went by.

  I had learned to waltz in Spain, when the fashion first took. I had waltzed with Louisa, under her husband's glowering eye, and with the wives of other officers. My injury had, of course, put an end to this entertainment.

  Never had I danced with a woman who simply wanted to dance with me. No pity for the lonely officer who had no wife to escort. No duty in attending the wives of superior officers. Just dancing for the pure joy of it.

  Mrs. Danbury matched her steps to mine and rested her hand on my shoulder. I grasped her about the waist, my fingers fitting to the slim curve of her body.

  I had not felt so well in a long, long while. I realized I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to lean down and touch her red lips, to feel them open beneath mine.

  She must have sensed my wish, for she whispered, "They are all watching."

  I gave her a reassuring look and lowered my eyelid in a wink. I certainly would not cause a scandal. She could trust me to be a gentleman.

  Mrs. Danbury’s smile broadened. We danced some more, moving back and forth across the room. I felt light on my feet and light in heart.

  I lost track of time. I'd come here planning to question Inglethorpe about Peaches, about who she talked to, what she and Lord Barbury did here, and whether she had come here Monday, either alone or with someone other than Lord Barbury. Inglethorpe had begun this entertainment at four o'clock; soon after four on Monday, Peaches had met her end.

  Instead, I danced. Mrs. Danbury and I went around and around the room. She gazed up at me, seemingly happy to be dancing with me. It had been so long since a lady had looked at me in such delight that I could not bear to break the spell.

  The windows darkened. Several of the gentlemen departed. Inglethorpe disappeared. Mrs. Danbury danced into me, a luxurious crush of female body.

  I at last let her sit down, out of breath, and I seated myself on a stool before her and looked at her in a way I had no business to. Mrs. Danbury did not seem to mind. Her color was high, and her eyes sparkled.

  This was not like being drunk. I felt refreshed and aware and at last free of pain. Whatever Inglethorpe’s concoction was, I liked it.

  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.<
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  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.

  The few candles in tarnished sconces threw off a only a feeble light, and the gloomy evening made the dark-paneled front hall darker still. The doorman led us up a staircase that twisted round on itself to a wide hall containing one double door.

  Laughter and voices poured from behind the door--talking, querying, pontificating--nothing I would not hear in any club or tavern. Our guide pushed open the doors and ushered us inside, and at last I understood why the ordinary looking building was called The Glass House.

  We stood in a well-furnished, softly carpeted room as dark as the hall below, its walls lined with drapes, brown velvet and heavy. One curtain stood open to reveal a window, but it looked into another room, not outside. The room beyond was dark, the glass reflecting the light of the front room, much as Lady Breckenridge's carriage window had reflected only her own face. I assumed that the other curtains hid windows, the room surrounded on three sides by them.

  Men lounged on Turkish couches and armchairs, talking, smoking, drinking brandy or claret, passing snuff boxes back and forth. Card tables occupied one half of the room, where a dozen gentlemen played whist and piquet, no doubt for high stakes.

  A smattering of women roamed the crowd. They were, to a body, beautiful of figure, and wore their expensive silk gowns with grace. Their jewels had been chosen with taste, their hair carefully dressed. They were nothing like the painted girls of Covent Garden or even actresses like Marianne. These were courtesans of the highest order--experienced, well-bred, beautiful.

  I'd met a few of the gentlemen here before, including an infantry officer, but I did not really know them. All recognized Grenville. He glided languidly into the room, embracing his man-of-fashion persona.