The Glass House

by Jennifer Ashley

  "I had a chance to speak to the doorman while you went off on your adventure," Grenville said as the carriage rolled into the rainy night. "He told me that Peaches did indeed arrive near to four o'clock on Monday, but he never saw her leave."

  "He is certain?"

  "He said he was at the door all that day. She came in but did not go out."

  I sat back, trying to ease my abused leg. "Well, that tells us much, then."

  "She went out the back," the girl said.

  Both Grenville and I started, swiveling gazes to her. She looked back at us with no less fear but now with some curiosity."You saw her?" I asked, too startled to gentle my voice.

  She nodded, her artificially blond curls bobbing. "Down the back stairs, through the scullery. Didn't stop to say ta."

  "Was she alone?"

  The girl blinked, and I realized that my abrupt tone frightened her. "It is important," I said, trying to soften my voice. "Did she leave with someone?"

  "Not that I saw." She glanced from me to Grenville. "Are you going to arrest her?"

  "No. I am afraid she died."

  The girl's mouth became a round O. "She died?" She went silent a moment. "She was nice to me."

  "Did she come often to The Glass House?" I asked.

  The girl shrugged too-thin shoulders. "Sometimes. She didn't speak to anyone much."

  "But she was nice to you."

  "Let me stay in her room sometimes. Would tell me stories about when she was on the stage. Asked if I wanted to go on the stage."

  "And do you?" Grenville asked. I heard the pity in his question though his expression remained neutral.

  "Naw. Like as not, I'll marry a bloke."

  Not if she were dead from disease or brutality long before she reached marriageable age.

  Kensington and his Glass House were doomed. If Sir Montague Harris needed evidence of sordid goings-on in that house, this girl could provide it. If we enlisted Gideon Derwent's help, his influence and public outcry would defeat The Glass House.

  Even so, Kensington hadn't seemed worried by my interference. He must believe that the guiding power behind the house--possibly James Denis--would prevent me from doing it any harm. I was determined to prove him wrong.

  "Did Peaches ever come to The Glass House with anyone?" I asked the girl.

  "A lordship," she answered without hesitation. "She thought he was handsome. She was in love with him."

  "Anyone else?"

  "No." The girl seemed to relax, to grow more childlike every moment. "Just the lordship. She would go on and on about him, called him her Bear."

  Peaches and Barbury. Filled with affection for each other. "Did she speak to anyone else regularly? Besides you?"

  "Naw, she kept herself to herself. She'd natter with Kensington, because she knew him from before. But no one else I ever saw."

  "After Peaches left Monday, do you remember seeing Mr. Kensington still there?"

  "I think so." Her small brow puckered. "I don't remember."

  I had hoped she'd tell me she saw Kensington run after Peaches with a murderous look on his face, or better still, brandishing a weapon, but I let it go. Kensington could easily have killed her. Peaches knew him, he could have gotten behind her, struck out . . .

  "Are you taking me to a magistrate?" the girl asked.

  I banished the horrible picture of Peaches falling to the stairs at the Temple Gardens, her head a bloody mess.

  "To a friend, who will look after you," I said.

  Her fearful look returned. "I don't want to be looked after."

  "Yes, you do," Grenville said.

  Her apprehensive look grew. The girls in Covent Garden had nothing kind to say about the reformers who sometimes scooped up one of their number--cheating them out of a decent day's wages, they'd say.

  What men like Kensington had done to this girl was monstrous, and her innocent acceptance was still more monstrous. I knew that houses existed all over London where such things went on, and that shutting down one would not eliminate them all. I'd also seen plenty of girls like her while in the Army, daughters of camp followers or orphaned girls who'd decided that laying with soldiers was better than starving. I couldn't save them all.

  But I could at least help Sir Montague Harris close The Glass House, and perhaps I could spell the end for one very powerful underworld gentleman. The thought buoyed me through my haze of anger and pain.

  We reached Grosvenor Square, the most opulent in Mayfair, and stopped before the Derwents' tall house.

  The Derwents were surprised to see us but behaved predictably. The entire family turned out to welcome us--Lady Derwent, thin and frail but with a bright smile for me and Grenville; the daughter, Melissa, her usual shyness melting into sympathy for the girl, who at last relayed that her name was Jean; Sir Gideon, robust and righteously angry at my tale. The only one missing was Leland, the son of the household, who was visiting his club with his cronies from university.

  Likewise, I did not see Mrs. Danbury, which relieved me a bit. I'd made a great fool of myself in front of her at Inglethorpe's. I wanted to apologize to her for my behavior but I was not yet ready to face her.

  We left young Jean looking bewildered and surrounded by well-meaning Derwents, and returned to Grosvenor Street.

  Grenville, as usual, invited me in for brandy, but I declined. I was exhausted, still angry, in pain, and not in the mood for pleasantries. Tomorrow was the inquest for Peaches, and I needed rest.

  I took a hackney home. Grenville would have offered his coach, but he'd indicated that he would look in at his club, and I did not want to rob him of his conveyance. He conceded, saw me into the hackney, and said goodnight. Bartholomew would be awaiting me in Grimpen Lane, with the fire high and my bed aired.

  I discovered halfway across London that I had only enough shillings to take me to Haymarket. I descended there and braced myself heavily on Grenville's walking stick as I tramped toward home.

  The air was chill, my breath steaming, the rain tiny needles on my face. I severely disliked cold. Perhaps if Grenville did decide to return to Egypt, I'd ask to go with him, as an assistant or secretary or some such in order to earn my way. The baking sun would no doubt be good for my leg as well as for the rest of me. How grand it would be to again roll up my sleeves against the heat, let my skin tan, live a bit like a barbarian again.

  My young wife had hated the sun, complained of it ruining her complexion. She'd wilted in the humid heat, and God help me, I'd been impatient with her. I'd wanted her to be more like Louisa Brandon, who had been robust and enjoyed the warm weather. But then, I'd always been a bloody fool where Carlotta was concerned.

  A carriage rolled to a halt right in front of me. Annoyed, I turned my steps to hobble around it, but the footman jumped down and approached me.

  I saw Lady Breckenridge silhouetted against the coach's window, watching her footman extend her offer to take me home in the comfort of her warm carriage. I was not particularly in the mood for Lady Breckenridge again so soon, but the agony in my leg made the decision for me.

  I allowed the footman to help me into the carriage and found myself opposite Lady Breckenridge for the second time that day.

  "You look in a bad way, Captain," she said.

  I expected her to mock me and my capering at Inglethorpe's, but her brows were drawn, and she did not smile.

  She'd obviously been to the opera--she wore a pale pink, high-waisted gown beneath her heavy velvet mantle, and her dark hair was curled fantastically and crowned with feathers. She was a pretty woman, without the fragile, ethereal beauty so in fashion these days.

  "Indeed," I said. My left leg felt like fire.

  "My butler has a remedy for sore limbs and joints. He wraps hot towels bathed in herbs about them. Swears by it."

  The thought of a scalding towel around my knee nearly made me groan with longing. "I thank you for your concern."

  "I see you did not quite understand Mr. Inglethorpe's magic gas, Capt
ain. It gives one euphoria and removes pain, but the pain returns and the joy fades. It is a pity, but there it is."

  A pity, indeed. When I'd breathed the gas, I'd felt normal again, a whole man, not one dragging himself, literally, through life. I'd enjoyed simply being a man dancing with a woman, a pleasure that had been too long denied me.

  "Still," Lady Breckenridge said, "it gives us an afternoon free of life's little pains and troubles."

  "Is that why you attend?" I asked, my jaw clenched.

  She smiled. "I go for the amusement of it."

  Well, I had certainly amused her. I ought to have stayed with Grenville tonight and dulled some of the pain with his brandy, but I'd known that if I sat in one of his comfortable chairs, I'd have been unable to rise again until morning. Lady Breckenridge's coach, lit by warm candles in lanterns and scented with her spicy perfume, was having much the same effect. I leaned back in the seat and stifled another groan.

  "It distresses me to see you so," she said. "Let Barnstable have a go, anyway."

  It was then I became aware we were driving back through Mayfair, slowly passing the houses of Piccadilly. "I have laudanum at home," I said, "and a footman to give it to me. You can take me there."

  "Gracious, you are stubborn, Lacey."

  "As you are, my lady."

  Her smile returned. "Tit for tat, is that it? I find you refreshing, Captain, with your rudeness. You have perfect manners when necessary, but when needled, your comments are clearheaded and most apt."

  "I would be flattered were I not in so much pain."

  "Let Barnstable help you, then. He is a wonder."

  "He certainly will be if he can stop this." I had not hurt so much since the original injury. And I only had myself to blame.

  She watched me with her dark, intelligent eyes. "You shunned me in Kent last summer, Captain. Do you remember?"

  "In Kent, you mistook my character." She'd been predatory then, backing off in coolness when I'd rejected her advances.

  "I did, I admit. I thought you a hanger-on of Grenville, eager to rub elbows with the peerage, of which my husband was so fine a representative. I never dreamed you'd come there to investigate the Badajoz murder."

  Over our billiards game, she had given me a warning against the wife of the man I was investigating, and she, unfortunately, had been right. I'd been angry with her, but I had been angrier, later, with myself.

  "I'd be pleased to call a truce with you, Lacey. To be friends."

  I only half-heard her through a haze of pain. "If you'd like," I believe I said.

  We pulled to a stop on South Audley Street, in front of the house now held in trust for the current Viscount Breckenridge, Lady Breckenridge's five-year-old son.

  The façade was tasteful with fanlights on doors and windows, the door black and cleanly painted. I'd visited this house the year before during the Badajoz investigation and remembered the almost painfully modern decor--the floors inlaid with crosshatching reminiscent of Turkish screens, alcoves filled with alabaster statuary, and black and gold Egyptian-style chairs lining the walls.

  Lady Breckenridge's footman helped me from the carriage and into the house. I leaned heavily on my borrowed walking stick as he half-carried me up the stairs to a little first-floor parlor where a fire had been stirred high.

  I welcomed the warmth, but I was in a bad way. Spasms of pain nearly made me ill. The footman lowered me to a sofa, and I gripped my leg and tried not to rock in pain.

  Lady Breckenridge leaned down to me, her breath smelling of mint and lemonade. "I leave you in Barnstable's hands, Captain. You will be better, I promise." She patted my shoulder and glided out of the room.

  The butler bustled in with his accoutrements. Barnstable was a man of about forty, with jet black hair slicked back with pomade. He set a wooden rack before the fire then used tongs to lift steaming towels from a metal box, and laid them across the rack. Calmly, he knelt and removed my boots then told me to take off my trousers.

  I unbuttoned and slid the trousers down over my hips to the floor, revealing wiry black hair twisting down my shins. My left leg looked little different from my right except for the cross-hatch of scars that puckered my knee. The innocent-looking leg at the moment was causing me devilish pain.

  I sat down again, and Barnstable draped the first towel around my knee and pulled it tight. I sucked in a breath. He applied several more towels, handling each with the tongs. I closed my eyes as heat began to seep into my muscles.

  "Let those work for a time," he said. "Then I'll rub in some of my liniment. Loosen you right up, sir."

  Already the scalding towels had eased some of the tension. The smell of mint on the steam reminded me of my nursery, of days I'd taken cold as a child. My nurse had used similar herbs in boiling water to clear my congestion.

  "You are a fine man, Barnstable," I said without opening my eyes.

  "My wife had the rheumatics something terrible, sir. This always eased her."

  Barnstable let me soak up the heat for a while longer then, when the towels started to cool, he removed them. He opened a glass jar and scooped out a rather watery, white concoction that smelled of oil of vitriol, and rubbed it hard all over my knee and the muscles behind it. After wiping his hands, Barnstable replaced the towels with a fresh set, hot from the fire. He left me to steep, taking the used towels and liniment away with him.

  I leaned back on the settee and let out breath. The throbbing had ceased, whether because of the liniment or the heat of the towels, I did not much care. I hoped Barnstable would share the recipe for his liniment so that I could use it myself the next time my knee seized up.

  I found myself drifting in and out of sleep. In half-dreams I pictured Peaches lying on the bank of the Thames, dead and quiet, her body ruined with water. I had never seen her in life, but I imagined what she must have looked like--with her round, girlish face, bright gold hair, her smile that of a person intrigued by life.

  She seemed to smile at me now. "Take care, Captain," she said. "You are most impetuous." I agreed. My impetuousness had led me to trouble many times before.

  I came out of the dream, thinking of the real Peaches. She must have been a very charming young woman. She'd charmed Lord Barbury into loving her, had charmed the dour Mr. Chapman into marrying her, had charmed Kensington into letting her stay at The Glass House when she wanted peace from her husband. She'd charmed me, as well, into wandering about London looking for the man who'd killed her. The small hand with its too-large ring, the slender feet in pretty shoes had touched my heart.

  Lady Breckenridge had called Peaches common. I recognized that Peaches was the sort of woman men liked and women did not. Peaches had not only liked men, she'd been content to live in their world. But a man had betrayed her, had killed her.

  I doubted a woman had struck that blow; it had been vicious and thorough. Her husband, jealous of her lover? Her lover, jealous of someone else? Or Kensington, for some unknown reason?

  I would find out.

  I drifted back to sleep. I dreamed of Peaches again, but this time, it was Louisa Brandon's lifeless body on the bank of the Thames, and my heart was breaking. I knelt beside her, touched her cheek. "I'm sorry, Louisa," I whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

  I awoke to Barnstable shaking me, and found my face wet with tears.

  *** *** ***

  Barnstable took me to a tiny bedroom painted Wedgwood green with delicate plaster moldings. The bed with green and gold hangings took up most of the room, leaving only a small space for a bedside table and a fantastic black and gold chair upholstered in leopard skin with gilt claws for feet.

  Barnstable helped me undress completely in front of the fire and put me to bed. I found the bed cozy and drifted to sleep almost at once. When I awoke again, it was still dark, but I sensed daylight nearing.

  I'd awakened because the door had opened. The intruder wasn't Barnstable looking in on me, but Lady Breckenridge in a dressing gown, her dark hair over h
er shoulder in a long, thick braid. She watched me from the threshold for a moment then closed the door, crossed the room, and climbed into the bed with me.

  "Friends, you said," I murmured.

  "Yes, indeed." She lay down next to me, slid her arm around my waist, and rested her head on my shoulder.

  I liked her there. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her hand resting over my heart was light and soothing. It had been a long while since I'd felt the touch of affection from another human being, and I'd missed it.

  "I ought to go home," I said.

  "It is raining." It had been raining all night.

  We lay quietly for a moment, listening to the water on the window panes. "I see Barnstable has done well by you," she said.

  "Excellently well."

  She did not answer, but the hand on my chest smoothed the blankets.

  Lady Breckenridge lay beside me for a long time. She did nothing but rest her head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my cheek. The situation was pleasant. This was what a man and wife might do, lie side by side in comfortable silence, listening to the rain and thinking separate thoughts. I could not guess what Lady Breckenridge meant by it or what she wanted, and I did not want to break the spell to ask.

  I drifted into sleep again. When I awoke, she was gone.

  *** *** ***

  Barnstable's cure worked wonders. When I rose from the bed, my knee hurt only a little, and my usual morning stiffness was much diminished.

  Barnstable shaved me and helped me dress, took me downstairs and put me into a carriage. It was still dark, still raining, still cold. Lady Breckenridge did not appear. Barnstable gave me a jar of his liniment to take home with me, and it was to him that I said my good-byes.

  *** *** ***

  The inquest for Amelia Chapman began that morning at ten o'clock in a public house near Blackfriar's Bridge. Because the death had been by means of violence, the coroner had called a jury. The rather blank-looking gentlemen of this jury sat upright in their chairs near the middle of the room.