The Glass House (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #3)

by Ashley Gardner

  I leaned my fists on the table. "I will not apologize for it."

  "As a matter of fact, it is precisely about The Glass House that I wish to speak to you."

  "I will close it," I said, my voice tight. "The wheels are already in motion. Once the reformers and the magistrates have enough public opinion on their side, it will fall."

  Denis continued as though I'd not spoken. "The Glass House is managed by a man called Kensington. I do not like this man, but he generally does not worry me; most of what he turns his hand to fails. This time, however, he has done something a little more dangerous. He has paired himself with another, to whom he answers solely. That person is called Lady Jane, and she is a rival of mine."

  I stopped, curiosity momentarily overcoming my anger. "What are you talking about?"

  "I am speaking about The Glass House. You seem opposed to it, and I am willing to help you shut it down. This time, we happen to be on the same side."

  I stared at him as I ran through and rearranged my assumptions. "You are telling me that you do not own The Glass House?"

  "I do not. It is a profitable venture, from what I hear, but one a bit too distasteful for me."

  James Denis was not a man to be trusted, but I could not help lending credence to his statement. He did not like sordid dealings, and had in the past punished those who had used his resources to do sordid things for their own gain. I ought to have remembered that, but in my anger, I'd blamed him without thinking it through.

  I straightened. "So, this Lady Jane owns it? Who is she?"

  "I am not certain that she actually owns the property, but she is the intelligence behind the business, I know that much. The name Lady Jane is an affectation. She is French and no more highborn than that actress who used to live upstairs from you. She was not a French emigre, but a republican and fond of Bonaparte. She came to England after the Bourbon king's restoration in 1815, refusing to live under the French monarchy again."

  "Is she a procuress?" I asked.

  "Is, or was. She started as a prostitute, I gather, a long time ago. I heard a tale that a French aristocrat bribed her to hide him during the Terror, and she bled him dry. In any event, she arrived on England's shores with a fortune, however she obtained it."

  "And she is a rival to you? How?" I could not imagine such a thing.

  "Lady Jane is cunning and clever and has acquired a good deal of money. She has bought influence, and she has thwarted a few of my schemes or outright pulled my clients out from under me. She is bothersome and tricky, and I would like to see her brought down. Like you, I believe The Glass House to be a loathsome place, and I would enjoy seeing it closed."

  "You have become a moralist, have you?" I asked.

  Denis leaned forward, eyes chill. "I confess that I share your distaste for certain practices, Captain. I have no tolerance for a pederast. He is a man who cannot control his lusts with his finer feelings or indeed, with his common sense. In short, he is a fool." He gave me a wintry smile. "If you desire to return to The Glass House and break more windows, I will lend you all the assistance you want."

  He sorely tempted me. I disliked James Denis and his power, but I thought that I possibly disliked The Glass House more. Denis knew that. His cold smile confirmed it.

  But I knew that I played into his hands. Denis could have moved to close The Glass House at any time. But once he'd learned of my interest, he'd suddenly decided to seize upon an opportunity to dispose of his rival. Not only would closing The Glass House hurt Lady Jane, he would have done me yet another favor, pulling me further into his debt. His help, as always, came with a price.

  His power, on the other hand, could ensure success, and girls like Jean would never have to fear The Glass House again.

  I tapped my walking stick to my palm. "Very well," I said, containing my anger. "I will tell the magistrates about Lady Jane."

  He looked pleased, or as pleased as James Denis ever looked. "Excellent, Captain. I will, as you say, put more wheels in motion."

  "Perhaps you can tell me something else, while you are doing me favors," I said. "What do you know about a woman called Amelia Chapman, also known as Peaches, who was connected to The Glass House? She died on Monday."

  Denis remained impassive. "I know nothing of her, save what I read in the newspaper. A young woman, married to a barrister, found dead in the Thames. Murder, not suicide. If Kensington or Lady Jane killed her for their own reasons, the news did not reach me." He twined his long fingers together. "If, however, I do hear anything of it, I will inform you."

  James Denis had given me a vital piece of information last summer in the Westin affair, which had helped much but certainly increased my debt to him. Denis had vowed to own me outright, and everything he did concerning me looked to that goal. He regarded me with a bland expression, knowing this and saying nothing of it.

  I leaned to him again. "If you continue in this direction," I said, "you will make me angry enough to simply break your neck."

  His returning look was cold. "I have told you what I will do. We are finished, now, Captain. Good night."

  He held my gaze, but I saw a touch of uneasiness in his eyes. That satisfied me. It satisfied me very much.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  I met Grenville at the front door, where he had been barred from further entrance to the house. Once in the carriage, I apprised him in clipped sentences of what had occurred between Denis and me upstairs.

  "So there exists a person who worries James Denis?" Grenville asked. "Good God. That is a bit unsettling."

  "He seems confident that I can help depose her. Though I am not fool enough to trust everything he told me."

  "No, of course not. But he claims to know nothing of Peaches?"

  "Nothing whatever. He seemed a bit surprised that I asked."

  Grenville fell silent, his dark eyes troubled. He believed I should tread more carefully where James Denis was concerned, and he was right, but Denis infuriated me. He wielded power over too many, and no one seemed disposed to stop him.

  We proceeded to Clarges Street, as planned, to interview Marianne. Grenville's house there, round the corner from Piccadilly, looked much as I expected. Narrower than its fellows, the house had a façade of gray plaster with white pediments over the door and windows, and was one of the most elegant on the street.

  The interior exuded the same quiet elegance. A polished staircase spilled into a tiled hall, and doors led to high-ceilinged, well-furnished rooms. The foyer smelled of beeswax and linseed oil.

  A maid in neat black and white bustled to meet us and curtseyed to me and Grenville. Grenville divested himself of his greatcoat and hat and gave them to the stolid lad who had opened the door for us. "Where is Miss Simmons?" he asked.

  The maid hesitated. She glanced at the footman who returned the uneasy glance. "We are not certain, sir," the maid said.

  "Not certain? What do you mean, not certain? Is she not in the house?"

  "She has not gone out, sir, no. Dickon is positive about that. He has not moved from the front door since early this afternoon, and she had dinner in her room after that."

  "She might have gone down through the kitchens," I said.

  "No, indeed, sir. She never came through that way. Cook has been down there all the day. We've been watching special."

  "Well, she cannot have vanished," Grenville snapped. "She had dinner in her room, you say?"

  "Yes, sir. At seven o'clock. I went to put her to bed not an hour ago, but I could not find her. She's not in her bed chamber nor in any of the other rooms."

  "Hell," Grenville began.

  I cut him off. "Will you allow me to try?"

  The boy and the maid stared at me. Grenville's eyes narrowed. "If you believe it will do any good. She has done this before. Damned if I know where she disappeared to."

  I was not listening. I moved past them to the stairs, cupped my hands around my mouth, and bellowed, "Marianne!"

  My voi
ce echoed up through intricate arches of the stairwell and rang against the painted ceiling, four stories above us. After a moment's silence, a door slammed open near the top of the house, and we heard the sound of light footfalls.

  Marianne looked over the railing on the top floor, her golden curls tumbling forward like a girl's. "Is that you, Lacey?"

  "What the devil are you doing up there?" Grenville demanded.

  Marianne ignored him. "What do you want, Lacey? Have you come to take me home?"

  "No, I came to ask you a question."

  Marianne's hand tightened on the banister, but she nodded. "Very well. Come up to my chamber."

  Grenville started up the stairs. Marianne backed away from the banister, poised to flee. "No. Captain Lacey only."

  "This is my house!"

  "Lacey alone. Or you can search for me all you like."

  I had never seen Grenville so enraged. He rarely let his temper get the better of him, especially not in front of his servants. Now his face was nearly purple, and cords of his throat pressed his cravat.

  "Grenville," I said quickly. "Please allow me. I need her help."

  Grenville's eyes sparkled with rage. At that moment, I believe he hated me.

  But Grenville had spent a lifetime mastering his emotions. His position as the top gentleman of society depended upon him keeping a cool head in every situation. I watched him deliberately suppress his anger, drawing on his sangfroid. His color faded and the alarming throbbing in his neck subsided.

  "As you wish," he said stiffly.

  He turned and stalked through double doors into the grand drawing room. He even managed not to slam the door.

  I ascended the stairs. Marianne came down to meet me on the second-floor landing then led me to a chamber at the back of the house.

  It was her boudoir. A sumptuous bed, Egyptian style with a rolled head and foot, reposed under a lavish canopy. Comfortable chairs in the same style stood about, and a bookcase with glass doors offered a fine selection of books. Landscapes of idyllic country scenes hung on the walls, and a dressing table piled with perfume bottles and brushes and combs stood near the warmth of the fire.

  Marianne wore a silk peignoir, fastened in front with dark blue ribbons, a finer garment than any I'd ever seen her in. But her face was white, and her hands shook.

  "Lacey," she said, her voice low and fierce. "You must make him see reason."

  "Why? What has Grenville done?"

  "He has made me his prisoner, that is what he has done! He will not let me go out unless Dickon or Alicia stay close by my side. They are dull company, I must say. And I may go only to places he allows me to go."

  I sat down without invitation, easing my hurt leg. "Perhaps he does not want you running off to another protector."

  "Why the devil should I? There's not a gentleman in London who can give girl a finer house and better dinner than Lucius Grenville, and everyone knows it."

  "Then what is the matter?"

  She pointed a rigid finger at the door. "What is the matter is him. He will not cease bombarding me with questions. He wants to know why I want to go out and where I want to go and why the devil I want to go alone. It is my business, I say."

  "He has made a considerable investment in you, Marianne."

  "Lacey, you must take me out of here. Ma Beltan's place is at least respectable, and a girl can feel like she owns her own soul."

  The blue ribbons trembled. Her eyes were wide, pleading.

  "I would have thought you'd like living in luxury," I said. "This house is one of the finest I've ever seen, and he's showered you with whatever you could want."

  "He has." She looked angry to admit it. "He has given me plenty of gifts. But he dogs my footsteps. I cannot bear it."

  "You puzzle me, Marianne. I had it in my mind that you liked Grenville's attentions."

  A flush stole over her cheeks. "I do."

  "Then why not stay and enjoy what he gives you? You have always encouraged me to get as much out of him as I could."

  "Because I-- " Marianne stopped. I saw her rearrange her words. "I cannot be his prisoner. No matter how gilded the cage."

  "Who is it you want to leave the house to visit?"

  Her flush returned. "No one."

  "Grenville deserves to know whether you have another lover. Or a husband."

  She gave me a scornful look. "Do not be daft, Lacey. I would not let a husband live off me even if I had one. Or a lover."

  "Then what did you do with Grenville's money?"

  Marianne chewed on her lower lip. The previous year, Grenville had made her spontaneous presents amounting to thirty guineas in total, a goodly sum. The money had disappeared with no explanation.

  "I told you before," she said. "I gave it to my sick granny."

  "No, you said it was your sick mum. What happens to the money, Marianne?"

  "Are you spying for him now?"

  "No." I stopped before I lost my temper. "Anything you tell me, I will not impart to him, unless you give me leave."

  "Oh, yes, I forgot, you pride yourself on your honor. But I will say again, it is none of your business. And none of his, either. The money was mine to do with what I liked, so I did what I liked. I did not give it to another man. I am not that foolish."

  I regarded her quietly. "What do you fear he will do if you tell him the truth?"

  She shrugged, but her gaze was uneasy. "Who knows? Even you do not know what he can do, do you? As much as he is your friend, you do not really know him."

  I had to concede this truth. Grenville was a powerful man, and if he chose to patronize me, or Marianne, he did so for his own reasons.

  "I will speak to him," I said.

  "Tell him he has no right to keep me here, locked away. That I--"

  I held up my hand. "I said I would speak to him. You might try being kinder to him, Marianne. I know from experience that you are a trial to live with."

  She made a face at me, but she relaxed somewhat. "I do not live with him; he barely comes to see me. He has never even asked for what a gent usually asks for. I don't understand why not."

  I had no wish to involve myself in that particular problem. "What you mean is, you cannot tease him like you do the others. You cannot control him."

  She lifted her chin. "Well, I will not allow him to control me."

  "That, you will have to fight out between yourselves," I said. "I will ask him to consider giving you a bit more freedom. I agree, you cannot give up your entire life for a few frou-frous."

  She smiled, her beauty shining through. "You are a true gentleman, Lacey. I have always said so."

  "Yes, when you are not calling me other names. But enough, I did not come here to argue with you about Grenville. I came to ask you a question."

  "What sort of question?"

  "I want to know whether you ever knew an actress called Peaches."

  Marianne laughed suddenly, then spun around and plopped ungracefully on the chaise longue. "Even I have heard of you running about smashing windows at The Glass House. Be careful somebody does not bring suit against you, Lacey."

  I rested my hands on the top of Grenville's walking stick. "They would get little from me in any case."

  She quirked a brow. "So you want to know all about poor dead Peaches, do you? I never liked her, but it's sad that she came to such an end."

  "You did know her then."

  "Oh, yes, a long time ago, when she was fresh from the country. She was certain she'd take the public by storm." She grinned. "So many girls are like that, you know, certain they'll become the next Sarah Siddons. Peaches was no different. She'd come from a family of strolling players. Her father and mother had died of fever a few years before, and she decided London was the place to make her fortune. Her idea--she told me this, the silly chit--was that she'd appear on the stage in London, be raved over, and attract the attention of a man of great fortune who would marry her." Marianne shook her head. "The truth was, Peaches was a second-rate actr
ess and the people of London didn't pay her much attention. Once the novelty of her wore off, she was more or less ignored."

  I could imagine a very young Peaches watching, frustrated, as the premier roles and the accolades went to others, while she was lost in the crowd. I remembered the newspaper articles she'd saved. They had mentioned her in passing if at all--usually, her name was printed only as part of the supporting cast.

  "But she met Lord Barbury," I said.

  "Yes, Barbury, the poor fool. She quite threw herself at him. She did have a sweet smile and a pretty face, but most gentlemen simply wanted a night with her. She'd refuse them--saving herself for something better, she'd say. The result was that the gentlemen began to ignore her, as well."

  "Except Lord Barbury."

  Marianne rolled her eyes. "Barbury was besotted. He was the one who gave her the name Peaches. She was certain he would marry her, but Peaches was always a bit blind. Barbury was in love with her, yes, but he had no intention of taking a nobody actress to wife. He's the kind who, if he marries at all, will find the perfect society lady who knows how to give hunt balls and run fetes and put blue-blooded heirs in the nursery. Rather full of himself is Lord Barbury. Peaches was too. Imagine, she had her own man of business."

  "Did she? What for?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea. Like as not, she made it up, or the man handled simply her parents' will, or something."

  "Did she mention his name?"

  Marianne shook her head. "If she did, I do not remember. She probably invented him, as I say. She was prone to inventing things about herself, to make her seem better than she was. Poor thing, she did not have much."

  "And so she decided to marry Chapman."

  Marianne wrapped a strand of her long hair around her finger. "She began working for another acting company just before she met Chapman, and after that I did not see much of her. But rumor had it that Peaches had met Chapman by chance while walking in Hyde Park. Two months later, they'd married. She probably knew by then she would never be anything more to Lord Barbury than his mistress. Chapman at least made a living, even if he wasn't lofty."