The Glass House (14 page)

*** *** ***

I left the Brandon house for the icy night,
swearing under my breath. Brandon could wind me into anger faster
than any man alive, and it always took me a good while to cool
down.

I knew bloody well that Brandon would never
be able to provoke such anger if I hadn't once loved him. He'd been
good to me when I'd needed his help, and he'd used his influence to
benefit me many times.

I had not realized at the time that in return
he'd wanted unconditional love and unquestioning obedience. And I
had ever been one to question my betters.

A boy darted into the street, sweeping horse
dung from the cobbles, clearing a path for me. I tossed him a penny
for his trouble as I made my way across the slick street.

I was not far from Grosvenor Square, and I
walked there, making for the home of Sir Gideon Derwent. It would
the height of rudeness to arrive without invitation, but I was
restless and annoyed and very much wanted to ask Mrs. Danbury a few
questions. I could not tamely return home and brood; I wanted to
push on with the investigation, to
do
something.

I regretted my impulse, however, because when
I arrived at the Derwent house, I learned that Lady Derwent had
taken ill.

* * * * *

Chapter Nine

I was surprised that the footman let me into
the house, but he took my hat and greatcoat and led me upstairs to
the grand sitting room on the first floor. In only a few minutes,
Sir Gideon himself entered the room, followed by his son,
Leland.

Leland, in his early twenties, had fair hair
and guileless gray eyes. His father was a portly version of the
son, slightly faded. Both father and son looked out at the world in
all innocence, seeing only what they wished to see. They believed
me to be a man who'd had all the exciting adventures that they had
not and never would. They were endlessly interested in tales of my
life in India and France and Spain.

Father and son advanced upon me eagerly, but
I saw worry on both faces. Typically, Sir Gideon brushed aside his
own fears and was anxious to learn why I'd come.

"To inquire about Jean," I answered.

"Poor child." Sir Gideon shook his head. "You
were right to take her out of that place."

I could imagine no greater contrast to The
Glass House than this one. The ceiling of the drawing room loomed
twenty feet above us and was decorated with intricately carved
moldings. Landscapes and portraits of Derwents covered the yellow
silk walls, and matching silk adorned the chairs and settees. It
was elegant, tasteful, and serene, everything The Glass House was
not.

"Her story is a common one, I'm afraid," Sir
Gideon went on. "She came to London to find work in a factory and
was met at a coaching inn by a procuress." He shook his head. "We
cannot find all these poor children, alas, but I will discuss The
Glass House with my colleagues. That at least will be
finished."

"Attempts have been made to shut it down
before," I said.

"Yes. Odd that. You would think the outcry
would be great. But I am determined to change this."

Next to him, Leland nodded in fervent
agreement. I had the feeling that the corrupt magistrates would
meet their match in the Derwents.

I steeled myself to ask Sir Gideon if I might
speak with Mrs. Danbury, but before I could inquire about her, the
lady herself entered the room.

She looked at me without surprise;
presumably, a servant had told her I'd arrived. She crossed the
room and pressed a kiss to her uncle's forehead. "Captain Lacey,"
she greeted me.

As usual, Mrs. Danbury was cool and composed,
comfortably elegant in a dark blue gown with a sash of light blue.
Her hair, as fair as Leland's, was twisted into knot and bound with
a ribbon. I had risen from my chair at her entrance. I bowed over
her hand politely, and her gray eyes met mine.

She flushed slightly and moved back to Sir
Gideon. "Aunt is asking for you. And she sends her greetings to
Captain Lacey."

Sir Gideon excused himself and hurried from
the room, clearly worried about his wife. Leland stayed and
pretended he wanted to chat, but I saw that he, too, longed to dash
upstairs to see how his mother fared. At last Mrs. Danbury told him
to run along, saying cheerfully that she'd keep me company.

Leland departed with relief, leaving the
double doors open--me alone in a closed room with Mrs. Danbury
would have been most improper. The room was so large, however, that
if we spoke in low voices in the middle of it, no one passing would
hear us.

As soon as Leland disappeared, I asked, "How
is Lady Derwent? In truth?"

Mrs. Danbury let out her breath. "She will
recover this, I think. But she grows weaker with every attack."

She knew, as well as I did, that the day
would come soon when Lady Derwent would not recover. "Please give
her my best wishes," I said.

Mrs. Danbury nodded, and I could see she was
pleased that I cared.

"I suppose you heard about Inglethorpe," I
said after a moment.

"Yes, my uncle told me of it. It is gruesome.
Poor man."

"Did you know him well?" I asked.

She looked up at me, surprised. "Hardly at
all. He was a friend of my husband's. My second husband, that is,
Mickey Danbury."

I raised my brows. "He was your husband's
friend, but you did not know him?" My wife had known all of my
friends, whether she liked them or not, and Mrs. Brandon was well
acquainted with Brandon's cronies.

Mrs. Danbury flushed. "I rarely saw my
husband's acquaintance."

I did not pursue it. I knew that in many
marriages in the
ton
, the husband and wife lived entirely
separate lives. I found this attitude strange, but many in the
upper classes married for financial reasons or for family
connections. I wondered what Mrs. Danbury's reasons had been.

"I was surprised to see you at his gathering,
yesterday," I said.

"He invited me. I chanced upon Mr.
Inglethorpe the other day in Grafton Street, and he asked if I'd
like to attend. I was interested; I did not see what harm it would
do."

I drew my thumb along the handle of my
borrowed walking stick. "I wonder why he invited you, if he did not
know you well."

A spark of anger lit her eyes. "I haven't the
faintest idea, Captain. He simply happened to, that is all."

I made a placating gesture. "And you attended
out of curiosity. What did you think of it?"

She hesitated. "I found it most strange. I
have never felt a sensation like that. Had you?"

"No. It made me forget myself." I smiled. "As
you observed."

Her flush deepened. "And I as well. I was a
bit ill afterward."

"I must apologize for taking the liberty of
waltzing with you," I said. "I cannot account for my lack of
manners."

She eyed me curiously. "Why did you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you waltz with me?"

I remembered hearing music in my head, a tune
of a fine waltz, and looking down at her bright smile and curved
waist. "I wanted to," I said.

Her cheek tinged with a blush. "It was I who
made a fool of myself. In front of Lady Breckenridge too."

It surprised me that she should care for the
opinion of Lady Breckenridge, even if Lady Breckenridge was a few
rungs higher on the social ladder. Mrs. Danbury had prettier
manners, but Lady Breckenridge wielded more power among the
ton
.

"I must also apologize for leaving you there
when I dashed off," I said. "My only excuse is that I wanted to ask
Lady Breckenridge a question before she disappeared. But I ought to
have seen that you reached your carriage safely, at least."

Mrs. Danbury seemed far more comfortable with
my polite apologies than with my questions. "Not at all, Captain. I
left soon after that."

"Perhaps you can help me, then. Do you
remember what became of my walking stick? I left it behind far too
carelessly."

She stopped, thought. "No, I am afraid I did
not. I-- " She flushed again. "I am afraid not."

Her small hesitation disquieted me. Was she
lying? And why? To protect someone? "Are you certain? You must
realize that the person who took it could very well have returned
today and killed Inglethorpe."

Her eyes widened. "Good lord, why should
they?"

"That is what my friend Pomeroy is trying to
discover. Did you speak to Mr. Inglethorpe at all before you
departed yesterday?"

"No. I took my leave quite quickly."

"Good."

"Why good?"

"Because I found Inglethorpe unsavory. It
pleases me that your connection was not strong."

She stared at me. I had no right, of course,
to lecture her about her connections. In her world, I was nobody.
But I told the truth--I was pleased that she had not known
Inglethorpe well. He was not the sort of man I wanted nieces of my
acquaintance to know.

"Do you remember which gentlemen remained
when you departed?" I went on. "One of them could have taken the
walking stick."

She shook her head, the ribbon moving on her
neck. "I couldn't be certain. I do believe Mr. Yardley and Mr.
Price-Davies were there, but I really do not remember."

"Do you know either of those gentlemen
well?"

"Not well, no. I saw a bit of Mr. Yardley
before I married Mr. Danbury, but I've spoken to him little
since."

I rolled the shaft of the walking stick
between my fingers. "Either of those men could have taken it. And
returned with it the next day."

"Good heavens, Captain. You cannot seriously
believe that Mr. Yardley or Mr. Price-Davies would murder
Inglethorpe. Why on earth should they?"

Her vehemence surprised me. "Someone did,
Mrs. Danbury."

"Well, yes, but it must have been the work of
a tramp or a madman. Gentlemen of Mayfair do not stab one another
with sword-sticks."

"They fight duels," I pointed out.

"That is entirely different, and not all
gentlemen condone duels."

She gave me an admonishing stare, as though I
ought to be above accusing other gentlemen of so sordid a crime as
murder.

Her answers made me conscious of another
difference between Mrs. Danbury and Lady Breckenridge. Lady
Breckenridge, with her outlook on life nearly as cynical as my own,
would have agreed with me. Mrs. Danbury, connected with the
unworldly Derwents, refused to believe it.

"I know it is unpleasant," I said. "But it
might have happened."

"I am sorry you believe so," she returned,
angry. "I can assure you, Captain, I saw neither gentleman take the
walking stick, nor do I believe that either of them returned and
killed Mr. Inglethorpe. A housebreaker surprised Mr. Inglethorpe,
that is all. That must have been what happened."

She'd been hesitant a few minutes ago; she
was adamant now. If Mrs. Danbury were hiding something from me, she
took refuge in her anger.

I decided it time to change the subject. "I
would like to speak to Jean, if I may," I said. "I need to ask her
a few more questions about Mrs. Chapman."

Mrs. Danbury's color remained high, but she
seemed relieved that I'd stopped speculating on Inglethorpe's
murder. "I suppose it can do no harm," she said. "Jean seems a
resilient child, not hysterical, but please do not upset her."

She glared at me to remind me that I'd
already upset
her
. I promised to not tire the girl, and Mrs.
Danbury summoned the footman and bade him fetch Jean from below
stairs.

When Jean joined us, she was dressed in a
sensible garment. With the kohl and rouge gone from her face, she
looked like what she was, a child. She was a working-class girl,
with stubby fingers and a child's flyaway hair barely contained in
a tail tied with a ribbon.

She did not curtsey, but gave a little bow to
me and Mrs. Danbury. Jean regarded me warily, perhaps wondering
whether I'd come to snatch her away again, but she answered my
request to tell me more about Peaches readily enough.

"She wasn't a bad sort," Jean said. "She let
me sleep in her room sometimes. I could lock the door. Only she had
the key."

I regarded her in surprise. "Mr. Kensington
did not have one?"

"No. He never came in there. She'd never let
him have a key."

"Mr. Kensington opened that door for me the
night I rescued you," I said. "He had a key then." Which he could
have stolen from Peaches if he'd murdered her, or found it left
behind after her death.

"Oh, he had the key to the chamber on the
first
floor," Jean said, as though she thought me a
simpleton. "But not to her room in the attics."

"In the attics?"

Bloody hell. No wonder the chamber Kensington
had let us into had been impersonal. No wonder he'd not been
worried that we'd searched it. He'd known there would be nothing
for us to find, I chafed that I'd so readily believed him, damn the
man. He must have laughed to himself about how easily he'd tricked
us.

"Yes," Jean said. "She kept all her things up
there, things she didn’t want Mr. Kensington to see. He and Peaches
shouted at each other a great deal about it. And other things."

Kensington had implied he'd allowed Peaches
to take refuge at The Glass House out of sympathy and old
friendship. "What other things would they shout about?" I
asked.

"He would say that he knew her before she
became high and mighty, and she would say she'd always been beyond
his reach. She laughed at him."

"Did he ever try to hurt her, or threaten
to?"

"No. He seemed almost afraid of her,
sometimes."

I thought of Kensington's mean, dark eyes and
his oily smile. It pleased me that he had not held Peaches in
thrall.

"Can you remember anything that happened on
Monday, anything at all before Peaches went away, that might be a
little out of the ordinary?"