The Glass House (20 page)

Outwardly, Denis looked little different from
any other gentleman of Mayfair--young, wealthy, fashionable. His
eyes, however, told a different story. The cold in them ran deep,
like a river beneath layers of ice. Whatever human warmth had ever
dwelled in this man had long ago vanished.

"I see that you received my note," he
said.

I stopped in front of him, ignoring his
gesture for me to sit. "I have many things to do," I answered.
"Tell me what you want, so that I can refuse and continue with my
errands."

Denis steepled his fingers, unimpressed with
me. "I have been informed that, a few nights ago, you entered The
Glass House and went on a tear. Broke windows, destroyed furniture,
frightened paying customers. Not very tactful of you."

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 voice 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?"