The Glass House (7 page)

I rode in the rain through Fleet Street to
Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's to Cheapside, Cornhill to Leadenhall
Street. St. Charles Row proved to be just off Aldgate, east of
Houndsditch. The street looked respectable, if rundown. These
houses accommodated the lesser clerks and bankers of the City not
far away, and none looked as though they would hold a fashionable
hell.

Despite the chill, peddlers strolled up and
down the street. Some carried boxes strapped about their necks from
which they sold an assorted jumble of things, some toted baskets
that held jeweled colors of fruit, some pushed carts that carried
fragrant hot chestnuts. A knife grinder wandered about, calling his
trade.

These peddlers, like most Londoners, dealt
with the weather with a stoicism I admired. I had spent twenty
years in warmer climes and had become unused to the chill of my
homeland. In India, the hot ball of sun had blazed down upon us
most of the time, and in Spain and Portugal, the summers had been
roasting.

I’d toyed with the idea of retiring to Spain
when the war ended, to live in a sunny room over a quiet plaza, but
circumstance had brought me back to London to shiver in the rain.
My agreement with Colonel Brandon had forced me to give up many of
my dreams.

The door of number 12, St. Charles Row looked
no different from the doors of numbers 11 and 13. Number 12 had
been painted dark green, but scratches here and there revealed that
the original paint had been black. The knocker was tarnished and
less than clean. Indeed, number 12, St. Charles Row did not seem a
particularly prosperous address.

I lifted the knocker and listened to the
hollow sound within. Almost immediately, the door was wrenched open
by a man, not very tall, who had a sharp nose and belligerent brown
eyes. I held out my card.

The man glanced at it once, but did not reach
for it. "You were not invited," he said.

I remained standing with my card thrust at
him, then I unbent my arm and tucked the card back into my
pocket.

"I took a chance," I said. "Mr. Grenville and
I were curious."

For once, the magic name of Grenville made no
difference.

"You were not invited," the man repeated, and
slammed the door in my face. My hair stirred with the draft.

Knocking again produced no result. I turned
away, more curious about The Glass House than ever.

*** *** ***

"Shall I lay out the black coat, sir?"
Bartholomew asked me later that afternoon.

"Since it is the only one," I answered dryly,
"I suppose you should."

Bartholomew took no notice of my sarcasm. He
solemnly brought out my black frock coat, a fine thing that
Grenville had persuaded me to purchase the previous year, and
proceeded to brush it with an air of concentration. I had brushed
it only the day before but forbore to say so.

Bartholomew helped me into the coat then
proceeded to flick it all over with another brush. He'd polished my
boots until they were supple and shiny and had even scraped every
bit of mud from the soles. I do not know why he bothered; I would
simply tramp through the mud in them again.

As he worked, Bartholomew told me that
Grenville had not brought Marianne to his house. But his master had
been cross and touchy, and Bartholomew had not dared ask any
questions. I thanked him for the information and told him to take a
brief holiday while I went to Inglethorpe's.

Another hackney got me to Curzon Street in
Mayfair at a few minutes past four.

Inglethorpe's door was much different than
the one that had nearly banged my nose in St. Charles Row. Its
brass knocker was bright and polished, the black-painted door clean
and free of scratches.

At the far end of this street, at number 45,
James Denis lived. During my last adventure, Denis had given me
information that I needed and told me that, in return, he expected
me to attend him whenever he whistled. I had retorted predictably.
I’d heard nothing but silence from him since.

Inglethorpe's door was opened by a tall,
spindly footman with a blank expression. I handed him my card and
did not explain my errand. He looked at the card, ushered me
inside, and took me to a small reception room.

All very correct. Mayfair reception rooms
were designed to make the caller uncomfortable and wish to depart
as soon as possible. The furniture consisted of a bench-like settee
with gilded claw feet and one chair whose cushion had been polished
by a host of backsides. I chose to stand and peer through lace
curtains to the street.

After about a quarter of an hour, the footman
reappeared and quietly bade me to follow him. He took me upstairs
to the first floor and led me into a drawing room that was rather
crowded. The high ceiling was plastered with white vines, and two
chandeliers, one in the rear of the room and one in the front, hung
from ornate plaster medallions.

Simon Inglethorpe came to greet me. He was
middle-aged, with black hair going to gray. His posture was
straight, his shoulders back, but his abdomen was running to fat.
Light blue eyes assessed me from under thick brows. "Captain
Lacey." He shook my hand. "Grenville told me to expect you. Sit
down, please. We will begin momentarily."

I had already recognized, in a vague way,
several gentlemen in the room from the clubs and social gatherings
which I’d attended with Grenville. But I definitely recognized the
only two ladies present.

One was Lady Breckenridge. She was perched on
an ivory-colored settee on one side of the long room, her widow’s
cap of white lace making a fine contrast to her dark hair. Across
from her, in a Louis Quinze chair, looking both eager and nervous,
was a lady called Mrs. Danbury.

I had met Catherine Danbury several times
before. She was a lovely, golden-haired widow and the niece of Sir
Gideon Derwent. The kindly and unworldly Derwent family had
befriended me last summer, professing to enjoy my tales of the
Peninsular War. They had issued me a standing invitation to dine
with them once a fortnight and regale them with such tales. Mrs.
Danbury was not always present at these dinners, but I looked
forward to the occasions when she was. She was wiser than her
innocent cousins, knowing a little more of life and the world than
they, but she too was kind and friendly, with a refreshing air
about her.

Mrs. Danbury smiled at me but was clearly
surprised to see me. I gave her a polite nod in response, puzzled
myself by her appearance here.

The only vacant seat was on the settee next
to Lady Breckenridge. I bowed politely to her ladyship and sat
down. Lady Breckenridge barely inclined her head, but a smile
lifted the corners of her mouth.

Hands resting on my walking stick, I studied
those gathered. The gentlemen were Mayfair fodder, wealthy men
ranging in ages from twenty to sixty. They did not seem in a hurry
to speak, and neither did the ladies. Silence, it seemed, was
called for.

Inglethorpe returned after conferring with
someone in the stairwell. He beamed a smile at us. "Welcome, my
friends. Now that we are assembled, we will begin."

A liveried footman entered bearing a large
silver tray. He set the tray and its contents on a table and
departed.

Three leather bags lay on the tray, blown up
like water skins and fastened by a stiff string. Inglethorpe lifted
one. "Courtesy of the Royal Society," he said. "I believe we shall
have ladies first."

He handed the skin to Catherine Danbury, who
examined the bag as curiously as I did. Inglethorpe reached down
and untied the string.

"Hold it to your nose and mouth," he
instructed.

Mrs. Danbury did so. Inglethorpe lifted the
bag from the bottom and squeezed it gently. Mrs. Danbury jerked
back, murmuring a startled, "Oh!"

I started to rise to her rescue, but Lady
Breckenridge placed a firm hand on my wrist and pulled me back
down.

Mrs. Danbury pressed a handkerchief to her
mouth and sat back, blinking. Then a childlike smile spread across
her face. "My goodness," she said, and she laughed.

Inglethorpe turned to Lady Breckenridge and
offered the bag to her. She loosened the mouth of it and put it to
her nose, inhaling and squeezing the bag in a practiced way.

Mrs. Danbury continued to titter as though
she could not stop herself. Inglethorpe, smile wide, continued
across the room.

Lady Breckenridge closed her eyes and leaned
back a moment, then opened her eyes and gave me a beatific smile.
"Excellent for the humors," she said.

Mrs. Danbury found her statement amusing,
judging from the escalation of her laughter. The bag passed to the
gentlemen but emptied before it got to me.

Inglethorpe handed me the second bag and
loosened the string for me. I lifted it to my nose and tried to
duplicate what I'd seen the others do.

A waft of air forced its way into my
nostrils, but it smelled in no way unpleasant, or, indeed, any
different than the air in the rest of the room. I wondered whether
Inglethorpe was making fools of us.

As I passed the bag to the next gentleman,
however, my lips and tongue began to tingle. It was a curious
sensation. I touched my tongue to my lower lip and resisted the
urge to tug it. Lady Breckenridge laughed quietly at me.

As I turned from her, my injured knee
collided with the gilded edge of the settee. I felt a jarring but
no pain. For a moment, the fact did not connect in my head, and
then, in pure astonishment, I stared down at my leg.

I felt no pain.
All day long my knee
had throbbed in the damp, and now, it seemed as right as it had
been before I'd hurt it.

For two years after the original injury,
which had shattered the bones, my knee and lower thigh had hurt
continuously, some days more than others. Always the leg was stiff;
every morning I had to walk about to loosen it up. If I used it too
much during a day, such as today, I woke aching and cursing in the
night. And now, I felt no pain.

Amazed, I stood. Mrs. Danbury pressed her
handkerchief to her mouth and laughed at me, her eyes shining. I
grinned back at her.

"Do you like it, Captain?" Inglethorpe asked.
He passed the second bag to Lady Breckenridge and picked up the
third.

"Certainly," I answered.

I paced back and forth. I glanced at my
walking stick, which I had left leaning against the settee. My bad
leg moved where I wanted it to go without protest. I turned in a
circle, resting my weight on my left leg. Nary a twinge. I
laughed.

Inglethorpe handed the third bag to me. I
took it and inhaled gladly, taking a long breath.

I wondered what the concoction was. Grenville
had called it a "magic" gas. I felt awake and alert and rested.
Brandy and gin left one heavy and sleepy, opium gave a false
euphoria and a weightiness in the limbs, but this made me feel fine
and fit. I wanted to leap about the room, and to my alarm, I found
myself nearly starting to do so.

"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.