The Glass House

Chapter Twenty

Mr. Gower had believed Peaches had told Lord Barbury all about Gower's blackmailing. That is what Sir Montague told me later, and I related all to Grenville the next afternoon over ale and beef in a tavern in Pall Mall. Gower knew that if his schemes came out, Sir Montague said, the lad would lose his position as Chapman's pupil, and no other barrister would take him on. He'd never become a barrister, a silk, a high court judge.

Gower confirmed this at his trial the next week, at the Old Bailey, he on the wrong side of the dock. The trial was swift. Gower was convicted of the murder of Lord Barbury and sentenced to hang.

I left the courtroom, my melancholia stirring. Gower had tried to brave it out until the last, but he'd been no match for the prosecutor, a prominent man from Lincoln's Inn. Lord Barbury's family had paid for the best. Gower's family, likewise, was there, respectable middle-class people, stunned at this aberration in their lives.

Such a needless one. If Gower had not panicked and shot Lord Barbury, he would have been convicted of nothing. Peaches had died by accident, and there was no evidence to prove a case of blackmail.

In this mood, I returned home to Grimpen Lane to finish my packing. I would leave on the morrow for Berkshire.

I met Bartholomew coming down the stairs. "Just nipping to the Gull, sir," he said, naming the tavern from which he usually fetched supper. "Was Mr. Gower convicted?"

I nodded and told him what happened. Bartholomew looked interested, but also in a hurry. He barely waited for me to finish before he hastened past me and into the darkened street.

I made my way upstairs, my feelings mixed. I had found my villain, and Peaches was avenged.

But I also still blamed Chapman and Lord Barbury for her death. Each of them could have paid more attention to her, could have cherished her and protected her, kept her safe. Instead, they'd gone on with their lives, assuming that Peaches would be there whenever they wanted her.

Just as, God help me, I had done with my own wife. They had not understood-they'd not known what a hole you faced when you turned around, and the one you'd thought would always be there was gone.

With these dismal thoughts, I opened the door to my rooms. I heard the rustle of silk and smelled lemony perfume, and with that, my melancholia eased.

Louisa stretched out her hands to me. I took them, and she squeezed mine, smiling at me like the Louisa of old.

"Gabriel," she said. "You look dreadful."

"It's pouring rain and all over mud and I've been to a dreary trial," I answered, releasing her. "Was it you who sent Bartholomew racing away for dinner?"

"I told him to hurry, so it might be hot for you when you returned."

"I would be pleased to share it with you," I said. "Although it will be barely edible in your eyes."

Our words were light, unimportant, but I felt the strain of them.

"I will not stay," she said. "I am dining with Lady Aline this evening." Her eyes went quiet. "You are leaving tomorrow."

"Yes."

I'd written her and Brandon again this week, telling them when I was to leave and how to write me at Sudbury.

"I am quite angry with you," Louisa continued.

"I know. You have told me."

"This is for an entirely new reason. I spoke to Mr. Grenville yesterday evening. He seemed quite astonished that I had not heard of your adventures of last Sunday week. And I was astonished also. Why the devil did you not tell me?"

I shrugged. "There was little to tell. I survived, as you can see."

"Do not be flippant, Gabriel." Louisa's tone softened. "I could have lost you, my friend. And the last thing we had done before that was quarrel."

"I did not hold that against you." I smiled.

"Stop." Louisa held up her hands. "Stop being noble. You are dear to me, you know that. Why do you insist on making me so angry?"

"It is what dear friends do, Louisa. Quarrel and forgive over very stupid things. Were we strangers, we would not care."

Louisa gave me a deprecating look. "You have turned philosopher. Very well, I will put things simply. If, while you are in Berkshire, you find that you need help, you will ask me, and put your pride aside."

"Of course," I said, relaxing. She was still angry at me, but Louisa was acknowledging that she did not want me out of her life entirely.

"And if you escape from death by a hair's breadth again, you will at least have the courtesy to tell me," she said sternly.

"You will be the first to hear the tale."

She gave me a severe look, then she shook her head. "We have been friends too long for this, Gabriel. Please know that I still think you are too stubborn for words. I will not stand by while you needle my husband, but I am not ready to lose you, yet."

"And I will never be ready to lose you."

We studied each other, her gray eyes clear in the candlelight.

"Do not think I have forgiven you," Louisa said. "I still believe you are in the wrong about Aloysius."

"I know."

I would capitulate to Brandon if she wanted me to, as bitter as the words would taste. I valued her enough that I could at least cease hurting her.

We returned to watching each other in silence. We did not always have to speak; we had said plenty over the years.

I heard Bartholomew bang back inside, and then the odor of overcooked beef wafted up the stairwell. Bartholomew entered the room without looking at either of us, deposited a tray on the writing table, and bustled around for the cutlery.

I smiled at Louisa, and she smiled at me.

"I might forgive you not telling me of your adventures," Louisa said, "if you sit down and tell me everything, now, from beginning to end. Leaving out no detail, however small. I told Lady Aline that I might be late."

I accepted her terms. I seated her in the wing chair, sat down to my afternoon repast, and began my tale.

The next afternoon, I departed London. Grenville offered his chaise and four to take me to Berkshire, and I accepted. While I disliked taking favors, I could not argue that his private conveyance would be much more comfortable than a mail coach crammed with passengers.

Grenville declined to accompany me himself, and I knew why. Lucius Grenville, the renowned world traveler, suffered from motion sickness and ever did his best to avoid it.

Bartholomew was proud to be going with me to Sudbury in his capacity as my personal servant. I knew that Grenville had admonished him to keep him informed of any excitement I might find there.

Before we left London proper, I had one more call to make. I bade Bartholomew wait for me in the chaise in South Audley Street, while I knocked on Lady Breckenridge's door.

To my good luck, Lady Breckenridge was at home. Barnstable led me upstairs to her private chambers, and announced me, after first inquiring about the state of my leg. I assured him that his cure had done me well, and Barnstable went away, pleased.

I had not seen or spoken to Lady Breckenridge since our adventure at The Glass House, although she had responded to my inquiry through Lady Aline that she was resilient and in good health. She'd even thanked me for giving her an evening free of ennui.

Today Lady Breckenridge reclined on a chaise longue in a lacy peignoir, her dark hair in loose curls under a white cap. She held a slim, black cigarillo in her fingers, and woody-scented smoke hung in the room.

"You have come to say good-bye?" she asked me without rising. "You are always the gentleman, Lacey."

"I try to be."

"Berkshire." Lady Breckenridge took a long pull on the cigarillo. "The country is hopelessly dull, you know."

"I'm looking forward to dull," I said.

We regarded each other a moment in silence. Our silences were not like the silences between me and Louisa Brandon; I did not know Lady Breckenridge well enough to discern what she was thinking.

"I came to tell you that any letter addressed to me at the Sudbury School, near Hungerford, will reach me," I said.

"Ah." Lady Breckenridge set the cigarillo carefully on her dressing table. "You wish me to include you in my correspondence."

"I would honor any correspondence from you."

Her brows arched. "A lady writing to a gentleman. How scandalous."

"I believe you enjoy scandal."

She looked at me a long time, a glint of humor in her eyes. "Yes. I believe I do."

I gave her a military bow. "I will say good-bye, then. Thank you."

I was uncertain what I thanked her for-perhaps for simply existing.

"A moment." Lady Breckenridge rose gracefully and glided across the room to the armoire. "I meant to send this on to you. But I may as well give it to you now." She withdrew a long bundle, unwrapped it, brought what had been inside to me and put it into my hands.

It was a walking stick. The stick had a polished mahogany cane, burnished a rich red-brown, and a gold handle in the shape of a goose's head.

Lady Breckenridge closed her fingers over the handle and gently slid it outward to reveal a blade. "It has a sword, like your old one," she said. "And it's engraved." She turned the handle over in my palm and indicated the inscription: Captain G. Lacey, 1817.

I slid the blade back into the sheath. "It is a thing of beauty. Thank you."

"Grenville said he would buy one for you. But I told him I was already having one made and not to spoil my surprise."

I smiled. "It is a fine gift."

She looked pleased then strove to hide it.

Friendship, I had learned, was a gift not to be scorned.

I leaned down and kissed her lips, then departed for Berkshire.