The Glass House

Chapter Five

I stared. "Taken her where?"

Mrs. Beltan’s plump mouth pursed in disapproval. "I couldn't say, sir. But she had on her best bonnet and a bundle under her arm. He fair dragged her away. He looked that angry."

Grenville had seemed fascinated by Marianne from the day he'd met her, an interest he'd never denied. He'd given her a good handful of money, though it seemed to disappear with nothing to show for it. I wondered what Marianne had said or done to anger him, and where on earth he'd taken her.

"I will speak to him," I told Mrs. Beltan. "If it's a question of the rent…"

"Rent’s been paid to the end of the quarter. Your Mr. Grenville gave me a large note for it."

For that I could only wonder. I had known Grenville for a year or more now, but I could neither understand nor explain his actions.

The piece of paper he'd left instructed me to present myself at number 21, Curzon Street at four o'clock this afternoon. It was just going on twelve. I told the worried Mrs. Beltan I would look into the matter, fetched Bartholomew, and set off on my next errand.

I did not seriously think Marianne in any danger from Grenville, but I had no idea where he could have taken her. Certainly not to his own house; at least, I did not believe so. A few lads in Russel Street told me they'd seen Grenville's carriage but added nothing more helpful than it had turned toward Covent Garden and King Street.

I let it go. I doubted Grenville would appreciate me prying, and I was not quite certain who I was more worried for, Marianne or Grenville. However, I told Bartholomew to return to Grenville’s house in Mayfair and make sure all was well, then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the infamous Glass House.

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.

A heavy wave of French perfume swept over my shoulder and Lady Breckenridge said into my ear, "If you want to know about Lord Barbury, Captain, you have only to ask me."

I glanced quickly up at her but as usual, her dark blue eyes were enigmatic.

Lady Breckenridge left the room without further word, and a footman closed the door behind her.

She wanted me to rush after her. She wanted me to wonder what she meant and not rest until I found out.

Devil take the woman, that is exactly what I did. I rose, made some excuse to the bewildered Mrs. Danbury, and hurried from the room.

Inglethorpe was on the landing.

"Come again, Captain," his congenial voice floated after me as I moved past him down the stairs, barely acknowledging him. "Perhaps next time you will persuade Mr. Grenville to accompany you."

I did not answer. I reached the ground floor hall, snatched my coat and hat from the footman, and plunged outside.

The street had darkened and rain made it darker still. I did not see Lady Breckenridge at first and balled my hands in frustration, wondering if she’d simply gone without me. Then another carriage moved out of the way, and I spied her across the street, being helped into a closed landau.

She'd donned a jacket and hat, and she smiled down at me as I made my way to her. "Shall you ride with me, Captain?"

I looked at the landau, rain streaking its black leather top. An unrelated lady and gentleman riding in a closed carriage could be scandalous, although widowed women of the upper classes had a little immunity. The rain decided it for me, as well as the fact that I'd made a fool of myself in Inglethorpe's sitting room and come away with no information.

I accepted.