The Glass House

'And do you?' Grenville asked. I heard the pity in his question though his expression remained neutral.

'Naw. Like as not, I'll marry a bloke.'

Not if she were dead from disease or brutality long before she reached marriageable age.

Kensington and his Glass House were doomed. If Sir Montague Harris needed evidence of sordid goings-on in that house, this girl could provide it. If we enlisted Gideon Derwent's help, his influence and public outcry would defeat The Glass House.

Even so, Kensington hadn't seemed worried by my interference. He must believe that the guiding power behind the house-possibly James Denis-would prevent me from doing it any harm. I was determined to prove him wrong.

'Did Peaches ever come to The Glass House with anyone?' I asked the girl.

'A lordship,' she answered without hesitation. 'She thought he was handsome. She was in love with him.'

'Anyone else?'

'No.' The girl seemed to relax, to grow more childlike every moment. 'Just the lordship. She would go on and on about him, called him her Bear.'

Peaches and Barbury. Filled with affection for each other. 'Did she speak to anyone else regularly? Besides you?'

'Naw, she kept herself to herself. She'd natter with Kensington, because she knew him from before. But no one else I ever saw.'

'After Peaches left Monday, do you remember seeing Mr. Kensington still there?'

'I think so.' Her small brow puckered. 'I don't remember.'

I had hoped she'd tell me she saw Kensington run after Peaches with a murderous look on his face, or better still, brandishing a weapon, but I let it go. Kensington could easily have killed her. Peaches knew him, he could have gotten behind her, struck out…

'Are you taking me to a magistrate?' the girl asked.

I banished the horrible picture of Peaches falling to the stairs at the Temple Gardens, her head a bloody mess.

'To a friend, who will look after you,' I said.

Her fearful look returned. 'I don't want to be looked after.'

'Yes, you do,' Grenville said.

Her apprehensive look grew. The girls in Covent Garden had nothing kind to say about the reformers who sometimes scooped up one of their number-cheating them out of a decent day's wages, they'd say.

What men like Kensington had done to this girl was monstrous, and her innocent acceptance was still more monstrous. I knew that houses existed all over London where such things went on, and that shutting down one would not eliminate them all. I'd also seen plenty of girls like her while in the Army, daughters of camp followers or orphaned girls who'd decided that laying with soldiers was better than starving. I couldn't save them all.

But I could at least help Sir Montague Harris close The Glass House, and perhaps I could spell the end for one very powerful underworld gentleman. The thought buoyed me through my haze of anger and pain.

We reached Grosvenor Square, the most opulent in Mayfair, and stopped before the Derwents' tall house.

The Derwents were surprised to see us but behaved predictably. The entire family turned out to welcome us-Lady Derwent, thin and frail but with a bright smile for me and Grenville; the daughter, Melissa, her usual shyness melting into sympathy for the girl, who at last relayed that her name was Jean; Sir Gideon, robust and righteously angry at my tale. The only one missing was Leland, the son of the household, who was visiting his club with his cronies from university.

Likewise, I did not see Mrs. Danbury, which relieved me a bit. I'd made a great fool of myself in front of her at Inglethorpe's. I wanted to apologize to her for my behavior but I was not yet ready to face her.

We left young Jean looking bewildered and surrounded by well-meaning Derwents, and returned to Grosvenor Street.

Grenville, as usual, invited me in for brandy, but I declined. I was exhausted, still angry, in pain, and not in the mood for pleasantries. Tomorrow was the inquest for Peaches, and I needed rest.

I took a hackney home. Grenville would have offered his coach, but he'd indicated that he would look in at his club, and I did not want to rob him of his conveyance. He conceded, saw me into the hackney, and said goodnight. Bartholomew would be awaiting me in Grimpen Lane, with the fire high and my bed aired.

I discovered halfway across London that I had only enough shillings to take me to Haymarket. I descended there and braced myself heavily on Grenville's walking stick as I tramped toward home.

The air was chill, my breath steaming, the rain tiny needles on my face. I severely disliked cold. Perhaps if Grenville did decide to return to Egypt, I'd ask to go with him, as an assistant or secretary or some such in order to earn my way. The baking sun would no doubt be good for my leg as well as for the rest of me. How grand it would be to again roll up my sleeves against the heat, let my skin tan, live a bit like a barbarian again.

My young wife had hated the sun, complained of it ruining her complexion. She'd wilted in the humid heat, and God help me, I'd been impatient with her. I'd wanted her to be more like Louisa Brandon, who had been robust and enjoyed the warm weather. But then, I'd always been a bloody fool where Carlotta was concerned.

A carriage rolled to a halt right in front of me. Annoyed, I turned my steps to hobble around it, but the footman jumped down and approached me.

I saw Lady Breckenridge silhouetted against the coach's window, watching her footman extend her offer to take me home in the comfort of her warm carriage. I was not particularly in the mood for Lady Breckenridge again so soon, but the agony in my leg made the decision for me.

I allowed the footman to help me into the carriage and found myself opposite Lady Breckenridge for the second time that day.

'You look in a bad way, Captain,' she said.

I expected her to mock me and my capering at Inglethorpe's, but her brows were drawn, and she did not smile.

She'd obviously been to the opera-she wore a pale pink, high-waisted gown beneath her heavy velvet mantle, and her dark hair was curled fantastically and crowned with feathers. She was a pretty woman, without the fragile, ethereal beauty so in fashion these days.

'Indeed,' I said. My left leg felt like fire.

'My butler has a remedy for sore limbs and joints. He wraps hot towels bathed in herbs about them. Swears by it.'

The thought of a scalding towel around my knee nearly made me groan with longing. 'I thank you for your concern.'

'I see you did not quite understand Mr. Inglethorpe's magic gas, Captain. It gives one euphoria and removes pain, but the pain returns and the joy fades. It is a pity, but there it is.'

A pity, indeed. When I'd breathed the gas, I'd felt normal again, a whole man, not one dragging himself, literally, through life. I'd enjoyed simply being a man dancing with a woman, a pleasure that had been too long denied me.

'Still,' Lady Breckenridge said, 'it gives us an afternoon free of life's little pains and troubles.'

'Is that why you attend?' I asked, my jaw clenched.

She smiled. 'I go for the amusement of it.'

Well, I had certainly amused her. I ought to have stayed with Grenville tonight and dulled some of the pain with his brandy, but I'd known that if I sat in one of his comfortable chairs, I'd have been unable to rise again until morning. Lady Breckenridge's coach, lit by warm candles in lanterns and scented with her spicy perfume, was having much the same effect. I leaned back in the seat and stifled another groan.

'It distresses me to see you so,' she said. 'Let Barnstable have a go, anyway.'

It was then I became aware we were driving back through Mayfair, slowly passing the houses of Piccadilly. 'I have laudanum at home,' I said, 'and a footman to give it to me. You can take me there.'

'Gracious, you are stubborn, Lacey.'

'As you are, my lady.'

Her smile returned. 'Tit for tat, is that it? I find you refreshing, Captain, with your rudeness. You have perfect