'Marianne Simmons,' I said.
Color suffused his face. 'I see.'
'Is she still in your house in Clarges Street? Or has she legged it?'
Grenville's flush deepened. 'Oh, she is still there. At least, as far as I know.' He rotated his glass, catching candlelight in the tawny liquid.
'Marianne has been on the stage ten years at least,' I said. 'She is bound to have known Peaches at one time or other. She might be able to tell me something about Peaches' past-who she knew, what her connections were. Something we might have overlooked.'
'Yes, I understand,' Grenville said, his voice strained. 'Very well, let us visit her. We will go on the moment if you like.'
I did like, and so we finished off our port and left the dining room.
I ought to have known, of course, that Lucius Grenville could not simply shrug a greatcoat over his evening clothes and dash out to his carriage. The suit he wore was meant for dining indoors, and he had to redress to go out into the rain.
I accompanied him upstairs, and he summoned his valet, Gautier, who began to dress him with exquisite care. As I watched Gautier help Grenville into a new frock coat, Bartholomew came looking for me. He handed me a folded and sealed letter.
'Fellow delivered this for you.'
The paper was heavy, expensive, and had no writing on the outside. 'Why was it brought it here?' I asked in surprise.
'Don't know, sir. The fellow scarpered before I could find out.'
Grenville watched me in his cheval mirror, his arms stuck straight out while Gautier brushed off the coat. The mirror had one rectangular pane of glass that moved up and down with counterweights, depending on which part of himself Grenville wanted to view.
I broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Something that had been inside it fluttered to the floor. I leaned down and picked up what had fallen, then stared at it, my fingers growing numb.
I dragged my gaze back to the letter. Only one line was scratched across the page.
'Damn,' I said fiercely as I read it. I crumpled both papers in my fists. 'Damn it all to hell.'
Grenville, Bartholomew, and Gautier stared at me in surprise.
The paper that had fallen was my note of hand with the moneylender. It had been paid, all three hundred guineas of the debt cleared.
On the other sheet had been written in careful script: 'With the compliments of Mr. James Denis.'
Grenville tried to stop me racing away to confront Denis on the moment, but I would not be swayed.
'Lacey,' he said hurrying down the stairs after me. 'You cannot burst into Denis' house and wave your fist under his nose.'
I did not care. James Denis had been playing a game with me for nearly a year now, devising tricks to draw me more and more under his obligation.
He wanted to own me, he'd said, because he saw me as a threat to him. Denis had located Louisa when she'd gone missing, learned the whereabouts of my estranged wife, given me information that had helped me solve not one but two murders, and now had paid my creditors.
Grenville at least persuaded me to let him accompany me, along with Bartholomew and Matthias. We rode in silence to number 45, Curzon Street, and I descended before Denis' tall, elegant house.
I thought that Denis' minions would stop me at the door, but I was admitted at once. Grenville and his footmen, on the other hand, were told to wait. Grenville began to argue, while Bartholomew and Matthias bulked menacingly behind him.
I left them to it and strode up the stairs after Denis' footman, who stood taller than Bartholomew and had a face like a pitted slab of granite.
The footman did not take me to the study in which I usually spoke to James Denis. He led me instead to a small, empty sitting room coldly furnished with blue and gold French chairs. The window was covered with heavy blue draperies that gave the room a somber air and cut out all noise from outside.
The footman informed me he'd tell Denis I'd arrived. He smiled, showing me that his canine teeth had been filed to points. He looked like a coachman turned pugilist, which was no doubt exactly what he was. He left me alone.
Although a small fire burned on the hearth, the room was chill. No paintings adorned the walls, which were covered in ivory silk fabric marked with fleur-de-lis. It was an elegant room in which no expense had been spared, but the effect was cold and unwelcoming.
James Denis kept me waiting for the better part of an hour. I had no idea what had become of Grenville. He might have been thrown onto the pavement, for all I knew. The window in the little room faced a bare and dark garden to the rear of the house, so I did not even have the privilege of looking to see if Grenville's coach still waited for me.
At long last, the large minion opened the door and told me to follow him. He led me, not to Denis' study, but to, of all places, the dining room.
No meal had been laid here. The long Sheraton table was bare, and an unlit chandelier hung ponderously from the high ceiling. A few sconces twinkled between the long, green-draped windows, but again, the room gave the impression that a visitor was not to become too comfortable.
I wondered what Denis' private rooms were like. Did he retain the cold elegance of the rest of the house or had he made them warm and personal?
James Denis was seated at the end of the table with the firelight behind him. He was a youngish man, perhaps thirty, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. His face was not unattractive, though it was thin. He always dressed in well-cut clothing that was not too ostentatious, rather like Grenville, who kept a subdued wardrobe of obvious expense.
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
