'You mean because I lay in bed with you the other morning? You looked as though you needed comfort, to be in too much pain for anything else.'
'That did not give you the leave to take such a liberty. You ought to have a care for your reputation.'
She gave me a pitying look. 'I will worry about my reputation. I did not notice you sending me away, by the by.'
I recalled her head on my shoulder, her warm arm across my chest. It had been comforting, without heat or fever.
'I did not wish to send you away,' I said. 'That does not mean I acted well in the matter.'
'It was meant in friendship,' Lady Breckenridge said stubbornly.
No doubt she thought so. She was maddening, one of the most unfathomable women I'd ever met.
'Why did you not tell me about the walking stick?' I repeated. 'As you observed, it was not something I wanted to lose.'
'Well, I do not quite know,' she said. 'I was not paying sufficient attention. I do apologize.' Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I ran my hand through my hair. I was frustrated and angry, so angry at all the lies and deceit and cruelties. Lady Breckenridge had probably not thought the matter of any importance, possibly found it amusing that Mrs. Danbury would rush after me with the walking stick. She did not see what I saw, feel what I felt. I could not expect her to.
'I beg your pardon,' I said, lips tight. 'I am out of sorts. I have had a terrible afternoon.'
'Poor Captain Lacey.'
The words were mocking, but I liked that she said them.
Perhaps because I was angry at Mrs. Danbury and also at Louisa that I realized that when I'd been ill and in pain, Lady Breckenridge had been the only one to soothe me. She had said friendship, but she meant companionship, something she had certainly never gotten from her husband.
Her black hair curled around her forehead, loose from her headdress. She had a pointed chin and laugh lines about her eyes. I touched one of those lines.
She looked at me, startled. I thought she would back away, fling more scorn at me, but she only lowered her lashes. I traced her cheekbone with my thumb. Lady Breckenridge stilled a moment then she silently leaned into my touch.
She had brazenly thrown herself at me in Kent. Now, all fever gone, she gently lifted her hand and caressed mine. Emboldened, I leaned to her and lightly kissed her lips.
She laughed, just as I'd wanted Louisa Brandon to. 'Oh, Lacey,' she said, and slid her arms around me.
For a time, I forgot about my frustrations, the tragedy of Peaches and her husband, my walking stick, Mrs. Danbury's lies, the opera. Lady Breckenridge soothed me again, and I let her.
In the morning I awoke to the peal of church bells all over the city. St. Paul's Covent Garden, chimed the loudest, with the church of St. Martin in the Fields, on the west end of the Strand, a close second. Those bells blended with that of St. Mary's le Strand, and beyond that, in the distance, the booming bells of St. Paul's Cathedral.
They chimed and rang in the winter sunlight, and Bartholomew whistled a tune in the front room as he stoked my fire to overflowing.
I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of Sunday, thinking about Saturday, and all that had happened.
Barbury's death, Chapman's arrest, our boat ride up the Thames, Kensington's revelations, the opera. I needed to write Sir Montague Harris of our findings and about Kensington. If Peaches had been ready to betray him, how much easier for Kensington if she were dead. He'd had the opportunity, been on the spot. The circumstances were damning. I simply needed the tiniest piece of evidence, or a witness.
A witness. I turned that thought over in my mind. I would ask Sir Montague to accompany me to speak to the potential witness I had in mind.
I also thought about Lady Breckenridge. After a heartbreak last year, I was not in the mood to fall in love with another lady, but Lady Breckenridge had demanded nothing of me. She was intriguing and interesting, and, I admitted, refreshingly candid. She took me for what I was and did not ask me to be anything else. Her kisses had been unhurried, without heat. She'd kissed me because she enjoyed kissing me. It was a heady feeling. I lay back to enjoy the first sunshine in a long while and listed to the music of the church bells.
When I rose, I began to prepare myself for moving to Berkshire.
Mrs. Beltan was unhappy to learn she'd lose me as a tenant and even said she'd hold the rooms for me in case I changed my mind. I wrote of my decision to the few acquaintances, such as Lady Aline Carrington, who would care, and even to Colonel Brandon. I had Bartholomew hand-deliver these missives as well as a letter to Sir Montague Harris with my information and outlining my ideas of finding a witness.
I informed Bartholomew I would be dining at the Derwents' that evening, and he brightened at the chance to brush my regimentals again. Dining with the Derwents would also give me the opportunity to question Mrs. Danbury about the walking stick. The questions might pain me, but I would ask them. I needed to know the truth.
Sir Montague sent a message in return that he'd made an appointment to speak to Lady Jane at a Mayfair hotel, courtesy of James Denis. He invited me to join him there at two o'clock that afternoon.
I spent the morning putting my affairs together then journeyed to Davies Street to arrive at two, my curiosity high, hoping we'd see an end to The Glass House this very day.
The hotel on the corner of Davies and Brook streets was fairly new, lived in by those staying in London for the Season but not wanting the bother of opening a house. Lady Jane was not staying there, Sir Montague informed me when I arrived; rather, we were using the hotel as neutral ground.
We followed a footman to a private sitting room, and there, we met Lady Jane.
She was a stout matron, and so unlike what I had been expecting that I could only stare at her at first. She wore a widow's cap over her black hair, and her face was round, red, and lined, a provincial woman's face. Her mauve pelisse of fine fabric was tastefully trimmed with a gray fringe, and her gray broadcloth skirt shone dully in the candlelight. The suit spoke of care and expense, but her eyes held a light as hard and shrewd as a horse trader's.
She extended a hand to me, and I bowed over it as expected. She withdrew, scarcely looking at me, and sat down in a chair. The hotel's footman set a footstool at her feet, fetched another for Sir Montague, and faded away.
'Sir Montague,' Lady Jane said. Her accent was only slight, barely betraying her origins. 'What may I do for you?'
'I would like you to tell me about a gentleman called Kensington,' Sir Montague began. 'I believe you employ him.'
'Possibly.' Lady Jane smoothed her skirt and looked from Sir Montague to me. 'I employ many gentlemen.'
'He is not quite a gentleman,' Sir Montague said. 'In fact, I would like to arrest him.'
Chapter Seventeen
Lady Jane looked appropriately distressed. 'Do you indeed?'
'Yes,' Sir Montague said cheerfully. 'I will arrest him for running a bawdy house, but I want to be careful. Witnesses are all very well, but magistrates in the past have been persuaded to drop the case against The Glass House, and I fear the same will happen again.'
'Will it?' Lady Jane's eyes flickered, although I could tell she knew bloody well that the case would be dropped again, if he pursued it. 'I sympathize with your frustration, Sir Montague.'
'Therefore, I probably will not be bringing charges against The Glass House itself, since my aim was simply to close it. But I would like to not let Mr. Kensington get away. He would simply find another house to manage.'
'You are no doubt correct.'
