'It would be very helpful if I could find more reason to arrest him. And witnesses. I would appreciate any light you can shine on this gentleman and his activities.'
The quiet in the room belied the tension here. The fine silk furnishings, the paneled walls, and high ceiling, all elegant and tasteful, seemed to cringe at the rather sordid business taking place among them.
Lady Jane remained still, but I sensed thoughts moving at rapid speed behind her eyes. If she betrayed Kensington, she would not be trusted in her world again. But if she did not betray him, Sir Montague would turn around and have Kensington betray her. No doubt Denis had thought of this, which is why he'd arranged for the meeting. I wondered what Denis how threatened Lady Jane to coerce her to attend.
Lady Jane wet her lips. 'I believe I have heard that Mr. Kensington banks at Barclay's,' she said. 'He has a man of business in High Holborn. If Kensington does make money from this Glass House, no doubt you will find the evidence there. And perhaps, just perhaps, you will find servants at The Glass House who might help you against Mr. Kensington in return for being spared prosecution.'
Sir Montague smiled and nodded. 'Perhaps. I had thought of that. Your suggestions are apt.' He shifted his bulk, and the chair legs creaked. 'The Glass House is now closed. The owner has died, the property passed on. A reformer has spread the word about it, and some members of Parliament have taken notice, enough to make magistrates in the pay of The Glass House nervous.'
He beamed, happy. Lady Jane simply sat, quiet in defeat.
Sir Montague turned to me. 'Captain? Was there anything you wished to ask?'
A small smile flickered at the corner of Lady Jane's mouth. 'Ah, yes, Captain Lacey. Mr. Denis speaks highly of you.'
I ignored this. 'Last Monday, the woman who owned The Glass House was killed. Peaches-her real name was Mrs. Chapman-left the house just after four o'clock. She told Mr. Kensington, with whom she'd quarreled, that she was on her way to keep an appointment. I would very much like to know what appointment, and with whom.'
Lady Jane watched me with eyes that were shrewd and cold. She reminded me of Denis-careful and unemotional-though she did not share his elegance or smoothness of character.
'I am afraid I cannot help you, Captain,' she said. 'I did not know Mrs. Chapman very well.'
'I know she told Kensington she wanted to see you, to tell you a few things about him. Right after that, she departed to keep an appointment. Was that appointment with you?'
'No,' Lady Jane said.
'And you have no idea with whom she was meeting?'
'No, Captain.'
'Question the servants, you said. I wonder, if Mr. Pomeroy arrested your coachman and made him confess, would the coachman tell us that he was instructed to have the carriage ready for Mrs. Chapman's use any time she wanted it? Including the last day of her life? Pomeroy usually has no trouble obtaining information from those he arrests.' Mostly because of his bellowing voice, which frightened suspects into obedience long before Pomeroy would have to start using his fists.
The room grew silent again. Sir Montague watched me, a faint smile on his face.
Lady Jane's long hesitation betrayed her. Of course, I thought. Thompson had found no hackney drivers that had taken Peaches anywhere, and he'd concluded she'd taken a private conveyance, but whose? Not Lord Barbury's. His coachman had been questioned. Chapman did not keep his own carriage, and Peaches would hardly use it to visit to The Glass House anyway.
But what if Lady Jane's coach were available to Peaches as part of payment for Lady Jane's use of the house? Peaches could start for Sussex on a public conveyance then arrange for Lady Jane's carriage to retrieve her from a coaching inn and return her to London. Lady Jane's coachman would have no reason to run to the magistrate to report this. Better for him all around to keep quiet.
'I believe,' Lady Jane ventured, 'that Mrs. Chapman enjoyed the use of my carriage now and again.'
'I am pleased to hear it,' I said. I looked about the elegant room again, which seemed to have brightened. The maroon and blue hues stood out more, the gold glistened. 'Now I know where we stand.'
Sir Montague smiled at me. All was well in his world.
I had a second appointment that afternoon, which I'd nearly forgotten in the week's events, but which I remembered just in time. I made my way to Hyde Park after Sir Montague and I left the hotel and reached the stables at my appointed hour of three o'clock.
Every second Sunday, I met a young man called Philip Preston and gave him a riding lesson. I had met him during the affair of Hanover Square, in which he had been much help, and it pleased me to be able to assist the lad in return. His mother's doctor still insisted he was weak and sickly, but Philip had grown stronger and more robust every time I saw him.
I would have to tell him today of my plan to move to Berkshire, and this saddened me. I would miss Philip, though he'd told me that his father would send him back to school sometime this term, so our lessons would have been short-lived in any case.
Philip's father allowed me to ride a gelding from his stables when I gave the lesson, a fine beast with good gaits. When we finished an hour later, and Philip went off home, I asked leave to ride the gelding a bit longer for the exercise. The groom saw no objection, and I trotted away, lost in thought.
On horseback, my injury did not hinder me as much as it did on foot. I could manage to sit a sedate walk, trot, and canter, though I could ride nowhere near as well or as long as I had in the cavalry. But mounted, I felt more in league with the world, and I had missed the time in the saddle. I hoped Grenville's friend would not object to his secretary borrowing a horse every now and then and riding off into the Berkshire countryside.
Lost in thought, I did not see Louisa Brandon and her pony phaeton until I was nearly upon her.
She drove alone, the reins held in her competent hands, her high, mannish hat set at a jaunty angle. A Brandon groom clung to the back of the phaeton, his face set against Louisa's swift pace. She often drove out in the afternoons, and I realized that I had probably lingered in order to see her. I had finished with my fit of temper of the night before and hoped she would allow me to apologize.
In my turbulent life, Louisa had been a constant. I'd met her when I'd been twenty, and from then until now we'd spent little time apart. She'd been married to Brandon already when he'd introduced her, but her friendship had carried me through fire and storm. Even now, after she'd told me to keep my distance, the most difficult part about leaving London would be leaving her.
Louisa turned her head, saw me. I feared for a moment that she would pass me by without a word, try to cut me dead as she had last night. As she neared, I saw the indecision in her face, then she drew beside me and pulled the pony to a walk.
'Gabriel,' she said in her clear voice. 'Good afternoon.'
I hid my relief by tipping my hat, then I turned my horse to ride along beside her.
'I am always pleased to see you on horseback,' Louisa said. 'You look almost like your old self.'
'A little grayer,' I answered, matching her light tone.
'We all are, are we not?'
'Not you.'
She smiled. 'Only because gray is more difficult to see in fair hair. But it is there, I assure you.'
The groom, who was about nineteen years old, stared stiffly ahead, uninterested in our conversation.
'Louisa, I wish to beg your pardon. I was abominably rude last evening. I am sorry.'
'I was rude as well,' she said, voice cool. 'May we forget it?'
'If you wish.'
We rode for a time without speaking. When she took up the conversation again, her voice was deliberately neutral. 'Aloysius read out the letter you sent him explaining your decision to go to Berkshire.'
'Yes.' I imagined Brandon reading it with glee.
'When would you leave?' Louisa asked.
'Soon.'
Her reins went slack, and the pony, bored, slowed and stopped. 'Such a thing will be fine for you. Do you believe you have the temperament to become a secretary?'
