my shoulders without much difficulty.
'I climbed many trees as a girl,' she said. 'To my governesses' despair. They might be happy to know it's proved to be useful.'
Standing on my shoulders, Lady Breckenridge could just reach the window. Happily, the catch moved, but she was still not high enough to open it.
We decided to try what we'd seen acrobats do; she would stand on my hands while I lifted my arms above my head. She agreed shakily, and I promised to catch her if she fell, and hoped that I could.
Lady Breckenridge leaned her weight on the wall and braced herself on the sill as I lifted her. At last she was able to open the window and look out.
'There is a man below,' she said, and then she began shouting, her voice strong.
When she stopped, I heard the unmistakable, smooth tones of James Denis asking, 'Is Lacey with you?'
'Yes,' Lady Breckenridge called down.
Why Denis was there and what the devil had happened to Pomeroy, I could not imagine. Denis and Lady Breckenridge exchanged more words, which I could not hear, then Lady Breckenridge was admonishing me to let her down.
'He is coming,' she said, her voice shaking, but with her sangfroid in place. 'But there is a bit of a problem. Someone has set the house on fire.'
Chapter Nineteen
We smelled the smoke soon after that. We stood together against the wall under the window, waiting for rescue and trying not to think of the fire rising beneath us.
It had started in the kitchen, Lady Breckenridge informed me, and had reached the ground floor. Both of us knew how quickly fires could spread, consuming all within its reach in no time at all. We could hear more commotion in the street now, as the neighbors in St. Charles Row and the street behind poured out of their houses and rushed about to stop the blaze from spreading.
Lady Breckenridge huddled into my regimental coat, the cording hanging loose. We stood side by side, shoulders touching, taking comfort in each other's presence.
'Donata,' I said in a low voice. I took a great liberty using her Christian name; a gentleman did not call a lady, especially not one above his class, by her first name until invited. My father had always referred to my mother as 'Mrs. Lacey,' both before and after her death. 'You are here because of me, and for that I can only beg your pardon. But I vow to you that the men who did this, who dishonored you, will pay for that dishonor. I swear it to you.'
Lady Breckenridge looked up at me, her hands resting on the lapels of my coat. 'I've heard you described as a man of integrity, Lacey. I would expect no less of you.'
'You are an infuriating woman, but a fine lady. You do not deserve to be here.'
She laughed at my bluntness, then she said, 'You did not expect to find me here at all. You called out for someone else.'
'Louisa Brandon,' I confessed. 'She is a dear friend to me. Anyone who wishes to hurt me can do so by hurting her. I assumed Kensington would have known that.'
'Mr. Kensington made a foolish mistake, then,' she observed without rancor.
'He has made many mistakes. And I will not forgive him for putting you in danger.'
'We are still in danger,' Lady Breckenridge pointed out.
We could smell the smoke intensely now, the acrid, charring smell of burning wood and cloth.
'You do not deserve to be.' I put my hand over hers.
She twined her fingers through mine, and held on tight.
Not many moments later, the door splintered open. I stepped instinctively in front of Lady Breckenridge, shielding her from smoke and flying wood. Blinding light silhouetted a large man on the threshold, the pugilist turned coachman from Denis' house. Without preliminary, he grabbed us both and dragged us out behind him.
James Denis served us brandy in his elegant coach and told us how he'd come to find us.
'The boy you'd sent running off for the hackney was one of mine,' he said. 'He came at once to me and told me where you'd gone.'
'One of yours?' I asked, my voice hoarse despite the brandy. 'Keeping an eye on me, were you?'
'You do have the habit of trifling with dangerous people, Lacey. But you will not see Kensington again. In any case, I believe you are leaving London soon.'
Lady Breckenridge, who had not heard of my decision, looked surprised.
'To Berkshire,' I answered Denis. 'Which you doubtless already know.'
'Indeed. The Berkshire countryside is quite lovely,' he said. 'It will be pleasant for you to leave the city for a time.'
I did not bother to answer. I drank more brandy, trying to wash the smoke out of my throat.
Denis often made me angry, and once before he'd had his men beat me in order to teach me a lesson. He wanted me to believe that he was much too powerful for my anger to reach. He saw everything, knew everything, did whatever he wished. I'd told him once that I would stop him, and so he tried everything he could to draw me into his net. He was right; I trifled with dangerous people.
'What of Kensington?' I asked him.
'Mr. Kensington has been delivered to your magistrate friend,' Denis answered. 'He was a fool; he ought to simply to have run.'
'I am surprised you let him live,' I said.
Denis shrugged. 'I rid myself of him once; now your magistrate will do the deed for me.'
And it did not hurt James Denis to occasionally do a favor for a magistrate.
Denis finished speaking after that and gazed out of the window at the rain-swept night. Lady Breckenridge raised her brows at me, but was wise enough to say nothing.
We returned first to Mayfair and South Audley Street, where Lady Breckenridge was assisted from the carriage by a very worried Barnstable and two hovering, crying maids. They got her into the house in short order and slammed the elegant door. Then Denis, very courteously, took me home.
At eleven o'clock the next morning, a hackney drew up in Middle Temple Lane. I, Sir Montague Harris, and Mr. Thompson of the Thames River patrol emerged from it. We traversed the lane, walking past gray buildings, barristers in robes, and pupils with thick books hurrying after their masters, or striding alone, freely.
We made our way from the Middle to the Inner Temple and looked up Sir William Pankhurst and his pupil, Mr. Gower.
Mr. Gower, as always, seemed happy to see me. He had smudges under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers, evidence that his new mentor liked him to work. I asked if he could stroll with us to the Temple Gardens. My plan, I said, was to have him stand where he'd stood smoking the cheroot on the night of Peaches' death. Perhaps he's seen something he didn't remember seeing.
Because Sir William was out conferring with colleagues in King's Bench Walk, Gower agreed readily enough.
Our way was slow, in deference to Sir Montague's labored stride and my still-aching knee. Bartholomew had arrived at my rooms this morning quite upset that he'd missed my adventures, and had made up for it by fixing me a scalding bath, massaging my leg, bringing me beefsteak for breakfast, and generally fussing like a nanny until I'd ordered him to stop.
Sir Montague and Thompson had come for me after I'd eaten and dressed, and Thompson had informed me of his results in querying Lady Jane's coachman.
The Thames was as gray and faceless today as it had been one week ago, when I'd first seen Peaches. Clouds were rolling in, blotting out the blue sky of Sunday, enclosing the city in another gray haze. We stopped at the top of the Temple stairs and watched the river roil below.
