I let it go. I doubted Grenville would appreciate me prying, and I was not quite certain who I was more worried for, Marianne or Grenville. However, I told Bartholomew to return to Grenville’s house in Mayfair and make sure all was well, then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the infamous Glass House.
I rode in the rain through Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's to Cheapside, Cornhill to Leadenhall Street. St. Charles Row proved to be just off Aldgate, east of Houndsditch. The street looked respectable, if rundown. These houses accommodated the lesser clerks and bankers of the City not far away, and none looked as though they would hold a fashionable hell.
Despite the chill, peddlers strolled up and down the street. Some carried boxes strapped about their necks from which they sold an assorted jumble of things, some toted baskets that held jeweled colors of fruit, some pushed carts that carried fragrant hot chestnuts. A knife grinder wandered about, calling his trade.
These peddlers, like most Londoners, dealt with the weather with a stoicism I admired. I had spent twenty years in warmer climes and had become unused to the chill of my homeland. In India, the hot ball of sun had blazed down upon us most of the time, and in Spain and Portugal, the summers had been roasting.
I’d toyed with the idea of retiring to Spain when the war ended, to live in a sunny room over a quiet plaza, but circumstance had brought me back to London to shiver in the rain. My agreement with Colonel Brandon had forced me to give up many of my dreams.
The door of number 12, St. Charles Row looked no different from the doors of numbers 11 and 13. Number 12 had been painted dark green, but scratches here and there revealed that the original paint had been black. The knocker was tarnished and less than clean. Indeed, number 12, St. Charles Row did not seem a particularly prosperous address.
I lifted the knocker and listened to the hollow sound within. Almost immediately, the door was wrenched open by a man, not very tall, who had a sharp nose and belligerent brown eyes. I held out my card.
The man glanced at it once, but did not reach for it. "You were not invited," he said.
I remained standing with my card thrust at him, then I unbent my arm and tucked the card back into my pocket.
"I took a chance," I said. "Mr. Grenville and I were curious."
For once, the magic name of Grenville made no difference.
"You were not invited," the man repeated, and slammed the door in my face. My hair stirred with the draft.
Knocking again produced no result. I turned away, more curious about The Glass House than ever.
"Shall I lay out the black coat, sir?" Bartholomew asked me later that afternoon.
"Since it is the only one," I answered dryly, "I suppose you should."
Bartholomew took no notice of my sarcasm. He solemnly brought out my black frock coat, a fine thing that Grenville had persuaded me to purchase the previous year, and proceeded to brush it with an air of concentration. I had brushed it only the day before but forbore to say so.
Bartholomew helped me into the coat then proceeded to flick it all over with another brush. He'd polished my boots until they were supple and shiny and had even scraped every bit of mud from the soles. I do not know why he bothered; I would simply tramp through the mud in them again.
As he worked, Bartholomew told me that Grenville had not brought Marianne to his house. But his master had been cross and touchy, and Bartholomew had not dared ask any questions. I thanked him for the information and told him to take a brief holiday while I went to Inglethorpe's.
Another hackney got me to Curzon Street in Mayfair at a few minutes past four.
Inglethorpe's door was much different than the one that had nearly banged my nose in St. Charles Row. Its brass knocker was bright and polished, the black-painted door clean and free of scratches.
At the far end of this street, at number 45, James Denis lived. During my last adventure, Denis had given me information that I needed and told me that, in return, he expected me to attend him whenever he whistled. I had retorted predictably. I’d heard nothing but silence from him since.
Inglethorpe's door was opened by a tall, spindly footman with a blank expression. I handed him my card and did not explain my errand. He looked at the card, ushered me inside, and took me to a small reception room.
All very correct. Mayfair reception rooms were designed to make the caller uncomfortable and wish to depart as soon as possible. The furniture consisted of a bench-like settee with gilded claw feet and one chair whose cushion had been polished by a host of backsides. I chose to stand and peer through lace curtains to the street.
After about a quarter of an hour, the footman reappeared and quietly bade me to follow him. He took me upstairs to the first floor and led me into a drawing room that was rather crowded. The high ceiling was plastered with white vines, and two chandeliers, one in the rear of the room and one in the front, hung from ornate plaster medallions.
Simon Inglethorpe came to greet me. He was middle-aged, with black hair going to gray. His posture was straight, his shoulders back, but his abdomen was running to fat. Light blue eyes assessed me from under thick brows. "Captain Lacey." He shook my hand. "Grenville told me to expect you. Sit down, please. We will begin momentarily."
I had already recognized, in a vague way, several gentlemen in the room from the clubs and social gatherings which I’d attended with Grenville. But I definitely recognized the only two ladies present.
One was Lady Breckenridge. She was perched on an ivory-colored settee on one side of the long room, her widow’s cap of white lace making a fine contrast to her dark hair. Across from her, in a Louis Quinze chair, looking both eager and nervous, was a lady called Mrs. Danbury.
I had met Catherine Danbury several times before. She was a lovely, golden-haired widow and the niece of Sir Gideon Derwent. The kindly and unworldly Derwent family had befriended me last summer, professing to enjoy my tales of the Peninsular War. They had issued me a standing invitation to dine with them once a fortnight and regale them with such tales. Mrs. Danbury was not always present at these dinners, but I looked forward to the occasions when she was. She was wiser than her innocent cousins, knowing a little more of life and the world than they, but she too was kind and friendly, with a refreshing air about her.
Mrs. Danbury smiled at me but was clearly surprised to see me. I gave her a polite nod in response, puzzled myself by her appearance here.
The only vacant seat was on the settee next to Lady Breckenridge. I bowed politely to her ladyship and sat down. Lady Breckenridge barely inclined her head, but a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
Hands resting on my walking stick, I studied those gathered. The gentlemen were Mayfair fodder, wealthy men ranging in ages from twenty to sixty. They did not seem in a hurry to speak, and neither did the ladies. Silence, it seemed, was called for.
Inglethorpe returned after conferring with someone in the stairwell. He beamed a smile at us. "Welcome, my friends. Now that we are assembled, we will begin."
A liveried footman entered bearing a large silver tray. He set the tray and its contents on a table and departed.
Three leather bags lay on the tray, blown up like water skins and fastened by a stiff string. Inglethorpe lifted one. "Courtesy of the Royal Society," he said. "I believe we shall have ladies first."
He handed the skin to Catherine Danbury, who examined the bag as curiously as I did. Inglethorpe reached down and untied the string.
"Hold it to your nose and mouth," he instructed.
Mrs. Danbury did so. Inglethorpe lifted the bag from the bottom and squeezed it gently. Mrs. Danbury jerked back, murmuring a startled, "Oh!"
I started to rise to her rescue, but Lady Breckenridge placed a firm hand on my wrist and pulled me back down.