Kensington looked slightly alarmed but remained stubborn. "You cannot force me to do anything, and you know it."
"I can always summon a magistrate. Sir Montague Harris has wanted to look at The Glass House for a long time."
"You should have a care, Captain. You do not know your danger."
"I have some idea of it," I said dryly. I'd had run-ins with James Denis before. "What did you and Mrs. Chapman argue about the day she died?"
He looked startled. "Argued? Who said that?"
"You shouted at her, and Peaches laughed. What was the row about?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I did shout something at her. Amelia could be quite a bitch, if you must know."
"She is lying dead not twenty feet from here," I said. "Keep your remarks respectful."
"That does not change what she was, Captain. I knew her when she was eighteen years old and first in awe of London. I know everything there is to know about her, never mind her husband or her lordship lover."
I gave him a warning look. "And now you will tell me. I believe that you also do not know your danger."
Kensington heaved a sigh. "Very well, I will show you the bloody attic room. I planned to burn all her things anyway. They are of no use to me."
I started to say more, but Kensington looked past me, and color flooded his face.
Lord Barbury and Grenville had stopped behind me, Lord Barbury not looking well. He seemed to have aged since Peaches' death; his eyelids were waxen, his face pale, the bristles on his jaw dark against his white skin. His eyes were rimmed with red, lashes wet. One man, at least, grieved for Peaches.
"What the devil are you doing here?" he asked Kensington in a hard voice.
Kensington contrived to look sad. "Saying good-bye to my lass."
Barbury tuned to me. "Captain Lacey, do not trust this man. He is a snake, and he made Peaches' life miserable."
"Gullible fool," Kensington sneered. "You should ask what she did to my life."
"You used her until she had nothing left," Barbury snapped. "When she made it clear she preferred me to you, you tried to buy her back."
"And she came running. What does that say for you, my fine lord?"
"Gentlemen," Grenville interrupted. "We are standing in a churchyard."
"Not for much longer," Kensington said angrily. "Are you coming, Captain?"
As Kensington turned and marched away, I told Grenville that I was going with him to have another look at The Glass House, to see what Peaches had left behind there.
"Would you like to come with me?" I asked Barbury.
He hesitated a long moment, then his gloved fingers closed and he looked away. "No," he said at last. "No, I do not want to come."
I sympathized. When my wife had left me, sorting through her things and those of my daughter had been purest torture. I had been lucky that Louisa had been there to help.
But I sympathized only so far. If Barbury had truly loved Peaches, he would have married her and cared for her, damn her origins.
"Tell us about it tonight," Grenville said to me. "I've invited Lord Barbury to dine at my house. We'll begin at eight."
I nodded. Barbury looked at me again, his agony evident. I touched my hat to the pair of them and hobbled after the disappearing figure of Mr. Kensington. The damp was playing hell with my knee.
Chapter Eleven
The Glass House by day was a depressing place. Silent and lit by gray daylight, it was a place holding its breath. The only inhabitant was the doorman, who gave me a hostile stare when he let us in.
Kensington took me up two flights of stairs, past the room he'd showed me before, and up into the attics.
Two doors stood on either side of the low-ceilinged stairwell. Kensington still claimed he did not have a key to Peaches' chamber, but the door he pointed out was a bit flimsy. I applied my boot heel to the latch, and on the third kick, it gave way, the wood splintering. Kensington looked startled, as though he'd believed me feeble, despite having seen me throw a chair through a window.
The room beyond was a bedchamber, but in contrast to the stark stairwell, the room had been made quite a cozy. A thick rug covered the floor, plenty of pillows had been scattered on the bed, and the bed hangings were of a thick, blue brocade. Peaches had collected an odd jumble of furniture, but each piece had been chosen for comfort-a deep wing chair, a low writing table with cushioned stool, a settee with a side table piled with books. Feminine touches were everywhere, from the lace on the cushions to the hair ribbons on the dressing table. A fireplace held the ashes of a fire not many days cold, the brass fender shone brightly, and the coal bucket was full.
"She did like her little luxuries," Kensington said.
"She did," I answered. "Now, go away."
Kensington laughed, his pudgy belly moving. "I admire your cheek, Captain. Watching you fall will be most pleasurable."
Still chuckling, he left the room and made his way noisily down the stairs.
I was alone. And in that room, in the gray silence of the house, I found Peaches.
I found her in the clumsily embroidered pillows on the bed, in the silver pen tray engraved with her initials-probably gift from Lord Barbury-in the dresses in the wardrobe that were all silk, all daringly cut, all too ostentatious for a respectable barrister's wife.
In the drawers of the writing desk were torn-out pages of newspapers dated six years ago, each page containing an article about a play. In on, the name "Miss Leary" had been circled with charcoal pencil.
The articles gave the highest accolades to the principle actors. When they mentioned Peaches at all, it was at most one line. "Miss Leary gave a fine performance as Bianca," was the lengthiest notice she received.
Another drawer held Lord Barbury's letters to her. Peaches had kept them from the night they'd first met, after a performance one evening in Drury Lane. Barbury had written many letters during their first year as lovers, stopping only at her marriage. He had written her every day, whether they'd met or not.
I skimmed through them, feeling like a voyeur. Lord Barbury's letters were loving and passionate, but when Peaches had decided to marry, his tone turned resigned.
I wish only happiness for you, my darling, and if this is the kind of happiness you wish, I will not stand in its path. A woman wants to be mistress of her own household with her own children… Nights will be long without you, but I am grateful for what joy you've lent me over this twelvemonth, which has been the happiest of my life.
They'd met again several years later, and I found Barbury's letter about it: Seeing you was like sunshine breaking through the greatest of storms, my sweet Peaches. You ask if we can meet again, and I say, my darling, that a hundred times I have thought of contriving to meet, and only great strength of will has kept me at home. Name the place, name the time, and I will fly there with the greatest joy, if only to touch your hand, to look upon you, to hear your voice once again.
His next letters had been euphoric. Later missives spoke of Peaches' unhappiness with Chapman, of Chapman's jealousy, of her sorrow when she realized that she would never have children.
Most of all, Barbury's letters expressed his great happiness that he and Peaches were together again-monotonously so. Occasionally, he admonished her about her craving for excitement, which would get her into trouble some day, he warned. Sadly, he had been correct.
All Barbury's letters had been addressed here, to number 12, St. Charles Row. She had used this place as a home away from home, a place to which her lover could send letters, in which she could dress herself as Peaches the lovely actress and meet her Lord Barbury. Her husband would likely never find this place, and Peaches probably had paid Kensington handsomely for the privilege.