The footman informed me he'd tell Denis I'd arrived. He smiled, showing me that his canine teeth had been filed to points. He looked like a coachman turned pugilist, which was no doubt exactly what he was. He left me alone.
Although a small fire burned on the hearth, the room was chill. No paintings adorned the walls, which were covered in ivory silk fabric marked with fleur-de-lis. It was an elegant room in which no expense had been spared, but the effect was cold and unwelcoming.
James Denis kept me waiting for the better part of an hour. I had no idea what had become of Grenville. He might have been thrown onto the pavement, for all I knew. The window in the little room faced a bare and dark garden to the rear of the house, so I did not even have the privilege of looking to see if Grenville's coach still waited for me.
At long last, the large minion opened the door and told me to follow him. He led me, not to Denis' study, but to, of all places, the dining room.
No meal had been laid here. The long Sheraton table was bare, and an unlit chandelier hung ponderously from the high ceiling. A few sconces twinkled between the long, green-draped windows, but again, the room gave the impression that a visitor was not to become too comfortable.
I wondered what Denis' private rooms were like. Did he retain the cold elegance of the rest of the house or had he made them warm and personal?
James Denis was seated at the end of the table with the firelight behind him. He was a youngish man, perhaps thirty, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. His face was not unattractive, though it was thin. He always dressed in well-cut clothing that was not too ostentatious, rather like Grenville, who kept a subdued wardrobe of obvious expense.
Outwardly, Denis looked little different from any other gentleman of Mayfair-young, wealthy, fashionable. His eyes, however, told a different story. The cold in them ran deep, like a river beneath layers of ice. Whatever human warmth had ever dwelled in this man had long ago vanished.
"I see that you received my note," he said.
I stopped in front of him, ignoring his gesture for me to sit. "I have many things to do," I answered. "Tell me what you want, so that I can refuse and continue with my errands."
Denis steepled his fingers, unimpressed with me. "I have been informed that, a few nights ago, you entered The Glass House and went on a tear. Broke windows, destroyed furniture, frightened paying customers. Not very tactful of you."
I leaned my fists on the table. "I will not apologize for it."
"As a matter of fact, it is precisely about The Glass House that I wish to speak to you."
"I will close it," I said, my voice tight. "The wheels are already in motion. Once the reformers and the magistrates have enough public opinion on their side, it will fall."
Denis continued as though I'd not spoken. "The Glass House is managed by a man called Kensington. I do not like this man, but he generally does not worry me; most of what he turns his hand to fails. This time, however, he has done something a little more dangerous. He has paired himself with another, to whom he answers solely. That person is called Lady Jane, and she is a rival of mine."
I stopped, curiosity momentarily overcoming my anger. "What are you talking about?"
"I am speaking about The Glass House. You seem opposed to it, and I am willing to help you shut it down. This time, we happen to be on the same side."
I stared at him as I ran through and rearranged my assumptions. "You are telling me that you do not own The Glass House?"
"I do not. It is a profitable venture, from what I hear, but one a bit too distasteful for me."
James Denis was not a man to be trusted, but I could not help lending credence to his statement. He did not like sordid dealings, and had in the past punished those who had used his resources to do sordid things for their own gain. I ought to have remembered that, but in my anger, I'd blamed him without thinking it through.
I straightened. "So, this Lady Jane owns it? Who is she?"
"I am not certain that she actually owns the property, but she is the intelligence behind the business, I know that much. The name Lady Jane is an affectation. She is French and no more highborn than that actress who used to live upstairs from you. She was not a French emigre, but a republican and fond of Bonaparte. She came to England after the Bourbon king's restoration in 1815, refusing to live under the French monarchy again."
"Is she a procuress?" I asked.
"Is, or was. She started as a prostitute, I gather, a long time ago. I heard a tale that a French aristocrat bribed her to hide him during the Terror, and she bled him dry. In any event, she arrived on England's shores with a fortune, however she obtained it."
"And she is a rival to you? How?" I could not imagine such a thing.
"Lady Jane is cunning and clever and has acquired a good deal of money. She has bought influence, and she has thwarted a few of my schemes or outright pulled my clients out from under me. She is bothersome and tricky, and I would like to see her brought down. Like you, I believe The Glass House to be a loathsome place, and I would enjoy seeing it closed."
"You have become a moralist, have you?" I asked.
Denis leaned forward, eyes chill. "I confess that I share your distaste for certain practices, Captain. I have no tolerance for a pederast. He is a man who cannot control his lusts with his finer feelings or indeed, with his common sense. In short, he is a fool." He gave me a wintry smile. "If you desire to return to The Glass House and break more windows, I will lend you all the assistance you want."
He sorely tempted me. I disliked James Denis and his power, but I thought that I possibly disliked The Glass House more. Denis knew that. His cold smile confirmed it.
But I knew that I played into his hands. Denis could have moved to close The Glass House at any time. But once he'd learned of my interest, he'd suddenly decided to seize upon an opportunity to dispose of his rival. Not only would closing The Glass House hurt Lady Jane, he would have done me yet another favor, pulling me further into his debt. His help, as always, came with a price.
His power, on the other hand, could ensure success, and girls like Jean would never have to fear The Glass House again.
I tapped my walking stick to my palm. "Very well," I said, containing my anger. "I will tell the magistrates about Lady Jane."
He looked pleased, or as pleased as James Denis ever looked. "Excellent, Captain. I will, as you say, put more wheels in motion."
"Perhaps you can tell me something else, while you are doing me favors," I said. "What do you know about a woman called Amelia Chapman, also known as Peaches, who was connected to The Glass House? She died on Monday."
Denis remained impassive. "I know nothing of her, save what I read in the newspaper. A young woman, married to a barrister, found dead in the Thames. Murder, not suicide. If Kensington or Lady Jane killed her for their own reasons, the news did not reach me." He twined his long fingers together. "If, however, I do hear anything of it, I will inform you."
James Denis had given me a vital piece of information last summer in the Westin affair, which had helped much but certainly increased my debt to him. Denis had vowed to own me outright, and everything he did concerning me looked to that goal. He regarded me with a bland expression, knowing this and saying nothing of it.
I leaned to him again. "If you continue in this direction," I said, "you will make me angry enough to simply break your neck."
His returning look was cold. "I have told you what I will do. We are finished, now, Captain. Good night."
He held my gaze, but I saw a touch of uneasiness in his eyes. That satisfied me. It satisfied me very much.