The Glass House

I shook him again. "With whom?"

"I don't know, devil take you. She did not confide in me. She never confided in me."

I set Kensington on his feet with a thump. He drew a breath and loosened the fabric at his throat with shaking hands.

"She did not like you," I said. "What did you do to her, I wonder, to make her despise you? To make her turn around and threaten to betray you?"

Kensington's face reddened. "I do not know. Amelia was always ungrateful. I took her, poor and innocent, knowing nothing of the ways of London, and found her a position on the stage. I introduced her to wealthy gentlemen. I showed her how to make an income from her property. I helped her when no one else would."

"For a price."

"Well, yes, of course. I am a man of business."

"I am not speaking of a commission," I said. "I am certain you demanded more than money from her."

His face grew red. "I deserved it," he said. "Everything, I deserved."

"Do not elaborate on what you took from her, or I might have to throttle you right now. What about Lord Barbury? Did you kill him?"

"Of course not. I am not a killing man, Captain. I can't abide murder."

He was such a milksop that I started to believe him.

"Your protests do not convince me that you are a moral man," I said. "You have the best motive of all for murdering Peaches-she threatened to betray you to Lady Jane, the woman you fear. Peaches had the power by then, not you. She was married to a barrister, had the protection of the wealthy and powerful Lord Barbury, who would do anything for her, had the rent from The Glass House-and profits too, I imagine-and she was free of you. You could lose everything, and there she was, laughing at you."

He shook his head vehemently. "No."

"She would have told Lord Barbury all about it. At least, you would assume so. Lord Barbury shut himself at home, grieving for Peaches, until her funeral. He saw you there, threatened you. Grenville invited him for supper while you stood there listening. All you had to do was wait for him, follow him, shoot him somewhere in the dark, and drag him home."

"I never did!" Kensington's voice rang with defiance. "I was nowhere near Mayfair that evening, and I can prove it."

"You will certainly be hanged if you cannot," I said remorselessly. "But it does not matter, because you have done so many other things. Running a bawdy house, exploiting children; Peaches was still a girl when you exploited her, was she not? And I imagine that once you knew Peaches was dead, you forced the lock on her room and removed any evidence of your dealings with her, including any money that she might have kept there so that she could buy herself silver pen trays and pretty dresses."

"There was nothing left," Kensington said. "She'd spent it all, the ungrateful cow. I did find the box in which she kept her money, but there weren't enough coins in it to buy a pig breakfast."

"Serves you right," I said.

"You cannot prove any of this, Lacey. You cannot take me to court."

"I am sickened by you, and beyond caring. I am happy to leave you to the mercy of Lady Jane."

Kensington's face whitened. "You cannot, Lacey. I will confess to anything, to your magistrate or whoever you like, as long as you help me. Take me to Denis. We will speak with him together."

"No," I answered.

For a moment Kensington rasped in panic then the angry light returned to his eyes. "You are a bloody fool, Captain. I came to offer you a bargain. If you will not help me, then I cannot answer for what happens to you."

"Don't threaten me. You tell me you are incapable of murder, but I do not claim to be so."

Kensington paused, fear lighting his eyes again, then the defiant look returned, and he clapped his hat to his head. "You will regret that you did not help me," he said. "Oh, yes, you will regret it." He glared at me one last time before he turned and marched down the stairs.

I slammed the door and stood in the middle of my chamber, seething with anger. Needing release, I picked up the ebony walking stick that Grenville had lent me and hurled it across the room. It made a satisfying crash against the wall, but the strong shaft remained whole.

I was still seething when I walked to the Covent Garden Theatre at the end of Bow Street not long later. I had wanted Kensington to fall to his knees and confess that he'd killed Peaches and Lord Barbury, had wanted it badly so I could grab him by the neck and drag him off to Pomeroy and punishment.

Marianne's story had portrayed Peaches as a starry-eyed girl, certain that happiness and good fortune lay in London. Luck seemed to be with her when an aged relative had died and left her a place to live. And then she'd met Kensington. Peaches must have trusted him at first, wanting the fame and fortune he promised her. But he had drained innocence from her. Kensington had made her into a grasping woman who'd think nothing of owning a bawdy house or of cuckolding her husband when she was tired of him, a woman who wanted and needed excitement and sensation to make her life livable. I hated Kensington and wanted to hurt him.

My emotions roiling thus, I was therefore in no mood to be cut dead by Louisa Brandon.

I saw her just inside the theatre, after I'd strode past the grand columns and its usual collection of ladies in flimsy silks and rouged cheeks. I saw her in her long-sleeved matron's gown of dull maroon, its lighter pink trim matching the three feathers in her headdress.

She'd said something to her maid and had turned to make for the stairs to the boxes. Our gazes met for an instant. I saw, even around the substantial number of people between us, her color rise. Recognition-and dismay. Just as I was about to bow to her, Louisa abruptly turned and walked away.

I lost my temper. I strode through the crowd, never minding the pain in my leg, reaching the doorway to the stairs before she did. I planted myself in her path and waited for her to act.

She, of course, had to stop. I made a formal bow and said, "I remember you promising that you would not cut me entirely."

A spark of anger flared in her eyes. "I do beg your pardon, Gabriel. I did not see you."

She lied. She had certainly seen me. "It is of no moment." My lips felt stiff. "Shall I escort you to your box?"

"There is no need."

"It would be rude not to."

She gazed at me frostily, and I gazed back. I remembered us in a similar situation, once upon a time, at a regimental colonel's dinner. Louisa had been furiously angry at me for some fault or other, but because we'd been in the colonel's tent with the other officers and their wives, she had not been able to shout at me, nor I to retaliate. We could only glare at one another and offer strained politeness. Later, of course, she had dressed me down, and I'd shouted back until we'd cleared the air and become friends again.

We faced another restraining situation, her glare now twice as angry as it had been at that regimental supper. But we could not afford to make a scene, and she knew it. Louisa silently slid her gloved fingers under my arm, and we proceeded up the stairs, neither of us speaking.

I led her to her box and inside. She let me, both of us now determined to go through the charade. I settled her in a chair, draped her shawl over her shoulders, and sent for coffee, just as I would any other time, but my movements were deliberate, my questions cold.

I hoped, very much hoped, that she would at burst out laughing and say, "This is nonsense, Gabriel, do sit down." But Louisa remained stiff, her responses terse.

I handed her coffee, asked her if she'd like anything else. She lifted the cup to her lips and said clearly, "No. Go away, Gabriel."

"Louisa."

Her eyes hardened. "I do not wish to speak to you. Go."

I looked down at her, my anger undimmed. "You have been my friend for twenty years," I said. "I will never be able to simply go."

But I picked up my walking stick and departed. Several ladies who had spied Louisa entering slid into her box past me with cries of greeting, barely noticing me.