"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.
"A coachman this morning told Mr. Thompson that he brought Mrs. Chapman to Middle Temple last Monday afternoon," I said. "Let her off in Middle Temple Lane. Which was mostly deserted, I imagine, with everyone at dinner."
Gower nodded. "Would have been, yes."
"It was an excellent hour," I said, "in which to meet her."
The lanky youth simply looked at me.
"That's the truth," Thompson agreed. "It was just dark. Everyone would be eating or diligently finishing his work. Or smoking cheroots," he added, with a grin at Gower.
"What did you see?" I asked him.
Gower stared across the river into the mists slowly consuming the buildings on the far bank. His brows drew together, then he shook his head, his face open.
"Nothing. I'm sorry, gentlemen. I smoked, grew cold, and bolted back inside."
"Hmm," I said.
Gower shrugged again. His long arms stuck out of his robe to reveal the coat sleeves that Grenville had noticed.
"I find it interesting," I said. "You told us that you'd come to Middle Temple to apprentice because, you said, someone in your family needed to make money. Yet, Mr. Grenville identified your suit as being made by a fine tailor in Bond Street. He was much impressed. Very few men can afford a suit that would impress Lucius Grenville."
Gower shrugged, looking pleased. "I had a windfall. Had a flutter on the races and made a packet. Spent it all on fine living."
I watched him, and so did Thompson. Sir Montague kept staring at the water.
"You would make a fine barrister, Mr. Gower," I said. "You have a smooth answer for every question. What if I ask you one point blank-did you meet Mrs. Chapman here last Monday afternoon? And ask her for money?"
Gower met my gaze easily, his blue eyes warm and friendly. "Why do you ask, Captain?"
"Because I believe you did. And I believe that you killed her."
Gower at last lost his smile. The freckles stood out on his face in dark patches. "Why should I? I barely knew the woman."
"Because Mrs. Chapman kept her share of the profits from The Glass House in her attic room, a sum that ought to have been substantial. Yet, when a man broke in after her death and stole her money box, he found it disappointingly empty. He assumed that she'd spent it all, but I do not think so. While I found a few trinkets and fripperies in her rooms, there were no jewels or anything very expensive-nothing a middle-class woman living on a barrister's income could not buy for herself, or have given to her as a gift. Mrs. Chapman wore no jewelry when she died, only a keepsake ring belonging to her lover. But The Glass House was one of the most popular houses in town-the wealthiest of gentlemen went there. She must have made quite a lot of money from it. So I wonder, where has all that money gone?"
"Perhaps this bloke that broke into her room stole it," Gower said. "Killed her too."
I touched the collar of Gower's fine coat. "I think, instead, that some of it went to a Bond Street tailor."
"What did you blackmail her for?" Thompson asked.
Gower looked back and forth between us. "You have no evidence that I did."
"Life with Chapman was dull, you told us," I said. "I imagine the tedium in his rooms made you look for ways in which to entertain yourself. I am not certain how you discovered Mrs. Chapman's secrets, but you did. Did you threaten to tell her husband that she had a lover, or to tell him about The Glass House? Either would suffice. Chapman could have her arrested for adultery, or if he did not want that humiliation, he could at least restrict her movements and make certain she never saw Lord Barbury again. He also could have demanded the money she made from The Glass House, taken it from her, forced her to end what had become a lucrative business. In short, Chapman could make her life with him even more miserable than it already was."
Gower didn't look worried. "What was between Chapman and his wife has nothing to do with me."
"Perhaps not at first. How did you find out about Mrs. Chapman's life, by the bye? From your university friends who might have known Lord Barbury? From research into such dull subjects as trusts for Chapman? Or, was it another reason? She was a pretty young woman. Perhaps you fancied her, and she snubbed you."
"She had a lover, didn't she?" Gower said, belligerent. "Yes, Mrs. Chapman was pretty, so I followed her about. I saw her with her lover one night, her dressed like a high-flyer, his arm around her waist, them billing and cooing. Wasn't that interesting? I thought. Poor old Chapman."