The Glass House by Ashley Gardner Page B

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.
    Mrs. Danbury pressed a handkerchief to her
mouth and sat back, blinking. Then a childlike smile spread across
her face. "My goodness," she