I wondered why Chapman, a respectable barrister, had taken a wife with Peaches' background. But perhaps he'd been flattered by her attention, perhaps the pretty Peaches had charmed him, perhaps Chapman hadn't known much about what went on in the world of the theatre. In any case, they’d married, and Peaches dropped from sight.

A year ago, Lord Barbury, still unmarried himself, had met Peaches again by chance. They'd discovered that their mutual attraction still was strong, and they'd begun another affair. They'd enjoyed a sweet reunion, Barbury said, his grief breaking his voice. They’d met regularly in two places-at the gatherings of a man called Inglethorpe in Mayfair and at The Glass House.

Thompson looked interested when I mentioned The Glass House. We sat in his office at Wapping on the Thames, a bare room with desk and chair and a stool for guests. I had come alone, Grenville having had an appointment to view a famous private collection of porcelain. He’d made the appointment weeks ago and had been vastly disappointed that he couldn’t traipse the back lanes of the East End with me this morning.

"The Glass House," Thompson said. "A name that has no good attached to it. Whenever magistrates or reformers try to close it, their intentions are blocked. Have you ever been there, Captain?"

I had not. I'd heard of The Glass House, a name spoken by many an upper-class gentlemen as a place to go for vices more exotic than those offered in the hells of St. James's. Grenville had never suggested taking me-never spoke of it, actually, from which I surmised he disdained it. Grenville’s tacit disapproval did not stop wealthy gentlemen going in droves, however, from what I’d heard. But I had neither the wealth, connections, or the interest to seek out The Glass House on my own.