Silent In The Grave
Deanna Raybourn
“Let the wicked be ashamed, and let them be silent in the grave. ” London, 1886For Lady Julia Grey, her husband’s sudden death at a dinner party is extremely inconvenient, not to mention an unpardonable social gaffe. Once the shock has passed, however, things take rather a turn for the worse. Her eccentric relations descend en masse (and her odious Aunt Ursula clearly intends to stay until another relative expires elsewhere), and Julia is forced to drape the mirrors in crepe and herself in endless widow’s black.But when swarthy, inscrutable private investigator Nicholas Brisbane tells her that her husband’s death may not have been due to natural causes, Lady Julia finds herself thrust into surroundings she could never have imagined, from the elegant home of a renowned courtesan, to a volatile boxing match in a gypsy camp.As the truth begins to emerge, Julia discovers that she has much to learn; about her husband, herself and the infuriating, mysterious and very attractive, Mr Brisbane… Set in the extravagant surroundings of upper-class Victorian England, and introducing the compelling, charismatic Lady Julia Grey this is a must read!
Praise forDEANNA RAYBOURN
“With a strong and unique voice, Deanna Raybourn creates unforgettable characters in a richly detailed world. This is storytelling at its most compelling.”
—Nora Roberts, New York Times bestselling author
“[A] perfectly executed debut.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“This debut novel has one of the most clever endings I’ve seen.”
—Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author
“A riveting drama that makes page turning obligatory. A very fine debut effort from Deanna Raybourn”
—Bookreporter.com
“I found it delightfully absorbing.”
—The Bookseller
About the Author
With degrees in English and History and a particular love of Regency and Victorian times, DEANNA RAYBOURN is a committed anglophile, who, at her husband’s insistence, gave up teaching to devote her energies to writing. Clearly her husband knew what he was doing.
Silent in the Grave is Deanna’s debut novel and is the first in the SILENT series featuring the effervescent Lady Julia Grey and the enigmatic private investigator Nicholas Brisbane.
Deanna is currently hard at work on the next instalment in the award-winning Lady Julia Grey series from her current home in Virginia.
Find out more online at www.mirabooks.co.uk/deanna raybourn
Silent in the Grave
DEANNA RAYBOURN
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Patricia Nile Russell, and my grandfather, John Lucius Jones, Jr.
THE FIRST CHAPTER
London, 1886
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.
—John Webster
The Duchess of Malfi
To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband’s dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.
I stared at him, not quite taking in the fact that he had just collapsed at my feet. He lay, curled like a question mark, his evening suit ink-black against the white marble of the floor. He was writhing, his fingers knotted.
I leaned as close to him as my corset would permit.
“Edward, we have guests. Do get up. If this is some sort of silly prank—”
“He is not jesting, my lady. He is convulsing.”
An impatient figure in black pushed past me to kneel at Edward’s side. He busied himself for a few brisk moments, palpating and pulse-taking, while I bobbed a bit, trying to see over his shoulder. Behind me the guests were murmuring, buzzing, pushing closer to get a look of their own. There was a little thrill of excitement in the air. After all, it was not every evening that a baronet collapsed senseless in his own music room. And Edward was proving rather better entertainment than the soprano we had engaged.
Through the press, Aquinas, our butler, managed to squeeze in next to my elbow.
“My lady?”
I looked at him, grateful to have an excuse to turn away from the spectacle on the floor.
“Aquinas, Sir Edward has had an attack.”
“And would be better served in his own bed,” said the gentleman from the floor. He rose, lifting Edward into his arms with a good deal of care and very little effort, it seemed. But Edward had grown thin in the past months. I doubted he weighed much more than I.
“Follow me,” I instructed, although Aquinas actually led the way out of the music room. People moved slowly out of our path, as though they regretted the little drama ending so quickly. There were some polite murmurs, some mournful clucking. I heard snatches as I passed through them.
“The curse of the Greys, it is—”
“So young. But of course his father never saw thirty-five.”
“Never make old bones—”
“Feeble heart. Pity, he was always such a pleasant fellow.”
I moved faster, staring straight ahead so that I did not have to meet their eyes. I kept my gaze fixed on Aquinas’ broad, black-wool back, but all the time I was conscious of those voices and the sound of footsteps behind me, the footsteps of the gentleman who was carrying my husband. Edward groaned softly as we reached the stairs and I turned. The gentleman’s face was grim.
“Aquinas, help the gentleman—”
“I have him,” he interrupted, brushing past me. Aquinas obediently led him to Edward’s bedchamber. Together they settled Edward onto the bed, and the gentleman began to loosen his clothes. He flicked a glance toward Aquinas.
“Has he a doctor?”
“Yes, sir. Doctor Griggs, Golden Square.”
“Send for him. Although I dare say it will be too late.”
Aquinas turned to me where I stood, hovering on the threshold. I never went into Edward’s room. I did not like to do so now. It felt like an intrusion, a trespass on his privacy.
“Shall I send for Lord March as well, my lady?”
I blinked at Aquinas. “Why should Father come? He is no doctor.”
But Aquinas was quicker than I. I had thought the gentleman meant that Edward would have recovered from his attack by the time Doctor Griggs arrived. Aquinas, who had seen more of the world than I, knew better.
He looked at me, his eyes carefully correct, and then I understood why he wanted to send for Father. As head of the family he would have certain responsibilities.
I nodded slowly. “Yes, send for him.” I moved into the room on reluctant legs. I knew I should be there, doing whatever little bit that I could for Edward. But I stopped at the side of the bed. I did not touch him.
“And Lord Bellmont?” Aquinas queried.
I thought for a moment. “No, it is Friday. Parliament is sitting late.”
That much was a mercy. Father I could cope with. But not my eldest brother as well. “And I suppose you ought to call for the carriages. Send everyone home. Make my apologies.”
He left us alone then, the stranger and I. We stood on opposite sides of the bed, Edward convulsing between us. He stopped after a moment and the gentleman placed a finger at his throat.
“His pulse is very weak,” he said finally. “You should prepare yourself.”
I did not look at him. I kept my eyes fixed on Edward’s pale face. It shone with sweat, its surface etched with lines of pain. This was not how I wanted to remember him.
“I have known him for more than twenty years,” I said finally, my voice tight and strange. “We were children together. We used to play pirates and knights of the Round Table. Even then, I knew his heart was not sound. He used to go quite blue sometimes when he was overtired. This is not unexpected.”
I looked up then to find the stranger’s eyes on me. They were the darkest eyes I had ever seen, witch-black and watchful. His gaze was not friendly. He was regarding me coldly, as a merchant will appraise a piece of goods to determine its worth. I dropped my eyes at once.
“Thank you for your concern for my husband’s health, sir. You have been most helpful. Are you a friend of Edward’s?”
He did not reply at once. Edward made a noise in the back of his throat and the stranger moved swiftly, rolling him onto his side and thrusting a basin beneath his mouth. Edward retched, horribly, groaning. When he finished, the gentleman put the basin to the side and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. Edward gave a little whimper and began to shiver. The gentleman watched him closely.
“Not a friend, no. A business associate,” he said finally. “My name is Nicholas Brisbane.”
“I am—”
“I know who you are, my lady.”
Startled at his rudeness, I looked up, only to find those eyes again, fixed on me with naked hostility. I opened my mouth to reproach him, but Aquinas appeared then. I turned to him, relieved.
“Aquinas?”
“The carriages are being brought round now, my lady. I have sent Henry for Doctor Griggs and Desmond for his lordship. Lady Otterbourne and Mr. Phillips both asked me to convey their concern and their willingness to help should you have need of them.”
“Lady Otterbourne is a meddlesome old gossip and Mr. Phillips would be no use whatsoever. Send them home.”
I was conscious of Mr. Brisbane behind me, listening to every word. I did not care. For some unaccountable reason, the man thought ill of me already. I did not mind if he thought worse.
Aquinas left again, but I did not resume my post by the bed. I took a chair next to the door and remained there, saying nothing and wondering what was going to happen to all of the food. We had ordered far too much in any event. Edward never liked to run short. I could always tell Cook to serve it in the servants’ hall, but after a few days even the staff would tire of it. Before I could decide what to do with the lobster patties and salad molds, Aquinas entered again, leading Doctor Griggs. The elderly man was perspiring freely, patting his ruddy face with a handkerchief and gasping. He had taken the stairs too quickly. I rose and he took my hand.
“I was afraid of this,” he murmured. “The curse of the Greys, it is. All snatched before their time. My poor girl.” I smiled feebly at him. Doctor Griggs had attended my mother at my birth, as well as her nine other confinements. We had known each other too long to stand on ceremony. He patted my hand and moved to the bed. He felt for Edward’s pulse, shaking his head as he did so. Edward vomited again, and Doctor Griggs watched him carefully, examining the contents of the basin. I turned away.
I tried not to hear the sounds coming from the bed, the groans and the rattling breaths. I would have stopped my ears with my hands, but I knew it would look childish and cowardly. Griggs continued his examination, but before he finished Aquinas stepped into the room.
“Lord March, my lady.” He moved aside and Father entered.
“Julia,” he said, opening his arms. I went into them, burying my face against his waistcoat. He smelled of tobacco and book leather. He kept one arm tucked firmly around me as he looked over my head.
“Griggs, you damned fool. Julia should have been sent away.”
The doctor made some reply, but I did not hear it. My father was pushing me gently out the door. I tried to look past him, to see what they were doing to Edward, but Father moved his body and prevented me. He gave me a sad, gentle smile. Anyone else might have mistaken that smile, but I did not. I knew he expected obedience. I nodded.
“I shall wait in my room.”
“That would be best. I will come when there is something to tell.”
My maid, Morag, was waiting for me. She helped me out of my silk gown and into something more suitable. She offered me warm milk or brandy, but I knew I would never be able to hold anything down. I only wanted to sit, watching the clock on the mantel as it ticked away the minutes left.
Morag continued to fuss, poking at the fire and muttering complaints about the work to come. She was right about that. There would be much work for her when I put on widow’s weeds. It was unlucky to keep crepe in the house, I reminded myself. It would have to be sent for after Edward passed. I thought about such things—crepe for the mirrors, black plumes for the horses—because then I did not have to think about what was happening in Edward’s room. It was rather like waiting for a birth, these long, tense minutes of sitting, straining one’s ears on tiptoe for the slightest sound. I expected to hear something, but the walls were thick and I heard nothing. Even when the clock struck midnight, the little voice on my mantel chiming twelve times, I could not hear the tall case clock in the hall. I started to mention the peculiarity of it to Morag, because one could always hear the case clock from any room in the house, when I realized what it meant.
“Morag, the clocks have stopped.”
She looked at me, her lips parted to speak, but she said nothing. Instead she bowed her head and began to pray. A moment later, the door opened. It was Father. He said nothing. I went to him and his hand cradled my head like a benediction. He held me for a very long time, as he had not done since I was a child.
“It is all right, my dear,” he said finally, sounding older and more tired than I had ever heard him. “It is over.”
But of course, he was entirely wrong. It was only the beginning.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow, It’s his today, but who’s his heir tomorrow?
—Anne Bradstreet
“The Vanity of All Worldly Things”
The days leading up to the funeral were dire, as such days almost always are. Too many people, saying too many pointless things—the same pointless things that everyone always says. Such a tragedy, so unexpected, so very, very dreadful. And no matter how much you would like to scream at them to go away and leave you alone, you cannot, even if they are your family.
Especially if they are your family. In the week following Edward’s death, I was inundated with March relations. They flocked from the four corners of the kingdom, as mindful of the pleasures of London as their family duty. As etiquette did not permit me to be seen in public, they came to me at Grey House. The men—uncles, brothers, cousins—briefly paid their respects to Edward, laid out with awful irony in the music room, then spent the rest of their time arguing politics and arranging for amusements that would get them out of the house. My only consolation was the fact that, like locusts, they managed to finish off all of the leftover food from the night Edward died.
The women were little better. Under Aunt Hermia’s direction, the funeral was planned, the burial arranged, and my household turned entirely on its head. She carried around with her a notebook filled with endless lists that she was forever consulting with a frown or ticking off with a satisfied smile. There was the crepe to be ordered, mourning wreaths, funeral cards, black-bordered writing paper to be purchased, the announcement for the Times, and of course my wardrobe.
“Unrelieved black,” she informed me, her brow furrowed as she struggled to make out her own handwriting. “There must be no sheen to the fabric and no white or grey,” she reminded me.
“I know.” I tried not to think of the new gowns, delivered only the day before Edward’s death. They were pale, soft colours, the shades of new flowers in spring. I should have to give them to Morag to sell at the secondhand stalls now. They would never dye dark enough to pass for mourning.
“No jewels, except hair jewelry,” Aunt Hermia was saying. I repressed a shudder. I had never warmed to the notion of wearing a dead person’s hair braided around my wrist or knotted at my ears. “After a year and a day, you will be permitted black fabric with a sheen, and deep purple or grey with a black stripe. If you choose to wear black after that time, you may relieve it with touches of white. Although,” she added with a conspiratorial look, “I think a year is quite enough, and you must do what you like after that.”
I glanced at my sister Portia, who was busy feeding her ancient pug some rather costly crab fritters laced with caviar. She looked up and wrinkled her nose at me over Puggy’s head.
“Don’t fret, dearest. You have always looked striking in black.”
I grimaced at her and turned back to Aunt Hermia, who was deliberately ignoring Portia’s flippancy. As children, we had been quite certain that Aunt Hermia was partially deaf. It was only much later when we realized that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her hearing. The trick of hearing only what she wanted had enabled her to raise her widowed brother’s ten children with some measure of sanity.
“Black stockings of course,” she was saying, “and we shall have to order some new handkerchiefs edged in black.”
“I am working on them now,” said my sister Bee from the corner. Industrious as her namesake, she kept her head bowed over her work, her needle whipping through the fine lawn with its load of thin black silk.
“Very good, Beatrice. That will save time having them made up, and I simply could not bear to purchase ready-made for Julia.” Aunt Hermia paused, her pencil poised. “You know, the queen has hers embroidered with black tears for Prince Albert. What do you think of that?”
Bee lifted her head and smiled. “I think perhaps plain is best. I mean to get through all of her handkerchiefs before I have to return to Cornwall, and I shall be lucky just to finish the borders.”
“Of course, dear,” Aunt Hermia said. She returned to her list, but I kept my eyes on Bee. She had not looked at me, and I fancied that her preoccupation with my handkerchiefs was a means of keeping herself too busy to do so. I wondered then how much she knew, how much any of them knew. Marriage is a private thing between a man and his wife, but blood calls to blood, or so my father always said. Was it possible for them to know? I had said nothing, and yet still, I wondered ….
“And we should tell Aquinas to prepare the China Room for Aunt Ursula.”
I swung round to face Aunt Hermia. The room had gone quite productively silent. Bee was busy with her needlework, Portia and Nerissa were writing out the funeral cards. Olivia immediately picked up a book of hymns to peruse.
“Aunt Ursula? The Ghoul is coming?”
“Really, darling, I wish you children would not call her that,” Aunt Hermia said, frowning. “She is a good and decent soul. She only wishes to offer comfort in your bereavement.”
Portia smothered a snort. We all knew better than that. The Ghoul’s purpose in life was not to give comfort, it was to haunt the bereaved. She appeared at every deathbed, every funeral, with her trunks of mourning clothes and memorial jewelry, reading dreary poems and tippling the sherry when no one was looking. She kept a sort of scrapbook of the funerals she had attended, rating them by number of mourners, desirability of the gravesite and quality of the food. The worst part of it was that she never left. Instead, she stayed on, offering her own wretched brand of comfort until the next family tragedy. We had been quite fortunate in London, though. A spate of ill luck had carried off three of our elderly uncles in Scotland in as many years. We had not seen her for ages.
“Julia?” Aunt Hermia’s voice was edged only slightly with impatience, and I realized she must have been trying to get my attention for some time.
“I am sorry, Aunt. I was woolgathering.”
She patted my hand. “Never mind, dear. I hear Uncle Leonato’s wife is suffering again from her old lung complaint. Perhaps she won’t last much longer.”
That was a small consolation. Uncle Leonato’s wife usually hovered on the brink of death until he presented her with whatever piece of jewelry or lavish trinket she had been pining for, then she made a full recovery quickly enough. Still, there was a pack of hunting-mad cousins in Yorkshire who were always highly unlucky. Perhaps this season one of them might be mistaken for a stag ….
Aunt Hermia coughed gently and I looked up. “Olivia was asking about the gravesite. She said there is a very nice spot just beyond the Circle of Lebanon.”
The Circle of Lebanon in Highgate Cemetery, perhaps the most fashionable address for the dead in all of London. That would have appealed to Edward.
“That sounds fine. Whatever you think best.”
She ticked off another item in her notebook. “Now, what about music?”
What followed was a spirited debate in which I took no part. I tried to appear too grief-stricken to decide, but the truth was, I could not bring myself to care. Edward was gone, there seemed little point in arguing over what the choirboys sang. In the end, my eldest sister, Olivia, prevailed by sheer strength of personality. It did not matter. I never heard the boys sing at all. In the same fashion, I saw the lilies, but I did not smell them. I knew it was cold the day of Edward’s funeral because they bundled me into a black astrakhan coat, but I felt nothing. I was entirely numb, as though every nerve, every sense, every cell had simply stopped functioning.
Perhaps it was best that way. I had begun to get snappish and fretful. I had slept poorly since Edward’s death, and having no peace, no privacy in my own home was beginning to tell. All I wanted was to bury Edward and send my family home. I loved them, but from a distance. Their quirks and eccentricities, for which we Marches were justly famous, were magnified within the walls of Grey House.
Mercifully, most of them stayed with Father, but a few elected to comfort me in my grief and had moved in, lock, stock and barrel. The least offensive of these was my brother Valerius. A quiet, somewhat sulky youth, he was six years my junior, and I think he found my company marginally less repressive than Father’s. Edward’s first cousin and heir also gave me little trouble. Simon was sickly and bedridden, afflicted with the same heart complaint that had taken all of his kinsmen. Like Edward he would not make old bones, but it was my lot to care for him until he passed.
The last of my new houseguests was the Ghoul, who had arrived with the expected trunks and a lady’s maid half as old as God. Aquinas had installed them in the China Room, which elicited a flurry of complaints. The room was too cold, the exposure too bright—the litany went on and on. I waved my hand, leaving Aquinas to manage, which he did with his customary efficiency. A small heater was installed, the heavy draperies were drawn, and a fresh bottle of gin was placed on the dressing table, sherry having apparently been given up in favor of something more potent. Since then, I had heard nothing from her whatsoever, and I made a note to instruct Aquinas to add a weekly bottle to the household expenses.
But as much as I complained about them, I was glad to have my family around me as I moved through that awful day. I felt like a sleepwalker, being shifted and guided and turned this way and that, but feeling nothing. They told me later that the sermon was lovely. I was glad of that. I had not listened, and I much suspected that the vicar could not possibly have anything comforting to say. He probably quoted Job, that absurd passage about flowers being cut down. They always quote that. And he probably made some innocuous observations about Edward, observations from a man who had not known him. Edward had not been a great believer, nor was I for that matter. We had been brought up to attend when absolutely necessary, and to observe the conventions, but my family was populated with free-thinking Radicals and Edward’s was simply lazy.
The end result was, I was certain, a eulogy that could have been spoken over the body of any rich, youngish dead man. I did not like to think of that. I did not like to know that Edward, the boy I had loved and married, was already being lost. He was anonymous to the vicar, to the grave digger, to anyone who passed his grave. No one would remember his charm, his beautiful gilt hair, his sweetly serious smile, his ability to tell jokes, his utter incompetence with wine. I would be the only one to remember him as he truly was, and I did not want to remember him at all.
I tried to imagine, as I stood over his open grave, what I would have carved onto the stone. Nothing seemed appropriate. I ran Bible verses and bits of poetry through my mind as the vicar droned on about ashes and death, but nothing fit. I had a few months yet before they would put the stone in place. They would wait until the ground settled before they brought it. I knew that I had to think of something, some brief commentary on his life, some scrap of wit to sum him up, but that was impossible. Words are simple, Edward had not been.
As I struggled to remember a snippet of Coleridge, a cloud passed over, obscuring the sun and throwing the graveyard into chill shadow. A few of the mourners shivered and Father put his arm about my shoulders. The vicar quickened his pace, cracking through the last prayer. The others bowed their heads, but I looked up, studying the graveyard through the thick black web of my veil. Beyond the grave, where the Circle of Lebanon sheltered its dead, there was a figure, or an impression of one, for all I saw was the dead white of a shirtfront against a tall black form.
I dropped my eyes, telling myself it was a trick of the light, of the veil, that I had seen no one. But of course I had. When I raised my eyes again I saw the figure slipping away through the marble gravestones. No one else had seen him, and he had vanished, silent as a wraith. I might have imagined him, except for the question that burned in my mind.
What had brought Nicholas Brisbane to Highgate Cemetery?
Somehow, I knew I should not like the answer at all.
THE THIRD CHAPTER
And then again, I have been told Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold.
—Ben Jonson
“Though I Am Young and Cannot Tell”
After the funeral, everyone repaired to March House where Aunt Hermia had conspired with Father’s butler, Hoots, to provide an impressive cold buffet and quite a lot of liquor. My relations seemed very pleased with both. And so was I. The more they ate and drank, the less they spoke to me, although I still found myself repeatedly cornered by well-meaning aunts and faintly lecherous cousins. The former doled out advice over shrimp-paste sandwiches while the latter made me dubious proposals of marriage. I thanked the aunts and rebuffed the cousins, but gently. They were an intemperate lot, especially with the amount of spirits Aunt Hermia had offered, and if I offered one of them an insult I had little doubt there would be a duel in the garden by sunrise.
It was a relief when Father finally fetched me to his study.
“Time for the will,” he said tersely. “You haven’t accepted your cousin Ferdinand, have you?”
He glanced over my shoulder to where Ferdinand was still tipsily proposing marriage to a marble statue of Artemis and her stag, completely unaware of the fact that I had excused myself.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I am glad to hear it. He is a famous imbecile. They all are. Marry one of them and I will cut off your allowance.”
“I shouldn’t marry one of them if you doubled it.”
He nodded. “Good girl. I never understood why we Marches always married our cousins in the first place. Bad breeding principle, if you ask me. Concentrates the blood, and God knows we don’t need that.”
That much was true. Father had been the first to marry out of the March bloodlines and had ten healthy children to show for it, all only mildly eccentric. Most of our relations who had married each other had children who were barking mad. He had strongly encouraged us to marry outside the family, with the result that his grandchildren were the most conventional Marches for three hundred years.
In the study, the solicitor, Mr. Teasdale, was busy perusing a sheaf of papers while my eldest brother, Lord Bellmont, viscount, MP and heir to the family earldom, browsed the bookshelves. He was fingering a particularly fine edition of Plutarch when Father spied him.
“It isn’t a lending library,” Father snapped. “Buy your own.”
Bellmont bowed from the neck to acknowledge he heard Father, nodded once at me, then took a chair near the fire. His manners were usually impeccable, but he hated being barked at by Father. Mr. Teasdale put aside his papers and rose. I offered him my hand.
“My lady, please accept my condolences on your bereavement. I have asked Lord March, as head of the family, and Lord Bellmont, as his heir, to be present while I explain the terms of Sir Edward’s will.”
I took a seat next to Bellmont and Father took the sofa. He snapped his fingers for his mastiff, Crab, who came lumbering over to lie at his feet, her head on his knee. Mr. Teasdale opened a morocco portfolio and extracted a fresh set of papers, these bound with tape.
“I have here the last will and testament of your late husband, Sir Edward Grey,” he began pompously.
My eyes flickered to Father, who gave an impatient sigh.
“English, man, plain English. We want none of your lawyering here.”
Mr. Teasdale bowed and cleared his throat. “Of course, your lordship. The disposition of Sir Edward’s estate is as follows: the baronetcy and the estate of Greymoor in Sussex are entailed and so devolve to his heir, Simon Grey, now Sir Simon. There are a few small bequests to servants and charities, fairly modest sums that I shall disburse in due course. The residue of the estate, including Grey House and all its contents—furnishings, artworks and equipages, the farms in Devon, the mines in Cornwall and Wales, the railway shares, and all other properties, monies and investments belong to your ladyship.”
I stared at him. I had expected a sizable jointure, that much had been in the marriage contract. But the house? The money? The shares? All of these should have rightfully gone with the estate, to Simon.
I licked my lips. “Mr. Teasdale, when you say all other monies—”
He named a sum that made me gasp. The gasp turned into a coughing fit, and by the time Mr. Teasdale had poured me a small, entirely medicinal brandy, I was almost recovered.
“That is not possible. Edward was comfortable, wealthy even, but that much—”
“I understand Sir Edward made some very shrewd investments. His style of living was comparatively moderate for a gentleman who moved in society,” Mr. Teasdale began.
“Comparatively moderate? I should say so! Do you know how little he gave me for pin money?” I was beyond furious. Edward had never been niggardly with money. Each quarter he had given me a sum that I had viewed as rather generous. Generous until I realized he could have easily given me ten times as much and never missed it.
Father’s hand stilled on Crab’s head. “Do you mean to say that he kept you short? Why did you not come to me?”
His voice was neutral, but I knew he was angry. He was famous for his modern views about women. He favored suffrage, and had even given a rather stirring speech on the subject in the Lords. He made a point of giving each of his daughters an allowance completely independent of his sons-in-law to offer at least a measure of financial emancipation. The very idea that one of his daughters might have been kept on a short lead would gall him.
I shook my head. “No, not really. My pin money was rather a lot, in fact. But there were times, when I wanted to travel or buy something expensive, that I had to ask Edward for the money. I always felt rather like Marie Antoinette in front of the mob when I did, all frivolity and extravagance in the face of sober responsibility. It’s just lowering to know that he could have thrown that much to a beggar in the street and never missed it.”
Father’s hand began to move on Crab’s ears once more. She snuffled at his knee, drooling a little. Bellmont stirred beside me.
“Mines in Cornwall. Surely those have played out by now,” he said to Teasdale.
Mr. Teasdale smiled. “They are still profitable, I assure you, my lord. Sir Edward would not have kept them were they not. He was entirely unsentimental about investments. He kept nothing that did not keep itself.” He turned to me, his manner brisk. I swear he could smell the money in the air. “Now, if your ladyship would care to leave the management of the estate in capable hands, I am sure that their lordships would be only too happy to make the necessary decisions.”
“I do not think so,” I said slowly.
Beside me, Bellmont stiffened like an offended pointer. “Don’t be daft, of course you do. You do not know the first thing about managing an estate of this size. You will want advice.”
Father said nothing, but I knew he agreed with me. He would not say so, not now, because he wanted to see if I would stand my ground with Bellmont. Few people ever did. As the eldest son and heir, Bellmont had been entitled since birth, in every sense of the word. Mother had not died until he was almost grown, so he had felt the full force of her far more conventional ideals. It was not until her death, when the raising of the younger children had been left to Father and Aunt Hermia, that the experiments had begun. Bellmont had been sent to Eton and Cambridge. The rest of us had been educated at home by a succession of Radical tutors with highly unorthodox philosophies. Bellmont had never gotten accustomed to thinking of his sisters or his younger brothers as his equals, and of course he had the whole of the English legal, judicial and social systems to back him. He paid lip service to Father’s Radical leanings, but when the time came for him to run for Parliament, he had done so as a Tory. Father had refused to speak to him for nearly four years after that, and their relationship still bumped along rockily.
I swallowed hard. “Of course I shall want advice, Bellmont, and I know that you are quite well-informed in such matters,” I began carefully. “But I am an independent lady now. I should like very much to make my own decisions.”
Bellmont muttered something under his breath. I could not hear it, but I had a strong suspicion Aunt Hermia would not have approved. In spite of Bellmont’s elegant demeanor, he was always the one who had contributed the most to the family swear box. The box had been established by Aunt Hermia shortly after she came to live with us. We had fallen into the habit of cursing after a visit by Father’s youngest brother, our uncle Troilus, a naval man with a particularly spicy vocabulary. He had taught us any number of new and interesting words and Father had made little effort to curb our fluency, believing that the charm of such words would dissipate with time. It did not. If anything, we grew worse, and by the time Aunt Hermia came to live with us, it was not at all uncommon to hear “damns” and “bloodys” flying thick and fast at the tea table or over the cricket pitch. It only took a day for Aunt Hermia to devise the swear box, which she presented to us at breakfast her second morning at Bellmont Abbey. The rule was that a shilling went into the box every time one of us cursed, with the proceeds counted up once a year and shared among the family. For the most part it worked. We learned that while we could speak more freely in front of Father, Aunt Hermia’s sensibilities were more refined, and we curbed our swearing in public almost entirely. Except for Bellmont. The year that he was courting Adelaide we all had a nice seaside holiday at Bexhill on the proceeds.
Now he turned to Father. “You must speak to her. She cannot play with such a sum. If she speculates, she could lose everything. Make her see reason.”
Father’s hand continued to stroke lazily at Crab’s ears. He shrugged. “She has as much common sense as the rest of you. If she wishes to manage her own affairs, under the law, she may.”
Bellmont turned to Mr. Teasdale, who shrugged. He had been retained by the family for more than thirty years. He knew better than to involve himself in a family quarrel. He busied himself with papers and tapes, keeping his head down and his eyes firmly fixed on the task at hand.
I put a hand to Bellmont’s sleeve. “Monty, I appreciate your concern. I know that you want what is best for me. But I am not entirely stupid, you know. I read the same newspapers that you do. I understand that to purchase a share at a high price and sell it at a low one is unprofitable. I further understand that railways give a better return than canals and that gold mines are risky ventures. Besides,” I finished with a smile, “having just acquired a fortune, do you think I am so eager to lose it?”
Bellmont would not be mollified. He shook off my hand, his face stony. “You are a fool, Julia. You know less than nothing about business, and less still about investments. You are not even thirty years old, and yet you think you know as much as your elders.”
“Don’t you mean my betters?” I asked acidly. He flinched a little. He was always sensitive to criticism that he was playing the lordling.
“I wash my hands of it,” he said, his voice clipped. “When you have thrown this money away with both hands and are leading a pauper’s life, do not come to me for help.”
Father leveled his clear green gaze at Bellmont. “No, I daresay she will come to me if she has need, and I will help her, as I have always helped all of my children.”
Bellmont flushed deeply and I winced. It was unkind of Father to needle him so. Bellmont had called upon Father’s famous indulgence himself once or twice, but applying for a favor rankled him twice as deeply as it did the rest of us. He felt that, as the eldest and the heir, he should be entirely self-sufficient, which was ludicrous, really. He should and did take his livelihood from the March estate. He oversaw many of the family holdings on Father’s behalf, and his future was so deeply entwined with the future of the family that it was impossible to separate them. Even his title was on loan, a courtesy title devolved from Father’s estate at Bellmont Abbey. He had nothing to call his own except dead men’s shoes, and I think the highly Oedipal flavor of his existence sometimes proved too much for him.
As it did now. His complexion still burnished from his humiliation, he rose, offered us the most perfunctory of courtesies and took his leave, closing the door softly behind him. Bellmont would never create a scene, never slam a door. He was too controlled for that, although I sometimes wondered if a little explosion now and again mightn’t be just what he needed. He longed so much for normalcy, for a regular, unremarkable life. We were alike in that respect, both of us rather desperate to be ignored, to be regarded as conventional. We had spent a great deal of time and effort suppressing our inherent strain of wildness. I knew it cost Bellmont deeply. I wondered what it had cost me.
I looked up to find Father smiling down a little at Crab.
“Oh, don’t. It’s dreadful. I did not mean to hurt his pride—and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Bellmont cannot abide being made a figure of fun.”
“Then he ought not to provide such good sport,” Father retorted. He and Mr. Teasdale made a few polite noises at each other and the solicitor, after several more protestations of his willingness to be of service, left us. Father gave me a moment to unbend, but I did not. I kept my gaze fixed upon the window and its rather unpromising view of the garden. For May, it seemed rather unenthusiastic, and I wondered if Whittle was attempting sobriety again. He was a brilliant gardener when inspired by drink, but when he turned temperate, the garden invariably suffered.
“Oh, don’t be in a pet, Julia. Monty will come round, he’s just having a bit of a difficult patch just now. I remember forty—a hard age. It is the age when a man discovers that he is all that he is ever going to be. Some men are rather pleased at the discovery. I suspect your brother is not.”
I shrugged. “I suppose I shall have to take your word for that. But you might be kinder to him, you know. He wants to please you so badly.”
Father fixed me with a stern look and I broke, smiling. “Well, all right, that was a bit thick. But I do think he would like it if you approved of him. It would make life so much simpler.”
Father waved a hand. “A simple life is a dull life, my pet. Now, tea? Or something more medicinal, like brandy?”
I shuddered. “Tea, thank you. Brandy always reminds me of the cough preparations Nanny forced us to drink as children.”
He rang the bell. “That is because it was brandy. Nanny always said the best remedy for a cough was cherry brandy, taken neat.”
That did not surprise me. Nanny had always been one for ladling dubious remedies down our throats. It was a wonder she never poisoned one of us.
Hoots appeared, his long mournful face even more dour in honour of the occasion. Hoots had been with the family for more than forty-five years and often viewed our tragedies as his own. Father gave him the order and we waited in comfortable silence for our refreshment, the quiet broken only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional contented sigh from Crab.
When Hoots reappeared, laden not only with tea, but sandwiches, cakes, bread and butter, and a variety of pastries, we both perked up considerably. So did Crab. She sat politely on her haunches while I poured. I handed Father a plate with an assortment of titbits and laid another for Crab with slivered-ham sandwiches. She ate noisily, her thick tail slapping happily on the carpet. Father toyed with a scone, then cleared his throat.
“I believe that I owe you an apology, Julia.”
“For what? The tea is quite good. Cook even remembered a dish of that plum jam I like so well.”
“Not the tea, child.” He paused and put his cup down carefully, as though weighing his words and the china. “I ought never to have allowed you to marry Edward. I thought you could be happy with him.”
I dropped another lump of sugar into my tea and stirred. “I was. I think. At least as happy as I could have been with anyone under the circumstances.”
He said nothing, but I could tell from the way he was crumbling his macaroon he was troubled. I forced a smile. “Really, Father. You’ve nothing with which to reproach yourself. You told me at the time that you had doubts. I am the one who insisted.”
He nodded. “Yes, but I have often thought in the years since that I should have done more to prevent it.”
A thought struck me then. “Have you talked about it? Within the family?” I remembered Beatrice, bent stiffly over her needlework, not meeting my eyes.
“Yes. Your sisters were concerned for you, especially Bee. The two of you were always so close, I suppose she could sense your unhappiness. She said you never confided in her. I knew that if you had not broached the subject to her or to Portia, that you had not spoken to any of your sisters.”
“No, Nerissa is not an easy confidante. Nor Olivia, for that matter. Perfection is a chilly companion.”
He grinned in spite of himself. “They can be a bit much, I suppose. But, child, if you were truly unhappy, you should have come to us, any of us.”
“To what purpose? I am a March. Divorce would have been out of the question. I offered to release Edward from his marital obligations, but he would not hear of it. So why speak of it at all? Why air our soiled linen for the whole family to see?”
“Because it might have eased your loneliness,” he said gently. “Did you never speak to Griggs?”
I put my cup down. I had no taste for the tea now. It had gone bitter in my mouth. “I did. There was nothing to be done. A bit of a shock, really, coming from a family as prolific as ours. You would have thought I could have managed at least one.”
Silence fell again, and Father and I both resumed our teacups. It gave us something to do at least. I offered him another scone and he fed Crab a bit of seedcake.
“So, do you mean to keep Valerius with you at Grey House?” he asked finally. I was relieved at the change in subject, but only just. Val was a very sore point with Father and I knew I had best tread carefully.
“For a while at least. And the Ghoul, as well. Aunt Hermia is concerned about the propriety of my sharing a house with Val and Simon without a proper chaperone.”
Father snorted. “Simon is bedridden. His infirmity alone should be sufficient chaperone.”
I shrugged. “No matter. Aunt Ursula has actually been rather helpful. As soon as she realized that Simon was not expected to live, she settled right in. She reads to him and brings him jellies from the kitchens. They are quite cozy together.”
“And Val?” he persisted. “How does he fit into your little menagerie?”
“He comes and goes—goes mostly. I do not see much of him, but that suits us both. And when he is at home, his is quite good company.”
Father’s brows lifted. “Really? You surprise me.”
“Well, he stays in his room and leaves me to myself. He doesn’t demand to be entertained. I don’t think I could bear that.”
“Is he still pursuing his studies?”
I chose my words deliberately. Val’s insistence upon studying medicine had been the source of most of his considerable troubles with Father. Had he wanted theoretical knowledge, or even a physician’s license, Father might have approved. But becoming a surgeon was no gentleman’s wish for his son. It would put Val beyond the pale socially, and close any number of doors for him.
“I am not certain. As I said, I see little of him.”
“Hmm. And what is his diagnosis of Simon’s condition?” The words were laced with sarcasm, but lightly. Perhaps having Val out of the house was softening his stance.
“Val has not seen him, not medically. Simon is attended by Doctor Griggs. It was only at Griggs’ insistence that Simon did not come to the funeral. He would have had himself propped in a Bath chair, but Griggs was afraid the damp air would be too much for him. He continues the same. His heart is failing. It will probably be a matter of months, a year at most, before we bury him as well.”
“Has he made his peace with that?”
“I do not know. We have not spoken of it. There will be time yet.”
Father nodded and I sipped at my tea. I felt a little better now, but not much. Edward’s death had left me with vast financial resources but few personal ones. I had a year of mourning left to endure, and another loss yet to grieve.
“Your Aunt Hermia will expect a sizable donation to her refuge when word of your inheritance becomes public.”
I smiled. “She may have it. The refuge is a very worthy enterprise.” The refuge was properly known as the Whitechapel Refuge for the Reform of Penitent Women. It was Aunt Hermia’s special project, and one that simply gorged itself on money. There was always one more prostitute to feed and clothe and educate, one more bill for candles or smocks or exercise books that demanded to be paid. Aunt Hermia had managed to assemble an illustrious group of patrons who paid generously to support the reformation of prostitutes and their eventual rehabilitation from drudges to proper servants or shopgirls, but even their pockets were not bottomless. She was constantly on the prowl for fresh donors, and I was only too happy to oblige her. She prevailed upon the family to visit occasionally and teach the odd lesson, but I far preferred to send money. It was quite enough that I hired my own staff from her little flock of soiled doves. Enduring Morag was as much as I was prepared to suffer.
“And I am sure a pound or two will find its way into the coffers of the Society of Shakespearean Fellows,” I told Father. He beamed. The society was his pet, as the refuge was Aunt Hermia’s. It mostly consisted of a group of aging men writing scholarly papers about the playwright and scathing commentaries on everyone else’s papers. There was a good deal of recrimination and sometimes even violence at their monthly meetings. Father enjoyed it very much.
“Thank you, my dear. I shall dedicate my current paper to you. It concerns the use of classical allusion in the sonnets. Did you know—”
And that is the last that I heard. Father was entirely capable of wittering on about Shakespeare until doomsday. I sipped at my tea and let him talk, feeling rather drowsy. The numbness of the morning had worn away and I was simply bone tired. I drained the last sip of tea and went to replace it on the saucer.
But as I put it down, I noticed the spent tea leaves, swirled high onto the cup, curved perfectly into the shape of a serpent. I was no student of tasseomancy. I could not remember what the coil of a serpent meant. But we had known Gypsy fortune-tellers in Sussex, and I had had my future read in the leaves many times. I did not think that snakes were pleasant omens. I shrugged and tried to listen politely to Father.
It was weeks before I troubled myself to discover what the serpentine tea leaves actually foretold. By that time, though, the danger was already at hand.
THE FOURTH CHAPTER
Murder most foul, as in the best it is, But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
—William Shakespeare
Hamlet
My family lasted only as long as the funeral baked meats and libation held out. As soon as the platters were emptied and the decanters drained, they left, and Father took me back to Grey House. It looked different now, with its mourning wreaths and hatchments, muffled door knocker and shuttered windows. The mirrors and servants were draped in black crepe—not a particularly useful or attractive addition in either case. It was the most depressing homecoming I had ever known, and as the door shut solidly behind Father, I felt like the Mistletoe Bride.
Thank goodness for Morag. She took one look at my woeful face, handed me an enormous whiskey and put me straight to bed. I had taken a little chill at the funeral, and for a day or so I luxuriated in blissful irresponsibility. Morag brought me meals on trays, nothing heavy or complicated, but simple, well-cooked dishes suited to my feeble appetite. She instructed Aquinas to turn away all callers and even refused to bring me the daily avalanche of mourning correspondence that continued to descend upon Grey House. The only letters she permitted me to read were those from my family, relations too far or too infirm to make the journey to London for the funeral. Unlike most letters of condolence, these were little masterpieces of originality, full of private family jokes and bits of news calculated to amuse rather than to comfort. My brother Ly sent a highly irreverent epic poem that he had dashed off in the warmth of the Italian sun while sipping a good deal of red wine. His traveling companion, my brother Plum, sent a tiny sketch of me in mourning, with black lace butterfly wings folded in grief. Morag found me weeping over both of them and ruthlessly swept them away with all the other correspondence she had forbidden me.
“You’ll have time enough to deal with that lot when you’re well,” she told me severely. “Now finish your pudding and I will read you summat of Ivanhoe.” I did as I was told. It was just like being back in the nursery—dumplings and pots of milky tea, knightly stories and flannel-wrapped bricks. I was sorely tempted to remain there for my entire year of mourning.
But eventually the tedium defeated me. I finally rose out of boredom, put on my widow’s weeds, submitted myself to Morag’s stunningly bad hairdressing, and went downstairs to begin answering my correspondence.
And if I had expected that to relieve the boredom, I was entirely mistaken. Unlike those written by my family, these notes were invariably brief and unimaginative. They read like a series of practical applications in a guide to writing letters for all occasions, with the same phrases of hollow sympathy running through them all. I suppressed a snort. The sentiments were kindly meant, but these were the very people who would conveniently forget my existence now that I had no husband. It was an awkward business having a widow to dinner, so they would not. When my year of mourning was ended and I could respectably accept invitations, they would mean to ask me, but then someone would point out that I had inherited quite a lot of money and some nervous mama would remember the ugly little spinster she had not yet managed to pry out of her nursery and I would be struck from the list—not out of any personal dislike, but as a simple matter of mathematics. There were not enough gentlemen to go around for the young ladies as it was. Why lessen their chances further by tossing a personable young widow with a sizable purse into the mix? I had seen it happen too often to think that I would be an exception. No, once my year of mourning was finished, I would count myself lucky to be invited to Bellmont’s house for dinner.
I pushed the letters aside and considered my situation. It was not a pleasant exercise. I had a home, but it was a draughty, gloomy sort of place now that I was alone. It had always been Edward’s home rather than mine, and had always reflected his personality. With his charm stripped away, it was a shell, and a theatrical one at that. Edward’s taste had been grander than mine, and all of the rooms had been decorated thematically. From the breakfast room with its birdcage stripes, to the drawing room with its Wedgwood-blue walls, Edward had expressed himself exuberantly. There had been no room left for my personality. Even my bedroom and boudoir had been decorated for me, as a wedding present from Edward. They were Grecian, all white marble and blue hangings. The effect was beautiful, but cold, rather like Edward himself, I thought disloyally.
Only my tiny study, tucked at the back of the house, an afterthought, had been left to my whims. I had brought in an elderly red sofa from March House, its velvet beginning to shred at the seams. There were needlepoint cushions embroidered by my legion of aunts, a cozy armchair that had been my mother’s. The pictures were not particularly good; Edward had commented with wry humour that they were just the thing for an old cottage in the Cotswolds. They were landscapes and portraits of animals, things I had found in the lumber rooms at Bellmont Abbey. They were not valuable, but they reminded me of the country where I had grown up, and I often found myself daydreaming my way into them, walking the painted green hills or petting the fluffy sheep. It was absurdly sentimental of me, but I was deeply attached to Sussex and the memories of my childhood. My mother had died when I was young, but the rest of my life there had been easy and uncomplicated. It was only in London where things seemed difficult.
So, aside from my untidy little bolt-hole, I did not much like my house. Of course, I still had my family, I thought with some cheer. Ranging from the mildly odd to the wildly eccentric, they were some comfort. I knew that they loved me deeply, but I also knew that they understood me not at all. I had never fought a duel or run away with my footman or ridden a horse naked into Whitehall—all acts for which Marches were infamous. I did not even keep a pet monkey or wear turbans or dye my dogs pink. I lived quietly, conventionally, as I had always wanted, and I think I had been something of a disappointment to them.
That left my health and my fortune—both of which could disappear overnight as I had seen often enough. I rubbed at my eyes. I was becoming cynical, and not doing much for my state of mind, either. I put my head down on the desk.
“Darling, is it really so awful?” called a voice from the doorway. I looked up.
“Portia. I did not know you were here.”
“I told Aquinas not to announce me. I wanted to surprise you.”
My sister entered, trailing black scarves and feathers and a cloud of musky rose perfume. She was the only woman I knew who could make mourning look glamorous. She settled herself into Mother’s armchair, cradling her ancient pug against her chest.
“Did you have to bring that revolting creature?”
She pulled a face and nuzzled him. “You shouldn’t speak so of Mr. Pugglesworth. He quite likes you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He bit me last month, remember?”
Portia clucked at me. “Nonsense. That was a love nibble. He loves his Auntie Julia, don’t you, darling?” She cooed at him for a minute, then settled him onto my favorite cushion.
“Oh, Portia, please. Not that cushion. He’s flatulent.”
“Don’t be horrid, Julia. Puggy is nothing of the sort.”
I put my head back down on my desk. “Why did you come?”
“Because I knew you would be contemplating suicide in some highly uncreative fashion and I wanted to help.”
I raised my head just enough to see her. “No, not yet. But I will confess to being completely anguished. Portia, what am I to do?”
She leaned forward, her March-green eyes sparkling. Portia had always been the most beautiful of my sisters, and she knew just how to use her charms to greatest effect.
“You can begin by leaving off the self-pity. It is unbecoming,” she said, her tone faintly reproving. “And don’t pout, either. I tell you these things because someone must. You have had a chance to accustom yourself to Edward’s loss. It is time you admitted it is not a crushing blow.”
I sighed and rested my chin in my hands. “I know. It just feels so awful, so disloyal to admit that I actually feel rather liberated by it.”
“Not at all. How do you think I felt when Bettiscombe died?”
“A bit of a different situation, I think,” I put in, remembering her aging, infirm husband. “It was a merciful release when Bettiscombe passed away. He’d been malingering for years.”
“So had Edward,” she said, a trifle acidly. “We both married sickly men, my darling. The only difference was that we all thought Bettiscombe was hypochondriacal.”
He had been, poor thing. Always taking his temperature and palpating his pulse. He had been forty-five when Portia married him, and he had seemed robust enough at the time. We all thought his throat drops and chest plasters a charming affectation. But during their first winter together at his home in Norfolk, he had taken a chill and promptly died, leaving Portia a rich widow of twenty.
Of course, Portia was not quite as distraught as she might have been. In London, Bettiscombe had been charming and waggish, ready for any jape, so long as he was well wrapped against draughts. In the country, he was a perfect mouse, rising at six and retiring by eight. He fretted over everything without the whirl of London distraction, and had left Portia too often in the company of his spinster cousin and poor relation, Jane. He died before the true nature of their relationship became apparent, and Portia lost no time in returning to London and bringing dear Jane with her to set up house together in the elegant town house Bettiscombe had left her. I knew my widowhood should not prove half so interesting to my family as Portia’s had.
“But you must have felt a tiny prickle of guilt,” I prodded her. Portia frowned. She never liked to be reminded of things she had tucked neatly away.
“Not guilt, not precisely,” she said slowly. “It was rather more complicated than that. But I had my sweet Jane for compensation. And I think you would do rather better if you counted your own advantages rather than mooning about trying to convince yourself that you have lost your one true love.”
“Portia, that is unspeakably cruel.”
Her eyes were sympathetic, but her manner was brisk. “I know that you wish to mourn Edward. He was a lovely person and we were all quite fond of him. But the man you buried was not the child you played with. Do not make the mistake of climbing into his grave and forgetting to live the rest of your life.”
My fingers were cramping and I realized that my hands were clenched. I rose. “Portia, I do not wish to speak of this now. Not to you, not to anyone. I shall conduct myself as I see fit, not to please you or Father or anyone else,” I finished grandly. I swept to the door.
“Hoorah,” she said softly, still not moving from Mother’s chair. “The little mouse is beginning to roar.”
I slammed the door behind me.
I spent the rest of the day in a high sulk, pouting about the evil treatment I had received at my sister’s hands and trying not to think about the possibility that she might have been correct. Edward had been my friend and companion when we were children together in Sussex. Our fathers’ estates had marched together, and Edward and his young cousin, Simon, had often joined in our games and theatricals and expeditions about the countryside. Like all of my sisters, I had come out into society, but I alone had held myself aloof from the few timid advances that had come my way. I suppose, having been raised on stories of knightly adventures and chivalric endeavors, I had been waiting for my very own storybook hero. But it seemed rather heroic when Edward left off of squiring some lissome beauty about the dance floor and came to sip punch with me where I sat by the potted palms. I was not like the other girls; I had no frivolous conversation or pretty tricks to win suitors. I had forthrightness and plainspoken manners. I had a good mind and a sharp tongue, and I was cruel enough to use them as weapons to keep the cads and rogues at bay. As for the young men I might have liked to partner me, I was far better at repelling than attracting. I did not swoon or carry a vinaigrette or turn squeamish at the mention of spiders. Father had raised us to scorn such feminine deceptions. Like my brothers, I wanted to talk about good books and urgent politics, new ideas and foreign places. But the young men I met did not like that. They wanted pretty dolls with silvery giggles and empty heads.
All except Edward. He always seemed perfectly content to sit with me, or even dance with me at considerable risk to his toes. We talked for hours of things other young men would never discuss. People began to talk, linking our names in gossip, and finally, during one particularly painful waltz, Edward smiled down at me and asked me to marry him.
I thought about it for a week. I considered hard whether or not I even wanted to marry. Father said little, but pointed me to the shelf in his library where he housed John Stuart Mill, Mary Wollstonecraft and even, shockingly, some Annie Besant. It was highly discouraging. There were few advantages to marriage for a woman. But there were fewer advantages to spinsterhood. I had already grown tired of the careful whispers behind the fans and the avid eyes that followed me. I was certain that they were saying that I was not the beauty my sisters were, that I would not marry as well as they. Those whispers and glances would follow me the rest of my life if I did not marry, speculating on what frightfulness of mine had driven away any potential suitors. I could not bear that. I was already conscious of how much we were talked about, of how amusing we were to society and how closely to the pale of respectability we walked. Only Father’s close association with the queen and the very ancientness of our lineage preserved us from becoming a complete joke. What I longed for most was normalcy—a quiet, average marriage in an unremarkable home where I could raise my perfectly normal children. That notion was more seductive to me than diamonds. And as a married woman I could travel more easily, have male friends without exciting suspicion, have my own home away from a family that was as maddening as they were delightful. A bit of quiet space to call my own, that is what marriage represented to me.
So I accepted Edward on a chilly night early in spring. Father gave his blessing with the proviso that I spend the summer accompanying Aunt Cressida on her travels. It was the only thing he asked of me, and Edward agreed readily enough. He spent the summer with friends in Sussex while I toured the Lake District with a cranky old woman and her assorted cats. Edward and I were married that December in London. I think I was a happy bride. All I could ever remember afterward were the terrible nerves. I dropped things—my bouquet, the pen for the register—and as I came out of the church, I heard a rooster crow, very bad luck for a bride on her wedding day. For a moment I wondered if it was indeed an omen. But then I looked up into Edward’s smiling face and I realized how foolish I was. Edward was my friend, my childhood companion. He was no stranger to me. How could I fear marriage to him?
In the end, there was nothing to fear. No great tragedies. Just the small troubles, the little tragedies that can dull a marriage and cause it to fray. We had no child, Edward’s health began to fail, we began to follow our own pursuits and spent less and less time together. Edward was pernickety, something I had noted before, but never considered in the context of our life together. It meant that things must be just so for him to be happy. The decoration of the house, the cut of my clothes, the folding of the towels, the laying of the table. I laughed at first and tried to jolly him out of it, but he grew stubborn, and after a while I realized it was easier to let him have his way. The house was kept the way he liked it, my clothes were ordered from his dead mother’s dressmaker, in colours he favored that I knew suited me not at all. But it made him happy, and I cared so little. It was easy to convince myself that these things did not matter. We had been married a few years by the time I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass and realized I did not know my own reflection. I was losing myself a bit at a time, and I did not know how to get it back. My only refuge was my study, where I kept my favorite books and furniture discarded from my father’s homes. In that room I wore an old dressing gown that Edward detested. He learned not to come there, and I learned to lock myself in when I needed to feel like Julia March again, if only for a little while. It was my little den, my nest of comforts for when I felt unruly and savage and found myself itching to rebel against the normality I had thought I wanted. I went there and calmed myself and found peace in letting him have his way yet again. I was always afraid that if I stood my ground, if I argued for scarlet gowns or purple velvet draperies, I would slip too far down the path toward the very thing I was trying to avoid. There was too much colour in being a March, and Edward, with my willing assistance, did all that he could to paint my life beige.
I think, too, that perhaps I gave way so often because I knew that he would not live long. There was always a sense of waiting in our house, watching for the final attack, for a worsening of his symptoms, for the time when the doctor must be called and preparations made. It had made for an uneasy life, and I dreaded the idea that I should have to live it all again with Simon. True, he was not my husband, but I did love him dearly, like another brother, and to know that his time would be so short was almost more than I could bear. A year at most, the doctor had said. And so little to be done for him in the meanwhile.
But what of afterward? I wondered as I sat in my study, contemplating my mourning. What would become of me then? The life I had fashioned for myself as Edward’s wife seemed intolerably small now. And in spite of its size, Grey House suffocated me. The air was dead as a tomb, and the rooms full of memories that I did not wish to preserve. How then to break free of them?
The Ghoul could be persuaded to leave in search of more intimately connected bereavements. Val could simply be told to take rooms for himself or return to Father’s. Grey House would be empty, those enormous rooms echoing coldly. It was big, far too big for a childless widow. I could sell it and purchase a much smaller house, something still near to the park, but on a quieter street. Something elegant and discreet, with a tiny staff, perhaps only Aquinas and Morag, with Cook and a pair of maids and Diggory, the coachman. The battalion of maids that it took to run Grey House could be gotten new places. The footmen were a useless extravagance, they too could be given good characters and let go.
The more I considered the idea, the more excited I became. I found myself walking the rooms of Grey House mentally cataloging what pieces I would take with me and which I would send to the auction house, or perhaps sell with the house itself. There was little I wanted. Almost every painting or piece of furniture carried Edward’s stamp. I wanted to start afresh, with new things I had chosen for myself. It would take a while to settle matters, I realized. Grey House had so many rooms, all fitted with costly furnishings. To arrange for it all to be sold and to fit out a new house could take months. Months I might spend more profitably abroad, I decided. I could shop for new pieces in Paris and Italy, taking a leisurely tour of the Continent as I went. I had been to Paris before, but never beyond, and the notion of Europe tantalized me. So many shops and museums, so much culture and beauty. Opera, paintings, books, concerts, the ideas spun me around and dizzied me. I could take as long as I liked. And to make matters simpler, my brothers Ly and Plum were still traveling in Italy, having discovered that two could live as cheaply there as one could in London. They were artists, one a poet and composer, the other a painter. They would provide me with companionship, sympathy, laughter. And when I needed to be alone, I could simply move on—Perugia, Rome, Capri, Florence—the possibilities were endless. I need not even plan my return, but simply take things as they came, wandering idly from city to city as my fancy took me. The very idea was more intoxicating than any spirit I had ever drunk.
Stealthily, I raided Edward’s library for every book I could find on Italy. I pored over maps, plotting out a dozen different itineraries. I read lives of saints and politicians and princesses and made endless lists of verbs to memorize and temples to visit. Within a few days, I was drunk with Italy and starting to recover quite nicely from the shock of Edward’s death. I knew that I had not come to terms with the vastness of it yet, but I also knew that grief takes its own time. I would distract myself with plans and projects, and would pass my first year of mourning with purposeful occupation. And at the end of it, I believed I would be able to think of Edward with something like fondness, perhaps even nostalgia.
Of course, nothing like that happened, but I do not entirely blame myself. I think I might have pottered along quite civilly had Nicholas Brisbane not come to call. It was a week after the funeral and I was in my study, valiantly trying to twist my tongue and pen around an irregular verb, when Aquinas scratched at the door.
I bade him enter and he did, bearing a salver with a caller’s card. I glanced at it and felt myself flush with guilt. I had meant to write to Mr. Brisbane and thank him for his prompt resourcefulness during Edward’s collapse. At first I simply put it off, dreading the task. After that I had forgotten, enchanted as I was with my paper Italy.
I told Aquinas to show him in at once. I dashed the pen into its holder and thrust my untidy papers into the book of Italian grammar. I was just scrabbling the last stray lock of hair into my snood when Aquinas reappeared with Mr. Brisbane.
I rose, moving around the desk to bid him welcome. I was conscious then of the plainness of the room, its tattered edges that seemed even shabbier when compared to his impeccable tailoring. He was dressed in a town suit that had been cut by a master’s hand; his black leather boots were highly polished, and in his hand he carried an ebony cane, its silver head resting in the hollow of his hand.
“Mr. Brisbane—” I began, but he raised a gloved hand.
“You must permit me to apologize before anything else,” he said, his expression inscrutable. “I know full well the indelicacy of calling upon so new a widow, and you must believe that I would not intrude upon your grief were the matter not one of extreme importance.”
My eyes flew to the desk, stacked high with traveling books, and I felt myself grow warm. “Of course, Mr. Brisbane. I must apologize for my own incivility.” I waved him to the chair and perched myself on the edge of the sofa. He seated himself as a cat will, lightly, with an air of suspended motion that seemed to indicate wariness and an ability to move quite quickly if circumstances demanded. His hat and gloves rested in his lap. He kept the walking stick in his hand, rolling the head in his palm.
I rushed to speak. “I neglected to write to you, to thank you for your dispatch and your resourcefulness the night my husband—” I paused, searching for a word that was neither too vague nor too indelicate “—collapsed,” I finished. It was a weak sort of word, one I would not have chosen had I been speaking to anyone else.
But something about Nicholas Brisbane intimidated me. It was ridiculous that this man, about whom I knew nothing, whose birth and circumstances were likely inferior to my own, should cause me to be so unsettled. Without thinking, I smoothed my skirts over my lap, conscious of the careless creases. He was watching me, coolly, as if looking through a microscope at a mildly distasteful specimen. I lifted my chin, attempting aloofness, but I am certain I did not manage it.
“Do not think of it, I beg you,” he said finally, settling back more comfortably in his chair. “I was gratified to have been of some small service to Sir Edward in his time of need.”
I could hear Aquinas, thumping things about in the hall. Like all good butlers, he was usually cat-footed about his work. His noises were a signal to me that he was within earshot if I needed him.
“Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Brisbane? Tea?”
He waved a lazy hand. His gestures were indolent ones, but affectedly so. He might wear the mantle of the idle London gentleman, but I had seen with my own eyes that he could move quickly enough if the situation warranted action. I found it curious, though, that he adopted a pose of sorts.
Without the prospect of tea to look forward to, I was at a loss. I knew it was my responsibility to introduce a topic of respectable conversation, but in that interminable moment, my breeding failed me. The only event we had in common was the one of which we had already spoken and could not possibly speak of again. Mr. Brisbane seemed comfortable with the silence, but I was not. It reminded me of the endless chess games I used to play with my father when one or the other of us invariably forgot it was our turn and we sat, ossifying, until we realized that we were actually supposed to move.
In fact, the more I studied Mr. Brisbane, the more he resembled a chess king. Polished and hard, with a certain implacable dignity. He was darker than any man I knew, with storm-black eyes and a head of thick, waving hair to match that would have made Byron prickle with jealousy.
But my scrutiny did not amuse him. He arched a brow at me, imperious as an emperor. I was mightily impressed. He did it much better than Aunt Hermia.
“My lady, are you quite well?”
“Quite,” I managed feebly, trying to think of a convincing lie. “I have not been sleeping very well.”
“Understandable, I am sure,” he offered. He paused, then sat forward in his chair with the air of a man who has just made up his mind to do something unpleasant, but necessary.
“My lady, I have not come solely to offer my condolences. I have come to deliver news that I feel will certainly be unwelcome, but must be related nonetheless.”
My stomach began to ache and I regretted missing luncheon. Whatever Mr. Brisbane had to tell me, I was quite certain I did not want to hear it.
“My lady, what do you know of me?”
The question caught me unawares. I struggled a moment, trying to reconcile gossip with decorum. What I had heard, and what I could repeat, were not always the same thing.
“I believe you are a detective of sorts. A private inquiry agent. I have heard that you solve problems.”
His mouth twisted, but I could not tell if it was meant to be a smile or a grimace. “Among other things. I returned to London two years ago. Since then, I have enjoyed some success in disposing of matters of a delicate nature for people who do not care to share their difficulties with the Metropolitan Police. Last year, I decided to set myself up in business formally. I have no offices as such, nor is there a sign proclaiming my profession at my rooms in Chapel Street. There are simply discreet referrals from clients who have availed themselves of my services and been pleased with the result.”
I nodded, understanding almost nothing of what he said. The words made sense, but I could not imagine what they had to do with me.
“The reason I am here today, my lady, is because one of those clients was your late husband, Sir Edward Grey.”
I took his meaning at once. I bit my lip, mortified.
“Oh, I am so sorry. My husband’s solicitors are handling the disposition of his accounts. If you will apply to Mr. Teasdale, he will be only too happy to settle—”
“I do not require money from you, my lady, only answers.” He cast a glance toward the open door. Aquinas was careful to leave no shadow across the threshold, but I fancied he was not far away. Mr. Brisbane must have sensed it as well, for when he spoke, his voice was a harsh whisper.
“Have you considered the possibility that your husband was murdered?”
I sat, still as a frightened rabbit. “You have a cruel sense of humour, Mr. Brisbane,” I said through stiff lips. I thought again of Aquinas lingering in the hall. I had only to call him and he would remove Mr. Brisbane from my house. He was no match for Mr. Brisbane’s inches, but he could enlist the footmen to throw him bodily out the door.
“It is no jest, my lady, I assure you. Sir Edward came to me, a fortnight or so before he died. He was anxious, fearful even.”
“Fearful of what?”
“Death. He was in mortal fear for his life. He believed that someone intended to murder him.”
I shook my head. “Impossible. Edward had no enemies.”
Brisbane’s cool expression did not waver. “He had at least one, my lady. An enemy who sent him threatening letters through the post.”
I swallowed thickly. “That is untrue. Edward would have told me.”
He remained silent, giving me the time to work it out for myself. I did finally, and it was horrible.
“You think that I sent them? Is that what I am to infer?”
He made a brief gesture of dismissal. “I considered the possibility, naturally. But Sir Edward assured me that it was unthinkable. And now, having met you …”
“I do not believe you, Mr. Brisbane. If Edward did receive such letters, where are they?”
His expression was pained. “I encouraged Sir Edward to leave them with me for safekeeping. He refused. I do not know what has become of them. Perhaps he locked them up or gave them to his solicitor. Perhaps he even destroyed them, although I implored him not to.”
“You expect me to believe this fairy story of yours when you can offer not the slightest particle of proof?”
He spoke slowly, as one does to a backward child. “Perhaps your ladyship will be good enough to consider the fact that I was present at Grey House when Sir Edward collapsed. I came at Sir Edward’s request. I suggested to him that if I had an opportunity to observe his closest acquaintances I could offer him some notion as to who might be responsible for the letters and for the threat implicit within them.”
“Your name was not on the list,” I remembered suddenly. “I sent you no invitation card. How did you gain entrance that night?”
“Sir Edward let me in himself.”
“Can you prove this?” I asked evenly.
There was the barest flush at his brow, probably of irritation. “I cannot. There was no one present except ourselves. We had arranged that I would come a few minutes early. He wanted to give me the lay of the land, so to speak.”
“And no one saw you with Edward? No one can corroborate your tale?”
His lips thinned and I realized that he was holding on to his temper with difficulty. “My lady, my clients come to me because my reputation for integrity and probity is completely unsullied. I had no reason to wish your husband ill, I can assure you.” For the first time I heard the faintest trace of an accent in his voice. Scottish perhaps, given his surname, but whatever it was he had clearly taken great pains to conceal it. I took it as a measure of his emotion that it crept out in his speech now.
“And yet, I am not assured, Mr. Brisbane. My husband is dead, of quite natural causes, according to the doctor who treated him all of his life. I have the certificate that states it plainly. But you would come in here, intruding upon the freshest grief, venting accusations so vile I cannot possibly credit them. You can offer me no proof except your good name, and you expect me to find that sufficient. Tell me, Mr. Brisbane, what was your true purpose in coming here?”
His flush had ebbed, leaving him paler than before. He had mastered his temper as well, and his manner was cool again.
“I sought only to right a wrong, my lady. If your husband was murdered, justice should be meted out to the guilty.”
“And you would be paid to find them, would you not? You present impeccable motives to me, Mr. Brisbane, but I think you play at a more lucrative game.”
His eyes narrowed sharply. “What do you mean, my lady?”
“I think you hope to profit, Mr. Brisbane. If I engage you to finish the task you claim my husband presented you, you will be handsomely paid, I have no doubt. And if I do not wish your allegations to appear in the newspapers, you will expect payment for that as well, I expect.”
That stung him. He rose, not quickly as I had expected, but with a slow, purposeful motion that was more frightening than a display of anger would have been. His eyes never left my face as he stood over me, drawing on his gloves and shooting his cuffs.
“If you were a man, your ladyship, I would cordially horsewhip you for that remark. As you are not, I will simply bid you farewell and leave you to your fresh and obviously debilitating grief.” He said this last with a contemptuous glance at the Italian books piled on my desk and strode from the room.
I heard the murmur of voices as Aquinas showed him out, and then the resounding thud of the door itself. I felt rather proud of myself for my spirited defense. Father was always claiming that I was too reticent, too easily cowed for his taste. Mr. Brisbane had confronted me with something too awful to contemplate, and I had met him squarely.
I returned to my verbs with a sense of vindication and triumph I had seldom felt. But I noted as I wrote out the words that my hand shook, and after that I was never able to think of that day without the creeping certainty that I had made a dangerous mistake.
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
This busy, puzzling stirrer-up of doubt, That frames deep mysteries, then finds ‘em out.
—John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
“A Satire Against Mankind”
“Of course you did the right thing, darling. Nicholas Brisbane is the sort of man one takes to bed, and since, clearly, that is not the sort of thing you would do …” Portia’s voice trailed off, but her meaning was explicit. I was not daring enough; I lacked the dash and the spirit to bed a man I barely knew.
“You would not take him to bed, either,” I reminded her sulkily.
“Yes, but for a very different reason. Jane would never forgive me if I went back with men. And I did promise her to remain faithful. You, on the other hand, do not engage in the Sapphic pleasures, so you would be perfectly free to avail yourself of Mr. Brisbane’s considerable charms and expertise.”
I glanced around furtively. The footpaths in Hyde Park, when deserted, provide excellent opportunities for privileged conversation. But Portia’s voice was carrying, and I feared eavesdroppers.
She slapped at my arm lightly, then looped hers through mine. “I was right to call you a little mouse. There is no one about for miles.”
That much was true. I had arranged our meeting for eleven o’clock in the morning, long past the hour when fashionable society exercised itself on the horse paths. There were a few children about with their vigilant nursemaids, but they were far away, near the Serpentine. I could scarcely hear the shouts of the children at play.
“I still have not forgiven you for calling me that,” I reminded her.
“Duly noted, my pet. But I am your elder sister. It is my duty to abuse you when necessary.”
We shared a little smile and both of us knew she was forgiven. I could never stay angry with Portia for long. Particularly not when I needed her.
“What do you mean ‘expertise’?” I asked suddenly. She lifted her brows meaningfully.
“Dearest, you must come to one of my card parties. Caroline Pilkington is the most revolting gossip. As long as she is winning, she will tell you simply everything.”
I stared at Portia, remembering Caroline’s ample hips and fleshy arms. I could not picture them twined with Mr. Brisbane’s. He had seemed so urbane, so groomed and fastidious, that I could not credit him willingly engaged in any intimacy with a woman who was famous for changing her underlinen only once each month.
“Do you mean that Mr. Brisbane and Caro Pilkington—”
“Don’t be daft. Her sister Mariah, the pretty one, apparently had a very brief liaison with him. Her husband objected and Brisbane graciously withdrew. Apparently it was all quite gentlemanly. Horace approached him at the club, stated his case, Brisbane agreed, and they shared a cigar and a glass of brandy together. Brisbane broke it off that very evening. Mariah was bereft, according to Caro. She’s had scores of lovers and says he was quite something extraordinary. Apparently, he uses disguises sometimes in the course of his investigations. In his liaison with Mariah, he used them for discretion. He came to her once dressed as a chimney sweep. Quite invigorating, don’t you think?”
I felt flushed, in spite of the coolness of the morning. “That may well be, but it is considerably off the subject. I need advice.”
Portia stopped walking and turned to face me, her expression stern. “No, Julia, you need adventure. You need a lover, a holiday abroad. You need to cut your hair and swim naked in a river. You need to eat things you have never even seen before and speak languages you do not know. You need to kiss a man who makes you feel like your knees have turned to water and makes your heart feel as though it would spring from your chest.”
Her eyes were so earnest that I burst out laughing. “I think you have been at my romantic novels again.”
“And what if I have? You went from Father’s house to Edward’s, knowing nothing. You have spent the past five years married to a man who barely acknowledged your existence in his house and who certainly did not provide you with an exciting bedmate. You are free now, rich and healthy and quite handsome. Do something with yourself or you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
“I had thought of going to Italy,” I said hesitantly.
She snorted. “Italy. To point at the statues and buy out the shops? I am not talking about simply a holiday abroad. I am talking about seizing your life and truly living it before it is too late.”
She knew me too well. “I am not such a wallflower. I sent Mr. Brisbane off with a flea in his ear,” I defended.
“Nicholas Brisbane is an adventure unto himself, Julia. Far too dangerous for you to handle, I can assure you. You were quite right to send him away. If I were not so devoted to Jane, I should be quite intrigued by him myself. You know, absolutely no one knows where he comes from. It is a very great mystery.”
“I should think he comes from Mr. and Mrs. Brisbane, wherever and whoever they might be.”
“Don’t be so literal, dearest. Apparently, he is very great friends with the Duke of Aberdour. The old gentleman sponsored him into his clubs the season before last. But no one knows why. Does he have some hold over Aberdour? Is he the bastard son no one ever suspected? It is quite possible that he is a Scot, given his connection with Aberdour, although no one really knows. Welsh, perhaps? A Savoyard count with a dark past full of misdeeds? Is he a Bonaparte prince in disguise, biding his time until he can claim his throne? It is all quite thrilling, don’t you think?”
“It is not thrilling, it is disgraceful. Imagine anyone accusing the sweet old Duke of Aberdour of foisting his bastard on society. And as for being a Bonaparte prince, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
Portia snorted. “You have never met Aberdour. Sweet isn’t the word. And no, I do not really think Mr. Brisbane is a prince, but there is something quite intriguing about him, the tiniest bit uncivilized—like a lion in a zoo. I can well imagine him the descendant of bloodthirsty Corsicans. And he would look rather well in an emperor’s robes.”
“Why do you think him dangerous?”
“That business last year with Lord Northrup’s son.” She paused and I looked at her blankly. “Goodness, Julia, will you never learn to listen to gossip? It can be quite useful. Apparently, Northrup’s youngest son was cheating at cards. At first he won only modest amounts, nothing to raise too many suspicions. But then he began to be greedy. He started playing for much higher stakes, winning conspicuously. He ruined the Bishop of Winchester’s nephew. Someone, perhaps the bishop, engaged Mr. Brisbane to sort it out.”
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Brisbane managed to get himself invited into a game where Northrup’s son was playing. Young Northrup won, and Mr. Brisbane immediately charged him with cheating. The young scoundrel had no choice. He challenged Brisbane to a duel and the particulars were arranged.”
“A duel? That is illegal,” I put in. Portia rolled her eyes.
“Of course it is illegal. And highly dangerous. That is what makes it interesting, ninny. They met at dawn, with pistols. They paced off the proper distance, turned, and Brisbane fired first, clipping young Northrup’s curls just over his ear.”
“And then?”
“Are you quite all right? You look flushed. Are you overwarm?”
I felt a spasm of irritation. She could not see my complexion through my veil. She was simply trying to draw out the tale, larding the suspense. Although, now that she mentioned it, I did feel a trifle hot.
“I am fine, Portia. Get on with it.”
She shrugged. “Well, it was young Northrup’s turn to fire, but he thought to provoke a retraction from Brisbane instead. He pointed his pistol at him and told him that if Brisbane would withdraw the accusation, he would not fire. Julia, you are breathing quite fast. I am concerned for you.”
I took her firmly by the arm. “Finish the story.”
“Very well. Brisbane refused.”
“No!”
“He did. He stared down the barrel of young Northrup’s pistol and said, ‘You are a cheater and a scoundrel and I will say so, even with my dying breath,’ or something like that. He stood square to little Northrup, and the young man could not fire at him. He discharged his weapon in the air and left in disgust.”
I dropped my hand. “But Northrup might have killed him.”
“That is why I said he was dangerous,” she said gravely. “A man who cares so little for his own mortality might well play loose with someone else’s.” Her expression turned mischievous. “But it does make for a rather dashing story, doesn’t it? Can’t you just see him there, the mist swirling about his legs, the sun just beginning to rise, burnishing his ebony hair …”
I poked at her with the end of my parasol. “Do be serious, Portia. I think I may have made a mistake in sending him away.”
Portia sobered. “No, dearest. Nicholas Brisbane is a complicated man. You need simplicity for a while. You must be selfish and think of happy, easy things—like new shoes and a good set of furs.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she went on.
“And as for the threatening letters, I am inclined to think our deliciously devilish Mr. Brisbane was telling the truth. Edward probably annoyed someone at the club with a silly prank and they decided to pay him back in kind.”
I felt dizzy with relief. “Of course! That must have been it. A prank that Edward did not recognize for a jest. Then Mr. Brisbane was acting in sincerity,” I finished, feeling rather miserable. If he had been sincere, I had behaved appallingly.
Portia put her head to mine. “Be cheered. I am certain he has been harassed by more vituperative women than you. To him, it is probably a hazard associated with his profession. Believe me, he will not think of you again.”
For some unaccountable reason, I found this to be less than comforting. I loathed the man and his vile implications about Edward, but I did not like to think of myself as forgettable. Instead, I seized on something she had said earlier that had gone unremarked upon.
“Do you really think I am handsome?”
“Absolutely,” she answered at once. She canted her head, studying my face through my widow’s veil. “But there is work we could do …. “
I looked at her suspiciously. Portia loved projects. If I allowed her to undertake me as a project, there was no knowing where it might lead. I might not recognize myself at the end of it.
Then I thought about her remarks—that I needed an adventure, that Brisbane was more of a challenge than I could handle, that he would not think of me again. And suddenly I felt angry, reckless, desperate to do something to change myself and the course I was on toward a staid old age of boredom and bread puddings.
“Then let us begin,” I replied firmly.
Portia’s eyes sparkled as she began to detail her plans. I was only half listening. I knew that I would give her free rein and that she would do exactly as she pleased with me. Her taste was impeccable, and I had little doubt that I would turn out better at her hands than I had from Aunt Hermia’s or Edward’s.
She chattered on about coiffeurs and corsets, but I was still thinking of Nicholas Brisbane’s dark eyes and cool manners. A year would pass before I saw him again. And it was then that the adventure truly began.
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
—William Shakespeare
“Sonnet 94”
Of course, it did not seem like anything of an adventure at the time. Despite Portia’s efforts with my appearance, I still spent most of my time at Grey House, reading to Simon, listening to Aunt Ursula detail her newest remedy for constipation, or waiting for Val to return home from his evergrowing number of social engagements. My year of widowhood was nearly at an end and I was beginning to chafe under the restrictions. I had not been to the theatre or the opera since Edward’s death. I had not entertained, and had been invited to only the most intimate of family parties. I felt sometimes as though I might as well have been locked up in a Musselman’s harim considering how little I was actually outside of Grey House.
As for Portia’s suggestion that I take a lover, the very idea was laughable. I saw few men, save those I employed or to whom I was related by blood or marriage. I had only the notion of Italy to sustain me. I had mapped out my plans to the last detail, dispatching letters to delightful innkeepers and receiving particulars on their accommodations. I had applied myself diligently to the study of Italian, and with Simon to tutor me I made rather good progress. He had always had a good ear for languages, and was enormously patient with my mistakes.
“You are a natural,” he told me more than once. “I could close my eyes and believe you were Venetian.”
“Liar,” I said happily.
And we were happy, I think, in spite of his bouts of breathlessness and the fevers that left him too weak to hold a book. I used to look up quickly and catch him, a hand pressed quietly to his chest as he stilled his jagged breathing. But even then he would not forgo our lesson.
“It is all up here, my darling,” he said, tapping his brow. “Now, tell me, how would you say, ‘these gardens are beautiful’?”
“Questi giardini sono belli,” I replied.
“Very good. Now ask what sort of tree this is.”
“Che albero è questo? But Simon, I’m not terribly interested in trees, I’m afraid.”
He smiled up at me, his face pink with exertion and pleasure. “Ah, Julia. You are going to Italy. You must be interested in everything. You must be open to every possibility.”
Strange that both he and Portia should parrot the same theme. Change, possibility, opportunity … but as I looked at Simon, I remembered that this particular opportunity would not come my way until he had passed from my life.
I think he remembered it, too, for he looked away then and told me to begin counting, a skill I had mastered a month before.
It did not matter. It was something safe to speak of when we dared not speak of other things.
“Uno, due, tre …”
And so the year passed away, dully, though not entirely unpleasantly, until the April morning I decided to clean out Edward’s desk. I had not entered his study in months, certain that the maids were keeping it tidy, but now, as the spring sunlight streamed into the room for the first time in weeks, I saw what a halfhearted effort they had made.
Stacks of books and old correspondence remained where Edward had left them, organized in his own peculiar system and bound with coloured tapes. I had leafed through them once to make certain that the letters did not require a response—and for any sign of the notes Mr. Brisbane had mentioned as well. I had found nothing. I had been relieved, so relieved that I had simply shut the room up and left it, much as I had left his bedchamber and dressing room. It had been very easy to turn my attention to more pressing matters, and very easy to convince myself that anything was more pressing than sorting Edward’s things. The spring had been a wet one, and I had spent many long hours curled in my old dressing gown, lazing by the fire with a book. But days of chilly rain had given way to watery sunshine, cold, but nonetheless bright, and I was determined to take advantage of it. I ordered a pot of fresh tea and a plate of sandwiches and set to work.
An hour later I had made quite good progress. The papers were sorted, the books organized and the sandwiches almost all eaten. Only the drawers themselves were left.
Briskly, I set to work, emptying the contents of the tightly packed drawers onto the desk. There was little Edward had not saved. Programs from theatre evenings, his private betting book, ticket stubs, letters dating back several years at least. His account books had been given over to the solicitors, but everything else was still packed into those five drawers. I went through them all, sorting the detritus to be burned and the few small tokens worth keeping. It was painful and sad to reduce a man to a handful of things—among them a pen with a nub broken to his hand. I should have thrown that away; it never wrote properly for me, skipping and stuttering ink across the page. There was a thin volume of poetry I did not remember him owning, a small sketch he had made of a ruined courtyard long forgotten, a broken watch chain, a molting black feather. A few bits and bobs, and nothing of importance, I realized sadly. The rest was tipped into a basket for rubbish to be hauled away by one of the footmen. The drawers fresh and empty, I prepared to replace them back onto their runners. I had never cared for the desk itself—it was a very large piece, thick with Jacobean carving, but it would likely fetch a good price at auction.
I had just slotted the last drawer into place when I realized that it would not shut. I pushed at it again, but it was caught on something and I pulled it out. My fingers touched a tightly wedged twist of paper, far at the back, hidden in shadow. I worked at it a moment with my fingers and a paper knife before I wrested it loose. A program from the opera, like a dozen others, scribbled over with the names of likely horses. I turned it over, and from inside its leaves fell a small piece of paper, violently creased, as though it had been thrust into the progam in a tremendous hurry and stuffed at the back of the drawer. I smoothed it out, thinking that it was very probably a scrap of a poem that Edward wanted to remember or a note to try a particular wine.
But I was very wrong. It was plain paper, inexpensive, with a bit of verse cut from a book pasted onto it.
“Let me not be ashamed, O Lord; for I have called upon Thee; let the wicked be ashamed, and let them be silent in the grave.”
Below it was a rough drawing in pen and ink, only a few lines, but its shape was unmistakable. It was a coffin. And on the stone sketched at its head was a tiny inscription.
Edward Grey. 1854-1886. Now he is silent.
I stared at the page, wishing fervently that I had never found it. Although Mr. Brisbane had never described the notes to me, I felt certain that I had found one. And having seen one, I was also certain that Portia was wrong—this was no jest. Malice fairly emanated from the paper.
I held on to it for a long time, fighting the temptation to throw it into the wastepaper basket and let the footman cart it away to be burned. I could not simply crumple it back into the depths of the desk, pretending I had not found it at all. It would linger there, like a canker, and I knew that my fingers would go to it again and again. No, if I were going to be rid of it, it must be destroyed entirely. I could do it myself, I realized with a glance at the brisk fire crackling away on the grate. No one would ever know—it was a small thing; it would be consumed in a matter of seconds.
But no amount of burning would change what I had seen. And having seen it, I could not forget what it meant. Someone had wished Edward dead, enough to terrorize him with vicious notes, making his last days fearful ones. At the very least, the sender of these notes had harmed his peace of mind.
But what else might this malicious hand have done? Had it done murder? I would never have credited such a thought had Nicholas Brisbane not put it into my mind, but there it was. Edward was a perfect victim in so many ways. He was very nearly the last member of a family famed for its ill health. Neither his father nor grandfather had lived to see thirty-five. Edward was almost thirty-two. He had never been robust, even as a child. And in the year before his death, his health had grown dramatically worse, manifesting the same symptoms that had taken his grandfather and father before him. It would be a small matter to introduce some poison to such a delicate constitution; perhaps it would even work more quickly on one so weakened by poor health. How simple it would have been for some unknown villain to send along a box of chocolates or a bottle of wine laced with something unspeakable.
But why the notes, then? Would they not serve as a warning to Edward? He would have been on his guard, surely, against such an attack. Or would he have been naive enough to believe that his murderer would strike openly, that he would have a chance to defend himself? I knew nothing of his thoughts, his fears during those days. Edward kept no diary, no written record of his days. And he had clearly felt incapable of confiding in me, I thought bitterly.
I looked at my hands and realized that I must have already decided upon a course of action whether I realized it or not. I had folded the note carefully and placed it in a plain envelope. There was only one person to whom I could turn now.
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables.
—William Shakespeare
Hamlet
It does me no credit to admit that I had difficulty in deciding what to wear to call upon Nicholas Brisbane. I had thought myself cool and composed, but I kept hearing Portia’s voice, reminding me that he would not think of me beyond that first call at Grey House. I also kept thinking of Mariah Pilkington’s assessment of him as a lover, but that does me no credit, either.
Portia had been ruthless in her attack upon my wardrobe. Scarcely a garment remained after her onslaught. She began the devastation by throwing out anything she deemed “busy,” discarding everything with ruffles, tassels or fringe.
“And above all, no ruching, unless you want to look like some poor misguided woman’s parlor drapes,” she cautioned.
I gazed mournfully at the heap of clothes I had acquired upon Edward’s death. There was several hundred pounds’ worth of bombazine and velvet and lace tumbled together on the bed, and not a single garment truly flattered me. “Then what shall I wear?”
She cocked her head to the side, considering my figure carefully.
“Simplicity, my darling. Things that are beautifully draped and excellently cut need no embellishment. I shall take you to my dressmakers. They are brothers, trained in Paris as tailors, and no one in London cuts a better line. They are frightfully expensive and rather rude, but they are just the ones to take you in hand. Besides, these frowsy things will not fit you when I’ve had done with you.”
“What do you mean they won’t fit? What do you mean to do with me?”
“I mean,” she said, propelling me toward the cheval glass, “to fatten you up. Look at yourself, Julia. Really look. There’s beauty there, but you are a sack of bones. An extra stone will round out your face and arms, give you curves where you have none. You will be lush and healthy-looking, like Demeter.”
I grimaced at her in the looking glass. “Edward always liked me thin.”
She swung me around to face her. “Edward is gone now. And it is quite time to find out what you like.”
I smiled at her. “Then why am I letting you boss me about?”
“Because I know what is best,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She dropped a quick kiss on my cheek. “Now, pastries for you at teatime, extra gravy on your joints, and as much cream as you like. When you’ve put on a few pounds, we shall take you off to the brothers Riche and my hairdresser and see what they will make of you.”
I agreed because it was simpler and because it seemed to make Portia so happy. Besides, Morag had already spied the discarded clothes and scooped them up to be sold at the stalls in Petticoat Lane. I strongly suspected she would do me some sort of bodily injury if I tried to infringe upon her rights as a lady’s maid to sell my cast-offs.
In the end, I quite liked Portia’s changes. My hair was cropped, baring the length of my neck and the smallness of my ears. It was an immediate success—Morag’s hairdressing skills being fairly nonexistent. Now, rather than struggling to frizz several pounds of stubbornly straight hair, she had only to fluff the little halo of curls that had sprung to life when the length was scissored off.
In the end we compromised on the weight. I gained half a stone, which was entirely ample. For the first time in my life, I had a figure that could be described as feminine, with a soft, curving line I did not recognize. I took to wearing delicate earrings and snug, exquisitely tailored jackets cut like a man’s. Sometimes I looked at myself in the cheval glass and I hardly knew who I was anymore. I did not look like my father’s daughter or Edward’s wife. I was simply Lady Julia Grey now, widow, and she was a person I did not know.
But she was a person who knew how to dress, I thought with some satisfaction as I prepared to call upon Mr. Brisbane. I instructed Morag to button me into my black silk with the swansdown trim. It was a stunning costume, perhaps the most elegant in my wardrobe. It lent me a confidence I did not feel as I drew on my black gloves and motioned for Morag to pin my hat into place. The hat was trimmed with a slender band of swansdown, and there was a muff to match. The afternoon had turned cold and grey and I was glad of my warm finery as Diggory, the coachman, bundled me into the town coach with rugs for my lap and hot bricks for my feet. I had made certain that Simon was napping peacefully and the Ghoul was settled in with a glass of warm gin and a stack of black-bordered correspondence fresh from the post. I felt giddy, like a child let out of school on holiday as the coach drew away from the kerb.
Mercifully, it was a short drive to Chapel Street. I waited while Henry, the footman, jumped down and pulled the bell sharply for me. He stood for a few minutes, preening himself in the glass panel of the door. He was an insufferably vain creature, but there was no denying that he did look rather splendid in his livery. I admired his calves and thought about Portia’s suggestion of taking a lover. There was a family precedent for that sort of thing, my great-aunt had eloped with her second footman, but the idea held little attraction for me. If nothing else, footmen were not noted for their intelligence, and if there was one quality I knew I must have in a lover, it was a quick wit.
There was no reply, and Henry looked to me for instructions, his soulful blue eyes remarkably blank.
“Knock,” I called irritably. “There must be someone at home.” I said this as much for my benefit as for his. I had steeled myself for this errand once. I was not certain I could do so again. At last the door was opened by a small, plump creature liberally dusted with flour. Henry returned to hand me down from the carriage.
“Ooh, I am sorry,” the little woman said, ushering me over the threshold. “I did not hear the bell. I was making a pudding for my gentleman’s dinner, I was. What may I do for you, madam?”
She had taken in the presence of the footman returning to the carriage and eyed my clothes with an accurately appraising glance. Brisbane must have had a number of privileged callers, I surmised.
“I wish to see Mr. Brisbane. I am not expected, but I do hope he can spare me a few moments.”
She bobbed respectfully, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, of course, madam. There is a chair for you. I won’t be but a minute.”
I was relieved that she did not ask for my card, but it occurred to me that many of his visitors would appreciate such discretion. She was back before I had settled myself comfortably.
“He will certainly see you now, madam. May I bring some tea?”
“That will not be necessary, I do not expect to stay long,” I said, rising. The plump little housekeeper escorted me up the stairs and knocked once on the door.
“Come!”
The housekeeper bustled back the way she had come and I was left to open the door myself. I twisted the handle and entered, feeling rather like Stanley beating the bushes for Livingstone.
“Mr. Brisbane?” I called hesitantly, poking my head around the door.
“Come in and close the door. The draught will put these seedlings right off.”
I entered, quickly closing the door behind me. The room was spacious, and thoroughly cluttered, but not fussily so. A sofa and a pair of chairs flanked the fireplace, with a few tables scattered about and several stuffed bookshelves lining the walls. There was a writing table in the corner, with blotter and inkstand and a litter of correspondence. An assortment of boxes and oddments stood on the mantelpiece. There were a few bits of statuary, not the usual Dresden shepherdesses, but strange, foreign pieces from faraway lands, medieval ivories and bronze bells, jostling with fossils under glass and something that looked horribly like a bit of dried mummy.
A collection of swords and daggers was hung on one wall, and over the fireplace was a small tapestry or carpet with an intricate geometric pattern worked in vivid colours. There were a few pieces of interesting glass, sets of scientific instruments, and even something that I decided must be a camel saddle. In all, the room was fascinating, like a tiny museum storehousing the most interesting bits of a traveler’s collection. I longed to poke about, examining everything, ferreting out the secrets this room held.
But I could not. Instead, I turned my attention to the largest item in the room, the long table situated between the large window and the fireplace. It was fitted up as a sort of potting table, and Brisbane was busily engaged with some sort of botanical activity. He was standing in his shirtsleeves, tending a row of little pots tucked under bell jars. He put the last cloche in place and turned, rolling his cuffs back into place.
“What can I do—” He broke off as soon as he caught sight of me. His expression changed, but I could not read it. “Lady Julia Grey. Mrs. Lawson said only that I had a lady caller. She did not tell me your name.”
“I did not send it.”
He continued to neaten his cuffs, pinning his sleeve links into place and donning his coat, but all of this he did without taking his eyes from me—a curious habit I remembered from our first interview. It was frankly disconcerting, and I suddenly longed to confess that I had stolen my sister’s favorite doll for a day when I was eight. I made a note to employ the technique myself the next time I interrogated Cook about the accounts.
“Why have you come?” he asked finally.
I had expected frankness and had decided to answer him in kind.
“Because I need your help. I have discovered that I was very possibly wrong about my husband’s death. And to apologize,” I went on, my mouth feeling dry and thick. “I was quite rude to you when we last met and I do not blame you if you refuse me.”
To my surprise, a smile flickered over his features. “As I recall I threatened to horsewhip you the last time we met,” he said evenly. “I can forgive your rudeness if you can forgive mine.”
I extended my hand to him without thinking. It was a gesture my brothers and I had always used to seal our differences after a quarrel. He took it, and I felt the warmth of his palm through my glove.
“Sit.” He indicated the chair nearest the fire, but I was feeling warm and flushed from the closeness of the room already. I laid aside my muff and removed my gloves.
He watched as I stripped off the kidskin, and I felt as bare as if I had removed my gown. I folded my hands carefully in my lap and he lifted his eyes to my face.
“Why did you change your mind?”
I described the scene in the study that morning, my determination to clear out the detritus, the little wedge of paper caught at the back of the drawer. I removed it from my reticule and passed it to him.
His brow furrowed as he looked it over. He rose and returned with a small magnifying glass, examining every inch of the paper. He was wrapped in concentration, ignoring me completely for the moment. Free from his scrutiny, I scrutinized him.
The past year had left little mark upon him. His hair was longer than I had remembered, with a thread or two of silver that might not have been there before. It was tumbled now, as if he had thrust his hands through it while working over his plants. His clothes, something I should not have noticed before the tuition of the Riche brothers, were beautifully cut, though I noticed his coat strained ever so slightly through the shoulders. In some men this might have exposed a fault; in his case it only emphasized his breadth.
His mouth, which I had entirely failed to notice during our previous meetings, was quite a handsome feature, with a slight fullness to the underlip that lent a sensuality to the slim, purposeful upper lip and hard jaw. There was a small scar, high on his cheekbone, that I had not noticed before, an old one that I only saw now because it was thrown into relief by the firelight. It was shaped like a crescent moon. I wondered how he had gotten it.
He looked up sharply and I felt my face grow hot.
“This looks to be sent by the same hand as the others.”
“Looks to be? Can you not be certain?”
He shrugged. “I have not seen the notes in a year, my lady. But the evening of Sir Edward’s collapse, he told me that he had received another. He planned to show it to me that night. He was rather agitated about it. I suspect he put it into his desk and died before he had the chance to retrieve it. The typeface from the scissored bit seems to match what I remember of the earlier notes.”
He handed it back and I waved it away with a shudder. “I do not want it. What do we do now?”
His expression was incredulous. “We? Now? You will return to Grey House and I will get on with my experiment. Unless you would care for some tea. I am sure Mrs. Lawson would be only too happy—”
“About that!” I interjected, pointing to the note. “What do we do about that?”
He shrugged again, a peculiarly Gallic gesture that, coupled with his dark colouring, made me wonder if he was entirely English. Perhaps Portia’s speculations about his parentage were not so preposterous after all. Naturally I did not credit the story of imperial Bonaparte blood, but there was a foreignness to him that I could not identify.
“There is nothing to be done. Sir Edward is dead, the certificate says by natural causes, and you were content to let him rest in peace a year ago. Let him do so now.”
I stared at him. “But surely you can see that there has been some injustice done here. You were the one who urged me to have his death investigated. You were the one who first raised the question of murder.”
The table at his elbow was layered with objects, a small stack of books, some marked with playing cards to hold his place, a bowl that looked like a solid piece of amber, full of coins and pen nibs and a knot of faded calico. There was a Chinese cricket cage, empty but for a tiny stone statue, and a basket of apples, surprisingly bright and crisp for this time of year. He picked an apple from the basket and began to twist the stem. “It was relevant a year ago, my lady, to an investigation upon which I was engaged. My client died, his widow did not wish to pursue the matter, ergo the case is closed.”
The stem snapped and so did my fraying temper. “Ergo the case is not closed. You were the one who preached to me of integrity and probity last year. What was it you said? Something about justice being meted out to the guilty?”
He took a healthy bite out of the apple, chewing it thoughtfully. “My lady, what is justice at this point? The trail is cold, clues will have been destroyed or thrown out. You yourself nearly consigned this to the wastepaper basket,” he reminded me, flourishing the note. “What do you expect me to do now?”
“I expect you to find my husband’s murderer.”
He shook his dark head, tumbling his hair further. “Be reasonable, my lady. There was a chance a year ago. Now it is little better than hopeless.”
“Little better, but not entirely,” I said, rising and taking up my muff and gloves. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Brisbane.”
He rose as well, still holding his apple. “What do you mean to do?”
I faced him squarely. “I mean to find Edward’s murderer.” I think I would have struck him if he smiled, but he did not. His expression was curiously grave. “Alone?”
“If needs be. I was wrong not to believe you last year. I wasted a valuable opportunity, and I am sorry for that. But I learn from my mistakes, Mr. Brisbane.” I took the note from his fingers. “I will not make another.”
I crossed to the door, but he moved quickly, reaching it before I did. His features were set in resignation. “Very well. I will do what I can.”
I looked up at him. “Why?”
He leaned a little closer and I felt his breath against my face, smelling sweetly of apple. His eyes, wide and deeply black, were fixed on mine, and I could see myself reflected in them. My breath came quite quickly and I was conscious of how very large he was and that I was alone with a man for the first time in a year. I thought wildly that he might try to kiss me and I knew that I would not stop him. In fact, I think my lips may have parted as he leaned closer still.
“Because I am a professional, my lady. And I will not have an amateur bungling about in one of my cases.”
He smiled and bit firmly into his apple.
THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek That now are wild, and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger.
—Sir Thomas Wyatt
“Remembrance”
“Blast,” I muttered as I returned to the coach, settling myself with an irritable thump against the cushions. Henry closed the door smartly behind me. I gave him a second to reach his perch behind the coach, then rapped at the roof. Diggory sprang the horses toward home.
I stared out of the window and tried to compose myself. I had only met Nicholas Brisbane three times, but each of those occasions had left me entirely unsettled. He had an uncanny ability to raise my temper, an ability I did not fully understand.
Perhaps most irritating was his arrogant insistence upon handling the investigation entirely on his own, his derisive use of the word amateur. In the end he had said he would make a few inquiries and promised to send along a report in a few days’ time. He had not been optimistic, and as he had ushered me out of his rooms, I had become convinced that he was simply agreeing to this much to placate me. He had no expectation of finding Edward’s murderer, and I firmly believed that without an expectation of success, one is rarely successful.
In view of this, I decided to undertake my own investigation. The trouble was, I had no idea of how to begin. What questions did a professional ask? What steps did he follow? What came first? Suspects? Motives? It seemed like a Gordian knot of the worst sort, but if my memory of mythology served, the only way out of such a puzzle is directly through it. Cleave a path straight across and the devil take trying to unwind the wool.
But unlike Alexander, I didn’t even have a sword. I cursed Brisbane thoroughly over the next few days, leaving me to make polite chat with my relatives and manage my household while he got to bound about London on my behalf, asking interesting questions and chasing down clues that might provide the answer to our mystery. I imagined him pursuing bandits into the fetid Docklands where Chinamen smoked their pipes and kept their secrets, dashing headlong into a brawl with a gang of cutthroat ruffians, sidling into a midnight crypt to keep a rendezvous with a veiled lady who held the key to the entire case ….
Of course, Brisbane was doing nothing of the sort. While I liked to imagine him as the lead character of my most outlandish detective fantasies, he was in fact behaving as any very ordinary inquiry agent might. Instead of making gallant charges against masked villains, he was writing letters to clerks and busying himself in the offices of newspapers and solicitors, patiently searching through dusty files.
According to his report, what he learned was prosaic in the extreme. Sir Edward Grey had died of natural causes due to an hereditary heart ailment at the age of thirty-one. His title and country estate were entailed upon his cousin, Simon Grey; the residue of his estate devolved upon his relict, Lady Julia Grey, youngest daughter and ninth child of the twelfth Earl March. Sir Edward gave quietly to several worthy causes, enjoyed horseracing and was an amateur oenophile with more enthusiasm than skill. He had no enemies, but was widely known at his club as a great prankster and generous friend who could always be relied upon for a jape or a loan to those in need of a laugh or a fiver. The inscription on his headstone, laid in September, was a fragment of a poem by Coleridge, chosen by his widow.
All of this was detailed for me in Brisbane’s meticulously written report, delivered as promised, a week after I had engaged him. I read it over, my outrage mounting.
“I could have told you this much myself,” I pointed out, waving the paper at him. “What possible purpose did this serve, except to cost us a week?”
We were in his sitting room again, the room unchanged from the previous week, save for the seedlings. They had disappeared, and in their place was an elaborate set of scientific equipment, such as often used for laboratories. A beaker full of greenish-yellow liquid was bubbling away on a burner, but Brisbane did not seem concerned about it, and for all my knowledge of chemistry, it might have been his laundry.
He sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
“My lady, I did attempt to explain to you last week that inquiries at this late stage would be difficult if not impossible. We have notes of a threatening variety, but a death certified as natural. We know of one person who was cowardly enough to strike with a poisoned pen, but we do not know that he was sufficiently vicious to do worse.”
“You think that hounding a dying man is not sufficiently vicious?”
“I did not say that. You have a gift for putting the worst possible construction upon my words,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. He always seemed slightly irritable with me, but I could not tell if it was the result of my company. Perhaps he was just a very cranky man. I liked to think so. I would have hated to think I was responsible for such incipient nastiness.
I adopted a tone of deliberate sweetness. “Oh? I do apologize. Please, do go on and explain how a person could be capable of tremendous cruelty, but not murder.”
“That is just what I am trying to explain,” he said icily. “People are cruel and horrible to one another all the time, but only rarely do they commit murder. There is a boundary there that most people cannot, will not cross. It is the oldest taboo, and the hardest to break, despite what you doubtless read in the newspapers.”
I ignored the barb. “You sound like the vicar at St. Barnabas.”
“St. Barnabas?”
“The church at Blessingstoke, the village in Sussex where I was raised. The vicar likes to talk about the great wall that exists in all of us, the end place at which each of us will say ‘That is as far as I shall go.’ He is very interested in how those walls are formed.”
“For example?” Brisbane’s brow had quirked up, a sign, I believed, that he was intrigued.
“For example, perhaps a woman would never steal, under any normal circumstances, but to feed her starving child, even she might be tempted to a loaf of bread from a baker’s basket.”
Just as suddenly as the brow had raised, it lowered, and his nostrils flared a little, as a bull’s will when its temper is beginning to rise.
“A very diverting problem for a country vicar, I’m sure, but hardly germane to what we are about,” he said. “Now, I have delivered the report, as promised.”
“And you mean to leave matters there,” I finished flatly. He shrugged. “That is not good enough, Mr. Brisbane. You seemed convinced a year ago that something criminal was afoot. The passing of time does not change that. It simply makes your task more difficult. I would not have taken you for a man to shy from a challenging situation. In fact, I would rather have thought you the sort of man who would relish it.”
His expression was thoughtful, but his eyes, watchful as always, gave nothing away. “Oh, very neatly done, my lady. If I refuse to pursue this goose chase of yours, I am either a lazy cad or a coward.”
Too late, I remembered Portia’s tale of the duel he had fought with Lord Northrup’s son. This man was far from a coward. He was headstrong, audacious. Some might even call him violent. And with characteristic March fecklessness, I had just baited him dangerously.
“Did I imply that? I am so sorry. I simply meant that I thought this would appeal to your intellectual curiosity. I was so certain that you were the man to help me, I was perhaps overzealous.” I smiled ingratiatingly.
He smiled back, a baring of the teeth that was more wolfish than engaging. “I shall pursue this for you, my lady. Not because you nagged like a fishwife, but because my curiosity is indeed piqued.”
Nobly, I ignored the insult. “Edward’s murder did not seem to pique your curiosity a moment ago.”
Brisbane blinked, like a cat will when it is sunning itself, slowly, hypnotically. “I did not say that it was the possibility of murder that aroused my interest.”
Before I could decipher his meaning, there was a scratch at the door. Brisbane did not reply, but the door opened, anyway, and a man appeared bearing a tray. “Tea,” he pronounced, looking pleasantly from Brisbane to me and back again.
Brisbane waved a hand. “This is Theophilus Monk, my lady. My factotum, for lack of a better word. Monk, Lady Julia Grey.”
Monk was a very superior sort of person, perfectly groomed and very poised. He had an eager, almost educated look about him, and had Brisbane not introduced him, I would have mistaken him for a gentleman, a country squire perhaps, much given to vigorous exercise. He looked robustly healthy, with a very slight embonpoint that seemed the result of the thickening of old muscles rather than too many pastries. His hair was neatly trimmed and silvering, as were his mustaches. His eyes were an indeterminate colour, but assessing and shrewd. He took a moment, as he laid the tray, to take my measure, but he was so quick, so discreet, I almost missed it. I had a very strong suspicion that he assisted Brisbane in his inquiries. I could easily imagine him proving quite resourceful in an investigation.
He bowed very smartly from the neck.
“Do you enjoy being called a factotum?” I inquired, taking the cup he poured. Most bachelor gentlemen would have expected their lady guest to do the honours of pouring. It was a relief to be spared that. I was always rather clumsy around tea things and I fancied Brisbane thought me odd enough without my spilling the tea or dropping the saucers.
“I have suggested majordomo, but Mr. Brisbane finds it too grandiose for such a small establishment,” Monk explained in a gravelly Scots voice. “I am in fact his batman, my lady. Feather cake?”
“Ooh, yes, please. Batman, Mr. Brisbane? You were an officer in the army?”
Brisbane stirred his tea slowly. “I have been many things, my lady, none of which would interest you, I am sure.”
Monk coughed quietly. I had heard that cough often enough from Aquinas. It was the upper servant’s method of tactfully correcting his employer. But if Brisbane was aware of his rudeness or of Monk’s disapproval, he did not show it. In fact, if anything, he seemed vaguely amused.
“I shan’t need you further, Monk. Her ladyship and I can manage the rest.”
Monk bowed again and withdrew.
I faced Brisbane over the teapot. “Did you mean what you said? You will pursue this?”
Brisbane sipped at his tea. “I suppose. I have a few other matters that I must bring to conclusion, but nothing that cannot wait. And I have no other clients questioning either my integrity or my courage at present.”
I bit my lip. He was right to needle me. I had behaved wretchedly. Out of my own impatience and frustration I had offered him an insult that few men would have borne so calmly. I was only surprised that he had borne it at all, considering his bald threat of the previous year to have me horsewhipped for impugning his character.
“Yes, about that,” I began slowly. “I spoke in haste. I am truly sorry. I really did not mean it as an insult. I do find the whole matter puzzling in the extreme, and as you are in the business of conundrums …”
“You thought I would find yours irresistible?” he supplied.
Again, his voice was perfectly even, unshaded by even the slightest hint of an ulterior meaning. Why then did I feel he was amusing himself at my expense?
“I thought that it would present a unique problem for you to solve,” I corrected with as much dignity as I could muster in the face of his indolent stare.
He shrugged and placed his cup onto the table. “You will find that one problem is very like another, my lady. Only the personalities involved differ, and even then people are very much of a type. That is the greatest asset in my business, and the greatest bore.”
“You mean that people are largely predictable? I should think that a rather restful quality.”
His smile was small and enigmatic. “It is, and that is what makes it a bore. There is nothing in the world more dreadful than knowing exactly what someone else is going to do, even before he does.”
“You would very much like my family, then,” I put in with a laugh. “One never knows what a March is likely to do, not even another March.”
“So none of your family would have guessed that you came here today?” he asked slowly. He lowered his head, his eyes level with mine. There was something in those dark eyes that had not been there a moment before. Menace? Malice?
I forced a smile. “Of course they would. I told my sister Portia that I was coming here today. And my brother Valerius, who lives with me.”
He canted his head, considering me for a moment. Then he shook it slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I think you came alone. I think that no one knows the exact whereabouts of Lady Julia Grey.”
He moved very slightly forward in his chair and I felt my heart lurch. I learned something in that moment. Fear has a metallic taste, like blood sucked from a cut finger. I could taste it, flat on the back of my tongue as he moved closer toward me.
“My coachman,” I said suddenly. “He is circling the carriage. My footman is there as well. They both know where I am.”
Brisbane halted his movement, his eyes still intent upon my face. After a moment, he rose and went to the window. He flicked aside the curtain and I felt my toes curling up inside my boots as I prayed that Diggory was at the kerb.
Brisbane resumed his chair, his manner completely altered. “If you will forgive my remarking upon it, the first rule of investigation is discretion. Next time you call upon me, you should come in a hansom, or better yet, a hackney. Anyone who knows you will know that vehicle by the crest on its door. And your footman is a rather remarkable specimen as well. Some lady is bound to remember him.”
My heart slid back into its rightful place and I stared at him. “That was a joke, then? That menacing look? The vaguely threatening words?”
He waved a hand and helped himself to a biscuit. “I was curious. You had just maintained that the Marches were unpredictable. It was my professional estimation that you would have failed to take any precaution regarding your own safety in coming here today, or to make any attempt to conceal your identity. I was correct on both counts.”
“My safety! Why on earth should I take precautions on that score in coming here? You are my agent.”
Brisbane swallowed and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.
“No, I am not. I was your husband’s agent, and he is dead. I have not taken a farthing from you. And as for your safety, you have acted with the most appalling disregard for your own life because you failed to consider one thing, one thing that is staring you squarely in the face.”
“And what is that?” I demanded hotly. My temper was entirely frayed by now. I had had enough of his cryptic manner and ghoulish games.
He leaned forward, clamping both hands onto the arms of my chair. I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he loomed over me, and I knew if I spoke it would come out as a feeble squeak. His face was inches from mine, his voice harsh and low.
“Did you never once ask yourself, my lady, if I might have murdered your husband?”
THE NINTH CHAPTER
Break, break sad heart There is no medicine for my smart, No herb nor balm can cure my sorrow.
—Thomas Randolph
“Phyllis”
“You needn’t have kicked me so hard,” Brisbane said bitterly, rubbing at his shin. He had retreated to his own chair and was regarding me much as he might a rabid dog.
“I said I was sorry. Shall I ring for Monk? A wet towel, perhaps—”
“No, thank you,” he said, his tone still acid.
“I’m afraid it’s going to raise an awful lump,” I put in helpfully. That much was a guess. Brisbane had not lifted the leg of his trousers, nor would I have expected him to. Our relationship was quite unorthodox enough without the sight of his bare leg adding to the mix. “Oh, do stop scowling at me like that. It really was your own fault, you know, frightening me like that. Of course I never thought you murdered Edward. Why should I?”
“That was precisely the point,” he replied through gritted teeth. “You must consider every possibility. You must realize that no one is above suspicion. You must be willing to scrutinize every person who knew your husband and consider at least the possibility that they were responsible for his death. If you cannot do that, you cannot continue with this investigation.”
“But why would you want to murder Edward? You barely knew him.”
Brisbane continued to grind his teeth, but I think it was more out of frustration than pain. “I barely knew him according to …”
He paused, waiting for me to catch up. “According to—oh, I do see now. According to you. And if you were the murderer, that makes your information rather suspect.”
“Quite,” he said grimly.
“Well, did you murder him?”
Brisbane looked at me, fairly goggle-eyed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you murder him? It is a simple question, Mr. Brisbane. Kindly answer it.”
“Of course I didn’t! Of all the bloody—”
“You needn’t swear at me. You said I must consider the possibility that you killed him, and I have. I asked you, you said no, and I believe you.”
He shook his head, his expression staggered. “You cannot do this. You cannot simply ask people if they killed your husband. Sooner or later, you will ask the wrong person. You will be killed in a week, you must know that.”
I strove for patience. “Mr. Brisbane, I am not entirely stupid. But circumstances and my own fairly dependable judgment have convinced me that you were not responsible for his death. I promise you that I would not be daft enough to ask anyone I actually suspected.”
His look was doubtful. “There are a hundred different ways you could get hurt—badly. You must be very certain what you are about to embark upon. This is no detective story, my lady. There is no guarantee we will unmask this murderer. He could slip through our fingers quite easily. Or worse.”
“Worse?”
“Our murderer, if in fact there is one, is comfortable by now. He has had almost a year of freedom, without even a whisper of murder to disturb him. If he thinks that is about to change, he might well panic, become desperate, even. He might tip his hand.”
“How?” I took a sip of tea, cool now, but still refreshing.
“He might try to attack you, for instance.”
I blinked at him and he went on, blandly. “I have been assaulted several times in the course of my work. If you were to take an active role in this investigation, you put yourself at risk of harm, even death. I cannot prevent it, you must know that. A clever murderer, one who is determined, desperate, could dispatch you before either of us even realized you were in danger. You must think of that,” he finished.
“But you said he is comfortable,” I pointed out. “So long as we do nothing to alert him, he would remain so and there would be no danger.”
Brisbane shook his head. “Unlikely, at best. Most of the criminals I have encountered have a dog’s nose for trouble. They sense when they are about to be found out. And they usually take steps to avoid it. Sometimes they flee, but other times …” His voice broke off and his eyes were distant, as though seeing gruesome conclusions to his other cases.
“That does not frighten me,” I said boldly.
Brisbane’s gaze dropped to mine. “It should. If you are not afraid, you will not take the proper precautions. That sort of stupidity could get you killed. Or at best, jeopardize the investigation so badly we never catch him. And there are other dangers as well.”
“Such as?” I asked with a sigh. I was beginning to feel less than welcome.
“Investigations are rather like snake hunts. Rocks are overturned, hidden places are prodded, and what turns up is often rotten, poisonous and better left undisturbed. Sometimes it is an evil that has nothing to do with the investigation, just something dark and vicious that should never have seen the light of day. But lives are changed, my lady.”
“You are being cryptic again, Mr. Brisbane. I have no secrets.” Of course, as soon as I said the words, I wished them back. Everyone has a secret or two, however innocent.
He focused those hypnotic black eyes on me for a long moment. “Very well,” he said, his voice light. “Perhaps you would like to try a little experiment.”
His expression was guarded, but there was anticipation there, something almost gleeful. It made me nervous. “What sort of experiment?”
“Oh, nothing painful. In fact, quite the reverse.” He smiled suddenly. “If you wish to be a part of this investigation, you must first provide me with information about Sir Edward, your household, your family. I shall simply ask you a series of questions. Nothing too frightening about that, is there?”
There was the faintest tone of mockery in his voice. I had taunted his courage before, now he was taunting mine.
“Nothing at all,” I said roundly. “When do we begin?”
He smiled again, that serpentine smile that Eve must have seen in the Garden. “No time like the present.”
He began to make a few alterations in the room. The tea things were dispatched to a far table, jostling a small clock, a set of nautical instruments and a tortoiseshell. In their place he put a single candle, a thick, creamy taper that he lit with a spill from the fireplace.
Then he reached for a lacquered box on the mantel. Out of it he scooped a handful of something that rustled, dried flowers or leaves, perhaps. These he hurled into the fireplace. The change was immediate. There was a fragrance, subtle and soothing, and the flames burned bright green for a moment. He turned to me then, brisk and businesslike.
“Remove your jacket, my lady.”
“I beg your pardon?” I clutched the lapels of my jacket together like a trembling virgin. He sighed patiently.
“My lady, I am no Viking bent on pillage, I assure you. You will understand what I am about in a moment. Take off your jacket.”
I complied, feeling like an idiot. If Portia had not made it very clear to me that Brisbane would never think of me as a woman, he certainly had. I struggled out of the jacket, regretting that I had instructed Morag to put out the new silk. It was tight and I knew I must look like a wriggling caterpillar trying to get it off. Finally I was free of it and Brisbane took it, tossing it onto a chair. Then, before I could remonstrate with him over the expense of the silk he was creasing, he grasped my ankles and swung them to the sofa.
“Mr. Brisbane!” I began, but he silenced me with an exasperated gesture.
He released my ankles then, but I could still feel the pressure of his hands through skirts, petticoats, boots, and stockings. He thrust a pillow behind my head, causing me to lie back in a posture I had most certainly never adopted in front of an acquaintance before.
“Comfortable?” he inquired, resuming his seat.
“Rather like Cleopatra,” I returned tartly. “What exactly is the point to all of this?”
“I told you, it is the beginning of our investigation.”
He busied himself taking a notebook and pencil from the drawer of the table beside him. “I know it seems unorthodox, but I need information from you, and I believe that the more relaxed a person is, the more information he or she will relate.”
“You believe. Is this your normal practice? Do you do this to all of your clients?”
“No, because most of my clients would not consent to it.”
“What makes you think that I will?”
“You already have, my lady. Besides, you are a rather special case.”
I felt a warm flush of pleasure. “I am?”
“Yes,” he replied absently. “Most of my clients are far more conscious of their dignity to permit such an experiment.”
The flush ended abruptly. “Oh.”
“But I have great hopes for you, my lady,” he continued. The flush began again, a tiny, creeping wave this time, but at least I did not feel quite so low. “I have read a great deal about the techniques used by the police and by those who practice psychology. Some of them seem quite suitable for use in my own work. It is just a theory at this point, but I have had some success in the past.”
Of that I was certain. I wondered how many other ladies’ ankles he had handled, and promptly dismissed the thought as unworthy of me.
“Begin then, before my neck takes a cramp,” I ordered him crossly.
He opened his notebook and made a few comments before he began his questions. When he spoke, his voice had gone soft and mellow, like sun-warmed clover honey. I wondered if he was conscious of it.
“My lady, I need a bit of background information from you. We need a place to begin. So, I am going to take you through some of what Sir Edward told me, and I need you to confirm or correct it.”
I nodded, feeling a little sleepy and as relaxed as if I had just had a glass of Aunt Hermia’s blackberry cordial.
“Sir Edward told me last year that he had been married to you for five years. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“How did you meet?”
“His father bought the estate next to my father’s in Sussex. We knew each other from childhood.”
“Was the marriage a happy one?”
I fidgeted a little. My body felt restless, but my limbs were languid, almost too heavy to move. “Happy enough. We were friends.”
“There were no children?” he asked, his voice mellower still.
I shook my head sleepily. “Not from me. I could not have them.”
“Did he have children by anyone else? Natural children?”
I tried to shake my head again, but now it felt too weighty.
“Just lie back against the cushion, my lady,” he instructed from far away. I did as I was told, perfectly content to lie there forever.
He made a few notes while I drowsed against the cushions, thinking of Odysseus and the Lotus-eaters. I felt very thirsty, but it seemed far too much trouble to reach out my hand for my teacup. Then I remembered that he had moved it across the room and decided I would wait until he had finished.
“Sir Edward had little family left by the time of his death,” he commented.
“Only his first cousin, Simon. He inherited the baronetcy from Edward.”
“And you,” Brisbane prodded gently.
“I was not Edward’s family,” I replied. “I was his wife.”
“Tell me about your family.”
“I have quite a lot of that,” I said, feeling a ridiculous and inappropriate urge to giggle. With a great effort, I suppressed it. “My mother died when I was a child. I have nine brothers and sisters. Father is in town just now, at March House in Hanover Square. He lives with Aunt Hermia.”
“Indeed. Do any of the other members of your family live with them?”
“None. Most of them live in the country. My eldest brother, Viscount Bellmont, has his residence in London. So does my sister Portia, Lady Bettiscombe.”
“Did Lord Bellmont get on well with Sir Edward? Were there problems between them?”
“Only about politics. Monty is a Tory. Edward was apathetic. Used to call each other names. It meant nothing.”
“What of Lady Bettiscombe? Did she get on well with Sir Edward?”
“Well enough. Portia does not like many men. She lives with her lover, Jane.”
There was a long pause, but Brisbane made no comment.
“And who else lives in London?”
“Valerius, my youngest brother. Lives with me.”
Even through the lassitude, I could feel him prickle with interest.
“Tell me about Valerius.”
“Wants to be a doctor. Fought terribly with Father over it. That’s why he lives with me. He came after Edward died, with the Ghoul.”
“The what?”
I explained, in great detail, about the Ghoul, little of which seemed to interest Brisbane.
“Who else lives at Grey House?”
“Simon. Very ill, poor darling. Been bedridden for a year. Inherited nothing but the title and the old house in Sussex. It’s almost a ruin, you know. Owls are nesting in the picture gallery.”
“Did Simon get on well with Sir Edward?”
“Like brothers,” I said dreamily. “But everyone liked Edward. He was charming and so handsome.”
“What of your household, the staff? Who lives in at Grey House?”
I sighed, feeling far too tired to give him the particulars. He peered at me closely, then rose and took a handful of dried leaves, this time from a mother-of-pearl box, and threw them onto the fire. They burned orange, with a clean, spicy smell, and after a moment I began to feel a bit livelier.
“Your staff,” he prodded gently.
“Aquinas is the butler. You know him.”
Brisbane nodded, writing swiftly. “Go on.”
“Cook. Diggory, the coachman, Morag, my maid. Whittle does the gardening, but he is employed by Father. Desmond and Henry are the footmen. Magda, the laundress. And there are maids. Cannot keep it sorted out which is which,” I finished thickly.
“Have they been with you long?”
“Aquinas since always. Cook four years. Morag came just before Edward died, maybe six months. She was a prostitute. She was reformed at my aunt Hermia’s refuge and trained for service. The others at March House quite some time. Renard.”
Brisbane wrote furiously, then stopped. “Renard?”
“Edward’s valet. French. Sly. Hate him. Stayed on to help with Simon.”
This, too, went into the notebook. “Anyone else?”
I shook my head, feeling it throb ominously as I did so. There was a pain beginning behind my eyes and I was thirstier than ever.
“What of Sir Edward’s friends? Enemies?”
“No enemies. Everyone a friend, none of them close. Edward was private. God, my head.”
He rose again and opened the window a little. Cold, crisp air rushed into the room, clearing out the thick pungent smells from the fire. He left the room and returned a moment later with a wet cloth folded into a pad.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Put it on your brow. You will feel better in a minute.”
I did as he said, listening to the light scratching of his pencil as he finished writing his observations into his little notebook. Within minutes the lassitude had lifted and the pain had begun to abate. I sat up, swinging my feet to the floor, and watched as the ceiling seemed to change places with it.
“Easy, my lady,” he said, pushing me firmly back against the cushion. “You will be quite well in a minute, but you cannot move too quickly.”
I lay still, feeling the giddiness recede slowly. When I thought it might be safe, I raised myself by degrees. Brisbane was sipping a fresh cup of tea and had poured one out for me. There was no sign of the notebook.
“What did you do to me?” I demanded, peeling the compress from my brow. I did not want the thing against my skin. God only knew what was in it.
“Drink your tea, my lady. You will feel yourself in a moment.”
“How do I know it hasn’t been tampered with? For all I know you have laced it with opium,” I said indignantly.
He sighed, took up my cup from the saucer and drank deeply from it. “There. It is quite safe, I assure you.”
My expression must have betrayed my doubt, for he handed me his nearly full cup. “Take mine, then. Besides, if I were going to lace anything with opium, it would not be tea.”
I sipped cautiously at his tea, but it tasted fine. “Why not?”
“Tea is a natural antidote to opium. You would probably vomit it up before it did any real harm.”
“Mr. Brisbane, I deplore your manners. Such conversation is not fit for a lady.”
He regarded me with something like real interest. “That is quite a little war you have going on in there,” he said with a flick of his finger toward my brow.
“What do you mean?”
“You are such a strange mixture of forthrightness and proper breeding. It must always be a battle for you, knowing what you want to say and feeling that you mustn’t.”
I shrugged. “Such is the lot of women, Mr. Brisbane.”
He gave a short laugh. “Not by half. Most women of my acquaintance would never think of the things you do. Much less dare to say them.”
“I do not!” I protested. “If you only knew how much effort I take not to say the things I think—”
“I know. That is why I took the liberty of conducting my little experiment. It worked rather better than I had anticipated.”
I set the cup down with a crack. “You admit you deliberately gave me something—some sort of truthfulness potion—to get information?”
“Truthfulness potion? Really, my lady, your penchant for sensational novels is deplorable. There is no such thing as a truthfulness potion. Herbs, my lady. That is all. I threw a certain compound of dried herbs onto the fire. They produce a feeling of calmness and well-being, euphoria sometimes, lassitude most often. The result is one of almost perfect truthfulness, not because of some magic power, but because the subject is too relaxed to lie.”
I stared at him, clenching my hands into fists against my lap. “That is appalling. No, it is worse than appalling. It is horrible, horrible.” I could not think of a word bad enough to call him.
“I did tell you I was going to conduct an experiment,” he reminded me.
“Yes, but this—this is far beyond what I expected.”
He smiled thinly. “Did you think I was going to swing my watch in front of your face and count backward? I could engage in hypnotism if you like. I have practiced it. Mesmerism, as well. But I have found that those methods frequently have more value as parlor tricks than interrogation techniques.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, my hands fisted tightly. “I do not care. I still think what you did was appalling.”
“Is it more appalling than sending a threat of death to a sick man, making his last days full of fear and doubt?” he asked softly.
Almost unwillingly, I unclenched my fists. “You mean that your methods are justified by the ends.”
“I see that you have read your Machiavelli, along with perhaps some Sappho?”
“Leave Portia quite out of this. I would never have told you about Jane without your nasty tricks.”
“Indeed.”
We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our tea in a state of armed and uneasy truce. I was not happy with his methods, but I understood why he had employed them. If we were to unmask Edward’s murderer, we must use every weapon at our disposal, even if it meant occasionally wielding them against each other. But it would be a very long time before I trusted him again.
“Headache better?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You will be quite thirsty for the rest of the day. It is the only lingering effect I have found.”
I nodded obediently and decided to venture a question that had been puzzling me. “Why did it not affect you?”
He gave me a thin, bitter smile. “I inured myself to its effects long ago in China.”
“China! How did you come to be in China?”
The smile faded. “I passed through on my way to Tibet. It is a story I do not care to tell, my lady, at least not now. It is sufficient to say that if I did not know how to hold my own against that herb, it would have been more than my life was worth. Now, I believe I have all the major players,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I think the most logical place to begin is with the death itself. Was it murder? If so, it could not have been by bullet, garrote, blade, or any means other than poison. Which means that the first person to consult is—”
“Doctor Griggs,” I finished for him.
He gave me a look of grudging acknowledgement. “He knew Sir Edward’s health intimately and certified the death as natural. But were there any questions in his own mind about that? Any symptoms that appeared out of the ordinary for a man with Sir Edward’s heart condition?”
I shook my head. “I am afraid that Doctor Griggs will not speak to you, especially if he thinks you mean to accuse him of making a mistake. He has connections at Court—lofty ones. He will not thank you for making trouble. I must take him on myself.”
Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “I thought we agreed that your involvement was to be largely in a consulting capacity.”
“Largely, but not entirely,” I replied with spirit. “I shall write to Doctor Griggs. He has known me from my birth. Whatever story I concoct, he will believe it. I will think of some suitably convincing tale, and when he sends his reply, I shall forward it on to you.”
He agreed and we made arrangements for meeting again when I had Doctor Griggs’ reply in hand. He did not summon Monk, but helped me into my jacket and coat himself. I took my hat from him and pinned it on securely, feeling more myself than I had since I entered the room.
“Oh, and by the way,” I said sweetly, my hand on the knob, “if you ever use me in such a disgraceful fashion again, I will use every and all means at my disposal to ensure you get the thrashing of your life. Good day, Mr. Brisbane.”
I am not entirely certain, but I think he was smiling as I left.
THE TENTH CHAPTER
He was sad at heart, unsettled yet ready, sensing his death.
—Beowulf
It took me the better part of the next day to write my letter to Doctor Griggs. I had not expected it would be so difficult, but striking just the right balance of wifely concern and abject stupidity was harder than I had anticipated. In the letter, I claimed that although my year of mourning was nearly finished, I thought of Edward more than ever. I told him that he came to me in dreams, mouthing words I could not hear, but that I had read somewhere that this was a clear sign of murder. I begged him to tell me if there had been any indication whatsoever of foul play. I pleaded with him to give me every detail of Edward’s collapse and death, especially the few hours I had been kept away from him. I reminded him of the long history between our families and gently hinted that a man of his genius would have easily seen something amiss. I flattered, I cajoled, and in the end, I sprinkled a few drops of water over the ink to simulate tears. I was a little ashamed of myself for enjoying it so much, but that soon passed. I sealed and addressed it and sent Desmond to deliver it by hand. I had instructed him to wait for a reply, but the response was as disappointing as it was succinct.
My dear Lady Julia,
Have read your letter. Cannot reply until I have reviewed my notes. Please be patient. Will try to respond by tomorrow’s post. I remain your obedient servant, William Griggs
I questioned Desmond closely, but he could tell me nothing of importance. Doctor Griggs did not appear disturbed by the letter, merely tired as he had attended a confinement late the previous night that had not ended until nearly dawn. He had simply nodded at the letter and dashed off the quick reply Desmond had brought.
“And there was nothing else? You are certain?” I prodded. Desmond was good-looking—as handsome as Henry and almost as thick-witted.
Desmond thought for a moment, his golden brows furrowing together with the effort. “No, my lady. He simply handed me the reply, said that I looked a bit peaky, and recommended a meat tonic.”
I peered at Desmond. “You do look peaky. Have one of the maids brew some beef tea for you. I know Cook just bought extra beef to make some for Sir Simon. Tell her to put plenty of blood in it.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, my lady.” He made to go, but paused in the doorway, the lamplight shining off of his buttery curls. “You are very good, my lady.”
He blushed deeply, a rich rose colour against the pale porcelain of his cheeks, and hurried off, leaving me with a good deal more to think about than Griggs’ thin reply. I hoped Desmond was not falling in love with me. It was an extremely delicate proposition to have one’s servants falling in love with one. Father’s butler, Hoots, had been desperately enamored of Father’s elder sister, Aunt Cressida, for years and lived for her annual visits. I could not imagine why—she was not half so pretty as Aunt Hermia and had a thicker set of whiskers than Father.
In any case, the last thing I wanted was for Desmond to cast his lovely clear eyes in my direction. I made a note to speak to Aquinas about him and turned my thoughts to more practical matters. I would not hear from Griggs for another day at least, and I had been neglecting my little household dreadfully. I made up my mind to rectify my laxity. I decided to start with the most distasteful and made my way to the room where we kept the Ghoul.
She was tucked up comfortably in bed, wearing a lace cap festooned with ribbons, the coverlet littered with sweet wrappers and magazines. There was a stack of black-bordered correspondence on the bedside table and I felt my spirits rise. Perhaps someone had taken pity on me and thoughtfully died. The Ghoul had been with us for nearly a year and I was growing impatient waiting for the next family bereavement.
“Good evening, Aunt Ursula,” I said, dropping a kiss somewhere near her cheek. She smelled strongly of lavender and blackberry cordial and camphor. And gin.
“Good evening, dearest. How are you today? I have had the most pleasant day. I received a very long letter from Cousin Brutus. His gout is very, very painful, poor dear. I must write to him with the remedy my own lamented Harold used.”
“I am fine, thank you,” I said, taking a small needlepointed chair by the bed. “I am sorry to hear about Cousin Brutus. Is it very serious?” I asked hopefully. Of course, if Cousin Brutus recovered, there was always Uncle Leonato’s wife. I had it on good authority that she had taken a chill at Christmas and the cough had lingered.
She shrugged her thin shoulders beneath the coverlet. “One never knows, that is the trouble with gout. It comes on of a sudden, laying a body low, and it can linger for weeks. Then, one morning, quick as you please, it is gone again. I remember how my poor departed Harold used to suffer with it. But my remedy always seemed to put him right. Of course, it put him so right that he went out riding that wild horse that threw him to his death. My poor darling …” She fished under the covers for her handkerchief, which she applied delicately to her nose.
After a moment she blew it ferociously, then brightened. “Still, as the Bible tells us, ‘Man cometh forth like a flower and is cut down.’ It was simply Harold’s time to be cut down.”
I nodded, wondering how on earth we had ventured into such a bizarre conversation. Other people’s aunts talked about knitting and forcing paperwhites. Mine quoted Job. I had little doubt she could recite the entire service for the dead from the Book of Common Prayer if asked.
I cleared my throat to reply, but she was still speaking.
“Just like your Edward, poor thing. Such a lovely boy. So little time together! Practically still on your honeymoon. And then to have him snatched so cruelly! Oh, my dear, how can you bear it?”
The question was rhetorical, and it was one she had been asking me almost daily for the past year. At first I had actually answered it, reminding her that Edward and I had been married for five years and that he had always been in delicate health. But then that only brought on some verses from Lamentations, so I learned to keep quiet. I simply put on a mournful expression and nodded solemnly and waited for her to go on. She always did.
“But at least the funeral was properly done. So many people just rush through them these days—no respect at all. But no one can say that the Marches do not respect death. I was very much gratified to see the efforts taken on poor Edward’s behalf. Such lovely lilies, and the music was so very moving. I can still hear those little choirboy voices …”
She began to hum then, something I had never heard before and decidedly not one of the pieces sung at Edward’s funeral. I was beginning to think that the blackberry cordial was having an effect on her. Or the gin.
“Aunt Ursula, did you receive any other correspondence?” I asked in desperation. “I note that some of the envelopes are bordered in black. I hope there are no fresh bereavements.” Of course I hoped no such thing; I was heartily tired of having the Ghoul settling in my China Room.
Aunt Ursula broke off in mid-verse. “Oh, no, my dear. Those are letters from families still in mourning. Why, dear Cressida’s husband has only been dead for seventeen years. It would not do for her to leave off observing the proper signs of respect, would it?”
I sat, dumbstruck, realizing what she had just said. Aunt Cressida, whose husband had been widely held to be a complete monster, had been widowed for seventeen years and Aunt Ursula still expected her to write on black-bordered writing paper. I should be expected to do the same. And I knew it would not be just the writing paper. It would be the widow’s weeds as well. Unrelieved black clothing, from the outer petticoat to the gloves. Jet and onyx jewelry. Hair bracelets. Veils.
I excused myself and went to lie down on my bed. I had been marking the calendar, waiting for my year of mourning to end. I had actually been looking forward to putting on gray clothes or adding little touches of white to my collars and cuffs. I was counting off the days until I could wear pearls again, and purple. Now, what was the point? With Aunt Ursula in the house, holding me to the same standards of mourning as the queen, what hope was there? I could either wear what I liked and endure her daily sermons on proper feeling, or I could smother myself in black bombazine for the rest of my life. It did not bear thinking of. So I did not think of it. I rose and went to visit Simon, hoping that his gentle smile would be a balm for my ruffled temper.
I crept into his room, uncertain if he was yet asleep.
“I am awake, Julia,” he called. “Come in.”
I ventured into the room. It was dimly lit, warm and cozy, and I could see Simon drowsing in the chaise longue by the window. He was propped against a pair of thick pillows and covered with a soft woolen blanket. It was embroidered at the edge with his crest, a Christmas present from me. It had been difficult to choose something for him, so in the end I had opted for something elegant and practical and comforting. He had always loved beautiful things, and the rich dove-grey colour matched his eyes.
The rest of the room had been furnished with his favorite things, framed sketches of his travels, a portrait of his parents, a little china statue of a dog that he had had for so long its tail had been broken off and glued back at a ridiculous angle, more than once.
He smiled at me and I bent to kiss his cheek.
“Ah, violet. My favorite scent,” he commented.
I felt a little lance of guilt. “I am sorry. I should have sent up a pot of them in March. Never mind. I will have Whittle grow some for you in the hothouse.”
He grinned at me. “Can he do that?”
“Heavens, I don’t know. That is Whittle’s business. If not, I shall buy you some silk ones, French, and douse them in my perfume.”
“Lovely. What have you been about?” he asked as I settled myself on a cushion at his feet.
“Being flayed by the Ghoul,” I informed him with a doleful air. “I have just realized that I am expected to keep to my mourning forever. She’ll never lie down for me putting on colours again. I shall write on black-bordered paper and drape myself in veils until everyone forgets what I look like.”
Simon smiled. “Poor darling. Don’t be too disheartened. I’m sure some helpful March relation will die soon and take her off your hands. Loads of lung complaints going around this spring.”
“One hopes. Not that I wish any ill on any of my relations, of course. But Aunt Ursula has inflicted herself on us for quite long enough. It is someone else’s turn.”
“Lucky for you that I am a Grey and not a March. She won’t return when you are mourning me,” he said, his eyes glinting humorously.
“Oh, Simon, don’t,” I begged. I had been thoughtless, speaking of such things to him. I reached up and took his hand, willing myself not to feel the bones, brittle and sharp beneath the thin, papery skin. I noticed he had moved his gold signet ring from his smallest finger to the ring finger. Still, it twisted loosely and I wondered how much more weight he could lose before he slipped away altogether.
He touched my hair lightly, pushing it back from my face.
“Ah, I did not mean to upset you. But Griggs was here last week, you know. The man is a fool, of course, but he says it cannot be much longer, and I must believe him.”
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