The Lady Julia Grey Bundle

By Deanna Raybourn

Table of Contents

Silent in the Grave

Silent in the Sanctuary

Silent on the Moor

Silent in the Grave

By Deanna Raybourn

CONTENTS

THE FIRST CHAPTER

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRD CHAPTER

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE NINTH CHAPTER

THE TENTH CHAPTER

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE FORTIETH CHAPTER

THE FORTY-FIRST CHAPTER

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 readymade 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 ever-growing 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 grey 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."

I felt my eyes fill with tears and I turned my face away so he should not see them.

"Julia," he said softly. "You must have known. I have been sick for so long, I think I will welcome it. I cannot remember what it was to breathe without this weight on my chest."

I nodded. "I know. I am dreadfully selfish. I am thinking of what it will mean to me to lose you. I never think of what it means for you to be here, like this."

He smiled, really smiled for the first time in months. I had missed Simon's smile. It had always been his most engaging feature.

"My poor girl. Promise me this—you will not wear black for me. I have always liked you in colours. Bright, shocking colours. Wear scarlet for me."

I shook my head. "I do not think I could manage scarlet. Edward always said I looked best in pale colours."

His face coloured sharply and his breath came quickly, wheezing. "Edward was a fool about many things, not the least of which included you," he said savagely.

"We were happy enough," I said feebly, stroking his hand. He gentled then, but I could feel his anger seething just below the surface.

"He never should have married you," he said finally. "That was selfish. He could not appreciate you."

I said nothing for there was nothing to say. We sat in silence for several minutes. I kept stroking his hand, listening to his breathing as it slowed and the wheeze quieted.

"You should not excite yourself," I said after a long while. "Especially about the past. None of it matters now. None of it can be changed."

He turned his hand in mine, grasping my fingers in his. I thought of how familiar his hand was to me. Simon had been orphaned at two and raised by his aunt and uncle, Edward's parents, at Greymoor. He had been a frequent guest in our home, sometimes invited, sometimes not. It had been a bold Simon who discovered the gap in the hedge that provided us with a shortcut between the properties, a gap we were careful never to show to Father, who would have had it repaired instantly.

And it had been Simon who braved the first introductions, interrupting our game of cricket on the broad lawn that swept from the abbey down to the river. Edward, his elder by some years, had loitered rather shyly in the background. We rode and swam and played games together, and if sometimes Simon went home with a glorious marble that didn't actually belong to him, no one really minded. We knew that Simon, unlike Edward or us, with our regular allowances, was desperately poor. We were happy to let him keep the odd book or slingshot—or at least most of us were. My hot-tempered second brother, Benedick, once chased him home and thrashed him for pocketing his favorite tin soldier, the figure of Wellington mounted on Copenhagen from his Battle of Waterloo set. But then Father had felt it necessary to thrash Benedick for hitting a smaller boy and had confiscated poor Wellington, locking him into his desk drawer, where he lay for years. Father kept him as a reminder to Benedick that a gentleman must always guard his temper—a lesson Benedick never entirely learned. And naturally, because of the Wellington incident, Benedick and Simon never quite warmed to each other. Of course, it did not help that anytime Benedick's temper threatened the rest of us would circle him, chanting, "Remember Wellington," which only served to provoke him further.

After that, Simon thought of Benedick as an unrepentant bully, and Benedick branded him a weasel, the worst insult in the March lexicon. But I liked Simon, mostly for his quick wit and ready smile, and marrying Edward only cemented the bond. In time he had ceased to be company, and I had begun to think of him as another brother. I could not imagine losing him any more than I could fathom losing one of them. I had known for months that he was dying, but I was only just beginning to really understand it. In some ways, his death would be more wrenching than Edward's. Edward had been my husband. Simon was my friend.

"You are right, of course," he said, his voice light and mocking, as it had always been. "I should be saving my strength to make a good end." He hesitated, then reached out his other hand to me. "I have something to tell you, dearest." His face was thin now and sharply planed, like that of a fasting monk in an old Spanish painting. "I do not mean to linger forever. When the time comes, I will know it, and I will act."

I stared at him. "You cannot mean it, Simon. You would not—it is a very great sin. You would not be buried in consecrated ground."

He smiled again. "Dear girl, what do I care for that now?" His grip tightened on my hands, forcing me to hear him. "It grows harder to breathe, my sweet. I feel sometimes as though I were living under water, desperately trying to draw one clear breath. Can you understand that?"

I nodded slowly.

"Then you must understand why I will do this thing while I have strength to do it. But I could not act without telling you first."

"Oh, Simon. Must you really?"

His expression was gently rebuking. Of course he must. Who was I to judge what sort of pain he was in? Or what would become of him if he destroyed himself? Like all good Christians, I had been taught that suicide was a sin, that it was unforgivable. But I had long since stopped believing in a God that could not forgive, and I knew I was not arrogant enough to prevent Simon from ending his pain.

"When? How long?"

He rubbed at my wrists, a slow, gentle rhythm that felt strangely calming amidst this new heartbreak. "I do not know yet. I should like to see the summer."

I nodded. "I will bring roses to you. And strawberries."

He looked at me for a long minute, his flecked grey eyes searching my face, memorizing it.

"I have always wondered what it would be like to kiss you," he said finally. "I always wondered what Edward felt."

Wordlessly, I leaned forward. I pressed my lips to his, surprised to find his warm and soft under my own. It had been years since I had kissed a man, and Simon's lips were nothing like Edward's. Simon's were searching and tentative, slowly exploring and remembering mine.

He put his hand to my face and I pulled back, shaken. I had not thought that kissing Simon would be unlike kissing my own relatives. But it felt vastly different, and I realized how vulnerable a woman becomes when it has been a very long time since she has been loved.

Simon lifted my hand to his lips and I saw there were tears in his eyes.

Neither of us spoke. I kissed him again, this time on the brow, and left him. I went to my room and sat on my bed in the dark, thinking of many things.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

There were three ravens sat on a tree, They were as black as they might be. With a down derry, derry, derry, down, down. The one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our breakfast take?"

—Traditional Ballad

My encounter with Val the next morning was hardly less alarming. Aquinas had just delivered the morning post. Among the usual heap of letters and advertisements, I spotted an envelope with familiar handwriting. Doctor Griggs. I slipped the letter into my pocket and was just about to lock myself into the study to read it when Valerius cornered me, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Good morning, Julia. I wonder if you might have a moment?"

I suppressed the flash of impatience I felt to get to my letter and summoned a smile. I saw Val only rarely these days. He was far too busy with his friends and amusements to spend much time at Grey House. Perhaps a few minutes with him would prove enjoyable.

"Of course. Come to my study. Aquinas will have had the fire lit."

He followed me, obedient as a spaniel, and settled himself next to me on the elderly sofa. He took up a pillow and began wrapping the fringe about his fingers. He had always been a fidgety child, though we had all hoped he would outgrow it. Clearly he had not, and his nerves were affecting mine, I realized as I caught myself twisting at a button. There was no imagining what difficulty he might have gotten himself into, and I was beginning to fear the worst.

I folded my hands quietly in my lap. "What is it, Val?" I said finally, my voice a little sharp. I smiled to soften it. "You can talk to me, you know."

He did not return my smile. His eyes, the wide, green March eyes, were clouded with unhappiness and there was the slightest start of a worry line on his brow. "I do know. I would hope that Father will not hear of this, though."

In spite of his sulkiness, I felt my irritation ebb. So that was it. He had gotten himself into a bit of trouble over a girl or money and did not want Father's wrath crashing down upon him. Surely it could not be too disastrous if Father's fury was the worst he had to fear.

"He shall hear nothing from me," I promised him. "Now, tell me everything."

He eyed me doubtfully, but plunged into his story.

"I was at the club last night. Playing cards."

My eyes narrowed. I did not much like where this was going. Valerius had always been notoriously unlucky at cards, a fact that our brother Plum had been only too happy to exploit when they were boys. Val's pocket money no sooner came in than it was promptly paid out to Plum to settle some debt or other. For years Val had kept him in paints and canvases. I would have thought that living with such an extortionist would have taught Val a lesson, but apparently it had not. And although I was content to permit Val to live at Grey House, I was not prepared to subsidize his gaming losses.

"It is not what you think," he put in hastily. "I won."

I blinked at him. "Did you really? How extraordinary."

His face relaxed for the first time. "I know. It was quite a lot of money, in fact. But there is one thing that I won that I am not entirely certain…that is, I wondered if you might like…oh, blast, just come to my room and see it for yourself."

Mystified, I followed him up the stairs and to his room, puzzled as to what he could have possibly won that would cause him so much difficulty.

He paused at the door to his room, steeling himself. "Now, do not be alarmed. I assure you, there is nothing to fear."

"Valerius, good heavens! What have you got in there? A lion from the royal zoo?"

I pushed past him to open the door and stopped in my tracks. Leering at me from its perch on the footboard of the bed was the largest, blackest bird I had ever seen. Not daring to turn my back on it, I called softly over my shoulder.

"Is that—"

He closed the door behind us. "A Tower raven, yes. Reddy Phillips apparently stole him for some sort of joke, and I won him last night at the tables."

He moved next to me, keeping a careful eye upon his avian guest.

"You must be mad! That bird is Crown property! Do you have any idea…"

Val put up his hands in defense. "I do, I assure you. I mean to return him to the proper authorities, but I do not want to get Reddy into any trouble. Until I work out how exactly to do that, I wondered if I could keep him here."

"Out of the question," I said, whirling on him. "How could you do something so utterly and appallingly stupid? What were you thinking?"

To his credit, Val looked properly abashed. "I know. But I really did not think I would even win the hand. You know how badly I play. Reddy was so certain he had the cards, and you know, I was, too. I only threw in the last of my money because I wanted to see if he would really put the bird up. And then he did. No one was more shocked than I when I won. I thought Reddy would have an apoplexy."

He was smiling and I fixed him with my sternest elder-sister look. "I never liked those Phillipses. Jumped-up tobacco merchants, all of them. And you are no better. Have you not thought of what this could mean to Father? And to poor Bellmont? It could ruin him in Parliament if anyone discovered that his youngest brother had received stolen property—the queen's stolen property no less! Just having that thing in your possession is a felonious act."

The bird, which had been gazing at us with interest, suddenly hopped from the footboard and skimmed across the carpet, coming to rest near my feet.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly.

I pointed a shaking finger. "It speaks."

Val nodded mournfully. "Yes. Apparently only a handful of them do."

"How on earth did Reddy Phillips get hold of it?" I asked, watching the raven's sharp black eyes watch me.

"His uncle has some sort of post in the Tower. Reddy paid him a visit and managed to smuggle this poor fellow out. He's not one of the public ravens, you know," he finished more cheerfully.

"Not one of the public ravens?" The bird had moved forward again, bobbing toward my shoes, pecking delicately at the carpet.

"Yes, some of them are kept in reserve, solely for breeding. This was one of them."

"And how is it that they have not yet discovered one is missing?" I asked, watching in horror as the creature plucked a long piece of wool from the carpet, unraveling the border.

"Reddy had another raven to put in its place. Apparently the Tower fellows did not much like him and pecked him to death shortly afterward. They buried that raven and still don't realize this one's gone missing."

"Of all the bloody stupid things to do," I murmured. Matters had gone from complicated to disastrous. "I suppose Father could explain it to Her Majesty, but they haven't spoken in years. I daresay she's still angry with him about that Irish business. He will be furious with you, and I cannot think that the queen will be much pleased, either."

Val gripped my hand. "You promised! Julia, you cannot tell him. We have not rowed for nearly six months. He has just consented to let me attend anatomy lectures at university. If you tell him, it will ruin everything. Besides, I did not steal the thing. I want to restore it."

He had a solid argument there. Reddy Phillips was the one who should be whipped.

"Can't you just go to the Tower and say that you found it, walking around outside the wall?" I asked, watching the bird inspect the hem of my draperies.

Val shook his head. "The Tower ravens are all clipped. They cannot fly outside the wall. But if you give me a few days, I am certain I can think of something. Please, Julia."

I looked into his earnest eyes, so like Father's, and knew I would not refuse him.

"Very well. But he must stay here, in this room. Pull up any furnishings he might eat, and see to it that you clean up after him."

Val clenched me into a suffocating embrace. "You are a queen amongst women," he said fervently.

"Victoria Regina" came the croaky little voice from the floor.

I put Val firmly away from my person. "And above all, keep him quiet."

"I will, I will, I promise you." He moved into the room and closed the door behind him.

And through the door, clear as a bell, I heard the croaky little voice say, "God Save the Queen."

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale?

—Sir John Suckling

"Song"

It was another hour before I managed to seclude myself in my study to read the letter. There were menus to discuss with Cook, laundry orders to give to Magda, and my wardrobe to peruse with Morag. In a fit of industry, Morag had decided that my mourning clothes were beginning to show some wear and that I should order some new ones. This was blatantly false—I had just purchased the black silk and the ensemble with swansdown trim. I strongly suspected she was short of funds and wanted something to sell at the market.

But as we winnowed the garments down to the few items she deemed acceptable, I remembered Aunt Ursula's remarks about widowhood and considered carefully a life spent in that suffocating black. I thought of the queen, a walking effigy in her widow's weeds, and I thought of the Hindu widows with their funeral pyres. There seemed little to choose between the two.

"Leave me the new silk, as well as that heap there," I told Morag, pointing to a pathetically modest pile on my bed. "You may have the rest to sell or make over for yourself."

She stared at me suspiciously. "Are you feeling quite well, my lady?"

"Quite," I returned briskly. "Pack the rest of these up and remove them. I shall need the space for my new things."

She bobbed her head and set to work, still throwing the odd glance at me over her shoulder. I did not care. While she packed away my mourning, I went to my writing table and dashed off a letter containing very specific instructions to Portia's dressmakers, the brothers Riche. In a very few minutes I finished the letter and dispatched it with a footman, feeling absurdly pleased with myself.

That mood lasted until I read the letter from Doctor Griggs. It was a thorough disappointment, from start to finish.

My dear Lady Julia,

I cannot tell you how very distressed I was to receive your letter. It has been my privilege to act as physician to the Grey family for these many years. During this time, I have diagnosed and treated Sir Sylvius Grey, his son Sir Edward, and now his nephew, Sir Simon. It has ever been apparent to me that the men of this family suffer from an illness that is of an hereditary and most vicious bent. I had hoped Sir Edward would escape this curse, but I realized in his youth that this was not to be. This weakness of the heart and lungs was said to be present in Sir Sylvius' father and grandfather, as well. It is for this reason that I say it is a mercy Sir Edward left no issue. Such a weakness in the constitution of such otherwise fine and noble gentlemen is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude, but it is not to be helped by modern medicine. I did all that any man could for Sir Edward and Sir Sylvius, just as I do now for Sir Simon.

As for your ladyship's own difficulties, I should prescribe a sleeping draught of poppy to provide a good night's sleep and all its healthful benefits. Should this not prove efficacious, I would further prescribe an interview with the vicar to offer some spiritual comfort.

I remain your very faithful servant,

William Griggs

Pooh, I thought, tossing the letter to the desk. Not a scrap of useful information. He had taken me for an addle-witted, superstitious ninny.

Or he had poisoned Edward himself and deliberately put me off the scent. I straightened, feeling quite startled by the notion. It seemed absurd on the surface, but it was entirely possible. Who better to help a sick man along to the hereafter than his own doctor?

I rose quickly. It took only a matter of minutes to slip upstairs for my things and make my way out of the house unnoticed. Between Brisbane's lectures on discretion and Valerius' stolen Crown property, I was very certain I did not wish Brisbane to call at Grey House. I walked a little distance down Curzon Street and hailed a cab near the Park. We made quite good time to Brisbane's rooms, where the plump little housekeeper admitted me promptly this time, waving me up the stairs with a smile.

I rapped sharply and was greeted by Monk, looking somewhat strained.

"We did not expect your ladyship," he began.

"I know, but I have something to discuss with Mr. Brisbane. Business," I said, brandishing the letter. He stepped back, reluctantly, I fancied, and admitted me to the room.

"If you will wait, my lady. I will tell him that you are here."

I nodded absently and made myself comfortable. I removed my gloves and hat and coat, piling them on a chair in the corner. There was a copy of Punch on the table. I ignored it for several minutes, but as the time ticked past and I remained alone, I grew restless. I was more than halfway through the issue when Brisbane appeared.

"My lady, please forgive my tardiness," he said. I almost did not hear him, I was so surprised by his appearance. He was deathly pale under his usually swarthy colour, and there were faint new lines etched on his brow and on either side of his mouth. His eyes, usually so bright and watchful, were dull and sunken in his face.

I made to rise. "Mr. Brisbane, are you quite well? If I have called at an inopportune time—"

He waved me back to my seat. "Not at all. A trifling indisposition, I assure you."

But I was not assured. He moved slowly, without his usual grace, and I wondered what ailed him. Embarrassed at having pushed in at such a time, I thrust the letter at him.

"This is the reply from Doctor Griggs. It is disappointing, I am sure you will agree."

He read it over, his brow furrowing tightly as he looked at the paper. He held it for several minutes as if he were having trouble making out the words. At length he returned it.

"Disappointing, indeed."

"I wondered if perhaps he might be concealing something."

Brisbane passed a hand over his eyes. "Such as?"

"Perhaps he poisoned Edward. He had as good an opportunity as anyone, and the advantage of being in a position to certify the death as natural."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, but what motive? What profit to him to murder one of his most illustrious patients?"

I blushed wretchedly. Not only had I disturbed him at a time when he was clearly not fit for company, I had done so without having rationally appraised my sudden notion of Griggs' duplicity. "I had not thought that out. I came simply on impulse. I am sorry."

He tugged gently at his collar. "It makes no difference. There could be a hundred motives we have not yet discovered." He paused, as if gathering strength, then went on, his voice marginally less thready. "I have a friend, a surgeon. If we describe the symptoms of Sir Edward's collapse to him, I daresay he could come up with something useful."

"Excellent! Will you write to him?"

He blinked a few times, very slowly. "Yes. I will arrange an interview. We should both be present. I imagine he will have questions about Sir Edward's general health that I could not—"

He broke off then, his eyes fixed upon the fire, his shoulders tightly knotted, his jaw working furiously.

"Mr. Brisbane," I said softly.

He jerked his eyes toward me, seeming almost startled to see me there.

"I think it an excellent idea. Perhaps tomorrow—" I stopped as I watched him lift a hand to his temple.

"Mr. Brisbane, are you unwell?"

I made to rise, to help him, but he waved me off angrily.

"I will be fine. Go now. Send Monk to me." His voice was raspy now, as if the simple act of speaking was a tremendous effort.

I stood uncertainly. Both of his hands were fisted against his temples, grinding into his head. His brow was deeply creased, his mouth white and twisted in pain.

"Mr. Brisbane," I began.

"I said go—now!" This last was a full-throated bellow, ragged with pain and rage.

I will admit to cowardice. I snatched up my things and fled, throwing open the door to find Monk already hurrying to him. He was carrying a flask and some other paraphernalia I could not identify.

I did not stay to see what aid he administered. Instead, I hurried outside, never looking behind me. I walked quickly back to Grey House, making straight for the study. Once there, I poured out a glass of whiskey and took a deep swallow. It burned all the way to my belly, warming me through, but for the better part of an hour I trembled in spite of it.

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

Within himself the danger lies…

—John Milton

Paradise Lost

For the rest of that day, I could not settle to anything. I meant to go over the household accounts with Aquinas, but after he had to explain the wine bill for the third time, he closed the grey leather ledger.

"I think your ladyship is much distracted," he said kindly. "Too much so to bother with the wine merchant. I will inform him that the port was charged twice to your account and that the last bottle of champagne he sent was unacceptably dry. Leave it with me, my lady."

"Thank you, Aquinas," I said with some embarrassment. "I will be more myself later. Was there anything else?"

"No, my lady. Nothing that cannot wait."

He bowed and left me alone with my thoughts, most of them unpleasant. Brisbane was unwell, which was unfortunate both for him personally and for the investigation. Simon had had a bad turn in the night, and Valerius was in possession of a stolen raven. The queen's stolen raven.

And I had gotten nothing useful from Doctor Griggs. What sort of detective would I make if I could not elicit information from someone I had known all of my life? I fretted for a while, then decided it was no use worrying about the investigation until Brisbane was feeling himself again. I took my supper tray into Simon's room, pleased to see him feeling a little stronger. He rallied enough from his bad night to take a portion of my lamb and a glass of wine. We even managed half a game of chess before he sent me away, rather to my relief. I had been losing badly.

It was later than I had thought when I left Simon, nearly half past ten. Val was out for the evening, hopefully making some arrangement about the raven, and I was feeling unmoored and wide awake. I poked about downstairs, picking up unfinished knitting, then a book of poetry, but putting them down again only a moment later. Finally, I settled into my study to attempt the accounts again. I applied myself, and this time actually managed to make a bit of progress. I made a few notes on matters I meant to discuss with Cook—she was paying entirely too much to the fishmonger, to begin with. And the amount of butter this household used in a month's time was nothing short of scandalous. I worked on, almost peacefully, relaxing a bit as the numbers spun out of the end of my pen. I could hear Aquinas moving about in the front hall, dousing lamps, when the bell rang. A moment later he came to the study door.

"My lady, a visitor. Mr. Nicholas Brisbane, if you will see him. He apologizes for the lateness of the hour."

I sprang up, upsetting the pot of ink onto a pile of magazines.

Aquinas whipped a snowy cloth from his pocket and wiped at the mess.

"Send him in, Aquinas. The ink has only ruined the magazines. The ledger is quite untouched."

He inclined his head, too correct to question my sudden attack of nerves. He swept the magazines up into a tidy pile and took them away along with his soiled dust cloth.

By the time Brisbane entered the study, I had managed to tidy myself, but I need not have bothered. He was looking rather less than dapper himself.

As always, his clothes were impeccable, but his face was still pale and drawn. He carried his walking stick, the same handsome ebony affair I had seen him carry before. But it seemed to me that he leaned on it rather more heavily now, and the silver head remained clutched in his white-fingered grasp. He was wearing a pair of smoky tinted spectacles that he did not remove as he greeted me. He surveyed the room for a moment, then seated himself with his back to the desk. I could not imagine why he should choose that chair—it was small and badly in need of fresh upholstery.

But as I took my seat, I realized that by choosing that particular chair he kept the bright lamp of the desk behind his shoulder, where it would not cast a glare into his eyes.

I looked at him, apprehensive, but he anticipated my question.

"I took the precaution of loitering until I was certain there was no one about to see me call," he said, his voice thin and brittle.

I smiled my thanks at his discretion.

"Would you care for tea, Mr. Brisbane?" I asked with a glance at the bellpull.

"No, thank you. But a whiskey would not go amiss."

I poured one from the table by the door and took one myself. He drank half of it off quickly, then sat back, his head resting on the back of the chair.

"I am glad to see that your indisposition was short-lived."

His lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile on someone else. "It was not. I daresay I am keeping it at bay—but not for long, I fear. In fact, I may not be available to you for some days' time."

"Indeed?" I took a sip of my whiskey, ignoring the little thorn of annoyance that I felt. I had thought we were compatriots in this together. I had not expected he would leave me to get on with it myself.

A spasm of pain seemed to shake him then. He closed his eyes, his breath coming rather quickly.

After a minute, it slowed and the spasm passed. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the low light of the room. "I have contacted my friend, the surgeon. He is very busy at present, but he should be able to meet with us in Chapel Street in a few days," he said.

That hardly seemed likely, given Brisbane's obvious ill health. I felt ashamed of my annoyance. He gave every indication of a man who was truly suffering, and I had pushed myself and my investigation upon him with no regard for his own trials.

"Mr. Brisbane, your indisposition—"

He waved a hand. "Nothing for you to be concerned with. It is an old adversary. As I said, I will be unavailable to you for a few days. I will not write, but I shall send word through Monk when I am ready to resume the investigation. In the meanwhile, I must caution you not to play the sleuth hound. It could well be dangerous."

I sipped at my drink, annoyed once more. Brisbane could not help being unwell, but that was no reason for me to sit on my hands.

And why the air of mystery about his illness? On the whole he seemed perfectly healthy, and yet apparently he suffered from some malady that laid him so low he would not even be able to manage a pen. Of course, he was absolutely correct, it was no concern of mine. So naturally I thought about it—excessively.

He drank off the last of his whiskey and rose, pausing a moment to gather his strength and his walking stick. I saw now that its silver knob was fashioned into a horse's head, with ebony eyes and a deeply chased halter. The neck was strongly muscled, as if modeled when the horse was in full gallop. It was an impressive, heavy piece, unlike anything I had ever seen before, and I wondered where he had purchased it. I walked with him as far as the door. He turned to me then, his eyes blazing black behind the smoked lenses of his spectacles.

"I meant what I said, my lady. You must not endanger yourself. I cannot protect you if you do not follow my instructions."

I nodded, although inwardly I was seething with impatience. Now that we had begun this investigation I wanted nothing more than to finish it.

But I gave him my word and bade him a demure good-night. He looked at me closely, as if he suspected my rebelliousness. I dropped my eyes and offered him my hand. He took it, clasping it hard in his. It was the first time I had felt the skin of his bare hand against mine, and I was surprised at how warm it was. Overly warm—he was starting a fever. Whatever illness he suffered from, it was real, at least.

"You have given me your word, Lady Julia. Do not disappoint me."

My head went up sharply. He had never used my Christian name. I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him against this familiarity, but I did not. He was obviously in great pain, and yet he had roused himself to come to me and warn me that I would be unprotected until he had recovered. Surely that earned him the right to a little impertinence? And even if it did not, what was the purpose in maintaining pointless formalities? We were partners in this investigation, however junior he might see my role. He treated me like an elder brother might treat a younger sister, with indulgence sometimes, with breathtaking rudeness at others. It was a fraternal sort of relationship, I argued with myself, and entitled to a certain informality.

Brisbane was watching me with interest, no doubt waiting to see if I would protest at this presumption. He was still holding my hand, so I shook his, gravely.

"I will remember. Take quite good care of yourself," I told him.

Just then the door from belowstairs opened and Magda, the laundress, appeared. I was surprised to see her; I had thought her long since abed. I moved to speak to her, but she was not looking at me. Her eyes were fixed upon Brisbane. She came toward us, her bright shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders.

"Magda? What is it?" She ignored me, coming to stand quite close to Brisbane, peering up through his shadowy lenses. He recoiled from her and I could not blame him. I had warned her about putting on the Gypsy in front of visitors.

"Who is this posh rat?" she asked. There was humour in her eyes and a bright, snapping malice as well.

"This gentleman is a guest of mine, and no business of yours," I said sharply. I turned to Brisbane.

"I apologize. This is Magda, my laundress. She was just going belowstairs," I said with a significant jerk of the head to Magda.

She opened her brown palm to him. "Care to cross my palm with silver? No, I thought not. I will not tell your fortune, though I think I know it well enough." She gave him a laugh and a little push.

"Magda! That is quite enough."

Aquinas appeared then, frowning. I was profoundly relieved; he was the only one in the household who could control her. He took her firmly by the arm and she went docilely, pausing only to throw a meaningful look at Brisbane.

"We will talk again, won't we, little vesh-juk?"

The belowstairs door closed after them. Before Brisbane could speak, I rushed to apologize.

"I am so sorry. Magda is usually perfectly well behaved. She can speak the Queen's English as well as I can, but she likes to earn a little extra money by telling fortunes. She thinks it helps business if she puts on the Gypsy."

Brisbane, who had looked perfectly appalled by Magda's little display, seemed to gather himself. He waved my apology aside. "There is no need to explain. I was merely surprised that you employ a Gypsy woman as your laundress."

I spread my hands. "It is complicated. Her people have always camped on Father's land in Sussex. When Magda had some trouble with them, she naturally turned to me. We had closed up the country house, so I could only offer her a position here in London. She works well enough, when she has a mind to. Her life has not been an easy one."

His lip curled in derision. "Do not waste your pity, my lady. I have some experience with Gypsies, and I have found that their lives are just about as difficult as they wish them to be. Good night, my lady."

He nodded shortly and took his leave, letting himself out and leaving me to puzzle over his coolness. I had thought him broad-minded. His obvious distaste for Gypsies surprised me. But in that respect, he was like most other people of my acquaintance. Father was one of the few landowners in Sussex to welcome Romanies onto his property. As children we had played with them, learned their games. But even as they expressed their gratitude at having a safe place to stay, if only for a little while, they kept themselves apart in every way that mattered. We were rarely invited to eat with them, and were strictly forbidden to learn any of their language.

Thus, I had no idea what it was that Magda had just called Brisbane. I only hoped it was not an obscenity, though her tribe of Roma were so fierce about guarding their tongue from outsiders, he would not have understood it in any case. I should have to speak to her about her behavior, something I dreaded. Usually, I allowed her little foibles to pass unmentioned, but soliciting my guests for fortunes in my own home was beyond the pale. Perhaps London was proving too expensive for her modest pay and she was in need of money. Perhaps I should raise her wages.

As I stood in the doorway of the study, pondering the thorny problem of Magda, the bell rang again and Aquinas reappeared to answer it. I wondered if Brisbane had forgotten something, as there was the low rumble of male voices. But another visitor was admitted to the hall.

"Father!"

I went to him and kissed him. "This is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to me at this hour of the evening?"

He handed his coat and stick to Aquinas and held out his arm, gesturing me to lead the way to the study.

"A letter I received this morning. Come, my pet. You have some explaining to do."

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

As mad as a March hare.

—Proverb (14th Century)

I poured Father a glass of port and took nothing for myself. After the whiskey I had drunk with Brisbane, I was feeling addled enough, and I had the notion that this conversation was going to require all of my wits.

Father took a sniff of his wine, then a tentative sip. He raised his brows in my direction.

"Not at all bad. Better than the dishwater you used to serve, my pet."

"I've given over the ordering of the wine to Aquinas. He has a better nose for wine than Edward did."

"Hmm." He took another sip. "Most agreeable. But this," he said, waving my own letter at me, "was not. What the devil did you mean writing this to Griggs?"

I spread my hands innocently. "I meant what I said—I was upset. I thought that Doctor Griggs could ease my mind."

He looked at me shrewdly from under his thick white brows. "Ye gods, girl, if you think I am going to believe that, you are dafter than any child of mine ought to be. Now, if it is a private business, tell me so, and we will not speak of it. I've no wish to press a confidence you do not wish to make."

I thought for a long moment, then shook my head. "No, it is just as well. I could use your advice."

I told him, as briefly as I could without losing any relevant detail, what Brisbane and I were about. When I finished, he whistled sharply.

"So that is your game. Well, I cannot say I am entirely disappointed. No, I cannot say that at all."

Far from looking disappointed, he was happier than I had seen him in an age. His colour was high and his eyes were gleaming.

"You are enjoying this!"

He shrugged, looking only very slightly guilty. "Edward has been gone a year. There is little enough chance of you getting yourself into any real danger. Edward's murderer, if there is such a person, is probably long gone from the scene. This entire exercise is largely academic. It is you I am enjoying, my girl."

"Me? I am as I ever was. I have only cut my hair and bought some new clothes."

He shook his head. "No, it is more than that. You've finally done something daring enough to deserve the family name. You have begun to live up to the family motto."

"Quod habeo habeo? 'What I have I hold?'"

Father rolled his eyes. "Not that one. The other."

Audeo. "I dare." It had been our informal motto since the seventh Earl March had married an illegitimate daughter of Charles II, thus linking our family with the royal house of Stuart. Family legend claims that he adopted the motto with an eye to putting his wife on the throne someday, until Monmouth's unsavory end warned him off of his kingly ambitions. It was one of the favorite family stories, although when I was seven I had remarked that the seventh earl had not really dared very much at all. It was the only time I was ever sent to bed without supper. After that I never really warmed to the motto. It had always seemed like a good excuse for irresponsible and reprehensible behavior. I had long thought we would be a far more respectable family if our motto had been "I sit quietly in the corner and mind my own business."

Father would not be put off. "There is more to it than lopping off your curls and buying some new dresses. I always worried about you as a child, Julia. You took your mother's death very hard, you know." He paused, his expression dreamy. "I wonder, do you even remember her?"

I thought hard. "I remember someone who used to hold me, very tightly. Someone who smelled of violet. And I think I remember a yellow gown. The silk rustled under my fingers."

He shook his head, regretful. "Ah, I thought you would have remembered more. That was her with the violet scent. I am glad you wear it now. Sometimes you move through the room and I could almost imagine she has been walking there."

He paused and I think his throat may have been as thick as mine. But he went on, and he was smiling. "The yellow silk was her favorite gown that last summer, when she was expecting Valerius. She wore it almost every day, I think. You stopped talking for just a bit after she died, do you remember that?"

"No." But I did. I remembered the long silences, the feeling that if I spoke, if I moved on, she would never come back. The certainty that I had to stay just as I was if I wanted her to return. I practiced stillness, rarely moving, trying to force myself not to grow without her.

"Of course, you hated Valerius," Father was saying. "Blamed him, I imagine. Most of you children did. I did so myself for a while, although it wasn't the boy's fault. Ten children in sixteen years—too much for her. But she wanted you all. She wanted you so very much."

His voice trailed off, and I knew he was seeing her. She had been beautiful; I had seen the portraits. I had impressions of her, but no true memories. He was right. I had been six when she died. I should have remembered more.

"You are very like her," he said suddenly. "More than any of the others. She was gentle and good, much more respectable than the scapegrace Marches she married into," he said with a chuckle. "She would have understood you with your quiet little places, your desperate need to be normal. Yes, you are very like her." He leaned forward, his eyes bright green in the lamplight. "But she knew how to take a chance, my pet. After all, she married me. You have her blood, Julia, but you are a March as well. There are seven centuries' worth of adventure and risk and audacity in your blood. I always knew it would come out eventually."

I smiled. "I always thought Bellmont must be quite a bit like Mother."

"No. He is the biggest rebel of the lot. That's why he runs Tory."

"And you think I am beginning to live up to the March legacy?"

He gave a satisfied sigh. "I do. This murder business may be just what you need. Although, best to let sleeping dogs lie, I always think."

I snorted at him. "You have never let a sleeping dog lie in your entire life, Father. And surely you are not condoning letting a murderer walk free?"

He shrugged. "You have not found a murderer yet. You may not even have a murder. Perhaps poor Edward ought to lie where we buried him."

I did think about it. It was tempting, the idea of sweeping this bit of possible nastiness under the carpet and getting on with my life. But I knew I could not. I would not be able to sleep nights if I thought that Edward had been murdered and I had done nothing to right that wrong. I smiled at the irony that undertaking this investigation might actually be the one thing in my life that satisfied both my sense of duty and my very secret, very small desire for adventure. I looked at Father and shook my head. "I cannot. It is my duty. If there is any chance that Edward was murdered, then I must do all that I can to bring him justice."

He finished his port. "All right, then," he said, rising. "Do what you must. And I will not ask you what that Brisbane fellow was doing leaving here at such an hour," he said, chucking me under the chin.

My face grew hot. "We were discussing the investigation," I told him quickly. "He was here a quarter of an hour at the most."

Father smiled at me sadly. "My dear girl, if you don't know what mischief can be gotten up to in a quarter of an hour, you are no child of mine. Come to supper on Thursday next. Hermia is having an oratory contest and I mean to sleep through it."

He was gone with a wave over his head, leaving me dumbstruck. Surely my own father was not advocating an illicit affair with Brisbane? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was exactly what he was doing. It did not bear thinking about. Well, truthfully, I did think about it quite a lot. At least until Valerius came home covered in blood.

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

Father had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Valerius came home. I heard him call a brief greeting to Aquinas in the hall, then hurry past the open door of my study and up the stairs.

I called to him, but he did not reply. I followed him up the stairs, catching him up at the door to his room.

"Valerius! Whatever is the matter? I want to speak to you. Father was here this evening—Val? What is it?"

He was hunched over, facing the door, his coat folded over his arm. He was not wearing his waistcoat.

"Are you ill?" I put a hand to his shoulder to turn him, but he threw me off.

"I am well, please." He edged away, but I followed.

"Julia, leave me."

"Valerius, stop being tiresome. Turn around and face me this instant." He went very still, probably weighing the odds that I would go away and leave him in peace. He must have realized how slim they were, for when I reached out for him again he turned. His face was ghastly, pale and lined with fatigue, but it was his shirt that made me gasp. The pure white linen of his shirtfront was dark crimson, crusted with dried blood. I put out my hand.

"Val—you're hurt! My God, what happened to you?"

He brushed my hand away. "I am well. The blood—it isn't mine."

"Whose, then?" I put myself between him and the door and he sighed, knowing he was going to have to tell me the entire story.

"There was a fight outside the theatre. It was quite vicious. A man, set upon by ruffians. They got out his tooth and cut him rather badly about the head."

I raised a finger toward the wide crimson stain.

"Careful," he said, edging away. "There are still some spots that are wet."

I shook my head in astonishment.

"But so much blood, you must have been quite close to him."

He nodded, his face rather grey at the memory of what he had seen. "I sat with him and tried to stop the bleeding while his brother went for their carriage."

"How ghastly for you! What were they about, these ruffians? Did they mean to rob him?"

Val passed a hand over his face. "I do not know. Some private quarrel, I think. But I am out of it now. I want only to change my clothes and get into bed."

I gestured toward his fouled shirt. "Give me the shirt. It must be put to soak or it will be spoilt."

He hesitated, then nodded and slipped into his room. I heard the raven quorking at him irritably. After several minutes, he opened the door just enough to thrust the soiled shirt into my hands.

"Thank you," he said shortly. He shut the door before I could question him further. I shrugged. I had no doubt the fight would be detailed in the morning papers. And very likely an enterprising reporter had obtained more details than Valerius had.

Holding the crusted shirt at arm's length, I made my way down the stairs, through the hall belowstairs, past the kitchens and into the laundry. Aquinas was finishing his rounds of the windows and doors, his locking-up ritual for the night. He always carried a lamp with him and extinguished the last of the house lights as he went. The front of the house was in darkness and I could hear him securing the bolts on the garden doors.

I moved quietly, feeling unaccountably timid about explaining Val's gory shirt. If Aquinas saw it he would insist upon soaking it himself and he would doubtless find some fault with Magda's methods of keeping the laundry, his own standards being far more exacting than hers. The absence of a housekeeper at Grey House, though unorthodox, was perfectly adequate in most circumstances. With Magda, it sometimes proved a liability. For the most part she kept to herself, and on the rare occasions when discipline was required, Aquinas was man enough for the task. But Magda seldom went along easily with his corrections, preferring to rage or sulk, depending upon which approach seemed likeliest to garner my support. The two of them were entirely capable of waging a war of attrition that would last for days. Rather than facing a staff row, it seemed far simpler to deal with Val's nasty shirt myself.

Although, I should have brought a lamp or at least a candle, I realized as I barked my shin on the pressing table in the laundry. By all rights I should have summoned Magda to take the shirt herself, but I was far too tired to even contemplate tackling Magda. There was still the question of her appalling behavior toward Brisbane to address, and I was unwilling to speak to her tonight. It was late now, and I was more than ready for my own bed. All I wanted was to dispose of Val's unspeakable garment and put the whole evening's bizarre events behind me.

With any luck, the stains would have soaked out by morning and there would be little trace of Val's adventure at the theatre. Magda always kept a bucket of cold water at hand for the soaking, and I knew she liked it to be stood below the front windows, those that overlooked the area. It gave her good light, even on overcast days, and a chance to see passersby—if only from the ankle down.

I had just reached the bucket and lifted the lid when I heard voices. I started, thinking I was not alone in the laundry. But as they went on, I realized they were coming from the area above me. The pair had taken refuge behind the potted trees to the side of the front door and were speaking in low, harsh voices. I recognized them at once.

"I will give you one last chance to let go of my sleeve before I break your fingers." To my astonishment, I realized that this was Brisbane. His voice was iron, cold as I had never heard it, and I had little doubt that he meant his threat, though I could not imagine what he was doing there, of all places. He had left Grey House an hour before.

Magda's laugh echoed mirthlessly.

"Oh, I think not. You will not hurt me. There are still some of us who remember Mariah Young."

These last words were a hiss, and they must have struck Brisbane like a lash, for I heard a scrape, like a quick footstep, and her sharp intake of breath. There was a little moan of pain.

"Do not interfere with me," he told her. "I will ruin you if you dare."

"Others have tried," she spat back. "But you remember that I know who Mariah Young was—and I know how she died."

He must have released her then, for there was a sharp clang against the railing and the sound of booted footsteps moving quickly away in the dark. And following him into the night was Magda's laugh, low and throaty, like the rasping call of a raven.

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

Oh, we are lords' and ladies' sons, Born in bower or in hall, And you are some poor maid's child Borned in an ox's stall.

—Traditional Ballad

To my surprise, I slept rather well that night. The alcohol I had consumed, coupled with the evening's strange events, proved entirely too much for me. I crept up the backstairs in order to avoid Aquinas, said little to Morag as she got me ready for bed, and was asleep almost as soon as she closed the door behind her.

But I woke early to the muffin-man's bell, and lay awake, listening to the streets come to life and thinking hard about the previous night. Brisbane's initial call had been unexpected, but not unorthodox. Whatever malady he suffered, it had been considerate of him to make the effort to warn me that he would be incommunicado for some days.

Father's call was somewhat more puzzling. I could well believe him capable of encouraging me in as bizarre an undertaking as a murder investigation. What I could not believe was that he actually seemed to be regretting the fact that I had not taken Brisbane as a lover. That Father had never entirely approved of my marriage was no secret. Just before he walked me down the aisle, he had paused in the vestry and offered to take me away—France, Greece, anywhere I wanted if I had changed my mind. I had laughed, thinking him in jest, but after Edward and I had been married for some time, I began to notice things I had not seen before. Father, always a woolgatherer, became sharply observant whenever Edward was in the room. I watched him watch my husband, and wondered what he was thinking. I never had the courage to ask and he never said, but I suspected I knew already. Edward was the sort of man Father universally despised—wealthy, self-satisfied and utterly incapable of thinking or feeling deeply. Father's sensibilities were so refined, he had been known to lock himself in his study and weep over Titus Andronicus for hours. Edward had not even wept when his mother died. Father might deplore Bellmont's stance as a Tory, but he applauded his convictions. Edward had had none.

Whenever the subjects of politics or religion or philosophy arose, generating a heated debate at the March dinner table, Edward would sit with a tolerant half smile firmly on his mouth and say nothing. No matter how fiercely Father baited him, he never rose to it, never offered an opinion on anything more serious than the cut of an evening suit or the vintage of a wine. He let the property at Greymoor decline—the most venal of sins to my own land-mad family. Marches had been taking the notion of stewardship seriously for centuries. We could no more leave a field unploughed or a hedgerow untended than we could keep from breathing. I remembered one conversation in particular. There had been a spirited disagreement regarding enclosure and my brother Benedick had appealed to Edward for his opinion. This was early days yet, when they had not realized that he was never going to take an interest in such things. They had all looked to Edward, eager for his view. He had simply smiled his sweet, sleepy smile and lifted his glass.

"Brother Benedick," he had said, "I cannot think of such things when there is wine such as this to drink. You must tell me the name of your agent," he concluded, turning to my father.

This was a blind, of course. Edward might like to discuss vintages, but he never bothered to keep them straight. His own cellar was a disgrace, not because he lacked the intellect to stock it properly, but because he lacked the initiative. Quite simply, he was the most indolent person I have ever known.

And just then, Benedick must have realized it, too, for I heard him as Father began to discuss the wine, mutter under his breath, "Bloody useless." I raised my eyes just in time to see the tiny smile flicker over Olivia's lips and the way Bellmont was carefully studying his plate. They all thought so. But Olivia's smile was not malicious, and Benedick, for his disapproval, did not actually dislike Edward. They deplored his lack of energy, his casual ways and his refusal to properly manage his land, but they all liked him in spite of themselves. He had a way of endearing himself to people, a manner of charming them with clever conversation and self-deprecating humour that made them in turn feel quite witty. Everyone always felt brighter and sharper and more brilliant when Edward was one of our number.

"He is a diamond-polisher," Portia once told me, and she was correct. He had a gift of being able to take one's feeble little quips and shine them up into real cleverness. He never read books, and rarely newspapers, except to see if his name was mentioned. But he always seemed to know what was being said, and about whom, who was doing what, and to whom. I suspected it was this ability to keep his finger firmly on society's pulse that multiplied the respectable fortune he had inherited into a tiny empire by the time of his death. He listened closely when others talked, and people always talked freely around him. He always cocked his head toward the person to whom he was speaking, enveloping them both in a warm intimacy. He knew just what questions to ask, and did so without anyone ever feeling that he had been intrusive or prying. He always prised just the precise nugget of information he needed, then passed it along to his man of affairs with instructions on how to act upon it.

I knew none of this until after his death, of course. It came out during a long session with the solicitor, Mr. Teasdale. We were making an exhaustive tour of Edward's investments, and I was expressing my astonishment that his affairs had been so sophisticated, so diversified and far-thinking. Mr. Teasdale finally explained to me about Edward's business practices, shamefacedly, as if it was something slightly tawdry. But ingenious, just the same, and behind Mr. Teasdale's demure expression lay more than a little admiration for Edward's abilities. I did not bother to explain to Mr. Teasdale that he might have saved his adulation. Edward had only engaged in his pony tricks for his own amusement. If making money had required anything more demanding than gossiping with friends and penning occasional letters to his agent, he would never have bothered.

It was rather like his pretensions to collecting art. Edward loved landscapes and would often come upon one that he loved at a friend's home. A discreet inquiry would be made and, if his friend was amenable, a quiet sale would be arranged. But Edward would never have troubled to actually visit a gallery, or worse yet, commission an artist for himself. Even his tailor knew better than to require more than two fittings for any garment as Edward simply could not be bothered. He liked things that came easily to him—his inheritance, money, me.

It was highly interesting to me to see that what I always thought of as Edward's little game—spending time quietly drawing people out of themselves—had in fact been an extremely lucrative business practice. I thought of all the people who had said to me over the years that Edward was such a wonderful listener, so very compassionate and feeling. They always envied me, although they needn't have bothered. I was the one person Edward rarely listened to, simply because we were so seldom together.

But everyone else felt the warmth of his sunny attentions, never realizing that there was something slightly chilly and shadowy behind them. I found myself staring at my bedroom ceiling—pale bluish-grey, Edward's choice—and wondering if anyone had guessed that his interest in them had been more calculating than convivial. Had someone been hurt by this? Betrayed, even? Could such a thing drive a person to murder? Possibly, under the right circumstances.

But what were the right circumstances? And what sort of person?

I toyed with that question while I listened to the cabs beginning to rattle down Curzon Street. Traffic was becoming appalling in London and I was longing for the country. I usually decamped by May, but not this year, I feared. Last year, just after Edward's death, I had taken Simon to Bellmont Abbey. The journey was slow, in deference to his failing health, but he had loved it. He felt well enough to have his Bath chair out in the garden where we spent long hours, reading and working on word puzzles together. I painted sometimes, very badly, and we talked or remained silent as the mood took us. His cheeks were brown by the time we came back to London in September, but the city air was a vicious change. He took to his bed again immediately, his cough bad, his colour worse. That summer had been his last rally. Since then his strength had continued to ebb and I knew that if I tried to take him back to Sussex again he would not survive the journey. Even if Brisbane and I concluded our investigation, I would not leave Simon.

But I would regret the summer in the country, I knew. I would miss the fresh, jeweled berries and the sprightly games of croquet, the long sunny afternoons on the lawn stretching from luncheon to tea, the turns on the lake in the ancient rowboat Father kept, the thin muslin gowns that seemed almost indecent after the thick winter garments we had worn in town. Well, I could at least walk in the Park and instruct Cook to purchase berries, I supposed. There was no substitute for the long walks over the Downs, but I made a mental note to order some lighter things from the dressmakers and returned to my ruminations.

Father—and his curious visit. Now that I thought on it, it did not much surprise me that he suggested I take a lover, however discreet he had been. I must have been a sad disappointment to him with my quiet, conventional ways. I had sometimes caught him looking at me with a pensive, almost wistful air, as if he were waiting hopefully for me to do something dashing and romantic and decidedly Marchian. With a legacy of seven centuries of elopements, abandonments, disinheritings, and the occasional execution to spice things up, nothing I did would shock him greatly. And perhaps he and Portia were correct. Perhaps the attention of a man who appreciated me would prove a balm.…

One of the maids—Sally, I think it was—came in then with morning tea, and I put aside Father's visit to ponder the more serious events that had followed.

Val's appearance, gore-stained and unprepossessing, had not been a happy development. I had thought he had settled down rather nicely into life at Grey House. Granted, we saw almost nothing of each other, but that suited us both quite well and he had seemed more contented in my house than in Father's.

But he had become almost mysterious of late in his comings and goings. The existence of Her Majesty's raven in my Blue Room was solid proof of that. I should have handed him over to Father before Val returned from the opera, I realized ruefully. Father would have been furious with him initially; I always suspected he harbored some tender feelings for the queen, their having played together as children being one of his fondest memories. But his irritation would have subsided—eventually. He would have seen to it that the thing was taken back to the Tower and restored to its proper place.

And he would have taken up Val's part with the queen, I had no doubt of that. He might rail against the little idiot in private, but no one, not even the queen, would be permitted to speak against one of his own. He might even think of it as one of those high-spirited little japes he was always wishing on us. And surely Val would forgive me for breaking his confidence if everything turned out for the best.

Unfortunately, I had not had the presence of mind to think of it the night before. I had been too preoccupied with Father and Brisbane. And Magda. I sipped at my cooling tea, thinking again of the words she had hissed at him in the darkness.

I know who Mariah Young was…and I know how she died.

Ominous words, chilling even. I had no idea who Mariah Young was, but I did not much think I would like to find out. Was Magda trying to imply that Brisbane knew something about the death of this woman? Or worse, had had something to do with it himself?

I put down my tea and pulled the coverlet to my chin. Had I entrusted myself, foolishly, to a person capable of the very crime we were trying to investigate? Was he capable of violence? Or had Mariah Young died as the result of some tragic accident, perhaps at Brisbane's hands? What did I really know of Brisbane? And, more to the point, what did Magda know?

I was still puzzling over these questions when Morag bustled in with the news that my bath was ready. I bathed and dressed that morning in a state of distraction, still mulling questions for which I had no answers.

And because I was thinking of Brisbane when I took my seat at the breakfast table, it seemed like some sort of sorcery to find a letter from him waiting on the salver next to my plate.

I put out a finger to poke the envelope, not entirely certain it was real. It was, although the handwriting was thinner, less confident than I had seen it. Whatever ailed him, he was clearly in a decline. I opened it, scanning it quickly as Aquinas presented the toast.

My lady,

My friend finds himself unexpectedly available and places himself at our disposal this morning. He will be in Chapel Street at eleven o'clock. I hope that this does not inconvenience you.

Unlike the body of the note, the signature was firm and thick, as though Brisbane had borne down hard with the pen, making an impression in the paper. I ran my finger over it, tracing the loops of his handwriting. If Brisbane's condition was worsening, I did not think I much wanted to call upon him. But only he knew the limits of his strength. I doubted he would have allowed his friend to visit if it was a very great hardship to him.

In a matter of minutes I had penned a quick response and dispatched Desmond to Chapel Street. I sat back, picking at my cold eggs and waving off Aquinas when he offered to fetch me hot ones.

For some reason I could not identify, my appetite had entirely fled.

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me.

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

I arrived at Brisbane's rooms at ten past eleven, when I was quite certain his friend would have already arrived. Between my father's thinly veiled hint that I take Brisbane for a lover and Magda's less thinly veiled hint that Brisbane was a possible murderer, I was not inclined to be alone with him. In fact, I was not certain which idea made me the more nervous.

The day was pleasant enough—cloudy, but without the chill wind that would have necessitated the carriage. I walked, for the second time in two days, but this time I took careful note of my surroundings. It was liberating, really. I had never been accustomed to walking in London—limiting my exercise to occasional walks in the Park—but I found it exhilarating. Mindful of propriety, I was thickly veiled and I walked purposefully, keeping my head still so that I appeared to look neither right nor left.

But my eyes roved constantly, taking it all in. I was amazed at how different a town it seemed now that there was no carriage window between London and me. My hems were inevitably filthy by the time I arrived at Brisbane's rooms, but I saw so much! There were Mayfair gentlemen, striding with an air of entitlement—these I was careful to avoid. Some of them I recognized, but although a few of them cast glances (appreciative?) in my direction, none ventured to speak to me and none peered too closely through my veil.

These lords did not interest me. I had spent my life packed elbow to elbow with them at dining tables and in ballrooms. No, I was enthralled with the nannies, starched and upright, taking their clean-scrubbed and well-bundled charges for air in the Park. There were becapped maids, scurrying on errands for their mistresses, and less frequently, footmen decked in velvet livery. I wondered at the letters in their hands. Invitations? Billets-doux? They were full of their own importance with their elegant braid trim and plush knee breeches and I thought, not for the first time, that I would be rather relieved to sell Grey House and be rid of mine. It seemed silly now to keep a pair of young men in service simply because they were decorative. Loftily they pushed their way down the street, striding amid the flower girls and chestnut sellers and barrel-organ players, shouldering a path through the crowds. I saw one, a tall fellow in sky-blue livery, ruthlessly elbow a flower seller out of his way, jostling her bouquets into the mud. She cursed at him fluently and I took note of some of the words. I gave her a shilling and she handed me a bunch of springy lavender with a smile. I waved her off as she went to find change for me and she bobbed me a curtsey, wishing me well.

I walked along, sniffing the crisp scent of the lavender, trying to remember the last time I had actually paid for something myself. All of the shops I frequented sent their bills to Grey House. And Morag usually carried the coins we required for incidental expenses. It was invigorating to be alone for once, surrounded by so many people, each of them speaking a slightly different English, each of them owning a slightly different London. I realized then that for all my pining for the country, I had come to love the town just as fiercely.

I strode proudly as those lords then, marking my steps with the point of my umbrella and occasionally taking a deep, pungent breath of my lavender. It was one of the loveliest moments of my life, I thought—the more so for having been unexpected.

I arrived at Brisbane's rooms feeling fresh and more than ready to meet whatever challenge lay ahead of us. It seemed ridiculous now, that accusation of Magda's. Whatever she meant, she could not have meant to imply murder. It simply was not possible.

Or so I thought until Brisbane opened the door. He looked wretched, like a man just this side of hell—pale and tight-featured. His eyes were glassy, the pupils pulled in so small that I wondered if he had taken laudanum. My own grandmother, racked by pain, had taken refuge in a green laudanum bottle herself. She had looked just the same in the days before her death, hollow-eyed and brittle.

"Mr. Brisbane. I hope you are well," I ventured, although I knew perfectly well he was nothing of the sort.

He nodded, then winced. The slight motion must have brought on a shaft of pain, for his face whitened even further.

"Mordecai is already here," he said, his voice thin and rasping.

I moved into the room, lifting my veil. Before the fire stood a youngish man, early thirties, perhaps. He was tall, nearly as tall as Brisbane, and dark, but there the resemblance ended. This man was thicker, almost plump, and his features were marked by the sort of earnest sweetness that one associates with happy dogs. In fact, he put me greatly in mind of a puppy—a very large one, but a puppy still. His hair was floppy and his clothes gently shabby. He looked a comfortable, lived-in sort of person. I liked him instantly.

He turned, smiling at me a smile that extended to his eyes and suffused his entire face with pleasure.

From behind me Brisbane made the introductions.

"Lady Julia Grey, allow me to introduce to you my good friend, Doctor Mordecai Bent. Mordecai, this is Lady Julia Grey, the widow of Sir Edward Grey."

I moved to shake his hand and it engulfed mine warmly.

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you are willing to help us," I began.

He waved me off immediately. "The gratitude is entirely mine, my lady. Nicholas knows I love nothing so much as a good puzzle. And poisons are a special hobby of mine."

I felt my eyebrows lift a little. "Oh? How very unusual."

"Not at all," he said, his large, spaniel-brown eyes boring into mine earnestly. "All of our medicines have their origin in plants that are deadly if taken in too great a dose. There is no curative in the world that is not a potential poison in the wrong hands."

"I had not thought of it in quite that way," I replied.

Brisbane waved us to chairs then and I sat opposite Doctor Bent, drawing off my gloves as I cast a surreptitious glance at Brisbane. He had sat slowly, as if the smallest motion was painful to him. I wondered that his friend did not seem more aware of his condition, but it was not my place to ask. Perhaps he was already treating Brisbane for his ailment. I certainly hoped so. Brisbane looked ready for a shroud.

"I assume Mr. Brisbane has given you the particulars of Sir Edward's death?"

Doctor Bent nodded. "He has. I must say that the ability to make a diagnosis with any certainty after this length of time, and with no postmortem, is greatly compromised. You do understand that?"

I nodded. "Yes, but I feel very strongly that this was a case of murder. So does Mr. Brisbane."

Doctor Bent went quite still. "Intuition, perhaps?"

This last seemed directed at Mr. Brisbane, but I could not imagine why. Indeed, Brisbane did not reply, but kept his eyes averted, toward the shadowy corner of the room.

"I suppose you could call it that, but we do have evidence that someone was threatening my husband before his death. And Edward's collapse was so sudden."

"But not entirely unexpected, I think," Doctor Bent said gently. "I do not think so illustrious a physician as William Griggs would have certified his death as natural if there was not at least a probability that it was."

"My husband was murdered," I said stubbornly. "I know that it will be difficult to prove. I do not ask that you prove it. I am simply asking that you employ your expertise to helping us direct our inquiries to the proper channels."

"I told you so, Mordecai" came Brisbane's voice, rasping through the shadows.

Doctor Bent smiled. "You did indeed, Nicholas." He turned to me. "He told me you are a woman of great strength of purpose, my lady. I will be happy to help you in any way I can. Now, tell me exactly what happened that night.…"

I talked for a long time. Mordecai Bent was a very good listener—the sort of person who listens with his entire body and not just his ears. He interrupted me only a few times to ask questions about Edward's collapse.

"And what about his general health before his death? I know it was not good—a history of heart trouble, I believe?"

I nodded. "Yes. His father and his grandfather both suffered from it as well. Doctor Griggs says that it is a congenital weakness, an hereditary one. Edward's cousin, Sir Simon, suffers from it as well."

"And what symptoms does it manifest?"

I closed my eyes, thinking hard. "Edward always had spells. He had them as a boy, I remember." I opened my eyes, noting Brisbane still sitting silently, his gaze unfocused.

"Spells?" Doctor Bent leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.

"Yes. They always came on suddenly, sometimes when he was exerting himself, sometimes when he was quiet. He would have trouble breathing and often his complexion would turn a peculiar shade of blue."

Doctor Bent nodded thoughtfully. "Go on, please."

I shrugged. "As I said, he always had these spells. Some worse than others. Often, he could sit quietly and they would pass. Other times he would take to his bed for a few days."

"Had these spells grown worse in the months before he died?"

"Oh, much," I said emphatically. "There were times in which he was not at all himself. He was thinner, visibly so, and had developed a cough."

Doctor Bent's eyes were shining, like a hound's will during a course. "You said he was not himself. How so?"

I spread my hands. "He was usually quite easygoing, very amiable. But in the months before his death he became sharp-tempered, moody. He was very angry at times, but at nothing in particular. He could be perfectly gentle, and then something would trigger his temper."

"Was he ever violent?"

The question was asked without judgment, but I hesitated to answer it. Doctor Bent, sympathetic eyes and gentle manner notwithstanding, was a stranger to me. And some things were too humiliating to tell—or remember.

I was aware of Brisbane watching me then, sharply. I lifted my chin.

"He struck the boot boy, and his valet, I believe."

I flicked Brisbane a glance, daring him to contradict me. Besides, he did not know for certain. He could not know, I told myself firmly.

Doctor Bent was nodding. "This is a very interesting puzzle, my lady. I must do some research before I can offer you anything definitive, and I am quite busy just now at the hospital," he said apologetically.

I rose, extending my hand. "Of course. Thank you so much for your efforts on my behalf."

He shook my hand quite cordially and I turned to leave.

Brisbane rose and took a step toward the door. He got as far as the table next to his chair, then paused, and I watched as the colour simply drained out of his face.

"Mr. Brisbane, are you quite all right?" I asked, but by the time I got the words out, it was very apparent that he was not.

While I watched, he put out his hand to the table, blindly, dashing aside a decanter of whiskey.

"Nicholas!" cried Doctor Bent, bounding past me.

He reached Brisbane just in time to catch him as he crumpled, cushioning his fall with his own body. Brisbane was senseless, his hair tumbling over his brow, completely unaware of his mournful friend, the splintered glass, or the whiskey slowly dripping into the carpet below.

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am, nor what I do.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VI, Part 1

For the next three days I heard nothing of Brisbane—either of his health or the investigation. I planned menus with Cook, read to Simon, hounded Val about getting rid of the illicit raven and snapped at Morag. It seemed there were a hundred little domestic problems that needed to be handled—one of the maids quit, one of the footmen was malingering, a stray cat had had kittens in the butler's pantry—but resolving them proved unsatisfying. It was too tempting to wave a hand at Aquinas and delegate. But then I was left with my unruly thoughts and my twitching nerves and that was no better.

I thought many times about visiting Brisbane. Not to actually see him, of course. Just a polite call to offer a token of my concern for Monk to deliver. Surely a little gift to speed his convalescence would not be amiss, I told myself. I could leave it with his man and perhaps glean a few details about Brisbane's condition.

He had recovered swiftly from his swoon. Doctor Bent had applied a little sal volatile and Brisbane had come round quickly enough. But he was still weak and haggard and Doctor Bent had insisted upon putting him to bed—after escorting me firmly but respectfully to the door. I did not blame him. It must have been disconcerting enough to deal with Brisbane in his condition without my gawking like a tourist at the sight.

But I was curious, I could not deny it. To the eye, Brisbane was a healthy-looking specimen—robust, even. I was wildly interested in what sort of malady could fell so vibrant a person. And the thought that Doctor Bent might have sent along some sort of report about Edward that Brisbane was too indisposed to forward to me gnawed at me terribly. I toyed for a while with the idea of a basket of Cook's choicest pastries and a bottle of the best wine in the cellar, selected by Aquinas, but in the end my better instincts took over. Better instincts, or perhaps my cowardice. Twice now I had seen him in the throes of his infirmity, and twice I had fled back to Grey House without a backward glance. There was something quite disturbing about seeing a man like Brisbane in such a state. Inquisitive as I was, I could not quite bring myself to call upon him simply to satisfy my own curiosity.

Instead, I applied myself to the clearing out of my study—a room long overdue for a good turn out. I swept up heaps of unfinished knitting and incomplete watercolour books, bundling them into a cupboard and promising myself that as soon as the investigation was finished, I would bring my little projects to completion. For now, it seemed like a bit of an accomplishment just to get them out of sight.

I moved on to the bookshelves, pulling out piles of unread newspapers and putting them aside for Aquinas to deal with. I straightened the books, flicked a duster over them, and made up my mind to let the maids into the room in future. I was certainly not keeping it tidy, much less clean. The dust was appalling, and I kept sneezing as I burrowed down into stacks of books I had not seen in ages. There were volumes I had brought to my marriage—books of my childhood, much-loved editions with worn covers and jam stains from sticky fingers. I turned over the leaves, spotting the brown rings from teacups and the occasional pale mark where I had used a leaf as a bookmark. There was my Psalter as well, a gift from the Princess of Wales upon my confirmation. It was marked with the three Wales feathers and her initials in gilt on the leather cover, and inscribed in her own hand on the flyleaf. I turned it over, delighted to see it again. She had been Princess of Wales for only seven years when I was confirmed, and I had been completely in awe of her. She was utterly lovely, and I had been thrilled to own something she had touched with her own pretty hands.

I ran my fingers over the cover, mourning the state of the book. I should have taken better care of it. It had been the most elegant thing I owned for many years. Now the morocco cover was dry and cracking and the gilt cipher flaking. I opened it, almost afraid to look at the silk ribbon, which was certain to be splitting. Really, I did not deserve to own nice things if I could not take better care of them, I chided myself. I leafed through the pages, then bent swiftly over some damage I had not expected. The ribbon was indeed splitting, but it was the hole in the page that was most disconcerting. What sort of worm or moth had done that?

But I knew as soon as the question had formed in my mind that no insect had done this damage. The Psalter had been damaged by human hands—hands with very sharp scissors.

I looked at the book for a long moment, feeling a rush of excitement, I am ashamed to say. For I held in my hands our first genuine clue. The verse that had been scissored from my Psalter was not the one glued to the note I had discovered in the desk, but I had no doubt it had been affixed to one of those that Brisbane had seen. I could not remember how many notes Edward had received altogether—I could not even remember if Brisbane had ever told me. But I was bone certain that they all began with this harmless little book.

I paged through it carefully, almost at arm's length now. It was distasteful, really. Someone else had used this personal volume and it felt polluted. But it was necessary to scrutinize it for more clues and I did so with enthusiasm. There were six holes altogether.

I sat back on my heels, considering. The person who had threatened Edward had taken my Psalter and carefully excised the passages he wanted, then replaced it. This argued that the person had kept it for some time—a person with access to my house, at least twice—once to take the book and once to return it. The implications were faintly horrifying, and I knew exactly what I must do.

I rose and went to the desk in search of a bit of brown paper in which to wrap the book. When it was a neat parcel, I slipped it into my pocket and rang for Aquinas to prepare a basket of fruit. It was time to see Brisbane, indisposition or not.

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

Mistress, both man and master is possess'd; I know it by their pale and deadly looks: They must be bound and laid in some dark room.

—William Shakespeare

The Comedy of Errors

I alighted from a hansom in front of the house in Chapel Street scarcely half an hour later. The fruit basket was a thrown-together affair, less the tasteful, elegant display that I had imagined, and more a wickerwork coster barrow heaped with fruit that was either not quite ready or just past ripeness and oozing juice. But I had given Aquinas little notice, and for all its shortcomings, the basket was rather pretty. He had instructed the gardener, Whittle, to find a few flowers as well, so here and there a few bright-petaled faces of early roses peered out from behind bunches of cherries or clusters of currants. The Psalter, in its sturdy brown wrappings, was tucked deep into my pocket, bumping lightly against my thigh as I walked.

I rang the bell and it was answered almost immediately, not by Mrs. Lawson, but by a boy of perhaps nine or ten.

I pushed past the child, an easy enough task with an armful of fruit. "Do not mind me. I am expected," I called over my shoulder. Not entirely true, but not entirely untrue, either. Brisbane should have known that I would call if I discovered a clue, shouldn't he? In fact, I distinctly remembered him telling me to do so.

I knocked awkwardly, from under the basket, and waited quite a long time before I heard noise from behind the door.

It opened, a bare crack, and I saw Monk's eye, wary and dull, peering out at me.

"Your ladyship," he began.

"Good afternoon, Monk," I replied, nudging the door open with my boot. "I have come on an errand of mercy." I smiled widely, indicating the fruit.

He hesitated, casting a glance behind him. "I suppose I could admit you for a moment, my lady. But I fear Mr. Brisbane is quite unwell. If you would leave the basket with me, I assure you—"

I edged in through the tiny opening he had left me.

"Actually, I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Brisbane. It is rather urgent," I said, pushing on into the room.

The door to the inner chamber, Brisbane's study, I presumed, was slightly ajar, the room itself unlit. Long, dark shadows spilled from its doorway across the carpet where I walked. The main room was brighter and very warm, stuffy even, and in place of the usual scents of leather and tobacco and herbs that usually pervaded the air, was an odour that I had not smelled before and could not place.

Monk hurried to put himself in my path, but I strode on purposefully, stepping around him and heading for the open door that beckoned. Here the scent grew stronger; it seemed sharp, metallic in the nose and on the back of the tongue. From behind the door came a noise, a rustling, gathering sound that for some reason put me in mind of a bear, thawing itself from hibernation. Or something worse, something darker and more sinister, rising from its hiding place at the scent of blood…

It is easy to be fanciful now, but I was not so then. I did not brave the lair of the wolf because I was courageous in the face of danger. I went through the open door because I was too stupid to understand that there was danger at all. I do not know, not even now, if I suspected what lay beyond, but I know that I dropped all pretense at good manners. I brushed Monk aside and forced my way into a place where I did not belong. Was it curiosity? Impatience? Something deeper? Still I cannot say what drove me on. There was only that metallic scent that I did not know, and that strange rustling. I know now that it was Brisbane, rousing from his state of semiconsciousness. I do not know what alerted him to my presence. The sound of my voice? Or was it more primitive than that? Did he catch my scent, over the sharp smell of his own medicine?

I entered the darkened room, heedless of Monk sputtering behind me. I carried the fruit basket in both arms, clutching it gracelessly. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The room was not a study, as I had supposed, nor was it unlit. It was a bedchamber, Brisbane's bedchamber. There was a tiny fire burning in the hearth, but it was heavily screened. No lamps or candles brightened the corners, and the shadows of the little fire were eerie, atmospheric. There was a small, bare table with a single hard chair and a narrow bed—a campaign bed, probably French, I thought. Brisbane himself sat upon it, wearing only trousers and a shirt open to the waist. The sheets were crumpled damply beneath him as though he had just risen from a restless sleep without bothering to crawl between them.

His hair, usually orderly in spite of its length, was wildly disarrayed, as though he had been tearing at it. His face was half lit by the feeble fire and he sat watching me, Janus-like, as I hesitated just inside the door.

His eyes were in shadow and I did not know if he knew me. I caught a glint from them as he turned his head, restless in the gloom. He lifted his head as a hound will do when it catches a scent, and I thought I saw a flash of sharp white teeth between parted lips.

"What is wrong with him?" I whispered hoarsely to Monk. I had come expecting a fierce headache, a bit of melancholia, perhaps. Instead I had found an animal, unleashed from hell.

"Migraines," Monk replied in a low voice. "Of an unusually virulent variety. He usually manages to keep them at bay—sometimes for months, but then they return with a vengeance. He felt this one coming for a week. We did everything to allay it, but…" He broke off, his voice rough, and I knew that he suffered as much as his master.

"It is so dark," I began.

"The light is like a lance to his head, my lady. He cannot bear it."

"He does not seem to be in pain now." I watched Brisbane uneasily. He was sitting quietly, but rather than seeming serene, he presented a picture of lightly restrained savagery—a lion waiting by the watering hole for an unsuspecting deer.

"He has tried conventional methods of relief and found them lacking," Monk was saying, his tone faintly regretful. "He has resorted to dosing himself with other preparations. Absinthe, for one."

"Absinthe!" I had heard of it, and I had heard what it could do. "Does he know that that rubbish can rot his brain? That it could kill him?"

Monk lowered his eyes. "Better it kills him than he kills himself."

I rocked on my heels a little. "Is it that bad?"

To his credit, Monk did not despise me for the stupidity of the question. "I have to remove knives and glass from his room when he is like this. One of his wrists still bears a scar.…"

I did not want to hear more. I could not believe that this self-possessed man whom I had come to think of as my partner in this investigation had been reduced to trying to destroy himself. I looked down at my silly basket, thinking how stupid I had been to bring hothouse fruit. What would that do to cheer him when he was accustomed to the vicious pleasures of absinthe?

Monk touched my arm. "My lady, it is best if you go now. This is the most dangerous time. He has been quite calm as of yet, but I cannot promise you will be safe here."

I nodded, my mouth too dry for speech. Nothing would induce me to turn my back on Brisbane in that moment. He sat, watching motionless as I slid one tentative foot behind me. Before I could even put my weight upon the foot, he was up and across the room, moving with a speed and ferocity I would never have imagined.

I gasped when his hand closed hard on my wrist. He jerked, pulling me into the room. With his free hand he slammed the door in Monk's face and twisted the key in the lock.

It occurred to me then that it was extremely careless of Monk to leave a key in the lock at all, but I realized that this was not the time for such recriminations. I flattened myself against the door, brandishing my basket in front of me—a feeble defense, but the only one I had.

He released my arm and made no other move toward me. He seemed content to stand, staring at me, his eyes clearly bloodshot even in the darkened room.

I heard Monk pounding on the door, his voice muffled through the thick wood.

"I am fine, Monk," I called with more conviction than I felt.

"Thank God for that," I heard him say. "Do not move suddenly, my lady. You must not startle him. I do not believe he will harm you."

I tried to take comfort in that, but I decided it was much easier for Monk to be confident with three inches of stout oak between him and an unpredictable man driven half mad by pain and narcotics. But it was true that Brisbane had had quite enough time to do me harm if that was his intention, and he seemed content to watch me instead, his eyes unfocused and confused.

"Why have you come?"

The sound of his voice startled me. I had not expected him to speak, at least not lucidly.

"I was worried for you. I thought you might like some fruit," I said stupidly, indicating my basket.

He said nothing and I continued to hold it, feeling absurdly grateful that I had at least this flimsy bit of wicker between us. He was quite close, near enough for me to smell again that sharp metallic scent over the lush sweetness of the fruit. It was on his breath, and I realized it must be the absinthe.

"Would you like to sleep now?" I asked softly.

His eyes seemed heavy, like a child's fighting sleep, and I knew he was resisting the effects of his drug. He shook his head irritably, and I saw then the pendant at his throat, gleaming brightly against his skin. It was a small round of silver, threaded onto a thin black silk cord and engraved with a portrait of some kind.

"What is your pendant?" I asked, desperate to make some sort of normal conversation. Perhaps if I kept him talking calmly, Monk would devise a rescue.

Brisbane blinked slowly, then brought a finger to his throat.

"Medusa."

I nodded, trying to keep my eyes averted from it. It lay in the hollow of his throat, and in the normal course of events I would never have seen it, or his bared chest. I tried not to look at that, either, although I will admit to a few stolen glances in spite of my fear. Edward had been pale and golden and smooth, like a slim Greek statue worked in marble at sunrise. Brisbane was more deeply muscled, with a spread of black hair over his chest and stomach. The effect was startling and I told myself that it was not at all attractive. I forced myself to look away immediately.

"It is time to sleep now," I said firmly.

He moved and I thought he was going to seize my suggestion. Instead, he seized my basket. It slipped from his fingers to the floor, spilling pears and berries and a rather fat melon across the carpet. He looked at it for a moment, watching the juices ooze into the carpet, then turned back to me. Slowly, he reached out and lifted my hand, curiously, as if it were not attached to my person, but was instead an object for study. He turned it over, looking blankly at the soft leather of the glove, tracing the tiny stitches of the seams as if trying to remember where he had seen such a thing before. He paused briefly at the silk-cord edging, and then moved beyond, slipping a finger under the glove leather at my wrist to rub the flutter of my pulse. He was murmuring in a low voice, something unintelligible but familiar, perhaps an old song or rhyme, I could not tell. I pulled gently at my arm, but he held it fast, his finger dipping down to my palm, stroking the hollow of my hand.

Swallowing hard, I raised my free hand and pushed at his shoulder.

"Time for sleep, Brisbane."

His head came up suddenly.

"Stupid," he said, his voice thick now. "Should not have come, Julia."

His hand still held mine. His free arm came quickly around my waist. He pulled me hard against him. His eyes were dilated, wide black pupil against black iris, giving him an unearthly look. His breath was coming quickly through parted lips. My spine felt rigid, as though he could crack it in two with his hands if he wished.

He dipped his head low, close enough for his mouth to touch mine if he turned ever so slightly. I wondered later what would have happened if I had given him the chance. Instead, I lifted my heel and brought it down viciously on the top of his instep. The pain brought him up sharply and he stared at me, never loosening his grasp. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated with a shiver, and then closed it on a deep, resonant groan. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, bearing me down to the floor as he fell.

We landed heavily, his body pinning mine to the carpet and knocking me nearly breathless. I took a few gasping gulps of air, then pushed at his shoulders to shift his weight. He was completely oblivious, and it was only when Monk burst through the door and hefted him off of me that I was free.

"How did you get in?" I rubbed at the back of my head. A lump was beginning to form, but it was not as bad as I expected. Thank goodness for the thick carpet and my own strong skull.

Monk struggled to the bed with Brisbane, a deadweight draped over his shoulders. He laid him down gently and tucked the coverlet around him. He turned back to me. His colour was high, but he seemed otherwise calm and unruffled by the events of the past few minutes. I realized now why Brisbane kept him. A servant with such a cool head was a definite asset in his situation.

Monk reached down to help me up. "A bit of stiff wire, my lady. I knocked the key out of the keyhole and used my own key to unlock the door."

He motioned me toward the sitting room and I followed gratefully, noticing that he did not close the door to the bedchamber.

Monk must have noticed my nervous glance toward the bedchamber door. "In case he needs me," he said simply. "Now, I think a bit of brandy for the shock."

I agreed and took a deep, choking drink, thinking how much better it would have been if it had been a whiskey.

"That was most unpleasant for you, my lady. I can only offer my most abject apologies."

I stared into the depths of my brandy glass, as if scrying for answers. It was a long moment before I answered him, a moment in which he tidied up stray newspapers and poked at the fire. Anyone peering through the windows might have thought it a pleasantly domestic scene. Unless they looked into Brisbane's room.

"That is not necessary, Monk," I said at length. "It was my own fault for coming. I was stupid. I was impatient to show him something," I finished lamely, patting my pocket to make certain the Psalter was still there. "Tell me, Monk, does he show no improvement? Is there no help for him?"

Monk ran a hand through his thatch of silvering hair, his expression grieved. "I used to think he was getting better. There were months, several at a stretch sometimes, when he would be free of them. But since we came back to London…he is getting worse. And so are the cures. He used to take absinthe with an equal part of water. Now I count myself lucky if I can persuade him to put a pipette's worth of water in the glass. He will kill himself with it."

There was acceptance in his voice, but genuine regret as well.

"How long have you known him?"

He gave me a wistful smile. "Since he was a boy. He was a student at the school where I was master. Wild as a moorland pony, he was. A wretched student. He never could abide the rules, the discipline. But a fine mind, the best I ever taught. When they finally threw him out, I went with him."

"Did he have these headaches, even then?"

Monk hesitated, as if he feared to say too much. But I think he realized we shared a bond of sorts, a bond of knowing too much. "As long as ever I have known him. But they are more frequent now, more painful. His usual methods have begun to fail him. I do not know what will become of him."

I set the glass down firmly. "Surely something can be done. There are doctors—"

"He has seen them all. He has been bled and purged like a medieval serf and dosed with things I do not like to think of. They have done things to him that frighten me still, and I am a grown man who has seen two wars. Nothing helps him except oblivion. He tried opium for a while—we had a nasty business getting him off of that. Then he tried morphia, cocaine—every narcotic known to man. We had high hopes for the absinthe, but I think it begins to fail him as well. They all do eventually."

We were quiet a moment, each of us caught up in our thoughts—mine wholly unpleasant ones. There seemed to be nothing I could do, and the helplessness infuriated me.

"At least you could have some help with him," I said finally, taking in Monk's lined eyes and pale skin. Caring for Brisbane was taking a toll upon the portly former schoolmaster. "I think you have not slept in days."

But if Monk was a retired schoolmaster, he was also a former soldier. He raised his chin and shook his head, his spine stiff. "No one sees him when he is like this. Besides, there have been episodes, violent ones. He has never harmed me, but I could not be absolutely certain…"

His cleared his throat, steeling himself, I thought.

"I do hope that he did not offer your ladyship any insult?"

"No. He—he embraced me. I think he was quite delirious. I am afraid that I acted rather stupidly. I stepped on his foot with my heel. That is when he collapsed."

Monk seemed relieved. "It was not your doing, my lady. The oblivion comes on quickly. The last dose should have affected him by the time you arrived. It was coincidence that he should have collapsed at that moment. You do understand he was not himself?" he asked earnestly. "I have known him from boyhood. He would never force himself on an unwilling lady."

I pressed my lips together. There seemed no possible comment to that.

I smoothed my skirts and my thoughts and rose, offering my hand to Monk. "I think you and I must rely upon each other's discretion. If you will gather up the fruit, you may tell him that I sent it with a servant and my compliments. He will never hear from me that I saw him in this state."

Monk's face was suffused with gratitude as he took my hand.

"I will say nothing of your visit, I assure you, my lady. And I must apologize for speaking so freely. I am overtired, as you yourself observed. I would not usually confide, but as Mr. Brisbane has himself remarked, you are a most unusual lady."

Monk pressed my hand. "And thank you for your discretion, my lady. I need not tell you how disastrous it would be if he ever learned you were here."

"Then we shall not speak of it."

He bowed me out of the room and closed the door firmly behind me. I heard the locks being turned and the bolt being shot and I wondered if he was locking the world out—or Brisbane in.

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

'Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children.

—William Shakespeare

As You Like It

I left the rooms in Chapel Street in a vile mood—so vile that I elected to walk, hoping that the freshening air would blow some of the confusion from my mind and the heat from my cheeks. But exercise was no balm. Rather than being charmed by the bustle of the streets, I was annoyed at being jostled about. I found myself glaring at people and walking too quickly in my agitation. I arrived at Grey House out of breath and perspiring faintly in spite of the breeze. I was tired and cross, more at myself than anyone else. I should have mastered my impatience and my excitement at finding the Psalter and bided my time until Brisbane sent word he was prepared to see me.

Instead I had behaved like a schoolgirl. Brisbane was no performing monkey on display, but I had allowed my own curiosity and excitement to propel me into his sanctum, insulting his privacy. What was wrong with me that I had forced my way into the rooms of a sick man? Such impetuosity was not even part of my character. It was a March trait, one I deplored. And I had allowed myself to be seduced by the thrill of the investigation into acting like a member of my own family.

And worse by far, I had taken advantage of Brisbane's indisposition and state of undress to assess his physique. It was shameful, really. Poor Brisbane, racked by pain and half mad with absinthe, and I had actually taken the opportunity to look at his bared chest.

My only consolation was that I had not enjoyed the experience. Brisbane was not at all the sort of man I admired. He was too dark, too tall, too thickly muscled, altogether too much. I preferred a slender, epicene form, with delicately sketched muscles and golden hair. Graceful, aristocratic, like a Renaissance statue. Like Edward.

But if Edward was Donatello's David, in fairness, I must concede that Brisbane was more Michelangelo's. It was the difference between Hermes and Hades, really. The slim, glowing youth versus the dark, brooding lord. Grace versus power, although, if I were entirely truthful, Brisbane had his own sort of grace, nothing so effete as Edward's, but graceful just the same. Brisbane put one in mind of wolves and lithe jungle cats, while Edward conjured images of seraphim and slim young saints. It required an entirely different aesthetic altogether to appreciate Brisbane, one that I lacked. Entirely.

Even so, it was wrong of me even to look at him, especially at so fraught a time. I had acted with a complete lack of decorum and good breeding, and I was thoroughly ashamed of myself.

In fact, I was so preoccupied with my little bout of self-loathing that I did not see the caller lounging at the front steps of Grey House until I had nearly passed him by. I paused and peered closely.

"Reddy? Reddy Phillips, is that you?"

The young man swept off his hat and made me a very pretty bow. "Good afternoon, my lady. I hope that you are keeping quite well."

I surveyed him from his extremely fashionable hat (surely not yet paid for) to the empty watch chain at his waist (certainly the watch was pawned to pay a debt). He had always been a handsome creature, but I looked at his too-carefully brushed hair and meticulously shot cuffs and found myself growing impatient, my lips thinning in disapproval. Not my most attractive expression, but I could not help it.

"What brings you to Grey House, Reddy? I am not in the habit of receiving callers in the street."

He had the grace to blush a little, but it was not as charming as I had once thought.

"I have come about a matter of honour," he said, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial little smile. He glanced up and down the street, as if to make certain we were not overheard. He needn't have bothered. The only passersby were on the other side of the street and Curzon is wide enough that low voices and clandestine glances are more for effect than necessity.

"What matter of honour? Are you referring to that ridiculous bird in Val's rooms?"

He blanched, either at my forthright conversation or the audibility of my tone.

"Well, Reddy?"

He smiled again, licking his lips. I noticed that they were peeling. I glanced down at his hands and saw that the nails were bitten to the quick, one thumb bleeding discreetly around the nail. Surely he had not pawned his gloves, as well.

"My lady, I am certain that you will appreciate the need for discretion in this very delicate situation. Perhaps we could go inside.…"

He moved toward the door, but I stepped neatly in front of him, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. Really, this was too much. I had complained to Val that the Phillipses were all jumped-up tradesmen and it was only too true. Two generations of money cannot compensate for the complete neglect of a gentleman's social education. No other person of my acquaintance would have presumed to invite himself into my home, particularly when I was still observing my period of mourning. But I was rather relieved at Reddy's pushing rudeness. It absolved me of being nice to him.

"No, we cannot go inside, Reddy, because it is nearly teatime, as you would know if you still owned a watch, and I have no intention of inviting you to stay."

Stunned, he opened his mouth, but I put up my hand.

"Silence, please. Clearly you have come because you think that you can prevail upon me to intercede with Val on your behalf. I can assure you that such efforts on your part would be entirely futile. Do you deny that you put up the bird as a wager?"

"N-no." I raised an eyebrow at him. He had very nearly insulted me by leaving off my honorific. I was beginning to get annoyed.

"No, my lady," he amended swiftly.

"Do you deny that Valerius won the wager fairly?"

"No, my lady, but the Honourable Mr. March—"

"There is no but, Reddy. Either Valerius won the bird fairly, in which case you have no business trying to get it back as you well know, or he cheated you of it. Which is it? Is my brother a cheat and a liar or are you just a particularly poor loser?"

If I had thought him pale before, it was nothing to the colour he faded to now.

"I had no intention of calling his honour into question," he managed to say, his voice tight with panic. I think he had some dim idea that aristocrats still dueled with swords at dawn. Of course, Marches did still do that sort of thing from time to time, though none within my memory. And for all I knew, Valerius would indeed call him out over the matter if pressed. He was an odd, unpredictable child, even for a March.

"Good. Because if you did—" I leaned closer to him, lifting my veil so that he could see my eyes clearly "—if you did accuse my brother publicly, I should have to inform the earl at once. And if there is one thing his lordship will not brook, it is the malicious slander of one of his own. He would take action, Reddy, swift and entirely merciless, I assure you."

I was referring to legal action; Father was nothing if not litigious. But Reddy did not know this. He was doubtless imagining himself shot dead at twenty paces on Hampstead Heath in the faint light of some misty dawn while his seconds looked on. He gulped and I counted silently to ten before I dropped my veil.

"Now, let us hear no more of this." I moved to enter my house, then turned back.

"Oh, and Reddy?"

"Yes, my lady?" He shied like a pony.

"The word 'Honourable' is never spoken, only written. You would properly refer to my brother simply as Mr. Valerius March."

His face went a dull, sullen red and I knew that I should have left off toying with him, but I could not. It felt obscenely good to torment him. He had behaved badly, and after my call in Chapel Street I was feeling volcanic. Besides, if I had loosed my anger at my staff, I would have paid for it for the next year with cold meals and poorly laid fires. I could abuse Reddy and send him on his way with a fine story to tell at the gaming tables.

"And remember, Reddy, if I catch the slightest breath of a rumour about this, I will assume you have been talking indiscreetly. And I will not go to the earl with the matter. I will deal with you myself."

I would swear the boy actually shivered. I swept into Grey House, feeling powerful and strong and capable of anything.

Then my hand touched the Psalter in my pocket, and I realized that I was a good deal less capable than I had thought.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

—John Donne

"Song"

For the next several days I mooned about the house, brooding and regretting my horrid treatment of Reddy Phillips. Everything had seemed rather safe before that fateful visit to Brisbane's rooms. The brief minutes I had spent there seemed to have unbalanced something within me, leaving me unsettled, wobbling like a child's spinning top, and the worst of it was that I did not know why. I had behaved wretchedly, and in consequence found myself rattling around Grey House, starting every time the bell went, imagining that now Brisbane would write and something resembling normality would resume.

But the days stretched on into a week and the bell rang many times, but he did not write. In the end, I found myself in my study, taking up the books I had disarranged the day I found the Psalter. I had it still, locked snugly in a drawer beneath my costliest lace for safekeeping. But the rest of the study was still a wreck and I thought a bit of physical labor was in order. I sorted the books carefully, grouping poetry with poetry and alphabetizing novelists, rather than my usual haphazard method. The books of my childhood I gathered on the last shelf, smiling to myself as I touched them again, these treasured, yellowing friends from my youth.

Persuasion. Wuthering Heights. Jane Eyre. Pride and Prejudice.

The rest were much the same, romantic stories with dark, brooding men with mysterious pasts and scornful glances. Some of them were good novels, by proper authors. Much of it was complete rubbish. I groaned as I shoved them back onto the shelf. How many summer days had I whiled away tucked in the apple tree at Bellmont Abbey with one of these books, dreaming of the day when a darkly handsome man would sweep me away to his castle on the moor? How many winter evenings had I huddled in bed, reading by candlelight until my eyes ached just to see if all turned out happily for the beleaguered lovers?

Why on earth had my father permitted me to read such muck? It had left me with an overactive, overromantic imagination, I thought furiously. As a girl, when I had imagined my future husband, I had always thought of someone dark and masterful, lord of some crumbling estate, hopefully with a mad wife tucked away in the attic for effect. I had never looked to marry a fair man, preferring instead to dream of someone mysterious and saturnine. No one was more surprised than I when I married a man with golden curls and bright blue eyes, a slender and graceful man, with a sleepy smile and beautifully-shaped hands.

Once I married him, I ceased to think of my girlhood heroes, carefully shelving the books I had once adored. I somehow felt it disloyal to Edward to read them and spend hours conjuring thoughts of other men. Not that Edward would have minded. He never troubled about such things. I sometimes wondered if he would have cared if I had taken a real lover, someone flesh and blood to replace him. But he never said and I never had the courage to ask. And I remained faithful to him, even in literature.

This time, though, after carefully shelving the other volumes, I kept back Wuthering Heights and carried it to my room. London was no cloud-scoured moor, and I was no Cathy, but at least I could thrill to Heathcliff in the privacy of my own bedchamber. That Yorkshire moor was a far sight more entertaining than the rest of my activities. I spent many quiet hours reading to Simon or taking the Ghoul for drives in the Park. Unfortunately, Simon often fell asleep just as I was getting to the interesting bits, and the Ghoul wanted only to talk about her current bout with constipation.

The high point of my week came when the boxes from the dressmakers were delivered. Messieurs Riche had outdone themselves. The costumes I had ordered were even better than I had anticipated, so daring in their simplicity, so eye-catching in their stark purity that I felt almost naked, even when Morag fastened the last button. There was not a single ruffle or bow or rosette to draw the eye—only the pure line of severely perfect tailoring and the elegant curve of a draped bustle.

Morag stepped back and said nothing, her gingery eyebrows higher than usual.

"Say what you like," I snapped. "I can smell your disapproval."

Her brow puckered in surprise. "Not me. I think it suits you."

I stared at her. Never, in all the time she had spent in my employ, had Morag ever complimented anything I had worn. The best I could hope for was a grunt of approval that I looked respectable. But open admiration was something entirely new.

"You do?" I turned, observing myself as many ways as possible in the cheval glass. "You don't think that it is too—"

"Oh, yes. That's why I like it," she said seriously.

Considering Morag's penchant for garish colours and blowsy feathers, I was not completely certain I should be pleased. But I was. Approval is pleasant, no matter from what quarter.

"But the others are just the same," I said, waving at the boxes yet to be opened. "And this is the only black one. All the rest are colours."

Morag shrugged. "It was a year last week, my lady. It is time enough to put off your mourning."

I stared at her reflection in the cheval glass. "Last week? You must be joking. Edward has not been dead a year—he cannot."

She said nothing but went to my escritoire and retrieved my diary. She opened it to the previous week and pointed.

I looked at the little boxes with their printed dates, trying to make sense of the numbers. "Good Lord," I said finally, "it was."

Morag continued to unpack the boxes, lifting rich violet and chocolate-brown silks from the crackling tissue.

"There is a note here. From the elder Monsieur Riche himself," she told me. I waved at her to read on. "He says you are an appalling creature to order the gowns without allowing him to fit them personally and he will come to Grey House whenever you like to alter them. He begs that in the meantime you will not tell anyone they came from his establishment. He does not like to think that anyone will know he let them go without a perfect fitting." She finished the note with an air of satisfaction. She had only learned to read at Aunt Hermia's refuge and the skill was one she was rightly proud of.

I nodded absently, admiring the set of a particularly luscious bottle-green sleeve. "I will reply later. He can come tomorrow if he likes, although I don't see why he bothers. You are just as handy with a needle as any of his soubrettes."

Morag preened herself a bit as she laid out the rest of the gowns, but I ignored her. How could I have let Edward's anniversary slip by unmarked? It was thoughtless and disloyal and I made a note in the book to take flowers to his grave soon. It did not seem enough, but I could not think of anything that would serve better.

I glanced again in the glass at my new reflection, but the bloom had gone off it a little.

"I will try the rest of them on later," I told Morag, her hands full of bottle-green and claret silks.

Her face fell, but her eyes went to the book still clutched in my hand and nodded. She left me then, surrounded by my extravagantly simple finery and I sat for a long time, uncomfortable both with the person I had been and the person I was finally becoming. Caught between the two of them, I felt rather lonely, as one often does with a new acquaintance.

I remembered quite suddenly a stream at Bellmont Abbey, broad and swift, rushing each spring with clear, icy water. There were only a few flat rocks between the banks and picking one's way among them was a tricky undertaking. Once, when I was perhaps seven, I had managed to follow my brother Benedick. I had skipped blithely across the rill, leaping from rock to rock. But when I reached the middle, surrounded by dark, tumbling water, I had frozen, too frightened either to move or to remain where I was. I hesitated, half turning back toward the bank I had started from. Benedick, who had reached the other bank, turned and saw my predicament.

"You've come too far to go back, Julia," he had shouted at me. "Be a man about it and come on."

And I had. He had been so calm, so matter-of-fact, that I had obeyed, slower and more cautiously than I had begun, it was true. But I had made it and Benedick had rewarded me with the first bite of the cherry tart he had stolen from Cook's larder. Be a man about it. Good advice then and now, I supposed. Doubtless Father would have made some Shakespearean reference to Caesar and the Rubicon, but the idea was the same. Begin as you mean to go on and do not look back. No sniveling, no quivering. Audeo.

I thought for a long time about what that might mean in my particular case. I could continue the investigation, leave off my mourning, express my opinions freely and with vigor. I could dance with whomever I chose, travel alone, to Italy or to Greece and beyond. I could take a lover if I wished, albeit discreetly, and unlike Lot's wife, I would not look back.

The question was, was I capable of it? I had always sympathized with Lot's wife. Serving as the family salt cellar for all eternity seemed a rather stiff price to pay for a little understandable curiosity. My own consequences would not be so extreme. Certain people would give up my acquaintance, I was sure. I would no longer be invited to the endless round of tea parties, card parties, music parties, dance parties that had bored me for years—parties, I reminded myself, to which I had scrupulously not been invited during my year of mourning. I would no longer be viewed as a suitable chaperone for young virgins in some quarters, but as young virgins were usually monumental bores, I was not unduly distressed. The people who would hold themselves too respectable to associate with me were the very people who had neglected my acquaintance during my widowhood. Widows were skeletons at the feast, dampening everyone else's pleasure, so they had not asked me.

But neither had they called on me privately. The visits and letters of encouragement that had deluged Grey House in the first weeks had trickled to nothing. My acquaintances in society would accept me readily enough back into their set if I wore grey and married again, someone dull and sober and not interesting or suitable enough for their own daughters. That was what was expected of me.

But what if I did the unexpected? People would whisper behind their hands about me, there might be one or two veiled references in newspapers—nothing actionable of course, but everyone would know who they meant. In short, I would lose a little respectability among those whose good opinion mattered not at all to me, and I would gain my freedom. It seemed a bargain I could live with.

I did not rouse until Morag returned, bearing a note written in a flowery hand and smelling strongly of attar of roses mixed with something else. Musk, I think.

"What is this?"

"It is a note," she said, exasperated. I knew why she was annoyed. I had been sitting so long she had been unable to dust my room and would have to explain to Aquinas why it had not been attended to. Like most of the staff, Morag made a point of avoiding Aquinas whenever possible. For a fundamentally gentle soul, he could be quite unnerving when roused.

I took the envelope and paper knife, slit the envelope and waved Morag away just to complete her annoyance. She always took a healthy interest in my correspondence. The signature I did not recognize, but the message was direct.

My dear Lady Julia,

I beg you will forgive my impudence at writing to you without an introduction. Our mutual friend, Nicholas Brisbane, begs me to write to you on his behalf as he is still too much unwell to undertake correspondence. He wishes to know if you will call upon him here at my house where he is convalescing. Naturally, you must come at your convenience. You are most welcome at any time.

It was signed with a scrolled flourish of flowery ink—Hortense de Bellefleur. I turned over the envelope, running my fingers over the heavily embossed crest. Not just an Hortense, but probably a Comtesse Hortense. Perhaps even a duchess. The note was gracious, but its syntax seemed foreign, French, if memory served. I had heard of the lady, of course, most of London had. But I could not place her correct title. That was not surprising, I supposed. She had been married so many times to so many different Continental aristocrats that it was impossible to remember whose title she was currently using.

But it was not her title that intrigued me. Brisbane had chosen to convalesce at her home, which led me to one extremely diverting question: what precisely was Brisbane's relationship with London's most notorious courtesan?

Later that afternoon, to my astonishment, Hortense de Bellefleur opened the door to her house herself. The address was a good one and the home so beautifully appointed that I could not believe that financial troubles precluded her from employing staff. The explanation was quick in coming.

"My dear Lady Julia," she enthused, wrapping her hands about mine and tugging me gently into the foyer. "I was so eager to meet you that I could not wait for my poor old Therese to hobble her way to the door and back. You will forgive my impatience, will you not?"

I had stared at her all through this unorthodox little speech as she flitted about me, taking my swansdown cape from my shoulders and putting it carefully aside with my umbrella. She was older than I had expected, well past forty.

In another woman this might have marked the end of real beauty, but not Hortense. Bellefleur, indeed! For she was a beautiful flower, not with the blowsy obviousness of a rose, but rather with the lush grace of a wild lily. The bones of her face were so eloquently sculpted that the years had merely honed them, mellowing them to something more arresting than mere loveliness. There was good humour there and kindness, as well as an elegance no Englishwoman could ever match. I took her in from her barely silvering dark hair to her pure, rose-tinted complexion, discreet jewelry to embroidered lace slipper tips, and I thought how easy it would be to hate this woman.

But in fact, it was impossible to hate Hortense. She chattered like a between-stairs maid, praising my costume—the fabric (heavy Lyons silk), the colour (bittersweet chocolate), and the artful cut. Morag had applied her needle discreetly to the hem, but nowhere else. In spite of Monsieur Riche's protests, the dresses required little alteration.

"A Frenchman has had his hands on this," she proclaimed, turning me around like a marionette. "You have an excellent eye, Lady Julia, far better than most Englishwomen. Are your people French?" she asked, searching my face for clues to a Gallic ancestor.

"Only distantly," I replied, thinking of Charles II's fractious mother, the dainty Queen Henrietta Maria. She was the closest French relative I had, being my eighth great-grandmother, but it seemed inappropriate to share this with Madame de Bellefleur.

She was smiling at me. "But of course! Even a drop of French blood would give you a certain élan that your compatriots lack. Blood always tells, madame, do you not think?"

Without waiting for a reply, she looped her arm through mine like a schoolgirl and led me down the hall.

"Now, you will forgive Brisbane," she advised. She pronounced his name "Brees-ban" rather than the usual "Brisbon," which from anyone else would have sounded backward. From her it was simply charming. She was so close to me that I could smell the same fragrant mixture that had scented her writing paper. Roses and musk, innocence and earthiness. I wondered if it was a metaphor for the lady herself.

"He is in a sulky mood. He did not want to come to me," she confided, her voice low. "He is stubborn, like all men, but like all men, he needs pampering when he is unwell. They are all little boys at heart, don't you think?" she asked, nudging me familiarly.

Again, I did not reply, but this time it was because I simply could not think of anything appropriate to say. It seemed insulting to comment that she should know, but I did not doubt that she did know far more than I on the subject. I smiled instead.

She patted my hand. "You will ignore him and I shall make you very welcome. I do not often get callers, and I am so charmed that you have come."

Her eyes were long and thickly lashed, the startling blue of a pansy. The expression in them was utterly sincere, and I realized that her attraction was not just her actual prettiness. It was this sincerity, this gift of making a person believe they were utterly necessary to her happiness. I wondered if the dustman felt this way when she looked at him.

But that was a cynical thought. By her reputation, Madame de Bellefleur had set herself beyond the boundaries of most of polite society. Gentlemen would call often, ladies almost never. I found myself wondering if I was the first, and I felt a little stab of pity for this charming and perhaps slightly lonely woman.

She threw open a door and gestured for me to enter. My first impression was one of serenity. The colours were soft, as were the lights, and it occurred to me only later that these were the most flattering for an aging beauty.

But for now they served to soothe Brisbane's eyes, I realized as he rose slowly to greet me, still wearing his smoked spectacles. I would have waved him back, but there was something ferocious about the set of his jaw that stayed me. He was still struggling with the notion of his own weakness and I was not surprised. I loathed being ill. How much more must a strong, otherwise healthy man hate his infirmity?

I smiled at him and offered my hand. "Mr. Brisbane. I am so glad to see you up and about. I hope you are well on the way to recovery."

I was rather proud of that little speech. I did try to make it sound casual, but the truth was, I had rehearsed it in the carriage all the way from Grey House to Primrose Hill.

He resumed his seat after I had taken mine, a lovely little Empire piece upholstered in pale blue bee-embroidered silk. He did not look as bad as I had feared. He had shaved and his hair was orderly, though still untrimmed. Other than his pallor and the darkened lenses and a few lines still bracketing his mouth, there was little trace of his ordeal. It seemed incredible that a man could recover so thoroughly from the wreck that Brisbane had been a mere week before. I made up my mind to ferret into a few of Val's medical texts when I returned home to learn more about Brisbane's condition.

"My lady?" he said archly. I jumped, realizing with a dart of embarrassment that I had been staring.

"I am sorry. Building castles in Spain, as my grandmother used to say," I told him with a fatuous smile.

His mouth turned down slightly at the corners. He seemed guarded, although whether because of his condition or Madame de Bellefleur's hovering silken presence I could not tell.

"I am recovering," he said at last. "Thank you for the basket of fruit. It was kindly done."

I started, thinking of the last place I had seen that basket, tumbled on the floor with cherries spilling out, crushed juicily underfoot as Brisbane leaned into me, his arm laced about my waist. Deliberately, I pushed the thought away.

"Think nothing of it, I beg you." I hesitated, a bit reluctant to produce the Psalter in Madame de Bellefleur's presence. As if reading my thoughts, Brisbane lifted his eyes to the lady.

"Fleur, I think Lady Julia would like a cup of tea. Do you think that Therese—"

"Of course! I shall go and supervise her myself." She gave me a conspiratorial smile. "Therese is old and very set in the French way of doing things. Sometimes her tea is not to Brisbane's liking. His taste in coffee is that of a Turk, but he is a proper Scotsman about his tea. Have yourselves a pleasant tête-à-tête and I will return in a little while with refreshment."

She withdrew and I watched Brisbane watch her leave. His eyes lingered, but not hotly, and I found myself wondering again the precise nature of their connection.

"I appreciate your willingness to come here, my lady," he said, his voice pitched too low for her to hear through the closed door. "Not every lady would feel comfortable calling at so notorious a house."

"Is it notorious?" I asked him with a nonchalance that fooled neither of us. "I had no idea. I had only heard Madame de Bellefleur spoken of as a great beauty, and I am glad of the chance to make her acquaintance."

His lips lifted very slightly, almost but not quite a smile. "You are a better liar than I would have thought. But thank you for that."

I inclined my head. It would be pointless and stupid to contradict him. I knew that I was in fact playing fast and loose with my reputation by coming to the Bellefleur home, but then I was beginning to realize that I was not altogether comfortable with my reputation in the first place.

"She is your friend, Mr. Brisbane. I trust that if she were a truly objectionable person, you would not bring us together in this fashion."

"No, rather the opposite. For some reason, I have always thought that you and Fleur would get on rather well. You have one or two qualities in common that most women lack."

I edged forward, wildly interested in what those qualities might be, but he disappointed me. He chose that moment to cough a little and reach for the tumbler of water that sat on the table near his elbow. By the time he had swallowed a good part of it and caught his breath, he had lost his train of thought or abandoned it on purpose. Instead, he stared at me through those strange smoky lenses, scrutinizing my face until I could bear it no longer.

"What is it, Mr. Brisbane? Have I left the house with my hat on backward?" I asked, smiling to relieve the touch of asperity in my voice.

He passed a hand over his brow. "Forgive me. I have a strange sense that I have seen you, quite recently, but I cannot place it. A dream, I think."

My heart began to drum so loudly that I thought he certainly must hear it. I was grateful then for the high collar that hid the pulse at my throat.

"It must have been. Perhaps you took some medicine while you were ill. They can often provoke strange dreams."

His eyes fell briefly to my mouth, his fingers twitched, and I wondered if he was smelling ripe cherries, remembering the feel of a supple glove against his finger.

"Yes, they can," he said finally. I dared to breathe then. Apparently he had convinced himself that I had been an apparition, conjured by his drugged fever. Would God he always thought it so, I prayed fervently. The thought of prayer caused my hand to move to my reticule.

"Mr. Brisbane, while you were indisposed, I discovered something—something rather remarkable."

I drew out the Psalter and handed it to him. He took it, and to my surprise, did not open it at once. He inspected the cover closely, running those sensitive fingers over the binding, the edges, the stamped crest and Prince of Wales feathers. He even lifted it to his nose to sniff lightly. Curiously, he closed his eyes, pressing the book to his brow. I thought for a moment that he might have relapsed into migraine, so intently still did he become.

After a few seconds the spell seemed to pass, and he opened his eyes. He paged through the Psalter, pausing to read the inscription in the princess' hand and my own childish scrawl beneath it. He thumbed on, stopping at the page I had marked with the splitting silk ribbon, the page defiled by the sender of Edward's notes. He leafed through it slowly, taking note of each neatly scissored hole.

When he reached the end, he rifled through it slowly again backward, but found nothing new. He sniffed it again, carefully, but either detected nothing of interest, or did not see fit to share it.

Finally, he spoke. "Where did you find it?"

"In my study. It was tucked into a stack of books that I have not looked at for years."

"Was it dusty?"

I hesitated to admit the slatternly state of my bookshelves, but I knew that it might be important.

"Yes. That is, the top book was dusty, those below it, including the Psalter, less so."

"Could the stack have been disturbed recently?"

I closed my eyes, picturing the pile of crumbling volumes. "No, I do not think so. The maids never clean there, they are forbidden. And I'm afraid that I haven't done it myself for quite some time. There were a few newspapers in there as well, old ones, quite creased, but only folded once. I think they might have been creased more if the pile was disturbed."

"Not necessarily, not if our villain was quite careful. And I think he must have been."

My ears pricked unexpectedly. "He? You think it definitely a man, then?"

Brisbane was examining the book again. "No, I simply grow tired of multiple pronouns. You may take it as given that I do not know the gender of the perpetrator."

Prickly, indeed! I pursed my lips in displeasure at his tone, but I might have been a potted cactus for all the notice he took of me. He was too busy comparing the holes and measuring them with his fingers.

"Seven passages of the Psalms, all cut at the same time, then the book was returned to your study—but why?"

"How can you be certain they were cut at the same time?" I interrupted. His tone had been thoughtful, as if he had been posing his question more to himself than to me, but I did not care. I had found the clue, after all, and I deserved to know what he had deduced from it.

He regarded me impatiently. "What villain in his right mind would take the book seven times, and risk apprehension each time he retrieved it and put it back?"

I bit my lip again, now thoroughly chagrined. How stupid I was! No wonder he treated me like a slow-witted child.

"Besides," he added, his tone somewhat milder, "the passages all appear to have been cut with the same scissor—a short one, perhaps a nail scissor. In the longer passages there is an overlap where the blade was moved."

He opened the book for my inspection and I saw that he was correct.

"So the question is, who had access to the book, and more important, access to replace it, a year ago?" he mused.

I spread my hands. "Anyone! The Psalter has been there since Edward and I moved into Grey House. We entertained frequently—it could have been taken by anyone and returned at any time and we would not have noticed."

"But would just anyone know that?" he asked softly.

It was my turn for exasperation. "What do you mean?"

He leaned forward, his long fingers tapping the cover of the Psalter. "Many people use the books given at their confirmation for spiritual comfort. One would think a volume given by the Princess of Wales would be even more prized. Most people," he went on, "have the downstairs maid clean their bookshelves, on a regular if not a daily basis. Now, who among your circle would know that not only did you not use this Psalter, but that in fact, you never even permitted your staff to clean the study where it was kept?"

I stared at him blankly. "Brisbane, what are you on about? If you are criticizing my housekeeping skills, I will admit I have been less than—"

"I do not give a damn about your housekeeping," he said sharply. "I am talking about someone in your own house who just might be the villain."

"You are quite mad," I said evenly. It was unthinkable that he could be right.

"Am I? Think about it," he said, not bothering to be kind. His tone was harsh, his words unutterably painful. "The person who took that Psalter had to know that you did not open it often, or he risked detection. It must have been someone with little access to another such book—this points either to someone who has little money or whose time is not their own. They needed your Psalter because it was handy and would not implicate them, but also because it was unlikely to be discovered. And if it was, whom would it implicate? No one except the lady of the house. So, whom does that suggest to you, my lady? Someone inside Grey House with little time and little money to call their own. Whom does that suggest?"

I saw what he was saying and I hated him for it.

"One of my staff."

He nodded slowly, then pushed the book toward me. I snatched it from him.

"You cannot honestly believe that one of my own staff has done this. Think about what you are saying."

He leaned forward swiftly. "No, you must think about what you are denying. What I have just given you is the only explanation that makes sense. And it means that you could be at risk if you continue this investigation. Someone in that house hated your husband, perhaps enough to kill him. If you try to unmask him now, he might kill again, and this time it will be you."

I shook my head angrily. "I cannot believe that. I know them—"

"Do you? What do you know of Aquinas? You may have had references for him, but what about his life before that? Before he came into service? What of Morag? What of the footmen, the maids, Diggory? What do you know of any of them? Think of it the next time one of them brings you a pot of tea or lights the fire or scrubs the floor or laces your corset. One of them might be responsible for murdering your husband. And they might simply be waiting for their next chance.…"

I rose then, icily calm, stuffing the Psalter into my reticule. "I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Brisbane, when you are so clearly still in the throes of your indisposition. We can discuss this again when you are more clearheaded."

He muttered something under his breath, something faintly obscene, so I pretended not to hear it. He did not rise as I left, and as I closed the door behind me I heard the high, splintering sound of breaking glass.

Madame de Bellefleur met me at the door, her face anxious.

"My lady, must you leave so soon? But we have not had tea."

Her tone was pleading and I felt chagrined. She had been very hospitable, and I was behaving badly by running away. Impulsively, I put a hand to her arm.

"It is as you said, Madame de Bellefleur. Mr. Brisbane is in a nasty temper. Too nasty to do business with, I am afraid. But if you would invite me again, just the two of us, I would be delighted to take tea with you. Or," I added recklessly, "perhaps you would care to come to Grey House."

Her face suffused with light. "How lovely you are! Yes, that would be very nice. Come, I will walk you out."

She escorted me to where Diggory was waiting at the kerb. I settled myself against the grey satin upholstery and asked myself for the thousandth time why Edward would have chosen such an impractical fabric for a carriage seat. Velvet would have been just as opulent, but at least then I would not have had to hang on to the edge of the seat by my fingernails to avoid slipping off of it.

Madame de Bellefleur put her hand into the window to shake mine. "It has been most charming making your acquaintance, my lady. Thank you for coming."

"You were very kind to invite me. I am only sorry that I have to leave so suddenly. And I fear I have left him rather more difficult than I found him," I said with a rueful glance toward the house.

Her laugh was merry and light, like the trill of silver bells. It was a Frenchwoman's trick; I had never known an Englishwoman to laugh like that.

"La, my lady, I have seen him far worse than this. I have ways of handling him, do not fear."

Of that much I was certain.

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

Truth is truth To the end of reckoning.

—William Shakespeare

Measure for Measure

I was depressed that night, as I had not been since Edward's death. Mindful of Brisbane's warning, I started every time Aquinas spoke to me. I waved Henry off when he would have lit the fire in the study, and I dismissed Morag as soon as she had unlaced my corset, pleading a headache. The only peace I had had the entire evening was the hour I spent with Simon, chatting and reading the newspapers.

But even that had been tinged with regret. His face had grown thinner still, and his hands, when they held mine, were like twiggy bundles of bones under his skin. I left him, feeling desperately sorry for myself. When he passed and the Ghoul moved on, I would be alone in a mausoleum of a house with a staff I no longer trusted and a brother I never saw. I heard an occasional quork from behind Val's door, so I knew the raven was still in residence, but I did not have the heart to scold him. I paced a good deal, and found it difficult to get to sleep, the more so because I now refused the little remedies that Morag was so proficient at concocting. I took to reading, far into the night, until my eyes burned and the words swam on the page. When I did finally sleep, my dreams were ragged and dark and I woke often, cursing Brisbane and wishing I had never found the threatening note in the drawer.

Even as I muttered the words, I knew I did not mean them. However difficult, however impossible, I wanted the truth, even if it meant unmasking one of my own. Yet I could not believe that an inhabitant of Grey House had harmed Edward, was capable of harming me. I firmly believed that the danger had come from outside.

But how? I had tried to convince Brisbane that the house was frequented by guests and family, but he had been disinterested, preferring to focus his accusations upon my own staff. How could I possibly get him to direct his attentions outside Grey House, where the true perpetrator lay?

After a good deal of rumination, it came to me. In order to force Brisbane to look outside Grey House, I had to prove to him that there was nothing of interest in it. I would undertake to prove the innocence of my staff, and in doing so, I would eliminate my own people as potential villains. Then Brisbane, seeing the error of his ways, would be properly abashed, apologize prettily, and we would pursue the true perpetrator.

I liked this plan very much. It was neat, tidy, and above all, it permitted me to score over Brisbane. The only trouble was devising a method of actually proving the innocence of my staff. There was only one means that came to mind, and I did not like it at all.

Unfortunately, Brisbane was quick to point it out to me when I saw him the following day.

"You will have to search Grey House," Brisbane said flatly. He was watching me closely, waiting for my impassioned refusal. But I surprised him.

I sipped coolly at my tea. "Of course. I had already planned to do so."

His expression was wary. He had not expected to find me so tractable. And I had not expected to find him so much improved. He was looking so much better, in fact, that if I had not seen him so ill with my own eyes I would never have known he had been unwell. We were on the terrace of Madame de Bellefleur's villa, taking tea while she busied herself inside, tactfully out of earshot, although neither Brisbane nor I had asked her to leave. Her own natural delicacy dictated her withdrawal while we discussed business. I was rather sorry to see her go. She had greeted me even more warmly than before, and I found myself very glad to see her.

"I am surprised that you are amenable to the suggestion, considering your earlier vehemence."

I raised my brows lightly at him. "Was I vehement? I don't recall."

"You questioned my sanity," he returned with a touch of asperity.

I smiled sweetly. "Yes, I do recall that. As a matter of fact, I do still think it a daft notion. However—" I put up my hand to stem his interruption. "However, I am willing to concede the possibility that someone at Grey House was involved. I fear the only way to put that particular suspicion to rest is to establish without question the innocence of my staff. And the only way to accomplish that is to search their rooms."

"All of Grey House," he corrected.

I suppressed the little ripple of irritation I felt at his bossiness. He was still recovering, I reminded myself, and though his temper was vastly improved, he was still a trifle prickly.

"I do not see the purpose—" I began.

"The purpose would be clear if you applied your considerable intellect for even a moment," he said coldly. "If the perpetrator is an inmate of Grey House, he may share his quarters with someone else. That means that any evidence of his wrongdoing—poison, glue pots—would best be hidden in some neutral part of the house, someplace that would not implicate him if it were discovered."

I sipped again at my tea, torn between my pleasure at the slightly peachy undertones of the Darjeeling and impatience at my own stupidity. Really, I was going to have to start thinking things through before I opened my mouth. I was going to have to start thinking like a criminal.

"That's it," I said suddenly.

"What is it?" Brisbane's voice was weary and I wondered if his strength was beginning to flag.

"I do not know how to think like a criminal," I said with some excitement. "If I knew how to think like one, I could probably unmask one."

"It does help," he returned dryly.

I tipped my head and regarded him from crisply shined boots to clean, waving hair. "You seem to have no difficulty with that. Have you a criminal past?" I asked, joking.

To my astonishment, he flushed. It was almost imperceptible, but I watched the edge of dull crimson creep over his features.

"What a perfectly stupid question," he commented, his voice as controlled as ever. But in spite of the even tone, his colour was still high and I knew that I had struck a nerve.

"Your past is your own concern, of course," I said lamely. I had never been so socially inept as I managed to be with Brisbane. How exactly did one extricate oneself from an apparently valid accusation of criminality against one's investigative partner? There were no rules for this in the little etiquette books with which Aunt Hermia had drilled us. I stumbled on the best I could. "I mean, who among us has not stolen a sweet from a shop as a child?"

Brisbane's complexion returned slowly to normal, but his hand had gone to his throat and he was rubbing absently at the spot where I knew the Medusa pendant hung beneath his shirt.

I had just opened my mouth to mention it, when I realized that I was not supposed to know about that pendant. I gulped at my tea, now gone stone cold, aghast at how nearly I had given myself away. He was irritated enough with me as it was. I did not think he would ever forgive knowing I had been with him during his illness.

"I will of course search all the rooms of Grey House," I said quietly. "Even my own. I take your point. You are quite correct."

He was silent a moment, his black eyes thoughtful.

"This is more difficult for you than you had anticipated."

I nodded, tears springing suddenly to my eyes. I blinked them back, determined not to let them fall.

"I warned you when it began. But you thought I was simply being cruel."

I bit my lip in silence. The tea had grown scummy. I placed it on the table, careful lest my trembling fingers upset the porcelain.

"I underestimated the difficulty, yes. And you were cruel."

"And correct." His voice held no trace of triumph, only certainty. He had known from long experience what this would cost me, and I had not listened.

I shrugged. "It does not matter now. I have thought how easy it would be to put an end to this, to resume my life and pretend none of this ever happened. But I cannot. It is changing me, has changed me. And I do not know yet if it is for the better."

He did not pity me, and I blessed him for that. Had there been any sympathy, any kindness in his eyes, I would have crumpled. But that cool, appraising stare pricked at my pride. I raised my chin, determined to retain my dignity at least. And as always, he told me the truth, unvarnished and plain.

"You will not know until it is done. And then, only you will know if the cost has been too high, if the change has been too great."

I nodded, and our eyes met. We were comrades now, bound more closely than lovers, it occurred to me. Lovers may quarrel and part company. We were linked, irreparably, until this thing was finished. And in one of those rare moments of harmony, I knew that he felt it as well, this bond that we could neither explain nor break. I did not know if he was comfortable with the knowledge, or if perhaps he resented it. But he knew it as clearly as I did.

He moved quickly then, putting his cup on the table and bringing out his notebook. His manner was crisp as he outlined the places to which I would have to pay careful attention, the details I must not overlook. It was awkward to read upside down across the little table, so I went to sit beside him on the sofa. He talked briskly, turning once to make certain I was paying careful attention to his instructions. We were sitting in close proximity, his leg very nearly pressing against mine on the tiny sofa, the black wool of his sleeve brushing my silk as he sketched on the paper. I caught the scent of his soap and something else—something that made it rather difficult to breathe. It reminded me of bay rum, but smoother, without the sharpness of the spice. It was a mellow scent, perhaps it was the smell of Brisbane himself. It was warm on the terrace, the air heavy with rain that had not yet fallen and voluptuous with the fragrance of Madame de Bellefleur's syringa. Together, the lowering sky, the combination of scents, were a heady mix. I could not focus clearly on what he was saying. Instead I watched his hands, one penciling broad, sweeping strokes while the other gripped his notebook. They were large hands, and not quite a gentleman's. The nails were short and clean, but there were a few scars crossing the knuckles, and a callus or two, possibly from riding without gloves. They were deft, competent hands, and I could not imagine a single task they could not perform.

The wind rose then, blowing a shower of syringa petals onto his black hair, spangling the shoulders of his coat like confetti. Some dropped onto my lap and I gathered a handful, crushing them to release the thick fragrance into my fingers. Had I been with anyone else, it would have been an achingly romantic scene. And for the space of half a heartbeat, I wondered…

But then he turned, his expression forbidding.

"You have petals in your hair," he said, gesturing toward my cropped curls.

I reached up and brushed at them, sending a flurry of petals over his hands.

He tore the page he had been filling out of the notebook and thrust it at me, almost angrily. He rose, dripping petals onto the stones of the terrace.

"Mind you do not fail," he said severely. "Everything depends upon this. I cannot like leaving this in your hands."

Stung, I clutched at the paper. "I can do this," I protested. "You have told me what to look for, and I assure you I can be discreet."

He regarded me for a long moment, then gave a little snort of disgust. "What choice do I have?"

He turned, crushing the flowers beneath his heel, and went inside, to fetch Madame de Bellefleur, I expected. I folded the paper carefully and placed it inside my reticule, thinking that I had been quite stupid to wonder, if only for a moment. Apparently Brisbane only found me attractive when he was out of his senses.

To my credit, I managed to comb the petals from my hair and compose myself before Brisbane returned with Madame de Bellefleur on his arm.

We talked idly for a few minutes, about nothing in particular, when Brisbane rose suddenly.

"I have business to attend to at home," he announced. Despite Madame's protests he left us, bowing coolly to me and giving Madame's hand a dryly affectionate kiss. The difference could not have been more marked. But he need not have bothered. I was firmly in my place. I would not think of stirring from it again.

The atmosphere lightened a little after he left, and Madame and I remained on the terrace, watching the failing light cast long shadows over the garden.

"This is a charming house, Madame, and so prettily situated. You must be very comfortable here."

She nodded eagerly. "Oh, it is so. I am so very grateful to Nicholas." She pronounced it "Neekolas."

I blinked at her. "Oh, I should have realized. Brisbane has provided the house."

"He provides me with an annuity, as do a few other of my friends," she corrected me. "But Nicholas found the house for me and arranged the purchase. It was exactly what I wanted after all those years of wandering. A house of my own."

She stretched a little, catlike, her limbs supple and sleek. She moved like a dancer, and I wondered if this was part of the courtesan's repertoire.

"So many cities, so many rented rooms," she reminisced, her expression dreamy. "I did not even know where I was sometimes. I would have to tell Therese to ask the maids. Always living on someone else's sufferance…" Her tone was not bitter, but I caught a trace of something akin to it. Regret?

"But surely your husbands…that is, you married, did you not? Their homes would have been yours."

She laughed her light, musical laugh. "Spoken like an Englishwoman! You have never married a Continental, my dear, or you would know better. My third husband, a Russian prince—never marry a Russian, my darling. They are the gloomiest husbands. Always complaining about the money, the leaking roof, the furniture being sold to pay for the repairs. Serge once sold my favorite bed literally out from under me. They came to take it away while I was sleeping in it. They carried it off with the bedlinen still warm."

"Good heavens!"

She shrugged. "Well, I suppose he thought it justified. I did have a lover in the bed with me at the time," she added with a wicked gleam in her eye.

In spite of myself, I laughed. She was so frank about her adventures that it was difficult to be judgmental. I relaxed and listened to her stories, each more colourful than the next. She sent Therese to a chophouse to buy our dinner and we ate there on the terrace, wrapping shawls about our shoulders and sharing a bottle of remarkably nice Burgundy. By the time we had finished pudding, she was calling me Julia ("Zhuleea") and begging me to call her Fleur.

"It was my childhood nickname," she told me. "But I always thought it was pretty."

I agreed that it was. "Fleur," I said, gargling the vowels a little like she did.

She clapped, her eyes bright. "That was very good! Ah, it has been so long since I have enjoyed the company of another woman. I have Therese, of course," she confided, "but she is an old woman, so set in her ways. You are young. I like to be around young people. It reminds me."

I cut my eyes at her, thinking she was looking for a compliment. I was not that much younger than she was—perhaps a dozen years. Well, I would not give her the satisfaction of balming her vanity. I sipped at my wine and found myself suddenly emboldened to ask a question that had been niggling at me.

"How long have you known Brisbane?"

She tilted her head, counting on her fingers. "Oh, goodness, it must be nearly twenty years. Something like that."

I choked a little as my wine struggled to go down. Twenty years. No great wonder they were so familiar or that he had come to her when he was ill. No great wonder he trusted her.

"It was in Buda-Pesth," she said, drawing her shawl about her more closely. The stars were beginning to peep out and she tossed her head back to look at them.

"Buda-Pesth? Hungary?"

"Yes. I was with an Hungarian count at the time—very fiery those Hungarians. Deliciously so, but it becomes tiresome after a while, I assure you."

I took her word for it, but I was still trying to make sense of what she had told me. She and Brisbane had met in Hungary, when he was little more than a boy.

She smiled at me, understanding my confusion. "Yes, he was very young. I was his first real love," she said, yawning discreetly. "It did not last, of course. My Hungarian would not permit a rival, even a boy, but Nicholas was delightful. Very ardent."

I was not certain that I wanted to know about Brisbane's ardor. I was just trying to decide how I could tactfully change the subject when I grasped what she had said.

"Did not last? Do you mean that now…that is to say…"

"Am I his mistress now?" she supplied frankly. My face was burning, and I was glad the terrace had grown so dim. But she was not offended. In fact, she laughed.

"Oh, my dear child, I have not shared his bed since that summer in Buda-Pesth. I am his Pompadour, if you understand the reference."

I did. I adored history, not the dry dates and boring battles, but the stories and the people who populated them. I knew that Madame du Pompadour had been mistress to Louis XV for only a short while, but had reigned as his dearest friend for many years after their physical liaison ended. The fact that Louis XV was my cousin, though only of the most distant variety, had only spiced the story for me.

"I understand. Forgive me, I assumed…"

She patted my hand. "Forgive? Child, I appreciate the compliment. I am far too old for such frolics now."

I took her in, from her dark hair, only lightly laced with silver, to her limber figure and exquisite carriage.

"Too old at forty?" I teased.

She laughed again, this time without a trace of silver bells. It was a hearty belly laugh, and she reached for her handkerchief, wiping at her eyes.

"Oh, chérie, thank you for that. Forty indeed! My dear girl, I will be sixty on my next birthday."

I stared at her, at the unlined complexion and firm, high bosom. "Witchcraft," I said distinctly.

She hooted again. "Nothing like that. Cosmetics of the most precise kind," she said. "I mix them myself, with Therese." She put the tip of a pointed finger under my chin and raised it, looking closely at my skin. "Very nice, very lovely. Only the English have such complexions. But too pale sometimes. You must let me give you a jar of my rose-petal salve. It will bring the fresh pink roses to your cheeks, you will see."

"Do you—" I indicated her own delicately tinted complexion.

"Of course. Rub a little into the lips, as well. It heightens the colour and will taste of roses when someone kisses you."

I bit my lip against telling her how unlikely that would be. We sat a while longer, gossiping like old friends, and I realized that, except for a few suppers with Portia, I had not done this in a very long time. Not since before I married, when I still lived at March House with my sisters. It felt so natural, so effortless to be in Fleur's company. I realized, too, that if I had followed the conventions dictated by society, this evening would have been forbidden; Fleur would have been forbidden. I watched her as we talked, aging so gracefully, so happily. She was a bit lonely, I could see, but apart from that, she seemed quite pleased with her lot in life. She did not have regrets, which was the most one could expect of life at her age.

I thanked her when I left. She pressed a jar of the rosy salve into my hands, advising me on its use.

"If you like it, I will give you more," she promised.

Impulsively, I embraced her. She held stiff a moment, and I remembered that the French did not care for physical affection.

But before I could withdraw and apologize, she threw her arms around me and squeezed tightly.

"You must come again, anytime," she said, her blue eyes sparkling almost violet in the lamplight.

"I will. And I hope you will come to Grey House. In a few days," I temporized, remembering the distasteful task Brisbane had set me about.

She nodded and I left her then, profoundly grateful to have spent such a lovely evening in such delightful company. But before I was halfway home my thoughts had turned to Brisbane. And for that I was not grateful at all.

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

There's small choice in rotten apples.

—William Shakespeare

The Taming of the Shrew

It occurred to me as I began my search of Grey House that size is entirely relative. I had always thought it a modest sort of town house. But when I began to pace it thoroughly, methodically, and above all surreptitiously, it seemed enormous.

The most difficult part was inventing plausible excuses to be in rooms I had scarcely even seen before. I murmured that I was thinking of changing the wallpaper when Aquinas found me in the butler's pantry, and I very nearly insulted Cook by delivering the day's menus to the kitchens in person. Cook did not like even Aquinas setting foot in her domain. I was strictly persona non grata belowstairs.

For a while I walked around with paper and pencil, ostensibly making an inventory of furnishings to be sold when I left Grey House. That ruse got me through Edward's rooms, but by the time I finished, my hand was cramping and the inventory had grown to an unwieldy length. The search saddened me, more than I had anticipated. I had not ventured into Edward's rooms since his death. The sight of his things, freshly dusted but undisturbed, brought quick, hot tears to my eyes. The rooms looked cold, unused, unfriendly even, like a set piece in a rather forbidding museum. I wandered about for the longest time, touching things, picking up little treasures and peering into photographs. I touched the beautiful candlesticks on the mantelpiece, Sèvres, with a design of roses and lilies, copied after a pair made for Madame du Barry. They had been his mother's, the only really decent pieces she had ever bought. There were a few other bits with them, not quite so beautiful, but still pretty enough: a little clock with a shepherdess and a porcelain box decorated with a picture of Pandora opening the legendary box. There were only a few books, the histories he liked to read when he could not settle to sleep, a few volumes of poetry, that sort of thing. On the walls were a pair of rather good paintings with mythological subjects—one of Narcissus gazing into a brook and the other of Achilles mourning the death of Patroclus. I had never much cared for them, but they were very much to Edward's taste—refined, fashionable, serenely coloured with his favorite blues and greys. I moved from item to item, opening boxes and drawers and peering into vases. I found nothing except a little dust and a few ghosts. It was a disturbing experience, and I realized then that I had no wish to search Grey House by myself. In the end, I convinced myself I had no choice. I told Aquinas.

"You wish to search Grey House, my lady," he said, his voice carefully neutral. Like all good butlers, Aquinas would never dream of offering an overt criticism.

"That is correct."

"For the purpose of discovering evidence of some wrongdoing."

"Exactly."

"Perhaps I might offer a suggestion or two that would be of assistance."

"I rather hoped you might."

"If your ladyship could possibly postpone the proposed search until tomorrow, I think it would be immeasurably easier to arrange."

I blinked at him. "Why?"

"Tomorrow is the Sabbath, my lady," he said, without a trace of impatience.

"Oh, very good. How many of them go to church?"

"All, my lady. And afterward they have the afternoon free to avail themselves of the pleasures of town, such as they are." Aquinas had been in service in Paris and was always bitter about the solemnity of a British Sunday, even in London.

I stared at him. "Really, how very extraordinary. I never noticed. But I always have luncheon on Sunday, the fires are always tended to."

"I do not attend services myself, my lady. It is my privilege to stay behind and make certain that you are taken care of."

I did not know what to say. Aquinas had always shown such deft, quiet concern for me that I was not surprised that he should have given up his own Sunday so that I should not be inconvenienced. What surprised, and saddened me, was my own blindness to his devotion.

"Thank you, Aquinas. You are most diligent."

He bowed from the neck. He never sat in my presence, with the result that our conversations were always slightly awkward, and I usually finished them with a crick in my neck. But I respected his insistence on decorum.

"Now, I have undertaken to solve a problem with the assistance of Mr. Nicholas Brisbane. Perhaps you will remember that he has called here?"

"I remember all callers, my lady." A lesser servant would have noted my callers in a book. Aquinas, I was certain, simply filed them in his head.

"Yes, well, Mr. Brisbane has suggested that I search the premises for our culprit. I may tell you the wrongdoing in question was a peccadillo itself—one of the books in my study was vandalized and the snipped passages were fashioned into anonymous notes. Mr. Brisbane's intention is to prove that one of the staff here at Grey House was responsible, but I intend to prove him wrong. Unfortunately, the only method for doing so is to search the house for any clue, however trivial, that might point to the guilty party."

Aquinas nodded thoughtfully. "Might I suggest that your ladyship pay particularly close attention to the public rooms? I do not think one of the staff, if he is a clever villain, would leave evidence of his guilt in his own rooms."

"Good Lord, Aquinas! You, too? Mr. Brisbane said much the same thing. I thought it indicated he had a criminal mind."

Aquinas said nothing, but his colour deepened, staining his neck a ferocious scarlet.

"Oh, really, not you as well!"

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" he asked innocently.

"Nothing, Aquinas. I do not wish to know," I said firmly, and I meant it. In spite of Brisbane's allusions, I trusted Aquinas more than anyone else in Grey House. I did not care what youthful escapades might have brought him to the wrong side of the law. All that mattered to me was that he was on the proper side of it now.

"Naturally your ladyship will wish to search my room as well," he said smoothly. "It will be at your disposal whenever you wish."

"Oh, no, really, I could not—"

For the first time I could remember, Aquinas interrupted me. "You must. I would not like there to be a shadow of suspicion clouding my name, my lady. I value your good opinion too highly."

I said nothing, but I could hear Brisbane's voice, insidious as a snake. Well, of course he would say that, wouldn't he? Especially if he has already hidden the evidence.

Resolutely, I put Brisbane's nasty voice from my mind, but it came creeping back when I opened the door to Aquinas' room the next morning. The bells had already summoned the faithful to church and I was surprised at how quickly the house fell silent. Renard, usually kept on duty to look after Simon on Sundays, was given one day free per month. Usually, he took it in the middle of the month, but Aquinas had made some excuse for requesting that he take it this first Sunday, and Renard had been too eager to question it. The Ghoul had left on her customary Sunday tour of the churchyards. She left quite early each Sunday morning, swathed in mourning veils and crepe, and did not return until late in the evening, quite as rested and relaxed as if she had just taken a holiday.

Even Magda had gone, although I knew better than to expect her to have gone to worship. She would pay a visit to her own people, no doubt, catching up with the aunts and sisters who had opposed her leaving, and who continually pressed their menfolk for her return. The others would likely go to the parks, meeting up with friends and would-be lovers. From my post in the study, I had listened to them, chattering happily as they crowded down the backstairs, liberated for the better part of the day. It seemed a little insulting really, that they should be so glad to be quit of Grey House, and of me. But I tried to imagine myself in their places and I knew I would have been the first one down the stairs. Even poor Desmond, recovering from a cold, had managed to rub enough camphor on his chest to make an outing worth his while. I could still smell him, along with the cheap perfume the maids had splashed on when I crept out into the hall, feeling for all the world like an intruder in my own house.

I began with Aquinas' room, for no other reason than guilt. I was ashamed at having to do it while he was in the house, but he had tactfully taken himself upstairs to tend to Simon. I made a quick but thorough search of his effects. I learned that he was a lapsed Roman Catholic, which I had always suspected, and that he was a widower, which I had not. I found a bit of newspaper in an envelope in his washstand drawer, its edges soft with age, detailing the acrobatic exploits of the Amazing Aquinas and his beautiful wife, Gabriella, of the Gioberti troupe of Milan. There was a sketch below it, crude but recognizable, of Aquinas balanced atop a wire with Gabriella perched on his shoulder. There was a second clipping as well, this one almost too painful to read—a gust of wind, a bit of ribbon snagged onto the wire.

I thrust it back into the envelope, sorry I had seen it. I had known that he had trained as a circus acrobat, but I had always thought it amusing. I had believed it a youthful escapade, given up for a secure job in service that would see him taken care of in his dotage. I had never imagined the circumstances that drove him to leave the vagabond life. I thought of the countless times I had plagued him to tell me stories of the circus, and how he had always put me off, saying they were dull. I should have known better.

But those were the only surprises in his room. He was neat and tidy to the point of obsession, his effects few and beautifully kept. Of course, Aquinas was far too clever to keep any scraps of his crimes hanging about if he were the villain, but I preferred to think him innocent instead.

I moved to the top of the house, and collected Aquinas to help me search the maids' dormitory and the footmen's room. I had told him of the notes, but not of the poison. He would help me search for anything suspicious, but I kept my own lookout for small boxes or vials that might yet hold the means of Edward's murder. He showed me the way to the staff quarters as I had never ventured there before. The maids shared a largish room that overlooked the garden; the footmen were in a slightly smaller room that faced the street. Both were nastier than I had imagined. Between Betty's sodden heap of used and crumpled handkerchiefs and Desmond's collection of drippy patent medicines, I felt rather queasy. The maids' dormitory revealed nothing of interest, though, besides a rather childish attachment to cheap mementos and fairings. They each had bags of ginger nuts and little fair dolls dressed in gaily coloured scraps. They were old enough to earn a living in service, but none of them was more than nineteen, children really, in so many ways. There was a single pot of rouge, cracked and almost empty, that I fancied they shared between them on their days out, and a large bottle of very cheap perfume that was nearly empty. The entire room smelled of it, heavy and sweet, and I was glad to move on to the austere quarters shared by Desmond and Henry. The air was little better than in the maid's room. Here it smelled of camphor and liquorice and a few other medicinal things I could not identify.

Aquinas raised a brow at the collection of bottles arrayed on the windowsill next to Desmond's bed.

"He is homesick, my lady. He pines for the country."

"Then what is he doing in London?" I asked, exasperated, although I knew well the answer. "There are no jobs in the country, I know, Aquinas. You needn't look so repressive. But really, one would think something could be done for him. I know—I shall ask Father to send him down to the Abbey. A spell in Sussex should put him right, what do you think?"

"I should think the country would be exactly what he requires, my lady. He is a capable young man, diligent and amiable in discharging his duties. I think he would prove most satisfactory to his lordship. You might suggest something with dogs, my lady."

"Dogs?" I was moving on to the chest at the foot of Henry's bed.

"Yes, my lady. He is very fond of them."

I heaved back the lid and began to poke the untidy contents with my finger.

"Well, Father is always looking for someone he can trust with his mastiffs. Especially now that poor old Crab is finally about to throw a litter. Good God!"

I had found an album, bound in cheap leather and tied with a black cord. I opened it, expecting the usual postcards from seaside resorts. What I found was something entirely different.

Aquinas looked discreetly over my shoulder and coughed.

"French, I should think, my lady."

"How can you tell?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"The caption around the edge."

"Well done, Aquinas. I had not even noticed there was a caption." This was because I had been too occupied with the photograph of the young woman in a provocative state of undress. She was staring at the camera with a saucy expression, apparently oblivious to the young man touching her.

I flipped through the album hurriedly. There were more of the postcards, dozens of them, all featuring subjects of a prurient nature. But toward the back, there was something different. The first postcards had been cheeky, almost funny. Most of the young women were draped, exposing only their bosoms. The young men in the pictures were entirely clothed. One could imagine small boys tittering over them in groups behind the privy.

But the others—I stared at them, feeling faintly sick to my stomach. These were not photographs. They were drawings printed on heavy paper, the edges raw as though they had been bound once and torn free. They were thoroughly obscene, not because they were sexual, but because they were violent. They depicted things I had never imagined, never wanted to imagine could happen. I stared at them until Aquinas lifted the album gently from my hands.

"Some things are best left unseen," he remarked, his voice cold with anger.

"I do not understand," I said stupidly.

"You would not, my lady, because you have been raised with dignity and with grace." He ranted softly for a moment in Italian.

"But why would Henry have these?"

Aquinas averted his eyes and I flushed painfully.

"I mean, I can imagine why, but where did he get them?"

Aquinas shrugged. "There are places…"

I did not press him, but simply made a note to tell Brisbane of my discovery and pressed on. There was a small viewer, of rather good quality wood, inset with a disk of glass to magnify the cards mounted behind it. It was grouped with a pack of cards, their subject matter much the same as the pictures in the album. I shoved them aside. There was nothing else of interest in the chest, and I was grateful when we moved on, closing the door behind us. The atmosphere in that room at the top of the house had grown close and airless. The hall seemed a little cooler and I breathed deeply for a moment before we moved into Morag's room.

If Henry's things had been a shock, Morag's were a revelation. The small room was packed with items as a magpie's nest, some things I had discarded, others bought with her modest wages. I recognized a vase that had been chipped slightly when one of the new maids had handled it carelessly. I had told Aquinas to dispose of it, but Morag had interceded, asking if she might keep it. I had shrugged, sublimely disinterested in what became of it. I saw now that Morag had filled it with dried grasses and placed it almost reverently on a starched mat of Brussels lace that had once been a shawl of mine. She had turned the vase so that the chipped edge did not show and tucked the snagged threads of the shawl out of sight. Everywhere I looked in that room I saw care and thrift and an almost painful determination to make good use of whatever came her way.

"I think our Morag is the proverbial thrifty Scot," I said with a smile. "She throws nothing away."

Aquinas was studying a framed sketch that I had come across months before. It was a courtyard, thick with fallen leaves and broken statuary. Edward had sketched it himself, before we married. It was well done, but melancholy, I always thought, and we had hung it in a back hallway and forgotten about it. I noticed it one morning, shortly after Edward died and had taken it down. I had been ready to consign it to the dustbin when Morag snatched it, saying she had a frame that needed a picture. I recognized the frame as well. It was a gaudy, heavy, scrolled thing that once belonged to Edward's mother. I had never liked it, and when the corner had broken off, I had been delighted. Now it hung paired with the sketch, wildly inappropriate for such a humble subject, but Morag must have liked it. It took pride of place over her bed.

"She came to us with only the clothes on her back and a sewing basket," Aquinas reminded me.

I said nothing and busied myself with her chest of drawers, feeling rather abashed. I had known what Morag's life was like—Aunt Hermia had made certain of that. She had described for me the existence of an East End prostitute in terms that could only be described as brutally frank. I had known that Morag once lived largely on the street, sleeping in a bed only on the nights when she made enough money to pay for a doss. All of her possessions were carried on her person, tucked into pockets and sewn into hems. I had thought it would seem like paradise to her to have her own furnished room at the top of the house.

But why had I never thought to hang proper pictures on the wall or give her an unbroken vase or frame? Immediately I thought of a dozen things in Edward's room that I could pass on to her. A few were valuable, but not wildly so, and I did not need the money they would bring. Why not give them to Morag, who would enjoy them? I turned to Aquinas, shrugging to indicate that I had found nothing.

He nodded. "All I found was a half-empty box of barley sugar sweets, for her sins."

I preceded him out of the room, making up my mind to give her a large box of the best candy I could find. In spite of her ragged edges, Morag had been a comfort to me through my widowhood. I should make rather more of an effort to tell her so, I thought.

Next we ventured into Renard's room, a task I was not anticipating with any great joy. His room was untidy as a lord's, strewn with soiled clothing and discarded footwear. There were newspapers and cigar ash underfoot and a plate that had been sitting around long enough for the remains of the food to become truly revolting.

"I thought the French were supposed to be fastidious," I complained, waving a handkerchief over my nose.

"I never thought he was French," Aquinas replied. He had taken up an umbrella and was using it to tentatively shift the dirty garments.

"Really?" I whirled to face him, my hands full of magazines.

"The accent is too affected, too French, if you take my meaning, my lady. If you will forgive the observation, he sounds very much like your ladyship's dressmakers."

I laughed, thinking of the Riche brothers and their exaggerated accents, their conspicuous use of simple French words in every conversation. "Of course! Where do you suppose he comes from?"

Aquinas wrinkled his nose at a particularly malodorous stocking. "Kent. I never trust a Kentish man."

"I am sure there is a very good reason why, but I will not ask you now. I suppose his real name must be Fox, and that is why he uses that ridiculous sobriquet," I mused, flipping quickly through the magazines. They were old ones, Edward's castoffs. There was nothing more interesting in them than a mildly scandalous article regarding the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Aquinas had given up on the clothes and was poking about under the bed with an umbrella.

After a moment he gave a grunt and reached as far as his arm would stretch, hooking the handle of the umbrella around something. He crabbed backward, collecting a fair amount of dust and cobweb, pulling a small portmanteau with him.

I dove after it, although I cannot imagine why. Did I think I would find scissors and a glue pot secreted inside? Actually, I rather liked the idea of Renard as villain. I had always found him distasteful, and the notion of dismissing him without either pay or character was wildly appealing.

The portmanteau was locked, but it was a moment's work to find the key, hanging on a hook behind the mirror over his washstand. Aquinas stepped back and allowed me to fit the key myself. It turned easily and I threw back the lid, feeling a surge of profound disappointment. There were only books, old ones by the look of them, with moldy, crumbling covers and the choking smell of dust and mildew.

Aquinas lifted one out and opened it. We stared at the illustration for a long moment.

"Well, I suppose that explains where Henry managed to find such filth," I said finally.

Aquinas nodded thoughtfully. "Renard must strip the pages and sell them to him, perhaps to others as well."

I picked up another book, noting the French title and the owner's coat of arms embossed on the leather cover.

"Are they valuable, do you think?"

Aquinas made a little moue. "Perhaps. There are collectors—a comte I once served in Paris, for example. They would pay rather a lot for a volume such as this from an illustrious library. But to cut the pictures and sell them alone, either he is eager for the money—too eager to find a dealer, or he does not recognize the value."

"I do not think Renard is the sort who would overlook the possible value of anything," I said slowly. "Where do you think he got them?"

"France," he said firmly. "He probably worked for this gentleman, or his family, and took them when he left. One would think he took them because they were easy to steal, easy to sell off—a few pictures whenever he wanted a little money."

"But why pretend to us that he was French?"

Aquinas smiled at me, a little sadly. "Because there is a prejudice about French servants, a notion that they are superior to Italians, even better than English ones. Better pay to pretend you are French."

"But that is ludicrous. If he were a good valet, it would not have mattered to Edward if he were a Chinaman."

"To Sir Edward, no. But there are others to whom it matters very much."

"Nonsense. All that matters is that one does a good job and can speak the language well enough to be understood. I should not care if my staff were Albanians."

"You are different, my lady." I must have looked doubtful, because he went on. "Do you remember the dinner here, a few weeks before Sir Edward's death? You hosted Lady Thorncroft? Yes, well, as I was bringing in the roast, I clearly heard her ask if you counted the silver after I had polished it to make certain it was all still there."

I looked away, squirming a little. "I had hoped you did not hear that."

"But I did, and I heard your ladyship's reply. I do not think you will be invited again to Thorncroft Hall, by the way."

I looked up at him, and his eyes were twinkling in his sad face. "Well, what else could I say to her? She was insulting and rude."

"She only said what many other guests at Grey House have thought. How can you trust your valuables to an Italian?"

I closed the book and put it back into the portmanteau.

"I do not know why everyone persists in thinking of you as Italian, you are half English. You don't even have an accent. Most of the time," I amended, thinking of the rare fits of anger that rendered him incapable of communicating except in passionate Italian.

"Come, I want to get out of this room and wash my hands," I said. He shoved the portmanteau into its hiding place and replaced the umbrella.

At the door, I paused. "Aquinas, has Mr. Brisbane ever said anything to you? Ever made any sort of remark about the fact that you are not English?"

Aquinas smiled. "Yes, my lady. The first time he called at Grey House, when I showed him to the door. He told me how much he admired Italian acrobats and asked me if I had ever seen the Giobertis perform in Milan."

I stared at him, openmouthed in astonishment. His smile widened.

"I know, my lady. That was precisely the reaction I had to him. A very remarkable gentleman, Mr. Brisbane."

"Remarkable indeed, Aquinas."

By three o'clock, we were tired and dusty and had turned up almost nothing. No diaries with heartfelt, murderous confessions, no glue pots except where they belonged. And I had found no poison in my surreptitious searches when Aquinas' back was turned. We had tiptoed past Simon's room, although I had given the room a cursory glance the night before. It was not entirely impossible that the culprit had hidden something away in Simon's room, Brisbane had warned me. It was almost as neat a solution as hiding something in mine, and he had instructed me to take note of anything that might seem out of the ordinary. I had peered into corners under the guise of looking for an earring I had dropped, but I found nothing and Simon had begun to look at me peculiarly. It was on the tip of my tongue to take him into my confidence, as well, but in the end I decided against it. Brisbane would be annoyed enough that I had told Aquinas as much as I had; explaining that Simon also knew would leave him apoplectic.

Aquinas brought Simon's luncheon tray while I prodded the skirting boards outside his room. They proved sound, and Aquinas joined me shortly to finish our search. To my relief, my own rooms turned up nothing. It was irrational, really, I knew that there was nothing there. But it made me feel immeasurably better, and I decided that I would tell Brisbane I had enlisted Aquinas to act as an impartial observer during my search of my own things. He would not believe it for a minute, but I thought it sounded very professional.

The public rooms on the main floor took very little time. They had been furnished by Edward in his favorite Empire style—all cleanly designed and uncluttered. No hiding places among all those bare legs and stripped floors. That left only the belowstairs—kitchens, offices and the private rooms I had not yet searched. The kitchens were pristine, with perfectly ordered utensils and graduated copper pots ranged on hooks. There was not a fork out of place, and I was not surprised. Cook was more ferocious than any battlefield general; no one would have dared leave her kitchen until every last saucer was stowed in its place.

The laundry was marginally less tidy. It was under Cook's nominal authority, but it was Magda's actual responsibility. She had left a cake of soap melting in a puddle of water and a brass can of water standing nearly in the doorway, so awkwardly placed that I nearly fell over it. I muttered, shoving it aside with my foot. The rest of the room yielded nothing, no cupboards or trunks where something suspicious might be lurking. There was only the bucket under the window where I had left Val's shirt several nights before. I moved toward it, surprised to find the water again reddened, as if someone had stuffed something bloody into it.

And they had, I realized, peering into the bucket. I asked Aquinas for a stick and he found me a bit of long, thin pipe that Magda used to stir the boiler. I levered it under the water and heaved. A lump of sodden linen tumbled to the floor with a splash.

Aquinas was on top of it before I could stop him. He was not so fastidious as I. He unfolded the dripping garment with his hands. It was a man's shirt, as I had known it would be, stained streakily across the cuffs with blood. There was a handkerchief this time as well—a woman's, from the look of the pansies embroidered garishly in the corner.

I stared at the bloody, soaking mess, wondering how I could have been stupid enough to believe Val's story about a fight at the opera. He was a medical student, not permitted to practice. It was apparent that he had found somewhere to continue his studies, somewhere he could not speak of, somewhere that would provide him access to people who were profoundly in need of his attentions, I thought as I fingered the handkerchief. It was slashed in places, the edges of the cheap cotton curling back on themselves like the petals of a gruesome flower.

I shoved the handkerchief back into the shirt and rolled the bundle back into the gory bucket.

"This has nothing to do with what we are about. I will deal with it myself," I told Aquinas firmly.

He said nothing but simply threw fresh water onto the pinkened puddle and took up a mop, swabbing at it until it was gone.

But it lingered in our minds, and I knew we were both thinking of it as we made our way to Cook's room. There the mood lightened. We both smiled at her harmless indulgence in cherry brandy and fashion magazines. But even as we neatly tucked her bottles back under the bed, I found myself wondering about Magda. As the laundress, she could hardly have overlooked Val's bloody shirts. I had rinsed the first bloody one clean for him, but I had little doubt now that there had been others. He had not bothered to rinse this one, and yet he had to know she would see it. Did he pay for her silence? This possibility worried me. Val never had much money. Father's allowance was generous, but Val was, too, always giving money to causes he deemed worthy and friends who were not. I found myself rushing to search Magda's room. I felt certain that I would find something there that tied her to my brother, and I was very much afraid of what that might be.

But even I never expected that it would be arsenic.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me.

—William Shakespeare

The Two Gentlemen of Verona

Of course I was not certain that it was arsenic when I found it. I was not even certain that it was anything of importance. But I suspected.

And when I looked at the little box of grey powder, I felt sick. I had wanted so badly to give Magda a chance. Aunt Hermia had warned against it. She had never been as warm in her acceptance of Gypsies as Father had, and she was eloquent on the folly of bringing one into the house.

"You won't have a stick of furniture left by the time she's done with you," she had warned me. "She'll sell it all from under you. And you'll not get a proper day's work from her, either." Privately, I rather agreed with Aunt Hermia. I knew Magda too well to expect she would settle easily to life inside four walls. I had a somewhat higher opinion of her honesty, and indeed in the time with us nothing more significant than a teaspoon had gone missing. But Magda had not fit in happily with the staff, preferring to keep to herself, occasionally engaging in violent, shrieking quarrels with one of the maids, which usually ended with the maid stalking off with a stellar reference and a handsome pay packet from me, and another trip to the domestic agency for Aquinas.

But I could not turn her out, any more than I could explain to Aunt Hermia why I had taken her in. Why Magda had turned to me in her time of trouble, rather than Father, or someone else with the authority to help her, I could not imagine. She had, though, and I could no more abandon her than I could neglect any other responsibility. Father may have been a bit slapdash in the raising of his children, but he managed to instill in us the essentials, and duty was one of them. We were charged with taking care of those to whom our money and our blood made us superior, and it was an obligation we neglected at our peril. When Magda had come to me, cast out and penniless, I had not wanted to give her a place at Grey House, but I had no choice in the matter. She was in need and had asked for my help.

I had given her cold refuge, I thought as I looked around the little room. It was bare as an anchorite's cell, and I felt a stab of anger, not at Magda, but at myself. She was like Morag, a creature without a home, but I had given her little more than four walls to call her own. The room was uncarpeted, furnished only with a narrow bed and a single hard chair. Her meager possessions were divided between a carpetbag and a discarded, crumbling old hat box. There was not even a proper curtain at the window. I looked at those four dull grey walls and the cold stone floor and the cheerless window, and I realized then what a prison it must have seemed to her, a Gypsy woman with rolling moors and tumbling rivers in her blood. She had roamed freely with her people before coming to me, winding from one corner of the kingdom to another. From Kentish summers making hay to the foggy winter London campgrounds, she had spent her entire life out in the fresh air, sleeping in a low tent, and later a painted caravan. Now she was confined to pavements and coal dust, as unnatural a being as the raven locked in Val's room.

I pocketed the box and turned to Aquinas.

"There is nothing else here. I do not think we need search Diggory's quarters. He has no access to the house."

Aquinas nodded solemnly. "I think there is more at hand here than anonymous notes, my lady," he ventured, without a hint of reproach.

"Yes," I said. I hesitated, then squared my shoulders. I had trusted Aquinas this far. It seemed pointless and insulting not to tell him the rest. "Mr. Brisbane suspects, as do I, that Sir Edward may have died by poison."

"I thought as much," he said blandly.

I blinked like a hare. "I beg your pardon?"

"In Italy such things are more common, even in France it is so. It is not unheard of for an unhappy wife or husband to remove the cause of their sorrow. Or for a young nephew to help a rich and elderly uncle along to his grave for the sake of his inheritance. And it is not impossible that a man with poor health would take his own life rather than linger on in pain."

I stared at him, remembering suddenly what Simon had told me about his own intentions. Why had it never occurred to me that Edward might have done the same?

But I patted the tiny box of mortality in my pocket and I knew better. Edward had been genuinely terrified of the anonymous notes, according to Brisbane. A man bent on self-destruction would not have been so troubled by them. Besides, if Edward had engineered his own death, he would not have left the means secreted away in some innocent person's room to cast suspicion where it did not belong.

"I shall have to deliver this to Mr. Brisbane. I think sooner rather than later."

Aquinas withdrew, leaving me alone in Magda's room. I sat for a long moment, trying to put things together in my mind, but nothing seemed to fit. Every thought I had seemed to end with a question mark. What was Val about and how much did Magda know of it? Did she have cause to harm Edward? And would she? Had she?

I shook myself finally and prepared to call upon Brisbane. I had questions, to be sure. And perhaps he had answers.

* * *

I should have thought that I would have felt rather smug handing over my little box. Instead I felt only miserable. I was implicating a woman I had known since childhood, a woman I trusted, after a fashion. I was putting her fate into the hands of a man I knew very little about. I still did not know the cause of his terrible headaches, but knowing the cures he had sampled did not reassure me. Everyone I knew had taken opium in some form, but I had never met anyone who had dosed themselves with absinthe. It had left me wildly curious and a little wary. Of course, this was largely due to the fact that I had recently sat up late, reading the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by guttering lamplight. I did not seriously believe that Brisbane had somehow caused his own suffering through scientific experiments gone horribly wrong, but it was enough to make me look at him closely as he surveyed the contents of the little box.

Suddenly, he surged up out of his seat. He went to the long table under the shuttered windows where his scientific equipment was arrayed. I followed, watching as he spooned a small sample of the powder into a little crucible. He lit it and a strong, garlicky aroma filled the air.

He turned to me, his eyes lambent with a sort of savage satisfaction.

"I shall send it along to Mordecai to be fully analyzed, but this test indicates arsenic."

I felt my heart sink a little at the words. There were plenty of good reasons for possessing arsenic, but Magda had none of them. I knew she did not use it for cosmetic purposes, nor did she kill rats. Brisbane, of course, was sensing my thoughts.

"There is only one reason to have arsenic in this quantity and in this concentration," he said flatly. "She has poisoned someone, or at least intended to."

"You do not know that," I argued feebly. "Doctor Bent has not even finished his report on what may have induced the symptoms Edward suffered."

The black eyes narrowed unflinchingly. "Then can you explain why a Gypsy laundress in your employ keeps enough arsenic to fell a battalion tucked in her spare petticoat?"

"You do not know that is arsenic!" I returned, angry. I do not know why I was enraged, only that I was. He was so eager to believe the worst of her. Perhaps I was angry with myself because I could think of no proper defense for her. Or perhaps I was angry with him for demanding one.

Brisbane folded his arms over his chest, his shirtsleeves brilliant white against the dark wool of his waistcoat. I had called without sending ahead—rather foolhardy in light of how I found him the last time I did such a thing—and found him reading quietly by the fire. He had seemed pleased enough to see me, and delighted when I told him what I had brought. But I had felt every inch a traitor.

"My lady, I know what that is, even if you do not. I will send it to Mordecai simply to confirm my own analysis. Now, sit down and tell me everything you know about Magda."

Miserable and defeated, I did as I was bid. He rang for tea and I took a cup and a biscuit from Monk simply for something to do with my hands. Monk was careful not to make eye contact with me, and I wondered if he regretted the intimacies he had shared during my last call. He left quickly, and Brisbane did not wait for me to finish my tea before launching into his interrogation.

"How long have you known Magda?" The notebook was on the table at his side, but he did not open it.

"All my life, I think. I told you that Father permits the Gypsies to camp on his land in Sussex. Magda's people have been coming there since my father was a boy."

"And has she always gotten on well with your family?"

"Oh, yes. Father would pay her to tell fortunes at the harvest ball. He always bought horses from her brothers and told the tenants to buy the clothes-pegs and harnesses they made."

Brisbane was thoughtful. There was an expression, almost of distaste on his face, as if he did not like peering too closely into their transient lives. I remembered suddenly the ragged bit of conversation I had overheard from the laundry room, and my certainty that it was Magda taunting Brisbane.

"Who is Mariah Young?" I asked.

His face did not change, at least not in any way I could define. It seemed to go flat, though, as if his features were no longer flesh and blood, but paper and ink, technically correct, but utterly devoid of animation. He sipped at his tea and then looked at me, his eyes strangely hooded. I had never seen quite that expression in them before, although his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

"I thought I heard someone crashing about. What is down there? The laundry?"

I nodded, my hands a little clammy. I patted them surreptitiously on my napkin.

"Mariah Young is my business," he said evenly. "And she has no bearing on this case."

"But you were there, talking to Magda—"

He did something then, something I had not seen him do before. He put down his teacup and brought out a little wooden box. From it he took a slim, very dark cigar. He lit it in an unhurried fashion, taking a few deep draws to make certain it was smoldering properly. He had not asked my permission, but the tobacco had a sweet, musky smell that was actually quite appealing.

"Spanish," he said with a thin smile. "I find they help me think. Mariah Young," he said, his tone thoughtful. He was silent a moment, as if weighing within himself how much he could or should reveal. I sat very still, trying to look more trustworthy than curious, but I did not deceive him. He simply shook his head and said, "I can only tell you that the conversation between Magda and myself has no bearing on this case except in one respect." He blew a soft blue cloud of smoke over his head. "I think that your laundress might very well be capable of blackmail. And if that is so, it is a short step to murder, don't you think?"

"And that is all you are going to say on the matter?" I demanded.

"That is all." The words were softly spoken, but underpinned with iron, and I did not doubt he meant them. I would learn nothing from approaching him directly. I decided to leave it—for now. But I made up my mind that before I was done with Brisbane, I would know the full story of Mariah Young.

"How does a Gypsy teller of fortunes come to be employed as a common laundress?" he asked, taking back the reins of the conversation.

"Her people were encamped at Bellmont Abbey when she got into some sort of trouble. She became unclean, according to their laws. You see, the Gypsies believe—"

"I am familiar with the mythology," he said dryly. Of course he was. I had deduced from my conversations with Monk and Fleur that Brisbane was extremely well traveled. Doubtless he had encountered many wanderers in his own journeys. Likely that accounted for his antipathy toward them.

"Yes, well, Magda was deemed unclean for a period of a year or two, I am not certain of the precise rules. It meant that she could not travel with them and would probably have starved. She came to me and I told her she could work for me, here in town. She has only just now been allowed to visit her brothers. They are encamped in London at the moment, and I think she may rejoin them soon."

Brisbane sat and puffed, staring at a point some inches above my head. I might have been a bowl of fruit for all the attention he paid to me.

"If you did not want a biscuit, you did not have to take one to be polite," he said finally.

"I beg your pardon?"

He gestured with the glowing tip of the cigar. "You have crumbled that biscuit to bits. You had only to decline."

I looked at the wrecked remains of the little pastry mounded on the plate. I put it down hastily.

"Did Magda have any reason to bear a grudge against Sir Edward?"

"Absolutely not. If Edward had objected to her employment, she would never have been given a post at Grey House."

"And yet she brought poison into that house," he mused. There was another interval punctuated only by the soft exhalation of his breath. I sat quietly, mentally redecorating the room. It was quite nicely proportioned with good moldings, but I thought the chairs were a little dark, a little heavy for my taste. And the green of the curtains was entirely too grey.

I had just moved on to the artwork, replacing his stark sketch of an Eastern mosque with my own rather good copy of Jupiter and Io when he spoke.

"Why was she found to be unclean?"

I began to toy with my rings. "It is really quite distasteful, Brisbane. It has no bearing on the investigation, I am certain of that."

"But I am not," he rejoined with a smile.

I fumed a little, but I told him. "It has something to do with the dead. She touched a dead person. Apparently that violates their greatest taboo."

He took up a small china dish figured in gold dragons and ground out the remainder of his cigar. "What were the circumstances?"

"Really, Brisbane, must I—"

"Yes, you must," he said, his tone hard. "I will know everything."

I drew a deep breath. "Very well. Her daughter, Carolina, had died. My father arranged for her to be buried in the village graveyard at Blessingstoke. Magda was found there the next night. Her daughter's body had been dug up. She was embracing the corpse."

"Good God." He sat back heavily in his chair, and I felt a childish sort of satisfaction at having shocked him. "I am surprised they only banished her."

"They pitied her. She was ranting, half out of her mind with grief. They put out her things and packed their own. They were gone by daylight. Within the space of a few short days she had lost her only child, her entire family, her whole way of life. Now perhaps you can find some pity for her."

His eyes lifted to mine, cool and black as a night sea.

"Pity is a luxury I cannot afford, my lady. For anyone."

"How can you be so unfeeling?" I demanded. "What is your heart made of that it can remain so wholly untouched by the suffering of another human being?"

"Stone. Steel. Flint, if you like. I am sure that is what you think."

"What I think does not matter at all," I retorted. "I simply cannot comprehend how any person can live as you do."

"That is because your ladyship has the advantage of a clean conscience and an untroubled past," he said, his words tinged with ice. "If you had to live with what I do, you would understand it well enough."

A sudden image flashed into my mind of Brisbane, drugged and in agony, and I felt ashamed of myself. I inclined my head.

"You are right, of course. I should not have judged you. I apologize."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I have just apologized," I said, smoothing my skirts. "You were right and I was wrong. I spoke thoughtlessly. Shall I make amends, or do you forgive me?"

I waited coolly for his reply, but he simply stared, dumbfounded. He was shaking his head, his expression entirely astonished.

"Now I do not understand you. One minute you are passionately attacking me for my cold heart, the next you are craving my pardon."

I lifted my shoulder in a genteel shrug I copied from Fleur. "A lady's prerogative. We are widely believed to be the less logical sex."

"Not you," he said. "I am suspicious of you now."

I smiled guilelessly. "You have no reason to be."

"That I do not believe."

I did not reply and he moved on, rather reluctantly, I thought.

"Is there anything else I should know about Magda?"

I thought, then shook my head. "I have told you everything, as far as I remember. If I recall anything else, I shall write to you."

He rose and walked me to the door. "I will send the ars—powder," he amended hastily, "to Mordecai in the morning. As soon as he sends word I will let you know."

He paused, his hand curved around the knob.

"I am very impressed, my lady," he said quietly. "You turned up a piece of evidence that makes a needle in a haystack seem like a winning proposition. And you did not permit sentiment to dictate your actions. I know how easy it would have been for you to conceal this from me."

"It would not have been easy at all," I remarked, pulling on my gloves. "As you observed, I have the advantage of a clean conscience. I should like to keep it that way."

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee, though I wish him dead.

—William Shakespeare

Richard II

The next day my spirits were low. I could not bring myself to question Val about the second bloody shirt or even scold him for failing to get rid of the stolen raven. I cringed every time Henry came near me, remembering his foul collection of French pornography. And I had a ferocious headache, the result of spending several hours copying my observations during the search into legible form for Brisbane's records. After my surprising success in Magda's rooms, he had sent word that he would require a full list of the contents of the house, particularly personal possessions. It was tedious stuff, and I strongly suspected he had requested it simply to keep me occupied with something dull while he had the more interesting task of taking the grey powder to Doctor Bent's for analysis.

After three hours of writing, painstakingly listing the contents of every room I searched, I threw down my pen, spattering the page with a temperamental spray of ink. I had been cooped up in the study long enough. It was time for some physical labor to stretch my limbs and clear the cobwebs from my mind.

I instructed Aquinas to send boxes and tissue to Edward's room and give me the loan of one of the servants—anyone except Henry. I had no desire to be alone with the mad pornographer. To my surprise it was Magda who came, clinking her gold bracelets and swishing her taffeta petticoats. I cringed a little—it was the same red petticoat that I had found wrapped around the box of powder.

"Magda, I have decided to clear out Sir Edward's clothes and personal effects. I would like to box them all up and send them along to Lady Hermia's refuge. They should be able to make quite good use of them."

I was chattering, but Magda did not seem to notice. She simply shrugged and began shifting the stacks of shirts from the wardrobe. Without being told, Magda wrapped the garments into neat parcels, putting a shirt, collar and cuffs with each suit of clothes to make a complete ensemble. After a long moment of watching her, I remembered something I had meant to ask her for several days.

"Magda, what does it mean when there is a serpent in the tea leaves?"

Her inky eyes narrowed. "You have let another Gypsy read the leaves for you?"

"No, of course not. I was just wondering."

She regarded me a long moment, then shrugged.

"Sickness. Bad luck. Spiteful enemies."

"Oh," I said feebly.

The dark gaze narrowed still further. "Are you certain the leaves were not yours?" she demanded.

I gave her a thin smile as I lied. "Of course. But, I wonder, speaking of fortunes, why could you not tell Mr. Brisbane his fortune?"

Her hands did not hesitate but moved smoothly along as she wrapped the next shirt. "I cannot tell you, lady. He can."

We worked another minute in silence.

"Who is Mariah Young?"

There was a reaction at this, a tiny jerk of the hands and a bit of the paper tore. She smoothed it, regaining her composure. "I cannot tell you, lady. He can."

"But he won't."

"Then it is not my place," she said calmly. She was fetching hats now, crumpling paper to fill out the crowns.

I twisted one of Edward's neck cloths in my hands. "Magda, how can you be so stubborn! Don't you realize that I am only trying to help you?"

She continued to work deliberately and slowly, moving with a certain deft precision that I had often seen among the Roma. I moved closer, determined to make her understand.

"He means to see you hang for murder, do you hear me? He has the poison."

She turned, her dark eyes wide with surprise. "He took my arsenic?"

I groaned and dropped Edward's neck cloth to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, fluidly, with none of the creaking and snapping one would expect from a woman of her years. A life spent traveling had kept her supple and strong, stronger than I.

"It was arsenic, then. He thought so. He has sent it to a doctor to be tested."

I reached out and took her hand. It felt cool and wrinkled, like the top of a blancmange left too long in the larder.

"Magda, I know that you must have had some innocent purpose for the arsenic. I must believe that you wanted it for a cosmetic, a face cream. But Mr. Brisbane believes Sir Edward was poisoned. I cannot help you if you do not tell me the truth."

Her face was utterly blank. No emotion, just the calm, fatal acceptance of her race.

"I always tell you the truth," she said. "Not all of it, not at once, but what I tell you is never false."

I nodded encouragement.

"I did not kill Sir Edward."

I felt my spine sag. I had never actually believed her guilty, but it was a profound relief to hear her deny it.

She looked at me curiously, her eyes snapping with emotion. "You know why I am unclean to my people. But you have never asked me why I went to Carolina's grave. It was because she called me."

My breath caught painfully in my throat. "Called you? Magda, how can that be?"

"I was sleeping, and I dreamed of her. She came to me and said that I must go to her, that she was in danger. I rose and I went to her. My brothers found me there, sitting on her grave with her body in my arms. My brothers understood, they knew that I had to protect her, but the taboo had been broken. I was unclean and I had to leave them."

Magda fell silent, but her words echoed in my head. Why had she felt the need to protect her dead child? The graveyard was a quiet country place, with no one to disturb her. And why should anyone want to? Granted, graverobbing had been a lucrative occupation fifty years before, but there were laws now, providing for the legal use of cadavers for medical study. Schools no longer needed to rely upon unsavory villains to retrieve the newly dead for their anatomical dissections.

But there were others, I thought with a thrill of horror, others who might have need of a fresh corpse, others who had no access to proper medical schools. I thought of my poor, misguided brother, and it was almost more than I could bear.

"Magda, did someone else remove Carolina's body from her grave before you reached the churchyard?"

She nodded and began to rock slowly, her arms crossed over her womb.

"I was too late to stop him disturbing her rest, but I chased him away. He could not take her."

I had read before, in lurid Gothic novels, of one's blood running cold. Until that minute, I had thought it an exaggeration. But as the implication of her words took root, a monstrous idea began to grow, and with it, a cold, creeping certainty.

"Did you have that arsenic because you intended to kill the man who defiled her grave?"

She looked directly into my eyes. "Yes. I waited. It is almost time for me to return to my people. I did not want to kill him and remain under your roof."

I clamped my hand around her arm and shook her hard.

"Do not speak. Do not say another word. Your intentions are enough to buy you a noose."

I stopped a moment, thinking with an icy clarity that should have surprised me.

"Are any of your brothers in London?"

"Jasper. He is at Hampstead."

Jasper, he would do. He was a horse dealer, and a good one. During the season, he could usually be found in London, peddling prime horseflesh to the pinch-purses who would not pay the prices at Tattersall's. I moved swiftly to the mantel, sweeping up the nearest bibelots.

"Take these," I ordered, thrusting the Sèvres candlesticks and the porcelain Pandora's box into her startled hands. "Go to Jasper. He will know where to sell them to get money for you to live on. I haven't any banknotes in the house and I dare not ask Aquinas. Once Jasper has gotten some money for you, get straight out of London. Go anywhere, but not into Sussex. Stay as far away from me and mine as you can, and above all, do not send word where you are. In a few months, you should be able to rejoin your people, up north would be best."

She tightened her grip on the pieces of porcelain, nodding slowly. "You understand that I would never harm you, lady."

I regarded her coldly. "You were prepared to poison a member of my family, my own kinsman. You have already harmed me."

She nodded sadly and turned to wrap the objects in paper. I instructed her to cushion them with waistcoats and shirts, and in a very few moments she was finished. She reached into her pocket and drew out a piece of knotted calico.

"Do you know what this is?"

I shook my head.

"It is a charm, made from the graveclothes of a dead Rom. This comes from Carolina. It is the strongest magic I can give you."

I took it with reluctant fingers. "Magda, I do not—"

"You will need magic. Because of him, the dark one. I cannot tell his fortune, but he brings death. He brings ruination and despair. I hear weeping when he walks and the screams of the dead echo in his shadow."

The words might have been a trifle melodramatic, but the effect was ghastly. Her voice was low and her eyes glowed conviction. Whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen in Brisbane, she believed it.

"Thank you," I said, clutching the small charm.

She nodded and moved heavily to the door, cradling her parcels.

"You will see me again, lady," she promised me solemnly.

"Not for a very long time, I hope," I said as the door closed softly behind her.

I opened my hand and stared down at the knot that carried so much powerful magic. And I tried to remember where I had seen one like it only recently.

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame.

—John Dryden

"A Song for St. Cecilia's Day"

Perhaps the last activity to promise any diversion that night was an evening with my family. But almost as soon as the door closed behind Magda there was a knock at the door and I could hear the too-cheerful voice of the Ghoul.

"Julia, dear, are you in there?"

I was tempted, sorely tempted not to answer her. But I knew she would run me to the ground eventually.

"Yes, Aunt Ursula."

She entered, black skirts swishing, and surveyed the scene—me, woebegone and bewildered, surrounded by a load of Edward's things, half-packed and tumbled about the room.

"Oh, my dear girl! Why didn't you call me to help you? Packing up a loved one's effects can be so very trying."

Especially when one's laundress admits to wanting to kill your brother in the midst of it, I thought sourly.

"I thought it was time," I said.

"Of course you did. It is only one of the many tasks that you will have now that your first year of mourning is ended."

Trust the Ghoul to mark the anniversary of Edward's death when I had not. Really, she was a better widow to him than I was. I smiled feebly.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"After all, you will need new clothes to observe this new stage in your mourning."

I widened my eyes. "I beg your pardon, Aunt? I thought you expected me to observe strict mourning in perpetuity."

She gave me a sympathetic cluck. "Oh, no! Well, I admit I did think of it at first, but then I realized how much there would be to do if you put on half mourning. And I thought perhaps it might be best if you had something to occupy your days. Besides, there will be time enough to put your weeds back on when Simon passes."

She began to burrow through Edward's effects and I sat, trying to digest what she had just said. Naturally the arrangements of half mourning would appeal to her. There would be all sorts of doleful things to attend to, all manner of fresh new grimness to inflict upon me. I could well imagine what pleasure she would take in draping the house in purple and ordering new writing paper and candles. I opened my mouth to blast her, then stopped. Her intentions were appalling and her remark about Simon had been utterly cruel, but she was harmless enough. I complained loudly about her, but the truth was I minded her rather less as the months went by. Besides, one look at the wardrobe I had selected for my "half mourning" would likely put her into her own early grave.

I dragged my attention back to the Ghoul, who had been chattering happily the whole time, poking through Edward's bits and probably marking out something she would ask for as a "memento." That was another of her favorite tricks. No matter how far removed she had been from the deceased, she always asked for some small token to remember them by, usually the most expensive bibelot or costliest jewel in the house. Few people had the courage or cruelty to resist her, with the result that she had amassed a collection of jewels and objets d'art to rival the queen's.

"And I told dear Hermia that I would be coming with you tonight."

I jerked to attention. "Tonight?"

"Yes, to Hermia's musical evening. Don't tell me you have forgotten," she said with a trill of laughter, sharp and brittle, nothing like Fleur's silver bells.

Of course I had forgotten. I had begged off of her oratory contest, pleading a headache, but Aunt Hermia was nothing if not persistent. She had sent me a note more than a week before regarding the musicale, a note I had thrust aside and promptly dismissed. Aunt Hermia's musical evenings were legendary within the family. Absences were rarely tolerated, and performances were strongly encouraged—or extorted if necessary. Occasionally other guests were invited, which made for hilarity and a boisterous evening. Other times it was just family, and those could be deadly. I wondered which this was to be and I was strongly inclined to send my regrets.

But I could not. I had missed the oratory contest and the last two musicales; a third and Aunt Hermia herself would come to Grey House to drag me out of it. Besides, I was not much enthused about spending another evening alone, reading and answering correspondence. For all their faults, my family were gregarious and animated, which I could not say for my books and letters. And as an added incentive, it was very possible that Val might be there. I longed to observe him without his being aware of it. He was so seldom at Grey House that Aunt Hermia's entertainment might be the only chance I would have to engage him.

And do what? I asked myself later as I pondered Morag's selections from my wardrobe. She had laid out a deep-necked, delicious violet velvet and a beautifully cut, tight crimson silk. I dithered between them, trying to imagine how I could possibly accuse my youngest brother of the attempted robbery of a new grave. Perhaps I could ask him to pass the gravy and make a dreadful pun…no, that would never do. I would simply have to go and keep my eyes sharp and my ears sharper. Perhaps I could delicately probe our family for their opinions on his sanity. It made me not a little nervous to think of sharing a house with a person capable of exhuming a young corpse simply to cut it open.

Shivering, I settled on the crimson and permitted Morag to dress me. I think we were both startled at the result. I had thought the violet revealed a bit of décolletage, but the crimson was nearly as flagrant. In fact, I felt it was a bit much for a family party, but as Morag reminded me, it was only a family party. Who else would be there to see and be shocked by the rather sumptuous display of bosom? I agreed with her, only because it was too late to change, and I made a note to myself never to wear the violet outside of my own home. What on earth had Monsieur Riche been thinking? Honestly.

I had just a few moments to spare and decided to spend them with Simon. The valet, Renard, was just collecting his dinner tray and he stepped aside at the doorway to let me pass.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, casting an approving glance at my bosom. I drew back, ensuring that even my skirts would not touch him.

"Renard," I said coolly. I could not help it. Every time I saw him, I thought of the odious drawings he had supplied to Henry and my skin crawled. He slipped past me, brushing as near as he dared, and I closed the door firmly behind him. I moved to Simon, my lips set in a deliberate smile.

"How are you this evening, dearest?"

His face brightened. "Julia! You are the very picture—turn around and let me see you properly."

I pirouetted obediently. He watched, nodding in appreciation.

"Lovely. I did tell you bright colours, didn't I?"

"You did," I said, dropping a kiss to his brow. "I feel rather unlike myself, though. I've never worn anything quite so…"

He smiled, reaching for my hand. "You have never looked lovelier. Where are you bound?"

"March House."

"Ah! One of Lady Hermia's musicales, am I right?"

"You are. Shall I plump your pillows for you?"

"Please do. I should far rather have you do it than Renard." He leaned forward and I busied myself fluffing the feathers. "I remember those evenings," he said, his voice tinged ever so slightly with nostalgia. "Edward played the most awful piano, but your singing was quite—"

"Vile," I put in helpfully. He gave me a reproachful little look.

"I was going to say original, but all right. You are frightfully tone-deaf, my darling."

"I know. Pity that I love to sing, isn't it? But you must have paid better attention than Edward to your piano master. Your melodies were always so lovely."

He gazed down at his hands, swollen a little about the knuckles. "I doubt I could play now. Doubt I even remember a note of anything," he said ruefully. "Funny how we spend our entire adolescence learning skills that are supposed to serve us in society, then spend our entire adulthood forgetting them."

"Not all of them. The last time we danced, you still remembered how to do that quite well."

"Well, dancing is different. I always enjoyed that. Music and gaiety and breathless promises to meet in darkened gardens—so much intrigue." He raised a brow meaningfully.

I settled him back against his pillows. "Ass," I said affectionately. "When did you ever make assignations in the garden?"

He waved an airy hand. "Loads of times. I cannot tell you how many lovely memories I have of fumbling with buttons under the cover of leafy darkness.…" His voice trailed off and his eyes were dreamy.

I slapped lightly at his hand. "You are a beast, Simon Grey."

"Yes, but a discreet one. You never knew I was off misbehaving, did you? Did you never once see me slip back into a ballroom, cravat askew, face dewy and flushed with rapture?"

"No, thank God. What of the poor creatures you were deflowering? Were they ever discovered?"

"No, not one, mercifully. But as I say, I was discreet. Edward used to get up to the same, did he never tell you?"

There was a flash of excitement in his eyes, an avidity that comes with truly succulent gossip.

"No!" I leaned forward, heedless of my neckline. "Do tell."

He smiled and wagged his finger. "I shall not. Some secrets should be kept. But the stories I could tell…"

I wrinkled my nose at him. "Very well. Keep your secrets. I don't care a bit." I kissed him again and bade him good-night.

"Good night, Julia. You really do look quite delicious." I blew him a kiss and slipped out, thinking about Edward as a youth, cavorting in the garden with some innocent maid, and wondering why he had never asked me to step outside with him.

Probably because he knew from the first he wanted to marry me, I thought reasonably. Gentlemen do not propose to girls who lift their skirts, Aunt Hermia had warned me, and in this case, she appeared to be correct. Edward had had trysts before me, but had not touched me until our wedding night. Although, if he had ever seen me in this scarlet, he might not have kept his hands so politely to himself, I thought wickedly, with one final glance at the glass.

Wrapping my black cloak tightly around me, I collected the Ghoul and we set off, arriving at March House punctually—no one ever had the courage to do otherwise. Aunt Hermia was legendary for her insistence upon promptness. Most people thought she was a stickler for manners, but the truth was, she had a horror of leathery meat. Rather than hold the meal to accommodate tardy guests, she simply struck the unpunctual from her guest list and harangued the rest of us into promptness. We were greeted at the door by Hoots, Father's butler. There was no sign of Aunt Hermia.

Hoots reached to help me off with my cloak and I asked after her.

"She is attending to Cook, my lady. Some accident concerning a knife and a sprout."

His eyes fell to my exposed bosom and he averted them quickly.

"It is very good to see you out and about again, my lady," he said without a trace of irony. I looked at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly correct.

"Hmm. Yes, thank you, Hoots."

I turned and Aunt Ursula got her first unimpeded view of my gown. She blanched and reached for her salts, but said nothing. There was a commotion behind me as Portia and her companion, Jane, appeared from the drawing room.

"Portia, Jane, good evening," I greeted, going to kiss them.

"Julia, dearest, I am so glad you are here!" Portia exclaimed, returning my kiss with enthusiasm. "All of you," she murmured with a lift of the brow toward my gown. She was dressed in blue, a delicious cerulean shade that flattered her wide eyes. "Father is just now gone to change and Aunt Hermia is bandaging up Cook in the stillroom. Jane and I were simply aching for conversation. Oh, good evening, Aunt Ursula." Portia went to make polite noises at the Ghoul and I turned to Jane.

As usual, she looked as though she had been dragged through a bush backward. She was wearing one of her favorite shapeless dresses. Usually they were made up in heavy cottons, but she had a few in thick, unattractive fabrics for evening. She wore them with heavy ropes of dull, lumpy beads that could not hope to match the sparkle of her fine eyes or the exquisite colour of her complexion. She put a hand to her untidy red hair. "I know," she said mournfully. "I look a fright. I had put my hair up, I promise. But I seem to have lost the pins."

I smiled at her. "Nonsense. I was just thinking that you look like Daphne, the moment she metamorphosed into a laurel bush."

She looked very happy at the allusion, and I tucked my arm through hers. "Now, what shall you play for us tonight? I am quite out of practice, so I shall not perform, but I always look forward to hearing you."

This was entirely true. Jane was a gifted musician with a remarkably sweet, clear singing voice and a talent with three different instruments. This was perhaps the most significant reason behind why we loved Jane so. The family, and occasionally, friends, were pressed into performing at Aunt Hermia's evenings, usually something we had all heard a hundred times before, and usually done quite badly. We had our gifts, we Marches, but I do not think we numbered music among them. Having Jane with us was rather like having Sarah Siddons stride into the midst of an amateur theatrical.

"The harp," Jane said promptly. "I have a new Irish air I have been practicing. It is very melancholy, very atmospheric. You will smell the peat fires and damp wool, I promise."

Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and I shivered playfully. "Sounds quite intriguing. What of you, Portia?" I called over my shoulder. "Will you play, or is simply giving us all something beautiful to look at contribution enough?"

She raised a brow at me. "Good Lord, Julia, what has come over you? You are positively giddy. Well, I am glad you are in high spirits, because if I am not mistaken, that is a footstep upon the walk."

A moment later Hoots opened the door. The thing I remember most clearly from that moment are Portia's eyes, dancing with amusement, and Father appearing just at that second, still straightening his necktie. He, too, was looking highly amused, and I wondered if that is how the gods of Olympus looked when they were meddling with people's lives, for they were certainly meddling with mine.

There upon the doorstep stood Brisbane, beautifully dressed in evening clothes, and with him was an elderly gentleman I had never seen before. They were returning Hoots' very civil greeting, and I took the opportunity to hiss at Portia. "What do you think you are doing?"

She smiled back, dazzlingly. "Stirring the pot, darling. But it isn't my hand on the spoon. Father invited them. Mind you speak up, the Duke of Aberdour is rather deaf."

Father had moved forward and was welcoming the pair of them. According to precedence, he presented us to the duke.

"You remember my daughter, Lady Bettiscombe, your Grace." He motioned to Portia.

The duke murmured something, but his old eyes were sharp, noting Portia's beauty, I had little doubt.

"Your Grace," she said loudly, dropping an elegant curtsey as she dimpled up at him. "I am so pleased you could come."

The duke patted her hand and seemed reluctant to let it go.

Portia stepped back and Father waved at me. "I don't believe you know my youngest daughter, Lady Julia Grey."

I made a proper curtsey, and his Grace reached for my hand, taking in an eyeful of my displayed bosom.

"Enchanting. Why have I never met you before?" he asked in an accent slightly blurred with Scottish vowels. He was as perfectly turned out as Brisbane, but with much better jewels. I nearly goggled at the size of the ruby in his cravat.

"I have been in mourning this past year for my husband, your Grace," I said. He was still holding my hand, his eyes wandering over my décolletage in an openly appraising manner. I should have been insulted by such treatment from anyone else, but from him it was merely amusing.

"You have my condolences, my dear, but your husband is more deserving of them. I cannot imagine what a loss he suffered at leaving you behind."

I smiled in spite of myself. "You are too kind, your Grace."

"Not at all. I simply like good-looking women." He tucked my hand through his arm. "You will help me in to greet my hostess, won't you? I do not need the help, but I will pretend to in order to keep you close to me." He finished this with an exaggerated leer and I laughed. Father and Brisbane had greeted each other quietly as Hoots closed the door, and now they stood, watching my exchange with the duke.

"I would be honoured to escort you, your Grace, but I must warn you, your reputation precedes you. I shall be on my guard with you."

He cackled and motioned toward Brisbane. "She is clever as well. I like this one. Say hello, boy. I believe you know the lady."

Brisbane smiled thinly and did his duty. I would have thought it impossible for anyone to speak to him in such a fashion and emerge unscathed, but the duke apparently had the gift of charm. It was clear that Portia thought him adorable.

The duke turned back to me. "I do like you. I might make you an offer of marriage before the evening is over. What do you think of that? Would you like to be a duchess? I'm very rich, you know."

"I do know it. But I am entirely unworthy to be your wife, I assure you, your Grace. Perhaps, if it is not too presumptuous of me, we could just be very good friends."

"How good?" he asked, edging his elbow into my ribs.

"Not quite that good," I replied, patting his arm. He roared with laughter and allowed me to introduce him to Aunt Ursula and Jane. He greeted them in a perfunctory fashion, dismissing one of them as plain and the other as older than Moses, no doubt. He clung to my arm and I led him into the drawing room, where Aunt Hermia had just arrived, breathless and patting her hair. I flashed Father a smile to let him know he was forgiven. He might have broadsided me by inviting Brisbane without my knowledge, but he had ensured my good will with his Grace. It was not every day that I received a proposal of marriage from a duke, even if he was more than eighty years old.

For her part, Aunt Hermia was delighted with her unexpected guests.

"Your Grace! How lovely that you could join us this evening," she said. "It is only a family party, though, and I am certain you will be quite bored with our feeble entertainments."

"Not at all, dear lady," he said, bowing over her hand. "The reputation of the beauteous March women is as widespread as it is accurate. I shall simply admire the view. I believe you have met Nicholas?"

Brisbane stepped forward. "Lady Hermia. How good of you to include me."

Aunt Hermia's face was pink with pleasure. "Ah, we owe you much, Mr. Brisbane." She turned to the duke. "My niece Julia's husband passed away last year under most unfortunate circumstances. Mr. Brisbane was very helpful during that trying time. I am so pleased to see you under more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Brisbane, but I must insist on a forfeit for your supper," she added waggishly.

"Oh, God," I said, sotto voce, to Portia.

"A forfeit?" Brisbane smiled down at her. "I cannot think that I possess anything that would be worthy of your ladyship."

"Heavens!" Portia whispered back. "Did he learn that from the darling old duke?"

"They must be relations," Jane put in. "Charm like that runs in the blood."

"Our evening is a musical one," Aunt Hermia was explaining. "We each of us contribute something to the entertainment of the group. Do you play? Or sing, perhaps?"

The duke snorted, lifting his bushy white brows. Clearly he intended something by the gesture, but the moment was smoothed over by Aunt Ursula's petulant inquiry about dinner. Aunt Hermia bustled forward, suddenly realizing that there were far too many ladies for the men to escort.

"Never mind!" cackled the duke, taking Aunt Hermia firmly by the arm. "We'll be here until Michaelmas if you insist on precedence. Let the young people sort themselves out."

To her credit, Aunt Hermia obeyed, leading the way to the dining room and leaving the rest of us to follow behind in a haphazard fashion. Blessedly, Aunt Hermia favored a round table and precedence there was not an issue. True, the round table created a bit more confusion, but it ensured general discussion, rather than lots of indistinct murmuring. It usually made for more spirited and interesting conversation and this night was no exception. In spite of the duke's presence, Father and Aunt Hermia engaged in a heated debate about the use of Biblical images in Shakespeare's sonnets. It ended with Aunt Hermia throwing walnuts at Father and the duke offering her marriage instead, claiming that spirit was as important a requirement in a wife as beauty.

"That's what I keep telling the boy here," he said, jerking a thumb at Brisbane. "He's got no interest in marrying, he tells me, because he cannot find a woman who interests him for more than a fortnight. He's got a twisty mind, that one, and he wants a woman that's got the same."

Brisbane sipped thoughtfully at his wine. "All women have twisty minds, sir, or so you told me."

Aberdour laughed his dry, creaky laugh. "That I did, boy, that I did. This one gets it from his grandmother," he said, pointing a knobbly old finger. "She was just the same, always turning a word back on you, bending an argument to suit her end. She was a wily bitch. I was glad to see the last of her."

Jane gasped, which did not surprise me. I have often found that the most outspoken liberals are secretly the most conservative in small matters. For all her open thinking, Jane was deeply shocked at the duke's plain speaking. Father simply went on cracking nuts, Brisbane kept deliberately at his wine, and Aunt Hermia looked up curiously.

"His grandmother? Is there a family connection, your Grace?"

"My sister," he said, his lips thin. "She ran off with a footman when she was fifteen. She died in childbed eight months later. We had the raising of her son, and did a dog's job of it. He no sooner grew up than he—"

Brisbane coughed sharply and some understanding passed between them, for the duke simply muttered, "Then he bred this one and died on us." I fancied that was not how he intended to finish that sentence, but it must have appeased Brisbane. He had tensed at the mention of his father, but now he uncoiled slightly.

Aunt Hermia cocked her head. Anyone who did not know her might mistake the shine in her eyes for sympathy, but I saw it for what it was—rampant curiosity.

"That accounts for the different surname," she said, "but I do not remember hearing of your father, Mr. Brisbane. Surely he is not in Debrett's." This was simply a conversational gambit. The Shakespearean society's quarterly journal was the only publication she perused for names. In itself, her line of inquiry was only mildly intrusive. But I had felt Brisbane tense again next to me, and I knew he did not like it.

I rose, dropping my napkin. "I think the champagne would best be served in the music room—after the entertainments. Forgive me, Auntie. I am simply too eager to hear Jane's harp."

I smiled innocently to the table at large as I collected my napkin.

As I had expected, Aunt Hermia pricked up like a pointer.

"Jane! Have you a new piece? Splendid! Nothing I love quite so well as a moody Irish harp. To the music room!"

Aunt Hermia never permitted cigars and port on her musical evenings on the grounds that they thickened the voice. There was a general flutter of movement as people rose, gathering wraps and stretching discreetly. Father whistled for the mastiff, Crab, who had been lying quietly under the table, snuffling for crumbs during dinner. Amid the chaos, Brisbane leaned near.

"It seems I shall be obliged to sing for my supper," he murmured, his lips disconcertingly close to my ear. "What would you like to hear?"

"Bach," I said without hesitation. I had the irrational notion that he was thanking me somehow for deflecting Aunt Hermia's impertinent questions.

"A little old-fashioned, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "I don't care. I have loved Bach since childhood." I did not tell him my first clear memory of Bach was from my mother's funeral. I was six years old, too young for the church, Father had said. I had been left in the nursery with Nanny and Val, that awful, screaming baby who came when Mother died. It had been quite an easy thing to slip out when Nanny's back was turned. She had left me to go and quiet the baby, something she was doing far too much of, I thought. I followed the mourners, hiding outside in the churchyard, listening to the music that flowed out of the open windows. It was a warm day, with late roses giving off a thick perfume and bees buzzing drowsily near my face as I listened to the choirboys singing "When Thou Art Near." It seemed as if angels were singing her to sleep, I thought sleepily, and I promptly curled up behind a gravestone and took a nap. Father found me there some time after Mother's burial. I woke when he pulled me onto his lap and we sat together for a very long time. He stroked my hair and rocked me and I listened to the ticking of his watch through the wool of his coat. Or perhaps it was his heartbeat—I never knew. I only knew that this was a very special moment, and that Mother had left me, but Father was still there and that although Nanny and everyone else seemed to like that awful, screaming baby, Father still loved me, probably much more. The choirboys sang again, practicing for evensong, and Father began to talk to me, about Mother and about music, and all manner of things that I did not pay attention to. But I remembered the feeling, and from that day I always associated Bach with consolation and comfort.

Brisbane had not answered. I lifted my chin a little and arched a brow for effect.

"Bach it shall be," he promised.

I was pleased, but a little surprised. "Can you sing?"

He smiled, that tricky smile he had that touched his lips, but not his eyes.

"I can, but never in public. I mean to play for you. I assume there's a violin?"

"A rather good one. Made in Cremona."

"Excellent," he said, turning his attention suddenly to Jane. For no good reason I felt cast aside, and in favor of a woman who wore doughy beads and curtain fabrics, I thought irritably. I turned and left them, trailing into the music room on my own, a little dispirited. What difference did it make to me if Brisbane found Jane interesting? She was a delightful person, and an amusing conversationalist. At least, that is what I told myself, but I still felt nettled by the notion of Brisbane chatting with Jane, and that little annoyance disturbed me greatly.

And worse, Val had not deigned to make an appearance.

"Oh, no, dearest, he had a previous engagement," Aunt Hermia answered in reply to my question. "The opera, I believe. With that Phillips boy. The one who always looks as though he's picked one's pocket."

A succinct and perfect description of Reddy, I thought as I took my seat. I would have to wait up for Val, no matter how late, and collar him with what I had found in the laundry—and with his choice of companions. Reddy Phillips was quite enough of a nuisance without encouragement. I had not told Val that Reddy had accosted me in the street demanding the return of his raven, but I hoped fervently that they would settle the matter between them. The wretched bird was beginning to take a toll on my nerves.

"Well, if Val is not coming, what about Bellmont?"

"Downing Street. He is dining with the prime minister. By the way, dearest, I see you have given up mourning, and with quite a spark," she finished, eyeing my crimson with a smile.

"Believe me, Auntie, I wouldn't have worn it if I had known this wasn't a family party."

Aunt Hermia gave me an affectionate pat. "Don't be feeble, Julia. How do you expect to attract another buyer if you don't display the wares?" She moved off, leaving me to follow speechless in her wake. I took my seat, marveling that so vulgar an analogy could come from such a harmless-looking old lady. Portia nudged me.

"What did Aunt Hermia say? You look bilious."

I shook my head, mindful of Brisbane, settling himself into the seat on my other side. "Nothing of importance. Tell me, why is it that old people are allowed to be so ghastly and say all sorts of things that we would never get away with?"

"Privilege of age," Portia returned, raising her eyebrows in the direction of the duke. He was creaking himself down into a chair next to Father, bending and folding his frail little body until he was at last seated.

The musical evening began, as they always did, with Father reciting a soliloquy. He always played them well—his resonant voice and firm delivery would have served him well on the stage. He loved amateur theatricals and gloried in the applause. He did Lear that evening, or perhaps not, I confess I did not pay him much attention. I was too busy wrestling with my own thoughts, not the least of which was the guilty realization that I had sent Magda away without telling Brisbane. Sooner or later I should have to confess my guilt, and I was not anticipating the event with any good feeling. Brisbane was technically employed by me in this investigation, but I had a strong suspicion that he would be quite severe with me when he discovered what I had done.

Thank the heavens for Jane. Her sad Irish air was as soothing as a lullaby and twice as sweet. I felt comforted when she had finished, though I saw Aunt Hermia dash away a tear.

"That was utterly moving, Jane, dear. Thank you," she said, turning to face us as we sat, arrayed in our little gilt chairs.

"Your Grace, would you care to favor us?" she asked. There was a gentle snore from the duke's chair. "Ah, perhaps not just now. Portia?"

Portia rose and went to the piano where Hoots was waiting quietly to accompany her. It was perhaps unusual to allow one's butler to join in the family entertainments, but Hoots was a rather fine accompanist. He gave a little trill of introduction and Portia began, singing in her adequate soprano. Something Italian. I did not listen much to her, either. Of course, Portia's talent did not lie in her singing. It must have been some aria to do with lost love or a broken foot or some other tragedy, because there was a great deal of posturing and dabbing at her eyes with her shawl. I think it must have ended with a suicide because she suddenly clasped her fisted hands to her bosom and drooped onto the piano. Crab let out a pitiful sound and crept as far as she could under Father's chair. Hoots pounded out a few more mournful notes and Portia rose, triumphantly taking a bow.

She took her seat next to me, fanning her reddened cheeks.

"You are far too fat to play a consumptive," I whispered through a smile.

She smiled back. "Yes, but I am going to marry a duke, so I do not care what you have to say. When I am very rich, I shall hire you for my maid."

I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane watching me coolly. I blushed and looked away, Portia snickering in my ear. Aunt Hermia rose again. "Mr. Brisbane?"

Brisbane rose and went to the centre of the room. There was an array of instruments for performers to choose from. An old harpsichord, a rather unhygienic-looking flute, and an oboe that no one remembered bringing into the house. Among this motley group was the violin—the one true and pure thing in the room. Brisbane looked at it a long moment before picking it up. He ran his hands over it, slowly, reverently. And then he held it to his nose, briefly, as if using its scent to gauge its wanderings. He stroked the inlay of the wood and handled the bow, trying out a few strings. He frowned, plucking at the strings and adjusting them slightly. I heard no difference, but he must have, for his frown eased and he positioned the violin under his chin.

He played softly at first, then with growing vigor. I recognized it at once. I had asked him to play Bach, rather as a joke. The greatest Bach devotees were usually keyboard aficionados and singers. I myself preferred him simply because unlike other composers he actually wrote interesting music for alto sopranos to sing. I had not expected Brisbane to rise to the challenge. And once again I had underestimated him.

He played a unique version of "Sleepers Awake," a bold choice for a solo violin. It was a credit to his proficiency that I never missed the violas, basses or horns. I sat, amazed. He must have played it before, that much was certain, and yet I had not seen a violin in his rooms.

The piece rose and fell in arching phrases, by turns sweet and soaring. I heard Jane's breath catch and I glanced at Portia, unblinking beside me. The duke was still snoring gently, but it did not matter. The music was enchanting. It felt true and pure and I gaped at Brisbane. He was a genius. Why had I not realized it before? Surely talent like that must leave its mark on the face? In the eyes?

I was still gaping when he brought the piece to its high, triumphant close. I moved to clap, but before I could bring my hands together, Brisbane—whose attention had been fixed upon his instrument—threw a look at his uncle. The old gentleman, intent upon his snores, missed it entirely, but it made my blood run cold. There was a chill in that look, a malevolence that I would never have credited had I not seen it. It vanished quickly, replaced by his usual cool mask, but I wondered at the antipathy between them—at least, I wondered until Brisbane began to play.

From the first note I knew it was different from anything I had ever heard before. This was no church piece. It began simply, but with an arresting phrase, so simple, but eloquent as a human voice. It spoke, beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing. It spiraled upward, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasing, and yet somehow it grew more abandoned, wilder with each note. His eyes remained closed as his fingers flew over the strings, spilling forth surely more notes than were possible from a single violin. For one mad moment I actually thought there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins spilling out of this one instrument. I had never heard anything like it—it was poetry and seduction and light and shadow and every other contradiction I could think of. It seemed impossible to breathe while listening to that music, and yet all I was doing was breathing, quite heavily. The music itself had become as palpable a presence in that room as another person would have been—and its presence was something out of myth. It was apart from Brisbane, this melody he created, spun from dreams and darkness.

I dragged my eyes from him and realized that I was not the only one so affected. Jane was sitting with her mouth agape, her handkerchief in shreds under her nails. Portia was squirming in her chair, and both of them were blushing and moist as June roses. I did not dare look at Aunt Hermia.

I told myself I was disgusted by them. A fine pair of Sapphic lovers they were, getting themselves pink and panting over a man and his violin. But in truth, I was the worst. My palms were damp, my face hotly red, and I found myself staring at those long, nimble fingers, thinking very unsuitable things. I told myself it was natural. I had been a widow for a year, had not known the affectionate touch of a man for much longer. It was expected that I would find an attraction to a handsome gentleman of my acquaintance.

But I was not interested in pragmatism. I was too busily engaged with fragrant fantasies stretched out on red velvet. I dug my nails into my palms, but my gloves prevented any real pain. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted the metallic salty redness of my own blood.

If Brisbane sensed anything of his audience's reaction, he did not betray it. He played on, or perhaps the music played him, for he performed as one possessed. The music arced and twisted, tightening and coiling upon itself, rising faster and faster, almost shrieking with pitched emotion, until—at the very height of its ecstasy—a string snapped with a mandrake scream. The violin itself seemed to sob at the echo of the sound, which had the report of a gunshot. Brisbane remained perfectly still, his bow poised until the echo died away. Then he turned coolly and laid the injured instrument down upon the piano.

"My apologies, my lady," he murmured to Aunt Hermia. "I shall of course make arrangements for the repair."

She replied, something suitable I am sure, as she patted herself discreetly with her handkerchief. Conversation was roused and people began to stir. I heard my father complimenting the performance, and Brisbane's quiet reply. Father must have been sincere, for he introduced Brisbane to Crab, a singular honour. Portia shot me a speaking look, and Jane was moving toward Brisbane to add her accolades. I acknowledged none of it, taking a moment instead to regain my composure and waiting for my knees to stop trembling.

I rose after a moment and decided to fetch myself a glass of champagne. Brisbane waylaid me.

"Ah, Mr. Brisbane. You are a virtuoso. You should have warned me. You must think us frightfully unsophisticated in our little family entertainments."

His look was impenetrable. I could not tell if he were pleased or embarrassed or merely bored. "Not at all. I play only rarely these days, and never for so appreciative an audience."

He leaned near, ostensibly to reach past me to pick up a glass of champagne. But as his sleeve brushed my arm, he said softly, "I must see you tomorrow. Mordecai has news."

My eyes flared with interest, then dropped demurely. "When?"

"Five o'clock. My rooms."

He pressed the glass into my hands and I smiled my acceptance, giving him a single short nod. He moved away then, approaching Aunt Hermia. I watched him for a moment, thinking that this was a man whose depths I would never begin to plumb.

And for some reason, my gaze fell, quite by accident upon the duke. He, too, was watching Brisbane, but his expression was not one of admiration. He had awakened during his great-nephew's performance, his features twisted with irritation at having his nap disturbed. But now they betrayed more than mere annoyance. There was frustration there, and something worse—something that looked frighteningly like hatred. I would not forget that look for a very long time.

Much later, as I lay awake, late into the night, I heard the faint scrape of footsteps on the stair. There was a long pause and then the unmistakable slither of stocking feet on a polished floor. Valerius had stopped to remove his shoes before moving past my door to his room. I put my hand to my dressing gown. I meant to rise, to go to him and demand an explanation for bloodied shirts and despoiled graves.

But I thought again of what Magda had told me and what I had deduced for myself, and I lay back down, too cowardly to do what must be done. Soon, I promised myself. Soon I would go to him and lay out what I knew, and tell him what must be done. But not just yet. It would mean disgrace for Val and banishment from the family. And in spite of our troubles, I could not bear to lose him yet. He was still my youngest brother, still the tiny, squalling infant who had been left motherless so many years ago, in need of his family's protection. So I would protect him, I decided, staring sightlessly into the dark. I would say nothing, and I would keep him as long as I could.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

Our fears do make us traitors.

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

I did not sleep well that night. I remembered the hateful look that Brisbane had cast his great-uncle, and the vicious one he had received in turn later. I wondered, late into the darkness, why malevolence in the elderly should be so much more frightening than in the young. Is it because they were supposed to be wiser? Nobler? Or simply because we liked to believe they were past such passions? It was comforting to think that the sharper emotions could simply dull with time, taking the worst of our suffering with them.

But the duke did not seem dulled, I thought with a shiver. Between his salaciousness and his inexplicable malice toward Brisbane, he seemed as ripe as a youth of eighteen. Even if he did resemble the desiccated husk of an old fruit, I thought with a snicker. I had heard once that age stamps character on the face, that one's passions were slowly etched over time, limning both experience and desire upon the features. If this were true, the duke's face told a rather alarming tale, especially when compared to Father's. Where the duke's visage was a memoir of thwarted passion, Father's was a love letter, creased and soft with much appreciation. There was good humour in Father's eyes, while the duke's bore the slightest sinister cast. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, I hoped to see more of the old gentleman—and not the least because he was Brisbane's kinsman. If the affection between them was interesting, the antipathy was much more so.

Yet even the puzzling old Duke of Aberdour could not dampen my spirits the next morning. I rose as soon as Morag appeared with my tea tray, surprising her as well as myself. I hummed a little as she drew my bath and instructed her to lay out one of my new costumes—a striking striped ensemble of black-and-white silk, fixed with discreet, ruby-set buttons. There was a new hat as well, all black ribbon and red taffeta roses, with pure white ostrich plumes waving above. I was more than a little in love with that hat. But it was the new scarlet stockings that drove Morag to question me, her long rabbity nose quivering with curiosity.

"Are you feeling quite well, my lady?"

I smiled broadly at her. "Quite. Put out Madame de Bellefleur's rose salve, will you? I shall dress after luncheon. I am going out this afternoon."

She did so, eyeing me the way a nervous rider will a skittish horse. She was waiting for me to bite or bolt. I continued to smile at her as she brushed my hair. She stripped out the fallen hair from the brush and shoved it into the hair receiver.

"Not hardly worth bothering about with that crop of yours," she muttered.

I ignored her and picked up a nail buffer. It was silver, one of a set. I inspected my nails, pink and healthy compared to Morag's ridged grey ones. Without a thought, I handed her the second buffer.

"What is this?" she asked with a fair dollop of suspicion.

"A nail buffer. You haven't one of your own, have you? I thought you might like it."

I rose and went off to put on my loose morning gown. I knew Morag was desperate to question me, but she was careful to slip the buffer into her pocket first.

"There are colds going round," she said with a doubtful look at me. "Are you feverish?"

I sighed as I wrapped the sash into a loose bow. "No, I am happy, that is all."

And the surprising thing was, I was speaking the truth. I could not imagine why it should be so—I was mired in an investigation that I did not particularly want to continue. I had a partner I did not fully trust. And it could well be that the appointment I was to keep that afternoon would bring everything crashing down on my head.

But at least my head would be prettily hatted, I thought that afternoon as I tipped the rose-strewn chapeau at a rakish angle. I put my hand out for my plain black silk parasol and twirled it. I felt confident that whatever the news Doctor Bent would bring, whatever the answers Brisbane and I unearthed, all would be well.

If I have not said so before, let me say now—I was sometimes very stupid. My exhilaration that afternoon only proves it. Why did I have no inkling of the danger? I had seen all the signs—I could have put the thing together even then had I known how to read them. But how does one learn to read shadows? I think of that morning as the last truly innocent time of my life. I wonder sometimes if I would have trod another path had I known what lay in wait down the one I had chosen. It is painful to lose one's illusions. I like to think I would have chosen to learn, even through extreme danger and despair, whatever lessons life has to teach. But every now and then, I wonder what my life would have been had I broken that appointment with Brisbane, had I never gone back to Chapel Street, had I never learned the truth about Edward's death. It would have been quieter and simpler and more peaceful, I know that much. And I like to believe I would have scorned these placid virtues in favor of adventure, in favor of life itself. But even still, every now and then, I wonder…

I arrived on Brisbane's doorstep at the same moment as Doctor Bent. He lifted his battered hat, smiling his charming, puppy-dog smile.

"Lady Julia. I hope you are well."

"Very much so, Doctor. And you?"

He grimaced. "I am behindhand as usual. I sometimes despair of ever catching up with my work."

I took him in from his unpolished shoes to the bit of jam that had dribbled down his shirtfront. Doubtless he had eaten on the fly and his clothes bore the unmistakable rumpled air of being slept in. He made an interesting contrast to Brisbane, I thought as the latter admitted us to his rooms.

There was no sign of Monk, for which I was mildly grateful. I had seen him just once since that unimaginable scene in Brisbane's bedchamber, and the feeling between us had been strained. People often regret confidences given in a time of trouble, and I suspected that Monk might well resent me for receiving his.

Brisbane bade us be seated, offered us refreshment, and seemed pleased when it was rejected. I understood his satisfaction at this. He had on his bloodhound look and he was ready for the trail. Doctor Bent seemed aware of it, too, for he began without preamble.

"The powder was arsenic."

I felt myself deflate, like a child's pricked balloon. I had known it, of course. Magda had confirmed it herself. But I suppose somehow I had held out hope that Doctor Bent would find otherwise. Impossible, I knew, but still I had hoped.

Brisbane gave a little animal sound of satisfaction, something like a grunt. But Doctor Bent held up his hand.

"But it does not matter in any case. Sir Edward was not poisoned with arsenic."

I could not speak. I felt a ferocious surge of joy. Magda had told the truth. She had not murdered Edward.

Brisbane had opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Doctor Bent was handily holding his own. "I am sorry, Nicholas, but it is a matter of scientific fact. I have compared your account of Sir Edward's symptoms with her ladyship's. They tally perfectly, yet they do not match any recorded case of arsenical poisoning that I can find. Sir Edward experienced symptoms that are inconsistent with arsenical poisoning, while the symptoms that are most indicative of arsenic were simply not present."

Brisbane said nothing, but sat looking mightily displeased, the muscles of his jaw working furiously. Doctor Bent turned to me to explain.

"My lady, you described convulsions, vomiting. You say he had pains in his chest and that he was sweating freely."

"So he was," I agreed.

Doctor Bent plunged on. "You also told me that he complained of feeling cold, a sensation of iced water flowing in his veins, although the evening was warm."

I nodded, confirming this as well.

"And you say he had difficulty in speaking, although he remained conscious."

"As far as I know," I reminded him. "My father sent me from the room shortly after Edward's collapse."

Brisbane stirred slightly. "He was conscious, giddy even. What does that signify?"

"It signifies that it was not arsenic," Doctor Bent said, with only the faintest air of triumph. "Did he pass blood?"

Brisbane frowned. "Mordecai, I hardly think that Her Ladyship wishes to know—"

"But I must!" Doctor Bent countered fiercely. He tugged at his hair, leaving it standing electrically on end. Brisbane sighed.

"No."

"And was there an odour of garlic?" the doctor demanded.

"No."

"There would not have been," I put in suddenly. "Edward could not abide garlic. He would never have eaten it."

Doctor Bent's face was shining evangelically. "The odour of garlic is not from the plant itself," he explained. "It is from the arsenic. Do you not see, Nicholas? Victims of arsenical poisoning almost always sink into a coma before dying. There is—" he paused with an apologetic glance in my direction "—usually considerable bloody offal, smelling heavily of garlic."

Brisbane fetched out one of his slender brown cigars and lit it, smoking energetically. "That is acute arsenical poisoning—a massive dose, administered all at once. What if he were poisoned slowly, over some months?"

"You are determined to see Magda hang," I burst out.

"I am determined to find the truth," Brisbane returned coldly. He fixed his attention on the doctor, who was looking uncomfortably from one of us to the other.

"When arsenic is administered in small doses, over a long period of time, it produces jaundice and episodes of gastric distress. From those symptoms one might make an assumption of gradual arsenical poisoning, although I must warn you, those findings are my own. I hope to publish them one day, but they are not universally accepted in the medical community."

"It does not matter," I said, jubilant. "Edward did not suffer from gastric distress, and he certainly was not jaundiced. Magda is acquitted," I finished with a jerk of my chin at Brisbane.

He ignored me, which was probably for the best. "What could it be, then?"

Doctor Bent shrugged. "Without a proper postmortem, I can only offer the broadest suggestions. Perhaps some sort of plant poison. But I cannot tell you how it was administered. If I had seen the contents of his stomach, or the pallor of his skin…" He threw up his hands helplessly.

"What about Doctor Griggs?" I put in. "Surely he would know those things. I mean, not the stomach, of course—" I felt slightly queasy discussing this, but I pressed on "—as there was no postmortem. But he might have noticed something during the examination that would shed some light on matters."

Doctor Bent and Brisbane shared a look.

"What is it?" I demanded.

"Mordecai wrote to Doctor Griggs regarding another patient. I had him test the waters a bit to see if perhaps he could form some sort of professional relationship. A means to eventually questioning him informally about Sir Edward."

"And?"

I looked from one to the other. Doctor Bent did not meet my eyes. Brisbane's handsome mouth had curled into a sneer.

"Doctor Griggs does not associate with Semites, professionally or otherwise," he said flatly.

I swore softly and Doctor Bent's head came up. He smiled.

"Thank you for that," he murmured. "But really, it is nothing new to me. Besides, there are many others who do not share his views. The real difficulty is that it means we are at a loss. We have no way to proceed without some detailed knowledge of the state of Sir Edward's body."

I looked again from one to the other.

"Why not ask Mrs. Birch?"

Brisbane pulled lazily at his cigar. "Who is Mrs. Birch?"

"The parish worker who washed his body, of course," I said impatiently. "Really, you didn't think I did it, did you?"

Slowly, dazzlingly, a smile—a real, bone-deep expression of violent joy spread across Brisbane's face. It was perhaps the first time I had seen him really smile. I had been so accustomed to his scowls and frowns that the effect was rather unsettling.

"And you know how to find this Mrs. Birch?"

"I should think so. She is on the charity list for Grey House."

"The charity list?"

I waved a hand. "Yes, of course. There are a number of people within the parish who are what the vicar calls the 'deserving poor,' you know, people who work, but who still half starve. Those of us who have the means send along blankets, meat, soup, clothes for the children, that sort of thing. Mrs. Birch has been receiving baskets from Grey House for years."

Brisbane stubbed his cigar out slowly. "Then we shall call upon her at once. Well done, madam."

I preened a little. Doctor Bent rose, a trifle uncertainly. "I suppose I had better be off, then. I've left a clinic full of patients. They'll not thank me if I stay away longer."

I rose and extended my hand. "Doctor Bent, I know you are quite busy, but I wonder if you could perhaps see your way to taking on another patient? I am in need of a doctor, my own has proven unsatisfactory."

He patted his coat, finally extracting a creased, grimy card. "There is the address of my rooms," he said, flushing a deep, becoming red. "I know you will not wish to go there, but if you will send for me, I will come."

I smiled. "You are very kind."

The blush deepened and he stammered a little as he let himself out. Brisbane sat, regarding me thoughtfully.

"I rather think you've made a conquest of poor old Mordecai," he said finally. "Pity you are not a daughter of Leah. You might have made him a rather fine wife."

"Do not be nasty, Brisbane," I returned, refusing to rise to the bait. "It does not suit you." I rummaged in my reticule. "Here is the completed inventory of Grey House. It is the only copy."

He took it from me and scanned it quickly, thumbing through the pages. "Good. Not that I think it will lead us to anything, but one never knows."

I felt a rush of irritation. That inventory had taken hours to complete, dreary, dull hours of copying out endless lists of what Aquinas and I had found in every room. To have those interminable hours referred to so lightly was more than I could stand. I would not be made to feel like his pet clerk.

"Brisbane, you are being churlish. Now, if you mean to call upon Mrs. Birch, get your coat. I will wait."

He arched an imperious brow at me, but obeyed. I had not liked his little jest about Doctor Bent. I knew it was intended flippantly, but why then had I felt a thorn beneath the smooth words?

He returned a moment later, shooting his cuffs. "My lady?" He lifted his hand, indicating the door. I preceded him out and into the hansom that he hailed. I gave him the address to give to the driver and we proceeded in silence, the air thick with questions that went unasked. Brisbane said not a word, but sat like a great black bird of prey, watching out the window of the cab. His pose was relaxed, but his hands were tensile, clenching his walking stick until the knuckles went white.

In the end, I could not bear the silence.

"You are angry."

He sighed. "I am not. I am intensely irritated. If a quantity of poison is discovered amongst the private possessions of a suspect, it should bloody well be the murder weapon, don't you think?"

It was a symptom of his mood that he swore. Brisbane had frequently been quite rude, but he rarely cursed in my presence. Most ladies would doubtless have been horrified by such a breach in manners. I did not mind. It made me feel more of a comrade-in-arms. "Don't be peevish. I know you wanted Magda to swing, but you will simply have to knock your arrow in someone else's direction."

He flicked me a cool, almost dismissive look.

"Your metaphors are deplorable, my lady. I assure you I had no evil intentions toward your laundress."

"Former laundress," I said without thinking.

His gaze sharpened, and I spoke quickly to extricate myself.

"She left Grey House. So it is just as well that she is not the murderer," I said lightly. "As a Roma, I imagine she could hide herself quite handily. I would not have relished smoking her out once she's run to ground."

"Indeed not," he said finally. "Were you planning to keep that little nugget of information to yourself?"

"Of course not," I said sharply. "Had the arsenic been the cause of Edward's death, I would have told you instantly. But it is all very much moot, as Doctor Bent has just informed us."

He was silent a long minute, and I began to feel uncomfortably warm in my new finery. He was staring out of the window again, but I felt quite certain he was not seeing the streets outside. When he spoke, he kept his face turned toward the glass.

"If I find that you have hidden anything else from me, hindered me in any way," he said softly, "I will not be responsible for my actions."

I did not reply, but merely turned my head to look unseeingly out of my own window. And between us the silence grew thick again. He did not speak when I ordered the hansom to stop at a bookshop, nor did he say a word when I returned to the cab a moment later with the parcel I had purchased. He kept silent until we reached the modest home of Mrs. Birch, and it occurred to me then that Brisbane might be a prodigiously good holder of grudges. Yet something else to worry about, I thought irritably as he reached out to knock at the peeling door.

The fact that Mrs. Birch washed the bodies of the dead of the parish speaks eloquently to her financial necessity. She was a widow of little means, with seven children to bring up, and she applied herself diligently to whatever work could be found for her. Mending, charring, brewing and a little baking kept her children fed and clothed and with a dry roof over their heads. She was not above any honest work that might purchase a scrap of beef or crust of bread for them or, to my delight, a book.

Once I discovered her determination to educate her young, I made a habit of tucking an inexpensive volume or two into her baskets from Grey House. A costly book would have brought with it the temptation to pawn it for the cash. A cheap edition could be kept for the pleasure of reading alone, by Mrs. Birch as well as her children. She spoke plainly, her speech liberally sprinkled with the profanity she had learned from her sailor husband. In all, she was rough and crude and common. I liked her immensely.

And most of all, I liked her for her naturalness. It would have been a great day for her if the vicar himself called, rather than sending the curate. But faced with a gentleman of Brisbane's elegance, and myself, she did not turn a hair. She simply threw open the door, smiling and motioning us inside.

"Good day to you, my lady—that is quite a fine hat if I may say it."

"You certainly may, Mrs. Birch, and I thank you. I hope you are well?"

She stepped aside, letting Brisbane enter the narrow hall.

"As well as God ever made a body," she said heartily.

"Mrs. Birch, please forgive the spontaneity of our call," I began, but stopped when I saw her brow begin to crease. "That is, we have called without sending ahead, unforgivably rude, I know. I hope you will understand when I tell you it is a matter of some importance to us. Otherwise I would not dream of interrupting you when I know you must be very busy."

She flapped a plump hand. "Don't you worry about that, my dear lady. Always welcome you are, it is true. And whatever I can do for you, you've only to ask."

She looked at me expectantly and I hastened to make introductions.

"Mrs. Birch, this gentleman is Mr. Nicholas Brisbane. Mr. Brisbane, this is Mrs. Birch, a widow of this parish."

Mrs. Birch thrust out a thick hand. Brisbane, taking her in from untidy cap to worn shoes, did not hesitate. He took her hand warmly in his own.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Birch. You are very kind to see us."

Mrs. Birch turned and led us down the passage. "I've all the time you like, so long as I can keep on with my stitching. I've a dozen more shirts to get to the tailor, so I must not stop."

We followed her into the overheated kitchen, which was the heart of her little kingdom. Unlike its mistress, the kitchen was spotlessly tidy. The few utensils were gleaming, as were the pots and floor. A few small children were scattered about, learning their letters on a slate wielded by their elder sister, but Mrs. Birch made short work of shooing them out. As the last one—the eldest girl—was scuttling out, I handed her a package in brown paper. She looked at me inquiringly.

"A few new books. Some Shakespeare and a volume of fairy stories. Some of them are rather gruesome, so mind you don't read them to the little ones."

She did not smile, but her expression was one of pure rapture. She held the books close to her body, ignoring her mother's admonition to thank me.

I waved it aside. "Never mind, Mrs. Birch. I was shy myself as a child." Brisbane coughed, I think to cover a snort.

The girl threw me a grateful look and scurried out. I made a mental note to inquire when she would be ready to go into service. Another employer might mistake her shyness for backwardness and shove her into the scullery. But she had a good mind, that much was clear from the flicker of quicksilver intelligence behind her eyes. With a proper hand, such as Aquinas', she might make a good chambermaid, perhaps even a housekeeper in time. She could learn enough there to keep her own shop someday if she had ambition.

But I had more pressing matters to attend to, and I turned my attention back to Mrs. Birch, who was bustling about, putting the kettle on the hob and cutting off a few slices from a new loaf. She spread them with thrifty scrapings of fresh butter and assembled miscellaneous bits of crockery, some of it chipped and carefully mended, together with a small packet of sugar and a tiny pot of jam.

Brisbane held a chair for me near the fire and I seated myself, pleased to find that the chair cover, while faded and shiny with use, was perfectly clean.

Mrs. Birch watched as Brisbane settled himself, her hands busy with the tea things. She looked him over with the appraising eye of a woman who has seen a good number of naked men, both dead and alive. She seemed appreciative.

By the time the bread was cut and the cups assembled, the kettle was boiling. While she busied herself with the teapot and packet of tea, I took careful stock of the room. It was a home that had known hardship, that much was evident from the furniture, worn with polishing and hard use. But the walls were cheerfully, if cheaply, papered, and the floor was spotted with a few rugs of an unlikely shade of green. Garish but happy, rather like Mrs. Birch herself. I realized that she must be a woman of some sense and great resourcefulness to have made a pleasant home for herself and her children under trying circumstances.

Beside me, Brisbane was silently watchful, and I imagined he was making much the same assessment of Mrs. Birch and her little home. Finally, the tea things were ready and Mrs. Birch presented them to us with no apologies.

"I've cut a loaf of new bread, and that's fresh butter, mind you, straight from my sister's farm—none of that dyed muck they try to sell up at the shop. I don't know where that comes from, but you mark my words, a cow had nothing to do with it."

She gave us thick slices of bread with butter and hot mugs of strong, perfectly brewed tea. It was like being in the nursery again, and I ate with abandon. For all her fancy ways, Cook had never sent up a tea tray half so tempting. Mrs. Birch settled herself and took up a gentleman's shirt, finished but for the buttons. Her nimble needle whipped through the linen, stitching buttons into place while she talked. She scarcely looked at her hands, but the needle never missed, setting stitches so tiny, so precise they were almost invisible.

After my second piece of bread and several minutes of desultory conversation between Brisbane and Mrs. Birch, I came to the point.

"I believe that you attended my husband, Sir Edward Grey, after his death."

She nodded. "I did, and I hope you will permit me to offer my condolences. It's a hard thing to lose one's man, I know, my lady."

I did not speak for a moment. Her simple expression of sympathy had touched me more than the elaborate condolences I had received from her betters.

"Thank you. Although, I have at least had the consolation of a comfortable living and no young ones to worry over. I know your own lot must have been very difficult."

She stared at me, her expression pitying. "No, my lady. You've got it backward. The young ones are my consolation."

I took up my tea to swallow down the lump in my throat. Sometimes I simply wanted to disappear through the floor. Naturally her children were precious to her. I had seen them only as a pack of mouths to feed. No wonder I had not been blessed with children, I thought bitterly. I did not deserve them.

"It were a pleasure to wash Sir Edward," she said. She paused and took a thoughtful sip of her tea as Brisbane threw me a quizzical look.

"Pleasure?" he put in softly.

"Oh, yes. I never mind scrubbing the quality. Such nice, clean ways they have—well, most of them. There's some that would better suit a barnyard than a ballroom, but you'll hear no scandal from me. Sir Edward was a nice, clean gentleman."

"Mrs. Birch, I must beg your discretion for what I am about to reveal," I said.

She nodded once. "You have it."

I believed her entirely. She did not seem the sort that would sell my secret as a bit of gossip over the wash line. Besides, she was country-bred, and in the country there was still a strong tradition of loyalty to the gentry. Some might call it feudal, but as it served my purposes, I was not about to argue with it.

"We have reason to believe that my husband's death might have been hastened. Do you take my meaning?"

"Oh, was it murder, then?" Her tone was as casual as if she had just offered me another slice of bread. I stared at her.

"Mrs. Birch, you astonish me."

"Oh, I am sorry. Did you not mean murder?"

"I did, as a matter of fact." I had the strangest sense that Brisbane was trying to hide a smile behind his mug.

"I believe that Lady Julia is simply surprised at your quick grasp of the situation, Mrs. Birch," he said smoothly. "She does in fact mean murder."

Mrs. Birch sipped contentedly at her tea. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, my lady, indeed there isn't. It does happen in the best of families, you know."

Her voice was reassuring and I felt almost as if she had just patted my hand. The entire conversation was taking an extraordinary turn.

"Thank you. Am I to understand that you have had some experience with such matters?"

"Of course I have, my lady. I have washed the dead of this parish for nearly twenty years. I've seen stabbings and slashings, garrotings, stranglings, head-coshings…" She trailed off, doubtless reminiscing pleasantly.

"Have you ever seen a poisoning?"

She put a hand under her cap and scratched, thinking hard. With the cozy glow from the fire, and the lines of her face soft with thought, I could see that she had once been a handsome girl. A handsome girl of good sense and an excellent constitution. Her only liability had been a lack of fortune and good birth, and because of that, she lived in a tiny set of rooms, existing hand-to-mouth as she raised seven children, patching and darning her things to make them last from year to year. I, too, had been born handsome and sensible and healthy, but because my father sat in the Lords and had an annual income in excess of more than a hundred thousand pounds, I had every advantage while Mrs. Birch washed the dead to feed her children. Murder might be an interesting puzzle, but Fate is by far the greatest mystery of all, I mused.

"Poisonings," she said thoughtfully. "Yes, I have had a few. There was the poor girl who came from Leeds. Her man topped up her ale with arsenic when she got with child…then there was the old lady in South Street. Her nephew, I always thought, slipped her a bit of belladonna." She shrugged a sturdy shoulder. "Hard to say. So many of them just look like normal dying, if you take my meaning. But I suppose some of them might be poisoned."

"Might one of them have been Sir Edward?"

She smiled, showing an almost complete set of strong teeth.

"Might is a large word, my lady. Anything is possible."

I sighed, wondering how on earth I had come to be discussing philosophy with a charwoman of Jesuitical bent.

Brisbane inserted himself seamlessly into the conversation.

"A woman of your considerable experience would doubtless have noticed if something were amiss," he began.

I almost snorted into my tea. If he managed to achieve by flattery what I had failed to gain by appealing to her intellect…

"Now that I think of it, there was something," she said slowly.

Brisbane and I leaned forward as one man, so to speak.

"Yes?"

She looked carefully from one of us to the other, weighing her response. "I will tell Her Ladyship. You will have to go, sir," she said firmly.

Brisbane rose, placing his mug carefully upon the table.

"Of course. I will await Her Ladyship on the front step. Mrs. Birch, thank you for your hospitality. I will see myself out." Over her head he shot me a look that was unmistakable. He expected me to wring every bit of information out of her, and the look had been a warning. I had better not fail this time.

I stared at the fine tailoring of his retreating back while Mrs. Birch ogled something else.

"That your man?" she asked after the door closed behind him. Her expression was friendly, and I did not take offense.

"No."

She clucked her tongue. "Pity. He's got lovely legs. My Jimmy had lovely legs. Long and—"

"Mrs. Birch," I said sharply. She laughed, and this time she did pat me on the arm. She poured herself another cup of tea and I allowed her to fill mine for the sake of companionship.

"It's all right, my lady. It's just us hens. You can tell me. Do you fancy him?"

I could feel my rings beginning to cut into my hands. I forced myself to relax.

"Mrs. Birch, you said you would tell me what you noticed about my husband's corpse."

She regarded me a moment, judging my humour, I think. Something of my edgy mood must have shown itself, for she settled down at once. She told me what she had seen, to the last detail. I questioned her closely, but she did not vary her story, and in the end, I realized I believed her entirely.

"Thank you. I appreciate your assistance," I said, rising. "But I must warn you. You cannot repeat this to anyone—not what you have just told me, or even that I called. If my husband was murdered, anyone who possesses knowledge of the crime must be in danger."

She waved me off. "I am an oyster, I am. I've too much to think about, keeping the little ones fed and clothed to waste my time with idle gossip. Besides, it would be a poor thanks for your kindnesses to tell your business on the street."

I gave her a surprised look and she laughed. "I know it is you, my lady. No butler would think to put books in the baskets for the kiddies. And there's always a packet of hair ribbons for my girls, pretty new ones. And good leather shoes for the boys. Most ladies leave the baskets to their servants and they never know if we get the scrag end of beef and the burnt-down ends of candles. You always send us good meat, and a bottle of wine at Christmas. I do not forget it, my lady."

I could not think of a reply. I had always instructed Aquinas to prepare the baskets, only occasionally troubling to add something myself. She was praising Aquinas' generosity, not mine. I must remember to commend him.

Mrs. Birch saw me to the door. "If that Mr. Brisbane should die soon…" she began hopefully.

"I will send for you at once," I promised, smoothing my skirts.

"Oh, that is kind of you, my lady."

"Not at all. And to answer your question, I suppose some would find him fanciable."

She sighed and pulled open the door. "Just as I suspected, my lady. We are not so very different after all, if you will pardon the observation."

I thought of the society ladies I knew and how outraged they would be by such a statement coming from a woman of Mrs. Birch's ilk.

I smiled at her, knowing that if I had been born poor and disadvantaged, I would have ended my days rotting in a ditch, rather than mistress of a tiny, cozy home and proud mother of seven.

"On the contrary, Mrs. Birch. I take it as a compliment. A very fine one."

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

If you fear the wolf, Do not go into the forest.

—Russian Proverb

Brisbane had hailed a hansom and was waiting for me at the kerb. He handed me in and gave the direction of Grey House to the driver. I fussed with my reticule, pretending to search for a tin of lemon pastilles, then my handkerchief. Anything to avoid revealing to Brisbane what Mrs. Birch had disclosed.…

I had just begun burrowing about for a bit of lip salve when his nerve broke. "All right, I know it must be something fairly awful. You might as well tell me now."

"I'm not entirely certain that I can. How do you know it is awful?" I asked mildly.

"You've fidgeted so violently that you have managed to rip the cording of your reticule completely off. Tell me."

"Very well, but you must look out of the window."

I sensed his eyes rolling in exasperation, but I would not turn my head.

"I beg your pardon?" His voice was even—quite a good effort, I thought, given how annoyed he must have been at this point.

"I simply cannot say it if you are looking. I know that we are supposed to be quite grown-up about such things, but I cannot help it."

"About what such things?" he asked with deliberate patience.

"You are still looking at me."

This time the eyes definitely rolled, punctuated with an audible sigh. But he turned, edging his broad shoulders toward me, his gaze clearly fixed out of the window.

"I am not looking now, nor shall I."

I cleared my throat. "Very well. Mrs. Birch said that when she washed Edward she noticed that there was some discoloration—some rather violent discoloration."

"What sort of discoloration?"

My cheeks were warm and I fanned my face with my hand.

"How explicit must I be? Something was not the colour it should have been. It was discoloured."

"I am conversant with the meaning of the word, my lady. I am inquiring as to the location and the extent of the discoloration," he said coldly. "In plain words, what part of his body and in what manner discoloured?"

"Oh, you are beastly. Very well, if you must know, it was his—his manly apparatus."

Brisbane gave a little choking noise. I do not like to think that it might have been a laugh.

"His what?"

"His penis, Mr. Brisbane. His stem of fertility, his manly root."

By this time his shoulders were definitely shaking, but to his credit, there was not a trace of amusement in his voice.

"She is quite certain? I mean, it is quite customary for the, er—manly apparatus to be of a different coloration than the rest of a gentleman's skin."

"Is it quite customary for it to be the colour of a vintage Bordeaux?" I asked venomously. "Mrs. Birch has washed more bodies than you or I have had hot meals. I take her opinion as the valuation of an expert."

"No doubt," he said gravely. He fell silent, ruminating as I recovered my composure. My cheeks felt marginally cooler, and by the time he straightened in his seat, gripping the head of his walking stick, I was almost myself. His face was lit, his expression rapturous, like St. Paul's on the road to Damascus, I imagined.

"What? What are you thinking?"

He was fairly quivering. The hound had once more picked up the trail.

"That was how the poison was introduced."

I stared at him, not bothering to conceal my scorn.

"You are barking mad. How could someone possibly introduce poison to a man's…well, his…person without his knowledge?"

He gave me a slit-eyed stare. "Perhaps it was with his knowledge."

"Are you saying it was suicide? That I find very hard to believe, and I must warn you that if you intend to pursue that particular line of investigation, I will stop this hansom right now and leave you here before I will have my husband's good name—"

He grabbed at my hand, squeezing hard, then dropped it suddenly, as if remembering himself. "I am suggesting nothing of the sort. I believe Sir Edward was murdered by a person with whom he was intimately connected."

"Oh, God, you think I did this!" I sagged against the seat, regretting with every atom of my being the day I had engaged him on this case.

"You will have to learn not to take such flying leaps of imagination if you ever hope to make an investigator, my lady," he said, rubbing at his temples. "I believe it must have been someone who knew his most intimate habits. It is the only way it all makes sense. He must have used a contraceptive machine—a sheath. A condom."

I was finally beginning to grasp what he was saying.

"And this sheath was poisoned? On the inside?"

"Precisely. It would account for the discoloration of his genitals, while no other part of his body bore traces of poison."

"What sort of person would do such a thing? Could do such a thing?" I murmured.

Brisbane shrugged. "Someone who hated him, that much is obvious. Someone who knew he would possibly use a prophylactic device during his amours. His valet, possibly, but far more likely it was a lover."

He seemed to have forgotten entirely that I had been Edward's wife. We were colleagues now, and I was not certain if I minded this or not. "His amours. That is quite a leap, is it not? You assume that he had mistresses, but you have no proof. Your entire theory hangs on the question of my husband's fidelity."

Brisbane turned to me, his eyes cool and pitiless. "I do not suppose it, my lady. I have proof. I have had ever since you gave me the inventory of his rooms."

I returned the cool stare. "Of what are you speaking, Mr. Brisbane?"

"The inventory listed one object that proved your husband had carnal relations with other women."

"Impossible. What object could possibly reveal that?"

A smile crossed his lips. It was feline, almost cruel, and I knew he was thinking of the case and not of me at all.

"There was a small porcelain box, painted with the image of Pandora, opening her own legendary box, the gift of the gods."

My lips went dry. "What of it?"

"If it is the one I suspect, I know those boxes. They are made to order for one of London's most notorious brothels. And they are only given to the most illustrious and profitable of patrons."

I said nothing. He settled back against the cushion, basking a little in his brilliant deduction. I felt my upper lip begin to grow moist. I blotted it discreetly with my gloved finger and waited for what I knew must come next.

"All we need do now is retrieve Sir Edward's box from Grey House, and I will use it as entrée to the brothel, where I shall discreetly question the inmates."

I swallowed hard and steeled my nerve. "Except that the box is not at Grey House."

He went very still. "Where is it?"

"I gave it to Magda. I knew she did not kill Edward, the very idea was ludicrous, and yet I feared you meant to hang her. I sent her away."

"With the box." His even, measured tone was far worse than any shout would have been. He reminded me of a cat that Cook had kept at Bellmont Abbey when I was a child. It would sit for hours, quite still, quite harmless-looking, but always watching with ravenous eyes. The poor, doomed mice never even saw the pounce. I licked my lips.

"And a pair of Sèvres candlesticks. I did not have any cash to hand and I knew she would need money."

"So," he said in a dangerous, silky voice, "your Gypsy laundress has taken our single best clue and pawned it, somewhere in a city of five million people."

I gave him my most abjectly sorry look. "I do apologize. I see that I have made rather a muck of things. But you must understand, I only did it to save Magda. I knew she was innocent, but I heard the way she spoke to you, the way she taunted you. I feared that you would be less than impartial."

"You mean that you did not trust me," he said flatly.

I lifted my chin. "No, I did not. But it cannot matter that much. You believe that you know the source of the box. Surely you do not require the box itself."

"That box is evidence, and I will have it."

"I cannot think how," I pointed out reasonably. "After all, London is a rather large haystack, and Magda such a small needle." I gave him a feeble smile, which he quite rightly ignored.

He did not speak until we drew up in front of Grey House. He alighted and held the door, but just as I made to exit the cab, he pounced, thrusting his arm across the opening, barring my path.

"That needle has, I imagine, hidden herself in a very small, very specific part of the haystack," he said, his voice low. "Do not underestimate me, my lady. I will have that box."

He had not taken his eyes from mine, and I understood from that unflinching gaze that we were no longer partners in this endeavor. He would know exactly where to find Magda, of that I had no doubt. What I did doubt was his ability to recover the box with his limbs intact.

He stepped back sharply, dropping his arm.

"Good day, my lady."

I gathered up my skirts and my dignity and swept past him and into Grey House. It was not until I had gained the privacy of my own home that I picked my skirts up into my hands and began to run.

Through some miracle that I still cannot credit, Valerius was at home. I found him in his room, his nose buried in a book, idly feeding the raven titbits from the tip of a pencil. I burst in without apology.

"Val, you must help me. He's going to the Gypsy encampment on Hampstead Heath. He'll be killed, I know it."

Val rose, sending the raven scuttling off irritably to the bedpost, where it glared down at us, muttering. Val put an arm around me, leading me to a chair. I did not sit.

"Julia, calm yourself. Who is going to the Gypsy camp?"

I took a deep breath, pressing my hand to my corset. "Mr. Brisbane."

Val's eyes widened, in fear, I thought. "Nicholas Brisbane? You know him?"

"Yes," I said, throwing off his arm impatiently. "He was here the night that Edward died. Father met him. He is investigating a matter for me. I stupidly gave a piece of evidence to Magda and now he means to get it back. She's gone to her people, and if he goes there and tries to take it from her, or to make trouble—"

I did not have to finish. Val knew the Roma as well as I did. Any infringement of their freedom by the English was met with hostility at the very least. More than once we had witnessed exchanges of some violence when they had been interfered with by villagers who should have known better. We had left them largely alone and they had been good to us. But I had always suspected that if we pushed them too far they would turn on us as well. Their friendship was like the good will of any wild thing—a gift not to be taken lightly.

"We must go, Val. It will not be dark for a little while yet, but we must hurry."

I was tugging at his coat, but he held my hands fast.

"You cannot go like that," he pointed out, taking in my extravagant costume with a glance. He was right, of course. No one with a scrap of sense flaunted their wealth in a Gypsy camp. To do so was to invite robbery—or worse. Smart visitors dressed discreetly and did not wager large amounts at their games. If we meant to blend in, we would have to do the same. I think the idea occurred to us both in the same instant, for no sooner had I looked at him than he was rummaging in his wardrobe, tossing out garments that might serve.

Within moments I had gathered them up and disappeared behind the screen to transform myself. It took me ages to wriggle out of my clothes, but in the end I managed, tearing only a few of the costly ruby buttons off in the process. I retrieved them, taking a few precious seconds to tuck them into my pocket. It would have gone much faster with Morag, but I dared not take her into my confidence. She would have insisted on coming along, and I was dubious enough about accepting Val's help.

A few moments more and I stepped out, rigged as a boy, from proper tweed trousers to choking necktie. Val had slipped into my room and fetched my own boots and a hard black hat. He gave me his wide woolen scarf to wind about my chin and stepped back to appraise the effect.

"At least you have a crop, so we do not have to worry about your hair giving you away," he said finally.

I scrutinized myself in his glass, rubbing at Fleur's rosy salve with my handkerchief. "Passable, I think. With any luck it will be full dark by the time we arrive. Get some money, will you?"

He scooped up his notecase and gloves and we departed, slipping down the stairs and out the study door, into the back garden. In a very few minutes we were through the gate and into the mews. I was breathing a little easier then, wondering if we might actually get away with our deception. We scurried around the corner and into the street where Val hailed a hackney. I muttered a little, wishing he had found a speedier hansom, but there was no help for it.

"Where would you and the lady like to go, sir?" the driver inquired amiably.

"Damnation!" I said softly. "What gave it away?"

"If you don't mind my saying, love, it's the walk. All hips and bum, nothing like a bloke at all. Where to?"

"Hampstead Heath, the foot of Parliament Hill," I muttered, and subsided into a sulky silence. All during the lengthy, creaking drive I tried to imagine how I was supposed to walk without using my "hips and bum," but at length I gave up. Darkness had fallen and we were climbing, almost to the Heath, when Val spoke.

"Julia, I wish you would confide. What is this all about?"

I looked at my hands, fisted against my unfamiliar, tweedy lap.

"Why should I? You have not confided in me," I said simply. "There was another bloody shirt in the laundry. Not another fight in front of the opera this time, I think."

"Oh." That was all he said. I knew that I should collar him about Magda, as well, demand an explanation for the despoiling of Carolina's grave, but I did not. I realized how close Magda had come to destroying him. I could not have borne that. He was my flesh, and I loved him for all his faults, for all his misdeeds. I would protect him, in the end. But for now I did not want to know.

The cab alighted at the fringe of the Roma camp. There were a few private carriages, a fair number of horses, and another cab or two standing or tethered. Val gave the driver an extortionate amount of money to wait for us. I doubted our ability to find another cab so far out. Besides, although I did not like to think about it, there was the chance we might have need of a quick escape.

Mindful of the cabman's criticisms, I pulled my hat low and made a concentrated effort to walk flatly, my hips held firmly in check.

"What is the matter with you?" Val hissed.

"I am walking like a boy," I explained, pitching my voice as low as I could.

"No, you are walking like a perfect imbecile. For God's sake, Julia, you're clumping."

I straightened my knees a bit. "Is that better?"

"A bit."

"You had best call me something else. Julian, I suppose. And get your hand away from my back. God only knows what people might think."

Val shied violently but kept his hands to himself. Without thinking, he had reverted to his inbred courtesy and been guiding me with a hand to the back. A mistake like that could be lethal in these surroundings.

For a while we simply skirted the camp, keeping half in shadow as we ambled along. The ground was dry and hard, well-packed from the wheels of the Gypsy caravans and the hooves of their horses. The wind carried the sharp smoke of their wood fires, laced with the fragrant spice of the cook pots. Over it all lay the thick odour of horse, the pungent smell of money to the Roma. There was music as well, lively and bold, and threading through it all the strange, exotic lilt of their language, drawing us along. A half-naked girl tried to pick Val's pocket and failed, running back to her mother. The woman cuffed her lightly, smiling and scolding her gently in Romany. I had no doubt she was being reprimanded—not for the attempt, but for its failure. The woman leaned over her cook fire, stirring an iron pot, and I smelled something rich and spicy, a stew of some sort, I supposed. My stomach gave a rumble of protest.

"Blast."

"What is it, Julian?"

"I should have thought to bring food. Did you dine?"

He shook his head. "No. Even a few sandwiches would have served."

"Never mind. I'll stand you to dinner at Simpson's when all this is done. Roast beef with all the trimmings."

"Splendid. Only promise me you will wear a dress. This masquerade is playing hell with my nerves."

"Done."

We slipped in and out of the jostling crowds, sometimes following groups or pairs as a new bit of entertainment would lure them on, sometimes holding back and peering into the shadows near the caravans. There were fortune-tellers, scrying with crystal balls and cards and palms. There were dancers with tiny, high-arched feet, stamping and yelling to the rhythms scraped out by the violins and guitars. And there were the men, beguiling the English to wager on a roll of the dice or perhaps the purchase of a new horse. There were smiles and shouts and groans, all well-lubricated with money and liquor. I might have enjoyed myself had it not been for the coil of fear knotted in my stomach.

Val had no such scruples. I caught him ogling a dancer, her wide skirts flaring up to reveal a ripe brown thigh as she turned. She winked at him, doubtless in hope of a generous coin, which he was quick to throw. She blew him a kiss then and I tugged at his sleeve as he so often used to do to mine, urging him on toward a little group gathered around the blind old man who told lengthy tales in Romany with great, theatrical gestures.

"I was looking for Mr. Brisbane," he protested.

"He is not under that dancer's skirt, I can assure you," I returned sharply. "In fact, I do not see him here at all. Or any of Magda's people. Where have we not looked?"

Val scanned the encampment. "The caravans."

I shook my head. "Too dangerous. We might edge near if we were to have our fortunes told, but if they caught us skulking about…"

He nodded grimly. "They are dealing horses that way," he said, inclining his head behind me. "And there is a boxing tent as well. Perhaps he is watching a match."

We decided to try the horse ring first, then the boxing tent, but before I could move, I heard the Gypsy storyteller's voice rise and fall and I stood, captivated by the sound of it. It was a beautiful language, with an Italianate, musical quality to it. It was an expressive tongue, a perfect vehicle for the richness of the Roma emotions. It was a language contrived to woo or to lament, to seduce or revile. I, of course, knew none of it. For all Magda's affection for me, she had never permitted me to speak a single word of her language. I had gleaned a few bits here and there, contextually, but never more than a handful of words, and I had forgotten them along with so many other scraps of childhood. I had never been allowed to ask if I even understood them properly. The one time I had ventured to use the Romany word for Englishman, gorgio, Magda had turned her back on me and walked silently away. Later she relented, but only enough to explain her anger.

"Romany is ours, lady. It is a powerful language, with great magic. We do not give our power or our magic away," she had told me. It made a curious kind of sense, although I still did not see the harm it would do if an English girl could count to ten in Romany. But Magda's message had been plain. I would not be allowed into their camp if I trespassed on their language. I never attempted to speak Romany again.

But I drank it in whenever I listened to them talk, marveling at the smooth, liquid sound of it. I began to think it impossible that an English-speaker could ever learn it. It was a very unbuttoned sort of tongue, demanding enthusiasm and passion and a liveliness that those with cold northern blood could not muster.

I relaxed a little as the old man rambled on, and after a few minutes I allowed Val to lead the way toward the horse ring. A deal was in progress, with an Englishman, protesting the price, ranged against a Gypsy horseman who was holding firm. They were each backed by a dozen or so men of their own kind, shouting and jeering as negotiations moved back and forth. Several times the buyer named a price and put out his hand in the traditional manner of Gypsy horse-dealing; scornfully, the dealer slapped it away and named a better one. Between them the horse stood placidly, his head hanging low, his eyes shifting from his Gypsy master to his prospective buyer. He looked handsome, and sound enough, and I wondered how many times he had been sold and found his way back to the Roma.

My father often bought horses from Magda's people and had never had any difficulty with them, finding their horseflesh to be of the highest quality and their prices fair. But he always maintained that this was because Magda's people knew and liked him. They were permitted to camp on his land, and so treated him fairly when horse-dealing. But other Gypsies, he warned us, were far too clever and tricky for us. He had always instructed my brothers to purchase their horses at Tattersall's if Magda's menfolk were not to be found. My second brother, Benedick, had neglected to follow this good advice once, purchasing a solid-enough looking animal from a traveling group of Roma when he was in Cornwall. He had been particularly taken with its glossy coat, I remember. It washed off during the first good sweat. Benedick had tried desperately to get his money back, but of course they were long gone, doubtless laughing themselves sick over the stupidity of the young gorgio lordling too stupid to spot a bit of dye in a horse's coat. I looked as closely as I dared, but this horse seemed genuine enough in his colour, if a bit spavined. And if the prospective buyer did not look to that before the sale was completed, he deserved to be fleeced.

We slipped past them and toward the boxing tent, where a match was in progress. According to the hawker outside, the Gypsy champion, an enormous brute, was fighting all comers for a pound. We listened to his patter for a moment, rather impressed at the fighter's credentials. His record was a prodigious one, and it occurred to me that they might attract more challengers if they did not stress so openly the number of men he had knocked down.

Val paid the entrance fee for both of us, grumbling as he did so. I reminded myself to reimburse him for the night's adventures. His allowance was generous, but so were his expenditures. The remainder might not run to an evening's entertainment.

My eyes watered as soon as we stepped inside and I fought against the urge to cough. It was close in there, with three or four dozen men crowding around, smoking and cursing at the combatants. The rank smell of sweat and horse, sawdust and stale beer clung to the canvas, and I could hear quite distinctly the sounds of solid fists slamming into bare flesh. Val shot me a doubtful look.

"Are you certain you're up for this?"

I nodded, but he continued to look dubious. He needn't have bothered. I had seen a number of prizefights as a child. Father adored them, and if he happened upon one, he had not been terribly fussy about bringing me along. I had only to promise not to tell Aunt Hermia and he would bribe me with ginger nuts. I had rather enjoyed those illicit outings. The fighting was brutal, but Father carefully explained the finer points and I always enjoyed the little wagers we placed. The summer I backed seven winners was the summer he stopped taking me along, I remembered wryly. He had begun taking Valerius instead, but he always said wistfully that Val lacked my appreciation for watching grown men thrash each other.

I was surprised now at how quickly it all came back. It seemed that one bare-fisted fight was rather like every other. A few sharp-eyed men would make money on the affair, and several dozen men, largely inebriated, would not. The crowd, ever in danger of having their pockets picked, ringed a beaten-down area thickly laid with sawdust tamped hard by booted feet. It even smelled the same, I remarked to Val. He grimaced, which I thought rather weak from a student of anatomy.

He kept us carefully to the back of the spectators while he scanned the crowd, looking for Brisbane. I had difficulty seeing over the heads in front of me, and for the briefest of moments I regretted my disguise. Had I come in skirts they would have all made way for me, I thought ruefully. But then if I had come in skirts, I would have doubtless attracted unwelcome attention, women being scarce at such events.

A few of the men shifted and I realized the crowd was a bit thinner on the other side. I motioned to Val. We edged past, keeping to the back of the tent as we made our way around. There was a crunching hit suddenly, and a roar went up as the crowd surged forward. I was very nearly knocked off my feet, but I kept my wits and shoved hard against the man who had jostled me.

He turned, his face fat and moistly red in the light of the hanging lamps.

"Watch yourself, sonny. Mustn't get trampled, now, my lad."

He turned back to the match and I gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Finally someone had owned me for a boy, even if it was only a drunken lout at a prizefight. I threw a little look of triumph at Val, but he was staring straight ahead, over the man's head at the fight itself. I nudged at him, but he simply stared. He jerked his chin toward the boxers.

"Look," he hissed finally.

I edged around the fat man, thoroughly annoyed. He had probably seen a broken nose that had intrigued him or something else perfectly useless, I thought irritably. I rose up on the balls of my feet, peering over the fat man's shoulder, and got my first proper look at the boxers.

There was indeed a broken nose. Both of the fighters were stripped to the waist. The touted champion stood facing me, streaming blood freely from a pulpy pile in the middle of his face. He was dashing blood out of his eyes with his fists, his expression murderous. Then he smiled, horribly, revealing teeth bracketed in blood. He spit a tooth into the sawdust, but continued to grin like some demented creature. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his fists—enormous, meaty things, the size of hams. He swung heavily, but his opponent darted back lightly, just out of reach. There were bruises beginning to darken the side of the slighter man's torso, and I wondered if his face was undamaged. It did not seem possible that he could have inflicted such damage on the champion and sustain only a few bruises himself.

But as I watched them battle, I began to understand why. The Gypsy had size on his side, but that was his only advantage. He was heavy and slow, his feet moving as if stuck in treacle.

I pursed my lips, madly disappointed. From a champion I expected more than brute strength. There should be finesse and even a certain elegance of movement. Father had taught me that fist-play was no different from swordplay, demanding skill as well as strength. This Gypsy was nothing more than a machine, hammering whatever lay in his path.

His challenger, on the other hand, was something else entirely. He held himself like a horse will at the start of a race, lightly, ready to spring. His head moved quickly, luring blows that he avoided with a catlike nimbleness. It was so delightful to watch that I nearly laughed out loud. He was a natural, and I regretted bitterly that we had come too late to place a bet on him.

I was just beginning to anticipate a nice long bout when the challenger did something that ruined it all. He moved back again, this time canting himself sideways, forcing the champion to move off balance. Then he raised his fist, and with one quick, brutal blow to the jaw—so fast the eye could not follow—it was done. The Gypsy took a moment, rocking on his heels, eyes rolling back white. Then, without a sound, he fell to the sawdust. A great cloud of it went up with the cheer and money began to exchange hands. The fat man in front of me threw his hat down in disgust.

"Have you lost, then, sir?" I asked, too amused to be careful.

He fixed me with a baleful look. "I have, indeed. The bastard knocked him down in less than two minutes!"

He stomped on his hat and stumped away, cursing fluently. I turned back to what was left of the match, laughing. The crowd had dissolved into a flood of curses and barbs, in Romany and English, and the challenger turned to accept them, as well as his share of the winnings. For the first time I was able to see his face, which surprised me in two ways. First, there was no blood. And second…

"Good Lord," I said to no one in particular. "Brisbane has rather a nasty right."

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

Quit, quit, for shame! This will not move; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

—Sir John Suckling

"Song"

The revelation that Brisbane was a skillful prizefighter was not the only one disclosed that night. As he pulled on his shirt, collecting the approbation of those who had profited from his victory, he talked with them, his voice clearly audible to me, even over the crowd. But it sounded strangely unlike his voice, and it took me almost a full minute to realize why.

Brisbane was speaking Romany. He was speaking, my addled brain told me, a language that he could not possibly know. But of course he did know it. Fluently and idiomatically, to judge by the laughter of his companions. His hands moved as he spoke, sketching the dramatic gestures that every Roma uses to punctuate his speech. He knew this fluid tongue, and there was only one way he could have learned it.

As Brisbane paused in his conversation to reach for his shirt, Val made to raise a hand in greeting. I slapped it down, motioning him to silence. "We must go. Now," I said through clenched teeth. "Before he sees us."

"What the devil is wrong with you? We've been scouring the Heath for the better part of the evening, looking for him, and now that we have found him, you want to leave?"

"I will explain it all later. Just come with me—now."

To his credit he came, although still muttering about the inconsistency of women. I did not much blame him. I was busy cursing my own stupidity. How could I not have seen it? I had repeatedly remarked to myself upon his swarthiness, his unEnglishness. I had thought him French or perhaps even a Jew. But I had never once imagined the truth.

We made for the tent flap, moving quickly and quietly behind the crowd so as not to attract attention. But just as I put my hand to the flap, it was brushed aside by a man entering. Magda's brother, Jasper. I pulled back hard, slamming into Val, but Jasper did not see either of us. His gaze was focused on Brisbane, who swung his head around as if on a wire. Jasper gave him a perceptible nod and melted out of the tent as quietly as he had come.

"Oh, no," I breathed. Val put a questioning hand on my shoulder, but I shook my head and slipped out of the tent, careful to move in the direction opposite to the one that Jasper had taken. We had walked only a few steps when Val seized my arm and dragged me behind a caravan.

"What is the matter with you? You have insisted we must find Mr. Brisbane, and there he is. You wanted to find Magda's people, and we have just seen Jasper. What is it you want?"

I jerked my arm out of his grasp. "I want to get out of this place without Brisbane knowing I've come. I should not have followed him here and I have seen something I was not meant to see."

"His business with Jasper?"

I rubbed at the place on my arm where he had gripped me. I had not realized Val's fingers were so strong. I would have a bruise there.

"No, not entirely. Well, yes, that is part of it. Jasper has apparently decided to give Brisbane what he came for."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"The rope to hang you with."

"What?" His voice was incredulous. "Julia, what are you talking about? This has nothing to do with me. You said you engaged Mr. Brisbane on a matter of business. How does that involve me?"

"It is too complicated to explain now. I thought I had taken care of it, and it seems I have done nothing but complicate matters to the utmost. I do not yet know how I will put it right, but I will. I must get home, though, and quickly."

I heard the imploring note in my voice and so did Val. He relented. He gave me a quick nod and we turned for the far side of the camp, where I prayed the cabman would still be waiting. It would be a long ride back to Grey House, but at the end of it I could count on a hot meal and a hotter bath.

I stepped out from behind the caravan and into the fitful light of a crowded campfire. And at just that moment Nicholas Brisbane moved out of the shadow of the boxing tent, lifting his head, sniffing the air like a dog. His eyes roved past the firelight, skimming lightly over the figures moving between us. They came to rest on me, peering through the gloom. His eyes narrowed, his teeth bared, and I took to my heels.

I had something of a head start—perhaps an eighth of a mile. But it did not matter. I had known almost as soon as I began to run that he would catch me up. I did not dare to imagine what he might do to me once he did. But I was soon to find out.

I suppose I expected him to beat me. Some might have even said he was justified. I had discovered that which was never meant to be known. Most Englishmen held Gypsies as lower than dogs. Less than a Jew, better than an African? No, I knew ladies who kept blackamoor pages quite happily, but would never let a Roma set foot in their house. They were thought to be capable of any treachery, cunning and malicious and black-hearted as devils. I could not blame Brisbane for not confiding in me. I, too, would have hidden my bloodlines under the circumstances.

But I did not think my sympathy would win me any points this night. So I fled, dashing past campfires and under clotheslines, dodging onlookers and mocking laughter on my way across the camp with Brisbane in furious pursuit. I put on a burst of speed as we neared the carriages, hearing him closing behind me with every stride, Val wheezing along somewhere behind. And then I realized that Brisbane had eased into a lope. He was keeping pace with me, but deliberately he did not close, allowing me to lead him to the hackney where he could catch me up easily and have at me in private.

Gasping, I reached the door and had just grasped the handle when his hand came down hard upon mine. His shirt was open, sweat-stuck to his sides. Absurdly, I noticed his pendant, lying in the hollow of his throat. I noticed, too, that I had lost my hat somewhere along the way. I should have to order a new one, I mused. If I lived so long.

Val skittered up, a hand pressed to his side.

"Mr. Brisbane, what are you about, chasing my sister all over God's own creation?" he demanded loudly.

Keeping his hand firmly anchored upon mine, Brisbane turned to Val. He might have omitted the precaution. My side was burning from the run, and he looked barely winded. If I decided to flee I would not make it three steps before he caught me again.

"Have a care for her reputation," Brisbane advised softly. "Do you have any notion of what would become of her if it became known that she visited a Gypsy camp dressed like that?"

Val flushed angrily. "You think I should have prevented it."

Brisbane's face was expressionless. "I think that is beyond the reach of your abilities, Mr. March. But I think you might have provided a better escort."

Val's hands tightened and he stepped forward.

"Don't be stupid, Val. He's quite right. I was a fool to come and you were a fool to come with me."

Brisbane did not look at me. "Now, if you will oblige me by getting into the cab, Mr. March. I have some business to discuss with your sister." Val hesitated, but Brisbane's features were stony. Val threw me a look, of supplication I suppose, but I flicked my eyes toward the cab, indicating he should do as he was told. I doubted Brisbane intended to murder me on Hampstead Heath, but if he did, it was probably no more than I deserved.

Brisbane stepped aside, pulling me with him, so that Val could enter the hackney. With Val and the cabman looking on, there was little privacy there, so I was not entirely surprised when he put his hand under my elbow and directed me to a stand of trees some short distance away. They were a bit of a screen at least, and would offer some protection from Val witnessing the humiliation of what I was certain would be the dressing-down of my life.

"You needn't bother, really," I said as he pushed me against a tree. He had an arm above me, clamped to the rough trunk, ensuring I could not escape. "I will not run away. I deserve everything you care to throw at me. I have been vile and stupid and completely untrustworthy. You may shout as much as you like."

I admit that I had hoped that this abasing little speech would win me a little pity. But Brisbane's eyes were murderous. I had never seen him so completely in the grip of strong emotion, not even when he had been drugged. I swallowed hard and licked at my lips.

"Brisbane, say something. If you wish to strike me, do it and get it over with. I know you are frightfully angry, and you have every right…"

I stopped then because he made me. He did not strike me; instead he did something I had never expected. He reached for me. It was some time before he let me go.

When he did, I was breathing far too fast and I tasted blood on my lips. Without a word he grabbed my arm and half dragged me back to the hackney. He wrenched open the door and thrust me toward Val, who caught me, wide-eyed with surprise.

Brisbane turned and gave a little whistle to the cabman, who whipped up the horse, turning the hackney toward town. Brisbane did not look at me as we drew away. I sat very still, aware of Val's scrutiny. He handed me a handkerchief. I touched it gingerly to my mouth.

"Did he hit you?" His voice was even, but I thought I detected a little ragged edge at the end.

"No."

"Ah."

He turned away then and for once did not ask questions. I was grateful for that at least. I had no answers. For Val, or myself.

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

Trust not the physician.

—William Shakespeare

Timon of Athens

I was awake the next morning when Morag brought my tea. I had been awake the better part of the night, considering my course of action. Confront Valerius with what I believed to be proof of his truly abominable deeds? Force my way into Brisbane's rooms in Chapel Street and demand that we mend matters between us? Turn the entire matter over to Father? Or, most tempting of all, forget the entire mess and leave at once for Italy?

Morag put down the tray and peered at my face. "You're green, you are."

"Oh, Morag, you do say the sweetest things."

She pursed her lips. "There's no need to be churlish, my lady. I was simply inquiring after your health. You look as if you could use a tonic."

I sighed and took the cup she thrust at me.

"I am sorry, Morag. I am unfit to be around other people today."

She sniffed over her shoulder as she went to draw back the drapes. "Some might think that you've little enough to be unfit about—a rich lady, of good family, with not altogether unattractive looks. It's spoilt you are, not appreciating the blessings the good Lord has given you."

I took a deep, restorative breath of the tea-scented steam, then sipped, wincing at the touch of the cool porcelain against my swollen lip. "Very likely. And of course I am so very fortunate in my choice of domestic help."

She bent to gather the clothes I had dropped on the floor when I had undressed myself the previous night. I had dismissed her as soon as I arrived home. She had blinked at my costume, but for once said nothing. Apparently Aquinas' frequent lectures on the imperturbability of a good servant were beginning to take effect.

"You are about to be more fortunate. I happened to over-listen when that Frenchie gave his notice to Mr. Aquinas."

"Renard? He has given his notice?"

Morag's lips were thinned with satisfaction. "He has. Good riddance, I say. Filthy creature, that Frenchman. Now, Mr. Diggory, that's a good man to have about the house."

I listened with half an ear as she chattered on about the coachman's virtues. A house without Renard would be very pleasant indeed. But perhaps complicated. Brisbane might have questions for him, and I could not take the chance that another member of my staff would slip from his clutches.

"Where is he bound?" I asked casually.

"Lord Crayforth. The brewer," she said with a meaningful arch of the brows.

"Morag, you've become a thorough snob, do you know that?"

"It is true and well you know it, my lady. A jumped-up brewer with dirty habits. I hear he don't change his underlinen but once a month."

I pushed my toast away uneaten. "Good Lord. I suppose Renard will not perish of overwork, then, will he?"

But I felt better at this bit of intelligence. Lord Crayforth was a fixture in London. He was famous for his hatred of the country. His summer house was only as far away as Chelsea. If Brisbane wanted to find Renard, he should not have far to look.

"We shall have to find someone else to tend to Sir Simon, I'm afraid."

"Won't have him to worry about much longer, either," Morag put in darkly. "He's had a bad night and his cough is worse."

I pushed back the coverlet and swung my feet to the floor.

"Why did you not say so? I will go to him before breakfast."

By the time I reached the breakfast table, my appetite was well and truly gone. Simon had indeed had a rough time of it. There was a little blood now when he coughed, and I sent word to Aquinas to send for Doctor Griggs. The prospect of seeing him again, and of bearding Brisbane in his den afterward, robbed me of any hunger I might have had.

Aquinas brought food, anyway. There was always enough to feed a regiment keeping warm in the chafing dishes, and Aquinas always made a point of entering the room with a rack of fresh toast and a basket of rolls precisely when I appeared.

"Good morning, my lady. I have dispatched Henry with your note to Doctor Griggs. He has replied that he will be here very shortly. Also, I have had Renard's resignation this morning. He wishes to enter service with Lord Crayforth."

I buttered the toast to give myself something to do. "I know. Morag happened to overhear something to that effect."

We exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Morag's habit of "happening to overhear" was famous. And though Aquinas' demeanor was perfectly neutral, I knew he would miss Renard as little as I did. "I have no objection. When does he mean to leave us?"

"As soon as possible. I gather his lordship is eager to secure his employment. His own valet left rather abruptly."

"Ooh, do tell. I smell scandal," I said, moving on to the jam pot.

"His lordship struck his valet with a riding crop."

"Goodness! Whatever for?" I took a bite, anyway. The jam was extraordinary. Cook had put up dozens of jars from the tiny strawberries my father sent from his hothouse.

"I understand his lordship's shaving water was tepid."

"Indeed. Well, his lordship and Renard should get along rather well together." I took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. Aquinas busied himself at the sideboard, testing the temperature of the eggs and kidneys and so forth, although I do not know why he bothered. Simon barely nibbled at food these days, and my appetite was wildly variable. Val was the only other person in residence, the Ghoul having taken herself off to Twickenham for a few days' holiday with her constipated niece—a protest against my abandoned widow's weeds, I suspected—and I doubted he would bother with breakfast. I wondered briefly what would become of the piles of leftover ham and rashers of bacon, but decided I would rather not know. Surely someone would eat it. They would not just throw it out. Would they?

"We shall have to see about finding someone to care for Sir Simon," I said. I glanced down, surprised to find only crumbs where my toast had been.

"I thought Desmond, my lady. He is rather peaky and I do not like to send him out. Perhaps if he stayed in, taking care of Sir Simon until other arrangements can be made…"

He did not finish his thought, but I did. He meant until Simon died and Desmond could be moved to the country to handle Father's dogs. Well, it was not pleasant to think of, but it did kill two birds rather nicely. Desmond was cutting a rather poor figure in his livery. Unlike Henry, he had never preened in it, lording his finery over his lessers. He was a quiet, modest boy, in spite of his strikingly delicate good looks, and I was glad we had found a means of keeping him. I had little doubt he would thrive in the country. I would have been sorry to lose him altogether, although I admit I was beginning to mark the weeks until I could dismiss Henry.

"Tell Desmond he needn't bother to wear livery as he will no longer be going out or greeting callers. A plain suit should be sufficient for tending Sir Simon. Father will want him in something serviceable at the Abbey in any case."

"Very good, my lady. Will you be going out this morning?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I am."

A question flickered in his eyes, but he suppressed it.

"Tell Diggory I will need the carriage in an hour. There is no need for Henry to come. He will have more duties here now that Desmond has been shifted to the sickroom. Call me when Doctor Griggs is ready to leave, will you? I should like a word with him."

Aquinas bowed from the neck and turned back to the chafing dishes as I left the breakfast room. I stepped back into the room.

"Aquinas, don't think me very odd, but I was wondering, what happens to all the food? What the family does not eat, I mean."

"The meats are turned into luncheon for the staff, my lady. Kidney pie, ham croquettes, that sort of thing."

"And the eggs?"

"The eggs, kedgeree, rolls and toast are given to the poor."

"Thank God for that," I murmured.

"I beg your pardon, my lady?"

"Never mind, Aquinas. Never mind."

I should have dressed with care that morning, arming myself for battle. But I was in a hurry to speak with Griggs before he quitted Grey House, and in the end I simply stood still while Morag dragged on something green she had unearthed from the wardrobe.

"Oh, feathers," I said, peering into the looking glass at my sallow skin. "You have gone and picked the one colour that I could not stand up to today. Best hand me some of that rose salve of Madame de Bellefleur's."

She passed over the little jar. "Only a thumbnail's worth left, I should say. You'll be wanting more of that, I wager."

I rubbed a bit into my cheeks and lips. There was immediate improvement, although I was beyond real help.

"I cannot ask Madame de Bellefleur. What is in it? Could you make it?" Morag often pottered about the stillroom, concocting soaps and cosmetics and even proper perfumes. She had never made anything as sophisticated as this rose salve, but it was certainly worth an effort.

Morag gave it a sniff, then rolled a bit between her fingers. "Aye. Bit of beeswax, I should think. Some crushed rose petals. Cannot say for the rest, but I could try."

"Then save the rest of it. You'll want that for comparison." I smoothed my hair and gave a final tug to the waist of my jacket. The green seemed almost regal now, or at least less like a weedy pond. I gathered up my reticule and umbrella.

"Morag, I will be going out as soon as I have spoken with Doctor Griggs. You may have the afternoon free to do as you like."

She blinked at me, a little suspicious. "My afternoon is Wednesday."

"I am aware of that, Morag. But my wardrobe is in order and I shouldn't think it would take you very long to tidy up in here. You might see if there is anything Sir Simon requires if you go out."

"Aye, my lady." She did not move, and I stared at her, faintly exasperated.

"Is there something wrong?"

She shook her head slowly, but her expression said otherwise.

"Well you look mightily put out to me, although I cannot think why. If there is a problem, we will have to discuss it later. I am late."

"My lady." She bobbed me a curtsey, rare for her, and said nothing more. But I caught her look as I turned away and it was speaking.

My interview with Doctor Griggs was brief and unhappy. In short, Simon's heart was beginning to fail and Griggs had prescribed laudanum to ease his pain and help him to sleep. He thought it might only be a matter of a very few weeks now and encouraged me to spend as much time with him as I could.

"Although, I see you are dressed to go out," he finished with a touch of disapproval.

A flash of anger rose and I beat it back with an effort. It took all the control I possessed not to tell him exactly what I thought of him. I dared not, for Simon's sake. I had little doubt that Doctor Bent could give him better care, but what difference would it make now? Simon was comfortable with Griggs, he did not see him for what he was. To me, he was anathema. His stupid prejudices, his blindness, his thoughtless dismissal of me as a mere woman…he represented everything I hated most in an Englishman. Narrow, biased, unfeeling and snobbish. But snobbery was a two-edged sword for the daughter of an earl.

I drew myself up and fixed him with the coldest look in the repertoire Aunt Hermia had passed on to me.

"My business is my own, Doctor," I said, stressing his title. If there was one thing Griggs hated, it was being reminded that he was little better than a tradesman.

He gawped at me, his jowls wagging. He would have liked to have told me what he thought of me as well, I imagined. But he did not dare, either. The power of the March name cut too deeply for him to risk that. Attending Sir Simon Grey on his deathbed was simply another feather in his professional cap.

"I meant no offense, my lady. I simply thought that Sir Simon should have the comfort of his family at so critical a time."

I checked the clasp of my reticule and smoothed my jacket.

"You have just said that you gave him laudanum. He will be sleeping. He will not know if I am out or not," I pointed out reasonably.

"But if he should wake, he would doubtless welcome the sight of your face," he put in. There was something sly in his manner, something I did not like. "Besides, I am sure it is not my place to say, but there is beginning to be some talk…"

He let his voice trail off suggestively, intimating God only knew what. But I had some idea. I had relaxed my vigilance in my calls to Brisbane's rooms. I had not bothered with incognita when I called at Madame de Bellefleur's. Anyone might have seen me and put the worst construction upon it. And Griggs was a popular enough figure in society thanks to his penchant for the latest gossip. It would not have been long before some patient poured the story into his eager ears.

I fixed him with the sweetest smile I could, taking care that it did not reach my eyes.

"I have no doubt of that, Doctor. There are always those unfortunates who have nothing better to do than gossip about their betters."

A dull red flush crept up his cheeks. I doubt anyone had ever had the temerity to speak to him so. I picked up my umbrella and gave it a little twirl.

"You see, Doctor, aristocrats are rather like tightrope walkers. We simply do not notice what is beneath us."

I swept out, leaving him speechless in my wake. It was one of the most childish things I had ever done. But one of the most satisfying, I thought as I settled myself in the carriage. Most satisfying, indeed.

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

I have unclasp'd To thee the book even of my secret soul.

—William Shakespeare

Twelfth Night

I was regretting the jam I had eaten at breakfast by the time Mrs. Lawson waved me up to Brisbane's rooms. It sat bitter on my tongue, and as I rapped and waited for the door to open I sucked a cachou to sweeten my mouth.

Monk admitted me at once. "Good morning, my lady," he said, civilly enough.

I gave him my warmest smile. "Good morning, Monk. How are you today?"

His expression was correct, but his gaze dropped instantly to my bruised lip.

"Better than most, my lady."

It was an effort, but I held my bright smile fixed in place.

"Mr. Brisbane is not expecting me, but I wonder if he could spare me a few minutes of his time?"

Monk stepped backward and gestured for me to enter.

"I shall see if Mr. Brisbane is available to callers, my lady."

He gestured for me to take a chair and I sat, willing my knees to stop trembling. I was frankly nervous at seeing Brisbane, and I wished fervently that I had worn something more flattering, something to give me a bit of dash and a bit of confidence. Yes, I should definitely have worn the scarlet walking suit. Either that or taken a very stiff whiskey before I had come out.

Monk offered me tea or coffee and withdrew when I refused both. I did not look at Punch or peruse the bookshelves. I sat instead, staring at the little calico knot in the bowl on his side table. A knot very similar to the one Magda had given me, doubtless fashioned from the graveclothes of a dead Rom. One of Brisbane's Gypsy relations? Did he keep it for protection, as a talisman? Or simply as a reminder of someone he had loved and lost? Or was it a bit of detritus, flotsam he had collected on his travels and neglected to discard?

So deep was I in my musings, I did not hear Brisbane come in—it was only a moment later and he was treading like a cat. Or a Gypsy. I remembered from childhood how soft-footed they were. From years of eluding trouble, I imagined, but I suppose it served Brisbane well in his chosen occupation. He took the chair opposite mine and simply regarded me, saying nothing. There were a few bruises from the fight darkening his jaw, and a little cut on his lower lip that I was very much afraid had not come from the fight at all. I felt a wave of heat break over my face, doubtless leaving me unattractively ruddy under his scrutiny.

"It was good of you to let me in today," I began, my voice a good deal steadier than it had a right to be. The tips of his nostrils were flaring white—not a good sign. I had always been undone in the presence of angry men.

"I did not," he pointed out coolly. "Monk did."

"Ah, yes. Well, I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to make this easy for me. Why did you agree to see me, since you so obviously do not wish to?"

He lifted one shoulder in a bland shrug. "Curiosity. It killed the cat and no doubt it will be my undoing, as well."

"I suppose that is fair enough. What do you wish to know?"

He gave a short, mirthless laugh that was probably intended to make me feel stupid. It succeeded wildly. "Everything. To begin, how could you, a woman of such obvious intellectual gifts, not realize the danger of a Gypsy camp?"

"I did realize the danger. That is precisely why I went."

He passed a hand over his eyes. They were shadowed today, and I wondered if he felt another headache coming on.

"I do not understand you. Most women would go fleeing in the opposite direction of such a situation."

"Oh, and so would I, under other circumstances. But you see, I did not have a choice."

Brisbane's eyes were sharp and wolfy. "Because you wanted to find the box before I did."

"Yes. Or no, I mean I wanted the box, but I went to find you, really."

"To ask me to give up on Magda, I expect."

"No, of course not," I said, growing exasperated. Why were men so impossibly obtuse at times? "If I were so worried about poor Magda, I would hardly have told you where to find her. Come to think of it, why did you even tell me that you were making for the camp?"

"Because I did not think you would be daft enough to follow me," he returned, his temper rising.

"But how else was I supposed to make certain that you were all right?"

He went quite still then. I would have sworn that even his pulse did not beat in that quiet moment. "Explain," he said finally, his voice quite low.

"As you pointed out, Roma camps can be dangerous places. I thought you meant to tear off and accuse Magda of something dreadful—something her menfolk would not stand for. To be honest, I would not have given a farthing for your chances if you hadn't known the language. As it was, you were really quite lucky, you know. Magda's family are very private, even for Gypsies. They don't mix very much with their own kind."

He was staring at me with an expression that would have been dull-witted on any other man. I waited while he gathered his thoughts and closed his mouth.

"Let me see if I understand you," he began slowly. "You went along because you thought you were on a mission of rescue?"

"Something like that. I mean, I doubt Val and I could have done much against a tribe of angry Roma, but we do know Magda's family. We could have vouched for you, that sort of thing. I rather think they feel they owe me something for taking care of Magda, which is utterly backward when you think about it, because they are the ones who turned her out without so much as a cook pot—Mr. Brisbane? Brisbane, are you quite all right? You look very queer."

He rose and went to the window. He was thinking, apparently something too electric to share. I shrugged and sucked another cachou, waiting for him to get hold of himself.

After a minute or so he resumed his chair. "Forgive me, my lady. I was simply struck by the irony."

"Irony?"

He waved a hand. "Never mind. I sent word to Mordecai about Mrs. Birch's observations. He wrote back this morning. He seems quite encouraged by her information and tells me that he hopes to have discovered the source of the poison within a few days. Then we shall be one step closer to finding our man."

"Our man. You still think the murderer a man?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. I meant the word figuratively. Poison is often a woman's weapon, and the method…it speaks of love gone wrong, does it not?"

I nodded slowly. "I suppose the brothel, then. Perhaps he had a relationship with a particular girl…"

Brisbane was watching me closely.

"Do not think that I enjoy this, Mr. Brisbane, but it is only logical."

"Yes. Especially when you know the purpose of the box."

He reached again into his pocket, this time producing the little porcelain box that was the source of so much trouble. It was rectangular, fitted with gilt or perhaps even gold fastenings. It was slim and elegantly proportioned, but the colours of Pandora's portrait were rather garish. Gilt, I decided finally.

He opened it, but it was empty. "Do you know what this is?"

I shrugged. "As you said before, a rather tacky souvenir of my husband's distasteful adventures."

He placed it carefully on the table. "It was designed to hold condoms—contraceptive sheaths."

I stared at the pretty, tawdry little box. "You mean that that actually—"

"Held the murder weapon. Yes. At least I am as certain as I can be. I intend to have Mordecai test it eventually. Perhaps traces of the poison remain."

The sweet cachou turned sour in my mouth. "Put it away. For God's sake."

He did, slipping it into his pocket.

"How did you persuade Jasper to get it from Magda?"

"I offered him money."

I lifted a brow at him. "Is that really all it took?"

"She had given it to him to pawn. It saved him a trip. My greatest trouble was persuading him that I only wanted the box. I almost had to take those bloody candlesticks as well."

I looked up at him and he was almost smiling. He knew I would not take offense at his language, and I think he was trying in some small way to put things right between us. I was still miserable, but not as bleakly so as I had been a moment before.

"I am sorry, you know. Clearly you meant to keep your Gypsy blood private and I blundered in where I had no right to be."

He waved an indifferent hand. "Perhaps I did not mean to keep it so private as I thought I did." He paused, canting his head at my incredulity. "You're blinking at me like a rather curious owl."

"Forgive me. You seemed angry enough at me last night for discovering your secret."

"I was angry…for a variety of reasons. Not the least because I distrusted your motives. I thought you meant to take the box before I could retrieve it."

"Oh. Well, I hope you understand now that that was not my intention."

"I do." His gaze was firm and clear, no shadow of a headache, I thought now. "But you are quite correct. I told you where I intended to be. I opened myself to the possibility that you would find me speaking Romany."

"Quite fluently, I should say." I caught my breath, comprehension beginning to dawn. "Magda knew, didn't she? The first time she met you, she spoke Romany because she intended you to know that she had discovered your secret. She called you a posh rat."

Brisbane's eyes gleamed. "The word is poshrat," he corrected me, giving it the same inflection Magda had used. "It means half-breed. And yes, she knew me well enough for what I was. My mother's people all bear a strong resemblance to one another." His mouth twisted into a bitter little smile. "You will note that I do not resemble His Grace of Aberdour in any respect."

"Thank God for that! Is that why he looked at you so viciously when you played the violin?"

He nodded. "It reminds him too much of the wild little half-breed he took in. Especially when I play Romany music."

I felt my heart quicken. "The second piece?"

"Yes. Did you like it?"

"I did." I swallowed thickly. "I had never heard it before, but I should have known it for what it was. I heard enough Gypsy music as a child."

He waved a lazy hand. "So, you see? I must not have intended to keep my secret from you for very long."

His gaze narrowed and focused now, tightly upon my face, my eyes, and I began to feel flustered. I have seen the terrible excitement of chickens when a fox comes creeping too near the hen yard. I felt my feathers beginning to ruffle.

I cleared my throat primly. "You may be certain that I shall keep it."

"It does not matter. One of these days my great-uncle will get too old or too tipsy and that particular cat will come streaking out of the bag. And I will be finished in society."

"You do not know that." I felt suddenly argumentative. I did not like him like this, quiet and acquiescent. Combative and difficult was his normal manner. I had grown accustomed to it. "Many Jewish men are accepted in society. Why not a Roma?"

"The Jewish men in society all have a great deal of money that they are happy to lend to their impoverished peers."

"That is horribly cynical, Brisbane. But probably true," I admitted. "Still, you are only half a Gypsy. Half Scot as well."

He laughed. "Slim redemption, that. With the exception of the duke, all of my father's family still refer to me as 'Jack's filthy Gypsy bastard.' I doubt they would sponsor me should I lose my entrée into the best houses."

"Don't be self-pitying. It isn't becoming," I said sharply.

He shrugged again. "It is true. That they say it, I mean," he said with a grin. "Not that I am. My parents were married very properly some seven months before I was born."

"Your father was quite something else," I observed mildly.

"Quite," he agreed.

He seemed so reconciled to the thought that he might lose his standing, his reputation, that I had to ask, "Why do you pursue society clients, then, if you do not seem to mind about losing them?"

"Money, of course. The wealthy are able to pay far more for my services than the middle class. Why not take fewer, more lucrative investigations and leave myself more time for my own pursuits?"

I did not wish to probe too deeply into this. I had a vague notion that some of these pursuits might be unsavory.

"What will you do if the clients do not come?"

"What I did before. This and that. Do not mind about me, my lady. Like all cats, I land on my feet."

I started. I had so often thought of him as feline, that I wondered for one mad moment if he had read my thoughts.

"Ah, good. Well, I suppose we had best discuss the investigation and how we shall proceed."

"We shall not proceed, my lady," he said matter-of-factly. "I must do the rest alone." He raised a hand to stem my angry protest. "Listen, before you screech at me. You went to that camp last night because you feared for my safety. I shall not forget that. But in return, you must allow me to have a care for yours. The next step must be tracing this box to the person in the brothel who knew Sir Edward. You might have gotten away with your little masquerade in a dark Gypsy camp on a moonless night. But there is no possible way, I repeat, no possible way that you could do the same in a West End brothel. There are men there whose sole occupation is to beat and torture those who make trouble for the proprietors. Do not think they would scruple to hurt you if they discovered the truth about your identity."

"But you cannot—"

He sat forward sharply in his chair.

"This issue is not open to discussion," he said sternly. "You have assisted me as far as possible, but it must end now. I will report to you what I discover, but I will do this alone, are we quite in agreement?"

It really was not a question at all. He did not expect an argument and I did not give him one. I nodded, dry-mouthed. He had let me off quite lightly from my faux pas of the previous evening. I should keep very quiet and be grateful, I supposed. Besides, there was Simon. I had a duty there, and Brisbane's insistence upon working alone would permit me to honour it.

I rose. "Then there is nothing more to discuss." I extended my hand and he touched it briefly before dropping it. He followed me to the door. I thought he had reached to open it, but he flattened his palm against the wood, keeping it closed. I did not turn, but I was conscious of him, just behind me, his breath stirring the hair at the base of my neck. I remembered what he had done the last time he was so close to me and I felt rather giddy, sick even.

"I was angry with you last night," he said softly, "but it was nothing, nothing, compared to what I will be if you interfere now."

I reached out and turned the knob sharply, forcing him to step back.

"Good day, Mr. Brisbane," I said, flinging my shawl over my shoulder.

He did not reply, but I felt his eyes boring mercilessly into my back all the way down the stairs.

Upon returning to Grey House I went directly to Simon. He was moving a little in his sleep, tossing under his embroidered coverlet. Desmond was sitting with him, sponging his brow from a basin of warm water laced with lavender.

I smiled as I entered and he rose, spilling a little of the water on the carpet. He started, blushing. With his Titian colouring, it was entirely charming. I thought of Portia's insistence that I take a lover and blushed a little myself.

"Do not mind that," I said softly as he bent to blot the water spots. "It will dry soon enough and the scent is pleasant." I beckoned him away from the bed. "How is he?"

"H-he was sleeping peacefully until perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, my lady. I asked Mr. Aquinas and he thought a bit of lavender water might ease h-his sleep."

His eyes were round with apprehension. He had seldom had cause to speak to me directly, but when he had, his speech had always been laced with a boyish stammer and the slightest lilt of a country drawl. I could not imagine how he had come to Mayfair.

"You have done quite well, I am sure. Did Doctor Griggs leave instructions about the next dose?"

"Oh, yes, my lady." He crept to the night table where he collected a piece of paper. There were a few directions given, but only general in nature.

"Blast, nothing about what to expect," I murmured.

The round blue eyes, anxious and wide, fixed on my face. "I beg your pardon, my lady?"

"Nothing. I suppose Aquinas has told you that Sir Simon's health is failing completely now?" He bowed his head, dropping his eyes to the carpet. "I doubt that your stay in the sickroom will be of any long duration," I said softly. "I simply want him comfortable. I will be here often myself. I see that you have left off your livery. I will tell Aquinas to have a bed made up here for you so that if he wakes, he will not be alone."

Desmond inclined his head further, assenting.

"You did well referring your question to Aquinas. You must not hesitate to tell him, or myself, if there is anything you think Sir Simon requires. You'd best go and have your supper now. I will sit with him."

He withdrew and I took his chair by the bed. I slipped my hand into Simon's. It was warm and damp with sleep, like a child's. After a while he opened his eyes and turned to me, blinking slowly.

"You were moaning. Are you in pain, dearest? I could give you some more laudanum."

He waved a hand. "No. I've had the most appalling dreams." He licked his lips and I poured out a glass of water. I held his head while he sipped. When he was done I laid him back against the pillows, settling him gently as an infant.

"Not long for it now, am I, Julia? No, don't look like that. I won't be brave and make speeches. I will be so glad to go."

I picked up Desmond's basin and began to sponge his brow, wiping it slowly.

"You are not afraid?"

His expression was dreamy. "How can I be? You should have learned by now, darling, it is life that holds all the terrors, not death." Something clouded his eyes then, and his hand tightened on the coverlet. "I used to be afraid of it. So afraid. I cannot think how it changed."

I wrung out the sponge and put it into a saucer.

"Perhaps because you have seen others pass."

"Edward," he said softly. I nodded. I resumed my seat and picked up his hand again.

"Perhaps it makes us brave when we have watched others."

He nodded slowly. "Perhaps. I was so terrified, I used to think I would do anything to save myself. But there is no way. I have come to know that, Julia." He was growing animated now, almost feverish, and I could hear the rattle beginning to sound in his chest. A few weeks, Doctor Griggs had said. I was beginning to think days, instead. "Do you remember the stories, the myths we used to read together as children?"

"Yes, of course. I always fancied myself as Artemis."

He gave me a feeble smile. "Is that why you always ran around with Benedick's castoff bow?"

"Of course. Lady of the Wild Things. I used to pretend my grandmother's moth-eaten old spaniel was my faithful hunting hound, don't you remember?"

This time he laughed, but I was sorry I made him. A painful interlude followed, with much gasping and coughing. I gave him more water and persuaded him to let me order some broth from the kitchen. We talked of nothing in particular while we waited, and then I held the bowl as he spooned it into his mouth, spilling a little on the coverlet. After a very few sips he waved me away and patted his mouth with the napkin.

"The Fates," he said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" I resumed my seat.

His fingers were plucking at the damp patch on the coverlet, but his expression had grown dreamy again, perhaps an aftereffect of the laudanum. "I was thinking of the Fates. When we used to read myths, they always frightened me. Those three old crones, spinning and measuring and cutting the thread of life. What were they called? Clotho spun, I remember that, and Lachesis measured, but the last…"

"Atropos," I supplied. He nodded.

"That is the one. Atropos. The cruelest Fate of all. There is no bribing her, you know. No putting her off when she decides you are done. Snip!"

His voice was growing loud and I half rose, but he shook his head at me, angrily I thought.

"What does it matter now? Let me shout a little, Julia. What harm will I do?"

I sighed. "None, I suppose. I feel perfectly helpless, you know. I keep thinking there is something I could do, should do, but there is nothing. Is there?"

But Simon could not give me absolution. He had retreated deep into himself and was brooding. Probably on the cruel Fates and their obsession with the men of his family. I rose and kissed him on the brow, smelling lavender and sweat.

"I will return later. I will send Desmond up to you now."

He heard me, his eyelids flickered, but he said nothing. He was angry, and with good reason. His thirtieth birthday was two weeks away. He would not live to see it. I would have been angry, too.

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh! If you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I!

—Sappho

I spent the next two days sulking around Grey House. I worked on the household accounts, tidied the stillroom, read and wrote letters. Or at least I pretended to. The truth is, I often found myself staring at a book I did not remember picking up or writing such utter gibberish that in the end I tore the pages into tiny pieces and dropped them into the wastepaper basket. I was utterly useless, waiting for Brisbane to send a report and for Simon to expire. I went often to the sickroom, intending to read to Simon or simply sit with him, but he had settled into a routine with Desmond and seemed easier with him. I made Simon uncomfortable and, if I am honest, I was uncomfortable as well. Edward's death, while horrible, had the saving grace of being quick. Simon would not be so lucky. It was torture to watch him suffer, and I was craven. I made every excuse I could to avoid the sickroom, until my conscience prickled and I knew that I could put it off no longer. I always felt a guilty sense of release when I slipped out again, like a child on holiday from school.

To assuage my guilt I spent hours closeted with Cook, concocting menus that I thought might tempt him to eat. I needn't have bothered. He ate little, sometimes barely tasting the delicate morsels we sent up. Each day I saw the plates go by, often untouched, and each night I prayed to a God I no longer wholly believed in for Simon's deliverance. But he lived on and I added that to the score I had to settle with God.

To add insult to injury, it was at about this time that I was adopted. One morning, as I sat muttering obscenities over Cook's outrageously extravagant food accounts, I heard a sound from the floor. A distinctive, wholly unwelcome quorking sound. I edged around my desk and glanced down.

"Good Lord, how did you get loose?"

The raven looked up at me and cocked his head. "Good morning," he said, quite civilly.

"Yes, good morning to you, too, I suppose." He continued to regard me thoughtfully and I returned the favor. He was too big for me to wrestle back to Val's room were I so inclined. But even if his size was no deterrent, his beak and talons were. We enjoyed our impasse for some minutes, but at length I grew bored and returned to my accounts.

Immediately, the wide black wings whirred and the raven flapped up and settled himself on my desk. I froze, but he did not move again, apparently content to perch there, watching me. He was rather gentlemanly, all things considered. He did not disturb my papers or inkwell, keeping himself carefully out of my way. His round, shining eyes were focused steadily on my pen, watching with great interest as I made my sums.

After a minute, I opened a box of sugared plums and held one out to him.

"Are you hungry?"

He made a sound I had not heard before, something very like Aunt Hermia's sigh of pleasure whenever she is offered a box of violet creams. He plucked the plum from my fingertips and tore into it. It was not particularly pleasant to watch, but he seemed very contented.

"Sweeties," he said when he had finished.

"Hmm, yes, sweeties. Whatever shall we do with you?" I asked him rhetorically. Val had made no progress with his scheme to return him. I had scanned the newspapers every day, but there was no mention of a scandal regarding the Tower ravens. For all intents and purposes, I supposed the fellow belonged to us now.

Or perhaps to me, I thought with a flutter of alarm as he toddled across the desk. He lowered his head, bobbing it toward me. After a moment, I realized he expected something and I lifted a hand to scratch his handsome feathers.

"You are no better than a dog," I said repressively. But he was busy making his little quork and bobbing for more scratches on the head. When he was finished, he flapped down from the desk and busied himself inspecting the room. He walked the length of it, poking his shining head into the nooks and crannies, occasionally chattering at me. I responded, feeling rather stupid, but at least he said a word or two in return, which is certainly more than a dog would have done. By the time I had finished the accounts we were rather good friends and I was feeling a bit less bleak than I had before.

"You are a very companionable creature," I told him. "But you really ought to have a name. I suppose Hugi or Muni is too expected. I wonder what they called you."

He looked at me with gem-bright eyes, and for one mad moment I thought he was going to tell me. But he kept his secret and did not speak again for the rest of the afternoon.

To my delight, Portia called that evening. I nearly wept with relief. I greeted her warmly, too warmly, I suspect, for she pulled out of my embrace and looked at me suspiciously.

"Darling, do you feel quite yourself?"

I shook my head. "No, it's been quite dreadful, really. Simon is worse, nearly at the end, according to Griggs."

She divested herself of her hat and gloves and other trappings, heaping them in a bright, shifting pile of expensive, misty blue. She kept Puggy, settling him onto a purple fringed cushion as she took a chair. We began our usual duet.

"Oh, not that cushion, Portia. It's rather a favorite."

She gave me an injured little pout. "Puggy is very well behaved. What do you expect him to do to it?"

"Flatulate," I said plainly. "Or worse."

"Nonsense. You wouldn't do anything so frightfully common, would you, Puggy-Wuggy?"

She blew him kisses, which he ignored. "There, you see? He is a perfect lamb. Order up something decadent from the kitchen and have Aquinas open some champagne. We will be very naughty and you can weep out all your troubles and I will console you."

I did as she bade me. I ordered food—Cook sent hot, tiny, crispy prawns, bathed in sizzling butter. There were other scrumptious things as well, fruits and pastries, and when Aquinas brought the champagne, I noticed he was careful to bring the finest bottle in the cellar. He withdrew, tactfully closing the door behind him, and Portia and I happily commenced to a Lucullan feast. Or at least, Lucullan by our standards.

I told her everything as we ate. Well, nearly everything. If I am honest, it was nothing like everything. I gave her a carefully edited version of the truth, juggling secrets like so many conjurer's balls. In the first place, I did not reveal the secret of Brisbane's parentage. I simply skimmed rather neatly over Brisbane's retrieval of the box, telling her of his pugilistic endeavors at the Gypsy camp, but purposefully leaving out his fluent conversation with Jasper. Naturally I did not mention the kiss—if it could be called a kiss. That seemed a tepid, bloodless sort of word to describe what we had done. But it was private, and I could not bear the thought of recounting to her, chapter and verse, what it had been.

I also neglected to mention Magda's fatal grudge against Valerius. Portia inferred, because I heavily implied, that Magda's trouble had been with Edward and that the arsenic had been intended for him. She assumed that Magda neglected to use the poison before Edward died by another's hand and I did not correct her.

I also omitted the bloody shirts and Val's presence at Carolina's grave the night Magda was banished from her camp. I had not spoken to him myself yet, and I did not feel it quite sporting to spill his secrets to another member of the family. I owed it to him to hear his side of the story before I threw him to the wolves. Besides, I was desperately afraid Portia would run straight to Father, and that was a complication I could do without.

So I presented her with a bowdlerized version of events, stressing the tangle surrounding Edward's death and my own sadness at Simon's impending loss. Puggy snored, but Portia was very attentive.

She sympathized over Simon for a moment, then steered the conversation back to the investigation.

"You must keep yourself busy, Julia," she advised. "I know that Simon's passing will grieve you, but it comes as no shock. He has been unwell for so long, and surely it is a blessing in itself that he is shortly to find release."

I murmured something in agreement.

"So," she went on briskly, "you must have a thought to life after Grey House. You must bring this investigation to an end as quickly as possible and move on with your life."

I drained my glass, licking the last drops of champagne. Delicious. I poured another. "I know. I do have plans, you must believe me. I wish to travel, perhaps even to write a book. I thought of selling Grey House, as well. It's really far too big for me." I stared at the fizzy gold bubbles of the champagne racing one another to the top of my glass. "But I feel that if I do not know the truth about Edward, however painful, that I cannot move forward. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, of course." She popped a prawn into her mouth, then selected one for Puggy. "And what of Brisbane? Shall you see him again when all this is finished?"

I shook my head and immediately regretted it. Champagne always left me dangerously light-headed. "I do not see why I should. I mean, I think it highly unlikely. I would have no need of him in a professional capacity, and socially…"

I let the thought hang there unfinished. It was provocative, really, the notion of meeting Brisbane in a social setting, with none of the complications of an investigation. "No, I think our paths will not cross again."

"Pity. I think you rather like him."

My first instinct was to deny, but I realized the futility before I even said the words. Ever the elder sister, Portia liked to think that she understood me better than I knew myself. I merely smiled at her.

"What if I did? I have found him enigmatic and tempestuous. You yourself said he was too much of an adventure for the likes of me."

Portia snorted. On any other woman, it would have been vulgar. On her, it was roguishly charming.

"Too much for the little mouse you were then, creeping about in your blacks and greys. Look at you now," she said with a sweep of her hand toward my vivid violet gown and its daring neckline. "You've come quite a long way since then, my pet. All bold colours and alabaster décolletage. Too delicious. And as for Brisbane being enigmatic and—what was the other?"

"Tempestuous," I supplied, thinking of the faint black-plum bruise on my back, a bruise just the shape of his hand.

"Tempestuous. Most interesting qualities, Julia, and you would call them liabilities. Tell me, what did he look like at the Gypsy camp? Was he really naked to the waist?"

She leered at me over the top of her glass and I could hardly speak for laughing.

"Ninny. He looked like a man, what do you expect?"

"Descriptive details, please! It's been ages since I saw one, and I likely never will again, at least if Jane has anything to say in the matter. Now, reveal all!"

I settled back against the cushions and described in lurid detail.

"Goodness," she said when I had finished. "Are you certain you are not embellishing? You always were prone to exaggeration as a child."

I shrugged. "It is all in the eye of the beholder, is it not?"

She was thoughtful as she reached for a raspberry tart. There was a scratching sound at the door then and we exchanged looks of surprise.

"Another bottle already? Aquinas is a gem, Julia. Whatever you are paying him, double it instantly."

I rose. "It is not Aquinas. There would have been footsteps." I opened the door cautiously. No one. I stepped back and there was an odd ruffly sound from the floor.

"Ah, thought you would invite yourself to the party, did you?"

The raven made a whirring noise in his throat and toddled past me, grave as a judge in his little black robe.

Portia gave a little cry. "What the devil is that?"

I closed the door and resumed my seat. "A raven, and not just any raven, my dear. This gentleman happens to be one of Her Majesty's own."

Portia's eyes were enormous. She reached for Puggy protectively. "You don't mean it! Not a Tower raven…what on earth is he doing here? How?"

The bird was pecking comfortably at the lace-edged hem of her gown. I distracted him with a tart, waving it in front of his bright black eyes. "Val. He won him off of Reddy Phillips on a lucky hand at cards."

Portia, clutching Puggy to her bosom, leaned over and watched the raven, tearing daintily at the tart.

"He's rather handsome, but something of a macabre sort of pet, don't you think? Especially with a dying man in the house?"

"Don't be ghoulish," I said sharply. "Simon has not seen him, nor will he. It might upset him in his present circumstances."

Portia agreed, then tossed another tart to the bird.

"That's for me," he said pleasantly.

Portia's eyes rounded even more. "He speaks?"

I nodded. "Apparently Reddy took him for a jape, substituting another bird in its place. No one at the Tower seems to have noticed, which I find ridiculous. I mean, one would think that if one's job is the care and well-being of these creatures, one could have the diligence to tell them apart."

"One would," she agreed. "Do you mean to keep him, then?"

"I mean to give him back, only I don't quite know how. Reddy plagued us for a while, but I did not want to turn the bird over to him."

"Why ever not?" Portia's voice rose in exasperation, the perquisite of an older sister. "You want to be rid of him, who better to take him off your hands than the little half-wit who stole him in the first place?"

"I cannot explain it, except to say that I do not like Reddy Phillips. I did not wish to make it so easy for him."

Portia regarded the raven a moment longer. He had finished his little treat and was sitting, looking from one of us to the other, as if he understood each word perfectly.

"You know, I am not surprised Reddy has business with ravens," she said thoughtfully. "His elder brother was quite obsessed with them."

"Was he?" I was keeping a wary eye on the bird. He was eyeing Puggy a little too intently for my liking.

"Yes, you must remember Roland. I was obliged to dance with him sometimes during my Season thanks to Auntie."

We grimaced at each other. Aunt Hermia's rule that one must dance with any gentleman who asked was ironclad. She made exceptions only for the most outrageous cads. She had some notion that it would give us an opportunity to widen our acquaintance, but as we always tried and failed to make her understand, there was a reason we were not acquainted with such people in the first place.

"I remember him vaguely. Whatever became of him?"

"Dead. Married some thin, weedy girl from the Duke of Porthchester's family. She was only sixteen, if memory serves. Piles of money on his side, a lineage to the Norman Conquest on hers. Unhappy marriage, by all accounts." As always, I was deeply impressed with Portia's ability to remember the minutest details of other families' misfortunes. She was a walking catalog of gossip, and although I deplored it, secretly I was rather glad. It saved me the trouble of talking to people. "Roland was quite apparently indiscreet with his affairs. He was actually on his way to an assignation when there was an accident. Train, boat, carriage, I can't recall. Something to do with transportation. Anyway, I don't think the child-bride mourned him very long. She married some Continental, a count or some such creature, the next year. Not a farthing between them except for her jointure from Roland, but they seem quite happy."

I sipped at my champagne, wondering how differently my life might have turned out if Edward had left me a widow years earlier. Might I have found a Continental count to ease my widowhood? Portia was still talking, reminiscing about the Phillipses.

"He was a member of that awful club, do you remember? They formed it the year you made your debut. Fashioned themselves after Cousin Francis' Hellfire Club."

I preferred not to remember. Sir Francis Dashwood, a cousin on our father's side, had been the founder of the infamous Medmenham Club, often referred to by its more descriptive—and accurate—sobriquet, the Hellfire Club. The members had been notorious for their exploits, both in the bedchamber and in the chapels of the occult. In the years since its dissolution, a number of other reprobate youths had attempted to revive it, with varying success.

Portia was musing aloud. "What did they call themselves? Something very like it…Brimstone! Yes, that was it. The Brimstone Club. They had all of these nasty little rituals, deflowering virgins together, that sort of thing. And all of that superstitious nonsense! They used to drink out of virgins' skulls to cure diseases and things. You must remember—it was all the talk for the entire Season. Such speculation about who might belong. They were so secretive about their membership, no one ever knew for certain. Except for Roland Phillips—he went on and on about it. Of course, that family has never been one for discretion. Roland talked about how they always had ravens when they met, for effect, I suppose. His father bought that estate the other side of Basingstoke. They used the old folly there as a meeting place for the club, almost a ruin, I think it was. Very atmospheric and eerie. Tried to conjure the dead, I think."

I stared at her. "You are making all of that up. You are quite drunk. Give me the champagne."

She snatched up the bottle and held it out of my grasp. "I am not making it up. It was most entertaining. And profitable," she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. "I managed to blackmail Bellmont into giving me a tidy little sum of money by threatening to tell Adelaide he was a member."

"Never!" I did not imagine that Portia would scruple at a little good-natured extortion within the family. What shocked me was the idea that our eldest brother might actually have done something worth concealing.

"Do not let me shatter your illusions, dearest. Monty is lily-white, I promise. But you know what a Polly Puritan Adelaide is. If there had been a breath of scandal touching Monty she never would have married him. I thought it might be amusing to touch him for a little pocket money. Fool that he was, he paid me."

"Portia, that is disgraceful. How much?"

She flashed me a smile. "I shall never tell. Suffice it to say that my domination over him came to an end when he discovered me in a compromising position with Daphne Pascoe."

"No! I thought that Jane was…that is to say, I did not realize…" I struggled to find the proper vocabulary. My attempts at tact sent Portia off into gales of laughter.

"My poor sweet, my life does not fit very easily into the proper pattern, does it?"

I shook my head. "No. But then none of ours has."

She shifted Puggy comfortably on her lap. "Oh, I don't know about that. You did what we were supposed to. You married your childhood sweetheart, lived in a quiet house in a quiet street, going to quiet parties, wearing—"

"Yes, I have got that. Quiet clothes. How depressing you make it all sound. Well, I mean to make a proper scandal of myself just as soon as I have the chance. In fact, I may have already begun. I was quite thoroughly rude to Doctor Griggs this week."

Portia gave me a pitying look. "My precious pet, you must do considerably more than snub that old fusspot to atone for a decade of normalcy."

"It is a beginning," I replied mildly, thinking of all I had not told her. "At least it is a beginning."

THE THIRTY-THIRD CHAPTER

The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

—Robert Herrick

"Corinna's Going A-Maying"

The next day Morag brought the early post with my tea. Propped against the silver teapot was an envelope, thick and creamy, covered with a deep black scroll of now-familiar handwriting. I slit the seal with my butter knife.

My lady,

I have met with the proprietress of the establishment in question. This lady, Miss Sally Simms, declined to offer any useful information on the grounds of client confidentiality. I was only able to confirm that the box had been in her possession at one time, and that items of that type are usually given as tokens of esteem to clients of note. She declined to say whether this touched Sir Edward, and suggested that it was possible that the box passed through many hands before coming into his possession through quite innocent means. I will pursue this matter further, but at present I am obliged to leave for Paris on a matter of business. I shall write again upon my return, which I anticipate will be in five or six days—certainly less than a week. In the meantime, I must emphasize that you are not to involve yourself in this investigation in any capacity.

Yours sincerely,

Nicholas Brisbane

Morag was bustling about the room, humming to herself. I resisted the urge to crumple up the letter and throw it at her. If I did not know his hand so well, I would have hardly believed him the author of this missive. It was cool and arrogant and pedantic—very like his manner when we first met, but I had thought, hoped, that we had progressed beyond this. I was thoroughly annoyed with him, not least for scampering off to Paris when we clearly had unfinished business in London. Sally Simms, indeed!

Pouting, I munched a piece of toast and considered my course of action. I could maunder about the house as I had been doing, or I could get out into the town and pay a few calls, refreshing myself and keeping well out of trouble until Brisbane's return. Irritated as I might be, I had no desire to call down that temper on my head. I would wait patiently until his return, then call upon him and sweetly press my case. I had little doubt that his abrupt departure for Paris was due in large part to his vexation with me. So be it. I would win back his good favor by following his instructions, much as they chafed, and clearing up a few little mysteries of my own. I would confront Valerius at dinner and force him to tell me the truth about his antics. And in the meantime, I would find out what was in Madame de Bellefleur's mysterious, luscious rose salve.…

She received me with all the warmth and charm I had come to expect, throwing open her arms and enfolding me like an old friend.

"What a delicious surprise! I was perishing of loneliness, and here you are, an angel of mercy," she said, tucking her arm through mine. She took me into the little parlor with its lovely bee-strewn upholstery. She rang for Therese to bring cakes and a delicately scented citrus drink that was lusciously cool, perfect for the sultry warmth of the morning.

"What weather we are having," she commented as she handed me a plate stacked with tiny orange cakes. There was a candied violet sitting prettily on the top. "I was just telling Therese this morning how lovely it was going to be. Such heat for May Day!"

I looked at her, startled. "Is it May Day? How extraordinary. I had no idea."

She smiled at me. "It is much celebrated in the country, is it not? With ribbon poles and queens of the May?"

"Oh, yes. There are festivals and flowers—it is quite something. Somehow one loses track of that in town. I wish I had remembered, I would have brought you a basket of sweet peas. It is traditional to hang them on someone's doorknob and run away before they see you."

Her eyes were dancing. "How charming! Tell me more."

I did. I told her about bringing home hawthorn branches, and the morris dancers, and cricket matches, and found myself growing terribly homesick for the countryside. Abruptly I changed the subject.

"This drink is quite delicious, Madame. You must tell me how it is made."

She wagged an elegant finger at me. "It was Fleur, do you not remember? The drink is very simple. I will write it out for you later. One of my little receipts."

I fetched the little pot from my reticule. "This is all I have left of the last concoction you shared with me. My maid attempted to re-create it, but I am afraid she lacks your skill. The most she managed was a pale pink syrup."

Fleur laughed and clasped her hands together. "Then you shall have more. I am always so happy to share."

And I believed she was. I could see the genuine pleasure she got from giving to me, and I wondered if it was because she had rather made a living out of receiving. Accepting the jewels and bibelots and money of her admirers must be rather tiring after a while, I reflected. It must satisfy some primitive, nurturing side of her to be able to give something instead.

"You are pensive," she said suddenly. "Forgive me for prying, but I think you are thinking too much."

I smiled at her. "Yes, I am thinking rather too much. I wondered if you had heard from Brisbane."

She nodded, her sleek dark head barely touched with silver in the strong morning light. "Yes, he goes to Paris today. I am very wicked. I know he goes on business, but I still say to him, 'Nicky, please go to Guerlain and get my favorite perfume, and then I must have some chocolate and ribbons and fans and stockings…'" She trailed off with a laugh. "I am too awful to him, but he is very good to me, and I do so love my little treasures from my home."

I hesitated, taking another sip of the citrus drink to smooth the way. "Fleur, I know about his past. About his being Gypsy, I mean."

She lifted a delicately plucked brow. "Indeed? Did he tell you?"

"Not precisely." I thought it likely he had told Fleur himself. I could picture him, sleepy and warm, tangled with her in a twist of heavy, crested linen sheets, murmuring confidences he would never share with me. Ruthlessly, I dragged my imagination back to its proper place. "You see, I followed him—it was during the course of the investigation," I said hurriedly. "No, don't look at me like that. I did not mean to pry, truly I did not. I thought he was in danger, but then…"

She smiled, the brief shadow of disapproval dispelled.

"I understand. He is very stubborn, you know, stupidly so. I imagine he did not take it very well when you learned his secret."

I pushed away the memory of the rough tree bark digging into my back, his fingers twisting into my hair…it had been a worthy distraction. Had it been a tactic, a stratagem to lure me from the discovery I had just made?

I wrenched my mind back to Fleur and the question she had put to me.

"No. He was quite angry at the time. We made it up after a fashion, but I know he is still put out with me."

She shrugged. "Men are prideful creatures and Nicholas is prouder than most. He will forgive you before he forgives himself."

"Perhaps. I tried to make him understand that it does not matter, not a bit, but I know he thinks that it does."

Fleur leaned forward, focusing her eyes so intently on mine that I began to wonder if she practiced mesmerism.

"But it does matter. Not to me, and not to you, but we are enlightened women, my dear. We judge him by the man he has become, not the child he was, and not the blood he bears. But there will always be those…" She paused, shivering slightly. "I remember one time, in Buda-Pesth, it was quite horrible, my dear. I truly thought he was going to be killed. He made the mistake of saying something in Romany to the wrong person, a powerful person with friends, and with a grudge against his kind. I do not think Nicky would have told me about himself if it were not for this man. But he needed help to get out of the city. He turned to me, I turned to my husband, and together we managed to smuggle him to safety."

I was staring at her, stupefied. It sounded like something out of a picaresque novel. She gave me her little enigmatic smile.

"I know, it sounds fantastic. But that is how it ended, between Nicky and me. He fled for his life and I owed his salvation to my husband. I was so grateful to Serge, he risked so much to save Nicholas, just to make me happy. Do not worry, I repaid him amply," she said, falling into a fit of warm, honeyed laughter. "So much has changed since then, but so much is still the same. Nicky is proud. No matter what he says about not caring, he does. Those little thorn pricks hurt—sometimes more than the sword."

I nodded, remembering his bitter words about the taunts of his cousins. "I think you are right. I know it was difficult for him as a child, and is still so with his family. He told me he is not angry that I discovered his birth. Perhaps he is growing more comfortable with it."

"Perhaps. He is more than thirty-five now. Men begin to change then, to grow more serious, more wise about the things that matter."

"You are right, I am sure. He said he does not care if the truth comes out and he is finished in society. He said he merely cultivates respectability because it brings him more lucrative business."

Again that sweet, warm laugh. "That sounds like Nicky. A bit of a pirate at heart, no?"

I grinned at her. "More than a bit, I should think." I felt my smile fade as I thought of something else I had long wanted to ask her. "Fleur, when Brisbane came here to you to convalesce—that is, I wondered if his health—I mean, his headaches…"

She gave me a pitying look, understanding, I think, what I was trying to ask and why I wanted to know.

"I only ask because he seems to suffer so, and his man, Monk, said he has been to doctors. His remedies are unorthodox, dangerous, I fear. I hoped something could be done for him. Please do not tell him I spoke to Monk. He does not know. I just thought that if I knew more about them, if we could discover the cause, perhaps I could help," I finished lamely.

"My poor child, you really do not know?" Her eyes were warm, pitying, the same expression I had seen in Father's eyes when I was nine years old and he had to tell me that my favorite cat had been struck by a cart. "There is no help for Nicky because he does not wish it. He knows perfectly well what causes them."

I put down my glass, careful not to shatter it although my hands were shaking. "He knows what causes them? Then why does he not take steps? Surely something can be done."

She was shaking her head, resigned. "No, for Nicky the cost is too high. To fight the headaches would mean embracing what he truly is, and this he cannot do."

"Fleur, you mystify me. Stop speaking in riddles!" I demanded, angry and a little frightened now.

Her eyes were fixed on my face, still pitying, but now I found it condescending rather than kind. I was growing tired of Fleur and her enigmatic conversation.

"It is very simple, my dear. Nicky has the second sight."

Out of kindness I did not laugh. But I did smile.

"Fleur, surely you are jesting."

Her face was composed and serious. "I am not. Nicholas has the sight. He comes from a long line of Roma with the same gift. Or curse, as he calls it."

I shook my head. "I cannot believe it. The second sight! That is a fairy story for children. Surely you do not believe it."

"But I do. I was as disbelieving as you at first," she assured me, "but there is no other explanation." She hesitated, weighing her words. "I will tell you the truth now, my dear, about why Nicky had to leave Buda-Pesth. It was not because he spoke Romany in front of someone he oughtn't. The truth is much worse. There was a child, a little boy, perhaps five years old. His father was a very important man, a count—very wealthy, very well connected. The boy disappeared one day when he was in the park with his nurse. She looked away for a few minutes, and poof—" she snapped her fingers "—he was gone. The father was in agonies, he drew upon all of his influential friends. The entire city was searched, but they did not find him. Two days went by and still he was not found. That night Nicky had a dream, a terrible dream. He woke screaming, bathed in sweat—he was wild-eyed, like a child waking from a nightmare. He did not even know what he was screaming."

My mouth had gone dry, but my palms were wet. "What was he screaming?"

It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment her face fell and I could see every one of her sixty years. "He was screaming, 'No, Father, don't let him kill me.' He was screaming in a child's voice, you see."

"A nightmare," I said firmly. "It proves nothing. Anyone might have dreamed it."

Fleur went on, her voice flat now. She told the rest of the story plainly, without emotion. "Nicholas was getting by in Hungary with his excellent French and a bit of German. He never bothered to learn Hungarian," she said, watching me closely.

I swallowed hard. "And that night—"

"He spoke perfect Hungarian. In the voice of a child," she said softly. "When he woke, he was able to give a perfect description of where the boy had been taken—a place he had never been and did not know existed."

We were silent a moment. "That is extraordinary," I managed finally. She smiled thinly.

"That is not all. His description was a child's as well. He told of what a child would see, what a child would remember. It was as if he was that child. When they followed the directions he gave them, they found the boy. He had been murdered, savagely, at the hands of a madman. And the first person they suspected—"

"Nicholas," I breathed.

She gave a Gallic, offhand little shrug. "Of course. It was only logical. Who else could have known where the child would be found but the man who put him there? It was all I could do to get him out of the city before they came for him. It was another fortnight before the true murderer was discovered in the act of attempting to take another child. It was proved beyond doubt that he killed the first boy. He even confessed to it before his execution."

"They might have hanged him," I commented softly.

Fleur shook her head, her expression profoundly sad. "It was not that which nearly destroyed him. It was the dream itself. It was real to him, as real as if he had lived it. He did live it. He was as terrified, as tormented as that boy had been. He told me that he had had such dreams, sometimes while sleeping, sometimes awake, for many years. He had tried to control them, to push them away. He took things—sometimes to make him sleep too deeply for the dreams, sometimes to keep him wakeful for days at a time. He always felt them coming on, often days in advance, he told me, like storm clouds gathering in his brain. Sometimes he was successful in keeping them at bay. But there were other times…the dreams were simply too strong. And when he was fighting them, pushing them down, the headaches would come. Solomon's choice, no? The vicious headaches, or the horrible dreams. He hates those dreams. They are a legacy of his Gypsy blood. His mother's people are famous for them. Perhaps that reason, more than any other, is why he has turned his back on his own kind."

I sat, feeling limp and exhausted by her story. I could not imagine what it must be like to live such a life, seizing any means of escaping from one's own mind…like a wounded animal gnawing at a trapped leg.

"That was what was wrong with him, when he came to you. He was recovering from one of those dreams."

She nodded. "It was. He had tried desperately to keep one of those visions at bay."

"Was he successful?"

"Not entirely. He saw enough to frighten him deeply." Her eyes were guarded. Much as she appeared to enjoy my company, her loyalty was with Brisbane. I do not think she would have told me the full truth, not even then, had I not already known. She must have seen the fear in my face, for I knew I could not mask it. I did not want to ask her, but I did.

"What did he dream of?" I asked in a thin, bloodless voice.

"My dear…" She stretched out her hand and touched mine. "He dreamed of you."

THE THIRTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

She could tell me nothing more. When she had asked him about the dream, Nicholas had murmured my name. That was all. Whether I was in peril or simply a bystander in his vision, she could not say.

I was not comforted. The details she had given me about his time in Hungary left me chilled and nervous. In spite of myself, I cast glances over my shoulder as I returned to Grey House. No one lurked there, but I felt better when the door was shut and I was safely locked behind my own door once more.

Fleur had apologized of course. She had not meant to alarm me. She pointed to Brisbane's absence and insisted that he would never have left London if he believed I was in any true danger.

This did not ease my mind. I thought of what he had told me when we began our investigation. He had warned me of the danger, but I had not heeded him. I had thought it all a marvelous game, a parlor trick to winkle out a murderer before he guessed I was on his trail.

I had been very, very stupid. I could see it now. I had confided in a few trusted souls. But should I? Were they worthy of my trust? Or were they simply waiting for that perfect moment when my attention faltered to give me a gentle nudge down a steep staircase? An innocent glove, laced with poison…a box of chocolates, envenomed with a pin…I sat in my study, torturing myself for the better part of an hour before I came to my senses. Honestly. I was no better than that stupid girl in Northanger Abbey, seeing danger behind every bush, villains behind every door. The only thing to do, in spite of Brisbane's warning, was to proceed with the investigation. The sooner the murderer was unmasked, the sooner the danger would be past.

Resolute, I pulled out a little notebook, wrote down everything, laying out all of the clues we had discovered, noting each of the developments that had led us to this point, and the blind alleys that had led us nowhere. I wrote tirelessly, knowing that if I just put it all down, somehow, something would leap off the page at me.

And there it was. So simple I could not believe it had not occurred to me or to Brisbane before. The Psalter. We knew the text of the message I had found because it was still in our possession. But what of the others? They, too, had been scissored from the holy book. Was there a reason those particular passages had been chosen? The scripture we had seen referred to wickedness. Were the others more specific? Did they point to a particular wrong that Edward had committed against the sender?

Fired with new enthusiasm, I fetched the ruined Psalter and an old Bible from the bookshelves. Comparing them carefully, I noted down the exact verses that had been fashioned into threats for Edward. There were eight of them altogether, including the last, the one I had found hidden away in Edward's desk. I wrote them out onto a single sheet of paper and studied them.

The first was a warning, it seemed.

The face of the Lord is against them that do evil, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth.

The second was much in the same vein.

For lo, they that are far from thee shall perish; thou hast destroyed all them that go whoring from thee.

Three and four were grimmer.

God shall likewise destroy thee forever, he shall take thee away, and pluck thee out of thy dwelling place, and root thee out of the land of the living.

Let death seize upon them, and let them go down quick into hell; for wickedness is in their dwellings, and among them.

Five and six continued, more vicious than the ones before.

But thou, O God, shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction; bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days, but I will trust in thee.

As smoke is driven away, so drive them away; as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish in the presence of God.

I hardly had the stomach to read the last two.

But the wicked shall perish, and the enemies of the Lord shall be as the fat of lambs; they shall consume; into the smoke shall they consume away.

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.

I sat back, the words running like mad squirrels through my mind. So much talk of wickedness and destruction. Clearly the sender was accusing Edward of some evil, but what? There was talk of shame and deceit and destruction by fire, all vague enough. But there was one word that caught my eye. Whoring. Was it significant that the sender had chosen this verse, perhaps the only one in the entire Psalter to contain that particular word? If so, it pointed very clearly in one direction. The brothel.

The one place that I could not investigate while Brisbane was out of town. I cursed him inwardly, as well as my own inability to get the information I required for myself. I could again assume a disguise and attempt to go myself, but I had taken Brisbane's warning to heart. I felt, with some appalling certainty, that Brisbane would have had far more experience with such places than I. If he said there were thugs outside whose sole purpose was to inflict torture on the curious and the unruly, I had little doubt there were. I did not need to see them for myself. What I needed was a man. And I knew precisely where to find one.

THE THIRTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

—William Shakespeare

As You Like It

"Absolutely not," Valerius said when I presented my plan to him. "You must be barking mad."

"I am not. I simply want you to go to Pandora's Box and ask a few questions for me. Surely that is not too much to ask."

"But it is! Putting aside for just a moment the wild impropriety of what you are asking, it is dangerous."

I sighed and pushed away my dessert plate. I had not expected him to be so difficult. I had presented him with a definite plan, beautifully conceived and completely financed by me. All that was required of Val was a little pretense. He had only to present himself at the brothel and request the company of a young lady. Once in private, he could ply her with a handsome gift of money to answer a few questions I would provide. It all seemed quite uncomplicated to me. He need not even scruple to undress the poor girl. She would earn her fee for nothing more strenuous than a little conversation, and the proprietress need never know. I pointed all of this out to Valerius. He said nothing, but sat, contemplating his pudding.

"I cannot," he said finally. His eyes did not meet mine. "I wish I could oblige you, but I cannot, Julia. Please do not ask me."

"No, no, of course," I said, my voice chill with anger. "I have asked too much of you. A few questions of a poor prostitute, that was all. But there are other questions, you know, Valerius. Questions that I could ask you. Questions about the night you came home with a bloody shirt and a feeble explanation. Oh, I believed it the first time. But not the second."

He had gone very white, his lips bloodless where they pressed tightly together. He said nothing, and I went on, keeping my voice low and smooth.

"I did not ask, Valerius, even though I realized then that there were many such nights, many such shirts. And I did not ask about Magda, even when I found arsenic in her room and she admitted that she wanted to poison you—even then I did not ask."

He started, his complexion draining to white. "What? What do you mean about Magda?"

I took a sip of my wine. "She kept arsenic in her room. She meant to kill you with it because of what you had done to Carolina."

"Carolina! You cannot think I had anything to do with that awful business!"

I did not listen to his words. I had expected a denial. Instead I watched his skin, observing the warm flush of colour into his pale cheeks, the wildness of those lovely eyes. I had always known when Valerius was lying as a child. His neck would grow spotted red, even to the tips of his ears. But now, as his natural colour came flooding back, it did not deepen. His neck and ears were pale and unblemished.

"She said that you…" I paused. Had she ever named him? I thought back on our conversation. Had either of us?

Val leaned forward, earnest but not pleading. "I promise you, Julia, I had nothing to do with Carolina's exhumation. What I have done is terrible enough, but never that."

I looked at him sharply. "Valerius, we must have truth between us. Tell me. All of it."

He nodded, and I saw a gravity in his face I had not seen before. For the first time, I saw the man and not the child.

"I cannot go to Pandora's Box for you, because I am too familiar there. They know me."

I took another sip of wine, rough against my dry throat. "Go on."

"You know that Father will not permit me to open my own practice. You cannot imagine what that means, to be denied the chance to do the only thing that I can do well. And I can do it. I could be a very fine physician, Julia."

He spoke quietly, without pleading. I gave him credit for that much. There was no petulance in his tone, only the sober dignity of a grown man.

"Are you saying that you do not patronize this place as a client? That you are their physician?" I tried to mask the incredulity in my voice, but I heard it, and so did he.

He smiled faintly. "Julia, if you could but see them, you would understand why I am not tempted. They are pitiful creatures, most of them. Pretty enough, for a few years, when they are young, before disease and rough trade coarsen them. That life ages them quickly. And there are so few people like Aunt Hermia who care to help them. She gives aid to those who have already left the trade. I do what I can for those still in it. I spend a few days each week at Pandora's Box, administering treatment to their prostitutes and to those from the other brothels run by the same owner. Sometimes I am called in the evenings, if there is an emergency. The proprietress pays for their medical care, but I give the money to Aunt Hermia for her mission. It is all I can do."

He paused, gauging my reaction. I did not give him one, for I did not yet know what to think.

"Does Aunt Hermia know?"

He turned his wineglass around in his hands, strong, capable hands—a healer's hands.

"No. She thinks I am lucky at cards."

"Probably best not to tell her. She would enlist you to physic the penitents at the refuge."

Val smiled sadly. "I would have liked that, being open and aboveboard about the whole thing. Believe me, Julia, I never meant for it to come to this. I did not intend to deceive Father. I was offered the chance to work and I took it. I know it was stupid and rash, but I knew better than to ask Father. He would never have agreed."

"Better to ask for forgiveness than permission," I said quietly.

He continued to roll the wineglass in his palms, watching the wine turn through shadow and light, changing colour with the reflection of the candles.

"We've always found that the best way to handle Father, haven't we?"

"I suppose. But what of the prostitutes? What do you do for them?"

The wineglass rolled to a halt, then resumed its slow revolution. "Whatever I must. Sometimes the men are rough and there are bruises, even broken bones to treat. Many of them are diseased, and must be dosed for it. Some are pregnant, and must not be."

I held very still. "Abortions," I said flatly.

He nodded.

"Oh, Valerius, how could you?"

It was a question, not an accusation, and he knew it.

"Because someone will if I do not, and likely it will be a drunken, ham-fisted old butcher who would perforate their wombs and kill them. At least if I do it, they don't die."

"No, they live to go out and get pregnant again!" I hurled at him before I could stop myself. I held up my hand before he could reproach me. "I am sorry. That was unkind."

He shook his head. "No. It was true. That is the most difficult part, you know. Trying so hard to save them from themselves—healing the bruises and stitching up the wounds, hoping that this time, just perhaps this time, they will gather up whatever shreds of human dignity remain to them and leave while they still can. I always thought Aunt Hermia was daft for caring so much what became of her charges. I remember her coming home, weeping or creating a ferocious row with Father because one of her penitents went back on the game. I never understood why she couldn't simply shrug and go on. There are so many of them to save. And yet I find myself doing just the same. I remember the faces and the names and the stories of every girl I have ever seen in that brothel. Sometimes one of them does not come back and I pretend it is because she's gotten away. More likely it is because she died, or failed to please and was sold to a cheaper, rougher sort of place. And I always hope, when one of them comes to me because she is with child that this time will be her last—that she will listen and learn. I do my best to educate them, to help them prevent it from happening again."

"Are you successful?"

There was that faint, heartbreaking smile again. "Once in a while there is a girl young enough to listen. And I hope that she will remember what I have taught her. And one day, if she leaves the game and marries and settles down to a respectable life, she will be able to have children, unlike many of her sisters."

"Oh, Valerius. Why this? Why not the workhouses? Or the orphanages?"

The smile fell from his lips and his expression was one of raw, unblunted grief.

"Because of Mother."

"Because she died in childbed?"

"Because I killed her," he said very quietly.

"Don't be stupid," I told him sharply. "You were an infant. It was hardly your fault."

He shrugged. "I know that now. But there was a maid at the Abbey, one of the local girls who worked in the nursery. She always used to look at me slyly and whisper to me how much everyone loved the countess, and how she had died because of me."

"That was stupid and cruel—backstairs gossip, and completely untrue."

"But you believed it," he said softly.

"I was six years old! I also believed in fairy rings and wishes on clovers. As you say, I know better now."

He nodded. "Well, when I began to study medicine, I wanted to know—everything. All about birth and why some women, with no medical care at all, can have a child as easily as breathing and why others, even with the best doctors, die from it."

"You were her tenth child in sixteen years," I pointed out. "Perhaps she was simply exhausted. In that case, blame Father."

"I did, for a while, once I stopped blaming myself," he said blandly. "But I did not much like that, so I decided to blame God."

"When did you stop doing that?"

"Oh, I haven't. It's rather easy to blame someone you don't have to see over Sunday dinner."

"Yes, well, I shan't criticize you on that score. I have been guilty of it myself."

We were silent for a while. Val rose and went to the sideboard, pouring us each a glass of port. Usually, I did not drink it as it was a gentleman's drink, but this was a vintage Aquinas had selected, rich and dark, and it suited my mood to be a little rebellious.

"So that is my truth," he said finally. "What is yours?"

I told him. This time, unlike my narrative to Portia, I neglected nothing. I even told him the truth about Brisbane's indisposition and his Gypsy blood, warning him strictly against sharing either snippet of information with anyone.

When I had finished, he poured us each a second glass of port.

"We must have been utter dolts not to have seen it before," he commented. "And even when I saw him speaking Romany I never made the connection. It was all so fast, and then he started to chase you over the Heath, and then—"

He broke off and I let my eyes slide away. Val and I had shared many confidences this evening, but there were some things I was still unwilling to discuss. I cast around for a new subject.

"Val, did you ever see Edward at Pandora's Box?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "I did. In fact, he was the one who brought me to the place. Miss Simms, the proprietress, had complained to him about the difficulty of finding a physician who was willing to treat prostitutes and would be discreet about the business. He thought of me and asked me to accompany him to meet Miss Simms. I thought he was a benefactor," he explained quickly. "I did not realize he was a patron. I suppose I must have known, but I did not want to think about him betraying you. So, I convinced myself he was simply there to see to their well-being. As I was."

"Perhaps he was, at first," I said with a shrug. "It seems a pointless sort of thing to gnaw one's heart out over now." It sounded convincing at least, to my ears, anyway.

"I think you are quite correct," he went on. "The verses about whoring probably refer to his visits to the Box. But if Brisbane got nothing from Miss Simms, I will not either, I can promise you that. She is hard as nails and twice as sharp. But there might be others…"

He trailed off and I put my hand on his. "Try, Val. Please."

He nodded. "I have a case there, a girl with a broken arm I set just yesterday. She's started a fever and I wanted to look in on her. I suppose I could ask a few questions—but I must be discreet, so discreet that I may not even be able to discover what you wish to know. I cannot jeopardize the trust I have gained, you understand?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

He rose and so did I. For the first time since we were children, he enfolded me into an embrace. And since this time he was not attempting to toss spiders down my dress, I rather enjoyed it.

I went to Simon's room after Val left, thinking to read to him for a little while. But he was sleeping quietly, with Desmond sitting nearby. I smiled at the boy.

"How has he been this evening?"

He rose noiselessly. "The doctor was here earlier, my lady. He said that Sir Simon had rallied a little. His temperature is down and his pulse a bit stronger."

"Really? Well, so long as he is comfortable, that is the important thing," I said, watching as Simon moved a little in his sleep. "Is he warm enough?"

"Oh, yes, my lady. Doctor Griggs gave very specific instructions as to his care."

His face was troubled and I hastened to soothe him. "I am certain you are doing an excellent job, Desmond. I know it is not the most rewarding of tasks, but it is an important one, and you have the family's thanks."

For a moment he blushed deeply, his eyes downcast. His shyness was almost palpable. Before I could speak again to reassure him, he gathered hold of himself, dipping his head in a bob of respect. "Thank you, my lady. I have done my best."

I smiled again and slipped out, thankful that there was at least one situation I had left in capable hands. I was not so certain about Val.

I need not have worried on that score. Val did not return to Grey House until very late, but I had left the light in my room burning, a signal to him that I had not yet retired. He scratched at the door and I called to him softly to enter.

He gave me a tired little grin. "Success."

I patted the edge of my bed and he sat next to me so that we could talk without disturbing anyone. The last thing I wanted was Morag bustling in, asking pointed questions.

"You cannot imagine how simple it was," he said, marveling. "I was about to knock at Miss Simms' office, as I do every time, to let her know that I have arrived. Just as I raised my hand to knock, I heard her speaking sharply to one of the girls, warning her that a man had been about the place asking questions about Sir Edward Grey and that she was to tell nothing of what she knew."

"Brisbane," I said excitedly.

Val nodded. "Simms threatened her with a beating if she talked. The girl swore that she would never reveal anything, then Miss Simms dismissed her."

"But if she promised—" Val's smile cut me off.

"A promise to Miss Simms is a promise to the devil. All I had to do was offer the girl, Cass is her name, some coin. Although she hates Miss Simms enough that I think she might well have told me everything simply for spite."

"What did you discover?"

"Not everything. She confirmed that she often saw Sir Edward and spoke to him. And when I explained to her that his widow had questions, she asked to speak with you directly."

I stared at him. "Surely you told her no."

"I did not," he stated roundly. "You want answers and Cass is willing to give them to you."

"Val, I appreciate this Cassandra's—"

"Cassiopeia," he put in.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cassiopeia. All the girls are given a nom de guerre, for lack of a better phrase, from Greek mythology. To carry out the Pandora theme."

"Yes, well, that is commendably thorough. All the same, I do not think it at all suitable that I should meet this person."

But even as I said the words, I regretted them. Val risked his good name and his personal safety to give these squashed blossoms medical treatment. Aunt Hermia provided a refuge for those willing to give up the game and live a more conventional life. And Morag herself, well, it was best not to dwell on Morag. But I could not be happy instructing Val to do that which I could not. I had been attempting to prove myself a worthy partner in this investigation from the very beginning. It was time to show my mettle.

"I am sorry. Of course I shall meet with her. Have you made the arrangements?"

Val did not disappoint me. Knowing the impossibility of meeting either at my home or her place of business, Val had arranged a rendezvous in the Park for the next morning. He had provided Cass with enough money to procure herself a bit of incognita, and he had told her I would be thickly veiled and wearing black. He promised to escort me himself, in spite of Cass' warning that she would speak only to me.

"You have done rather well for your first foray into investigation," I told him.

He smiled wearily. "Is it? You have forgotten the Heath."

I felt myself flush, remembering the way that adventure had concluded. "You had best go to bed now," I said in my best bossy-elder-sister voice. "We must be out early to catch our little bird in the Park."

He left me and I retired, but sleep came slowly. Val's reminder of the adventure on the Heath had caused me to think of Brisbane. I wondered what he was about in Paris. I remembered his cool detachment, his thinly veiled anger the last time we met. I thought of Fleur, and her elegant, dazzling charms, how he confided in her so willingly and turned to her in times of trouble. And by the time I finally dropped off to sleep, I was fairly certain that he thought of me not at all.

THE THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions.

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

The next morning I would have just as soon stayed abed. A chill, nasty wind had blown up, with a dark canopy of grey cloud that threatened rain. If I had looked to the weather for a portent, I would have been highly disappointed. But Cass, the obliging young inmate of Pandora's Box, proved more informative than I had dared to hope.

She found me, almost as soon as I entered the Park, Val pacing discreetly behind me. She was dressed as a flower girl in a worn coat of threadbare green velvet and a straw hat wreathed in yellow blossoms. She approached me, calling her wares and offering me a fistful of lavender.

"Good morning, your ladyship," she said, smiling broadly. Her accent was the commonest sort of London speech, at times almost unintelligible. But her face was roundly attractive. She had a charming, winsome manner and a smile that seemed to illuminate her entire face. Her colour was high, and I wondered if she found the whole exercise to be some sort of grand enterprise.

"Good morning," I returned civilly. "Are you Cassiopeia?"

She smiled, revealing rather good teeth. "That's what they call me at the Box. My real name is Victoria, just like the queen. Vicky, they called me at home."

"What shall I call you?"

"Oh, Lord, I don't care, my lady. Whatever you likes."

"Very well, then, Victoria."

She snickered, not unkindly, and I realized that probably no one in her short, chaotic life had ever addressed her by her proper Christian name.

"Victoria, my brother, Mr. March, tells me that you have some information for me."

She nodded, her expression dark. "I do. I've no call to keep my word to that Sally Simms. She's kept back my wages twice this month for nothing. I do my job, my gentlemen are all quite happy."

"Hmm. Yes. Suppose we walk for a bit and I will ask you a few questions."

She nodded, moving down the path that I indicated. The Park was quiet. It was too early and too chill for most visitors, but I did not like being so near Rotten Row. The path wound us in the opposite direction, away from the faint noise of the streets and farther into the dark gloom of the sheltering plane trees.

She shivered a little in her thin coat.

"Are you warm enough, Victoria?"

She nodded. "I don't much like trees. I always fancy they look like giants, with great big arms waving about."

"I presume you are not country-bred then?"

She puffed with pride. "I am a proper Cockney. Of course I don't get home to my mam very much on account of Miss High-and-Mighty Simms working me all the time. I had to feed her a tale this morning about my mam being sick to get out of the Box. But she was good enough about it. Sent for a hackney to bring me. The driver seems a good sort. I'll give him a copper and he will never tell he didn't take me to mam's."

I was shocked. I knew that the prostitutes lived in the brothel, but they could not be prisoners, could they?

"Surely she does not hold you there against your will?"

The girl laughed, a dry, grating sound so unlike Fleur's gentle bells. "Bless you, no, my lady. It's just that Simms makes us sign a little book telling where we're going and when we'll be back. She had a few girls disappear on her, pinched away to other houses, and she doesn't mean to lose any others. And some girls will fix a plan to meet with one of the gentlemen outside the Box, to keep the money for themselves. But I've never thought that was worth my trouble."

"Indeed?"

"Not at all. What's a girl supposed to do if a gentleman won't pay after he's had his fun, or turns nasty-like, if there's no Tommy about?" she asked reasonably. I nodded, remembering what Brisbane had told me about the men who committed cheerful violence to keep customers and prostitutes in line at the Box. Doubtless these were the Tommies.

"Besides," she went on blithely, "I like clean sheets for my business and a bit of a wash in between. Some gentlemen are none too fresh, if you take my meaning."

"Oh, dear," I murmured. In spite of my pretenses to independence and bold thinking, I was beginning to understand how very conventional I really was.

"I suppose we had better come to business. My brother tells me that you knew my husband, Sir Edward Grey."

"Oh, yes, my lady. That is why I wanted to speak to you, personal-like. Some ladies get all in a twist when they find out their gentleman was a customer. I wanted you to know that Sir Edward, well, it was different with him. He paid me for talk and he talked about you quite a fair bit of the time."

I stopped and stared at her. We were of a height, Victoria and I, both of us fairly diminutive, but appearing taller. My carriage was nearly perfect thanks to Aunt Hermia's rigorous schooling. I wondered where Victoria had learned hers.

"Sir Edward paid you for conversation?"

"Oh, yes. He had awful nice things to say about you, my lady, and I do say they were the truth. He was always talking about how nice you were, how ladylike. He did say he regretted marrying you something terrible, but that it was not your fault, you'd been a proper good wife."

"How flattering," I said faintly.

She nodded. "He said you were so pretty, he just liked to look at you, that he didn't need to be a proper husband to you."

I said nothing to this, but Victoria did not require a reply. She went on, chattering as if she did not know each word was a lance to me.

"He didn't mind about the children, you know. He never blamed you for not having them. He blamed himself. Said if he had lived a better life, he could have made you a better husband and not taken such a risk with your health as he had his own. Of course, he always said—"

I put a hand to her sleeve. "What? What risk to my health?"

Her eyes widened. They were beginning to wrinkle at the corners. She could not have been more than twenty, and already the signs of her hard life were etched in her face.

"The pox, my lady. He felt right terrible about it."

I moved away, groping for a bench. Val, sensing my distress, came closer, but I waved him back angrily. Victoria sat next to me. She did not ask my leave, but I did not care.

"The pox. Edward had syphilis?"

"Why, I thought you knew, my lady. The way he talked and all, he said that you couldn't have children because of his syphilis. I thought he meant he gave it to you."

I shook my head. "No. He must have meant that he could not—"

I could not bear to say the words.

"Ah, you mean, he couldn't go with you, because he was afraid of giving it to you when you'd not had it?" she finished for me.

I nodded.

"Well, that does make sense. He was always so cruel about himself, saying such terrible things. Called himself a ruination, and a devil. I used to feel sorry for him, with his pretty manners and nice clothes. He had such a nice way of speaking and all. Hard to credit he'd feel so low about himself."

I nodded again. My hands were shaking, so I clasped them firmly together, the glove leather creaking a little.

"Did he say when, how he contracted the syphilis?"

She tipped her head, thinking. "Before he married, I know that much. He said he hadn't realized he had already got it when he married, but the doctor told him he would not have been contagious right then. He explained it once, but it was confusing. I think he said there was a first bit of it, when he was ill, but didn't know what with. Then he felt better and married your ladyship and everything was all right. Then he got sick again and the doctor told him what he had and to stop laying with his lady, lest you get it as well."

"Christmas," I said softly. "That would be when he moved into his own bedchamber."

"That's right, he said that. He said he just couldn't tell you. He thought you'd be so disappointed about the kiddies and all."

How perfectly sweet, I thought bitterly. Edward had not bothered to tell me about this vile disease, leaving me to wonder all these years at our barrenness, blaming myself. And all the while…

I looked over at the girl and smiled weakly. "It must have shocked you to hear such things. It shocks me now."

She returned the smile and reached out, to my astonishment, patting my hand. "Not much shocks me, my lady. I've seen a hundred men or more with their trousers off."

I nodded and looked away. She had given me much to think of. I did not know if any of it was connected to Edward's death, but I was glad to know it just the same.

I squared my shoulders. "Thank you for your frankness. I hope that you will not suffer for it at the hands of Miss Simms."

"Oh, no. She warned me off talking about him, but she doesn't really think I'd spill. She knows he hadn't been to see me for nearly two years before he died. He had taken to going upstairs, to the attic, for his entertainments."

I smiled at her. The notion of Edward seeking his pleasures in a dusty lumber room amused me for some reason. "The attic? Whatever for?"

"Why, yes, my lady. That's where they keep the boys."

THE THIRTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

—William Shakespeare

Julius Caesar

"Edward went with boys?" To my ears, my voice sounded normal enough, casual, as though I were inquiring about the health of a mutual friend. But my thoughts…even now, I cannot quite describe the chill, the numbness. How could I not have known?

She was nodding. "He did. Said he'd always liked them better. But he quite loved you, my lady," she said hastily. I think she meant it kindly.

"Was there a particular boy?"

"No, my lady. He did not use them very often, you see. But Miss Simms was always glad to see him. Some gentlemen like a bit of the rough, but not Sir Edward. He always treated us kindly. Simms likes that—it doesn't do to damage the merchandise, she always says. She gives all the regular gentlemen boxes, pretty porcelain things, for keeping sheaths in." She threw a doubtful look at Val. "Mr. March does say that it keeps infection down, of the pox and other things. Some of the gentlemen complain, or just won't wear them at all. Not Sir Edward. He were always most particular about wearing them. And Simms thanked him for that. Fastest way to drive off business, she says, is with pocky whores."

I was only half listening now. Brisbane had been correct about the box and its purpose. But even he had not guessed the awful reason behind it.

"Thank you for your time, Victoria. I believe my brother gave you half of the fee yesterday. Here is the remainder."

I took a wad of notes from my reticule and thrust them at her. I had no idea how much I gave her. It must not have been less than the agreed amount, though, because after she counted it, she tucked it away in her bodice and flashed me a smile. She was missing a few teeth, but those she had kept looked strong and straight enough.

"You are indeed a real proper lady. Thank you."

I removed something else from my reticule—a card.

"Take this," I said, holding it out to her. She took it and looked at it curiously, as though it meant nothing to her. I realized then that she likely could not read.

"It is the address of a refuge. It is maintained by my aunt, Lady Hermia March. Should you decide to leave the Box, there would be a place for you there. They could teach you to read and write, and eventually secure you a position."

She laughed. "Doing what? Serving? Scrubbing floors and blacking grates? No, my lady, I think not. I am what I am. I'll not change now."

She made to hand the card back, but I refused to take it.

"You may have need of it yet. Keep it. You will always be welcome."

She shrugged and the card went the way of the money. But I thought it quite probable that the card would find its way into a dustbin before the day was through.

I put out my hand. "Thank you, Victoria."

She blinked, then dropped her hand into mine, shaking it slowly.

"Thank you, my lady."

Then the training of her early years returned and she bobbed her head at me before moving back the way we had come. I watched her, for lack of anything better to do. She moved quickly, and as she reached the end of the path, a figure stepped out, a grizzled older man, dressed in an elegantly impoverished coachman's cape. He doffed his hat to her and she gave him her basket and a smile. The hackney driver, no doubt. He walked with a hunched back and a twist-legged limp. Victoria was careful to match her pace with his, and he in turn guided her around a puddle, patting her arm solicitously. I was pleased that at least someone had a care for the poor creature. I doubted that she would come to Aunt Hermia's refuge. And I doubted she would live out more than another half-dozen years. I heard my brother's steps crunching softly on the graveled path as he came near.

"Oh, Val, why did I ever marry?"

"Because you loved him?" he hazarded as he sat next to me.

"Did I? I can't remember now."

He covered my hand with his own large, warm one. "Was it very terrible, what Cass told you?"

"Yes, actually. It was. Did you know that Edward had syphilis?"

His hand clenched mine and it was a long moment before he replied.

"No. How did Cass—"

"They made him wear condoms at the Box, to protect the prostitutes."

"Dear God," he said softly, giving a sad, heavy sigh. "Miss Simms is quite protective of her staff. An outbreak of syphilis, a rumour of it, can be devastating to the kind of trade she plies. Clients expect that in a certain kind of brothel, but not in Mayfair."

"Did you know that that is why she gave Edward the box?"

"No. Like Brisbane, I thought it a token of regard. I suppose that is why there were never children."

"Yes. Edward did not wish to infect me. Apparently his first attack was before we married. He did not realize then what it was. Afterward, when he learned of it, he quit my bed."

We were carefully not looking at each other. I think, for all his medical training, he was embarrassed. And for my part, I only knew I could not bear to look into those wide green eyes, so like my own, and find pity. Or worse.

"Sometimes it is difficult to diagnose," he said softly. "He might easily have mistaken the first attack for a touch of influenza. The second time, it is usually more certain. In the interim, he would not have been contagious. It was best he left your bed, you know. It is possible he would not have been able to father children in any case once the disease set in. It takes some that way."

I think he meant to comfort me, but I barely heard him. All I knew was that the man I had grown up with, married, thought I knew, had in fact been a stranger to me.

"There is more," I told him. He tightened his grip on my hand, mooring me to the bench. "He went to the attic."

I heard the sharp, low intake of breath, the muttered curse. I thanked God I did not have to explain it further. From his association with the brothel, Val knew exactly what to infer.

"Oh, Julia. Little wonder you cannot remember loving him. He must seem a stranger to you now."

"Yes." I felt my earrings swing against the silk of my veil. I must have nodded, but I do not remember moving at all. I felt nothing but the pressure of his hand on mine and the light whisper of the earrings brushing the veil. "I thought I knew him, Val. We grew up together, for God's sake. How could I not know that he preferred boys?"

"Men," Val corrected. For the first time I looked at him. He met my eyes squarely, to his credit. I doubt many could have under the circumstances.

"Victoria—Cass, said there were boys in the attic."

He shook his head, his dark hair glossy even in the gloom. Why did he never wear a hat, I wondered inconsequentially.

"They call them that in the Box, but they are men. Young ones, seventeen, eighteen and older. There are no children kept there."

"Thank God for that," I said with feeling. "I thought she meant—"

"No. Edward's preferences might have been unorthodox, but they were not criminal."

"But they were," I pointed out quietly. "Sodomy is against the law."

"We condone Portia's behavior. Is this so very different?"

He was trying to be fair and evenhanded—probably with an eye to making me feel better about the situation. I did not.

"Portia is in love with Jane," I hissed at him. "She does not pay strangers for their favors."

"Does that mean that you would find it more excusable if Edward had loved one person, instead of satisfying himself with prostitutes?"

I snatched my hand back. My breath was coming quickly, puffing out my veil in little waves. "It is not excusable in any event. He broke his vows to me, vows he never should have made, given his proclivities."

Val made to speak, but I continued on, ranting him to silence. "A year ago, I buried him, and I was relieved, I confess. His health had grown so poor, and his temper so uncertain, that I had learned to fear him. He even struck his valet on occasion, and once, just once, he raised his hand to me. He did not hit me, but I saw the struggle within him to stay his hand. He had become violent, Val. And every day after that one I wondered, was this the day he would lose that last, desperate bit of control? Was this the day he would beat me or kill me?"

Val did not try to speak now. He simply sat and listened, letting the pain pour out of me as poison will from a lanced boil. "By the time he died, I was prepared to let him go. I had mourned the boy I loved because I had already lost him. But at least I had the memory of what he was, what he had been, to console me. But now, when all his sins have come to light, I have not even that small solace. I cannot ever again grieve that he is gone, miss his ways and his smiles, without thinking of the lies and the deceit. Do you not understand, Valerius? Every memory I have of my husband is a lie."

I rose, shaking off his protective arm. "Leave me. I will make my own way home."

"Julia, please. I did not wish to hurt you. I thought only to console, and in my clumsiness I have wounded you. I am truly sorry."

He was penitent, but not pleading. He had learned pride and he wore the dignity of the Marches like a mantle.

I nodded in acceptance. "This is too raw, yet," I said by way of explanation.

He enfolded me in his arms, the second time in two days, I marveled. I stepped back, feeling marginally better.

"There is a call I must make now."

"Shall I come with you?"

I opened my mouth to refuse, then thought better of it.

"Yes. There is someone I should like you to meet."

THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow…

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

Mordecai Bent's rooms were exactly as I had expected. Tiny, overwarm, and so cramped with books and medical equipment that it was difficult to move. But the fire was cheerful and Mordecai was hospitality personified, as if entertaining angels unaware.

"This chair, my lady," he said, sweeping up a pile of papers and an errant sock. "It is the most comfortable and nearest the fire. Mr. March, may I offer you the bench by the bookcase?"

Val, mesmerized by the contents of the bookcase, barely waved a hand. "If you do not object…"

Mordecai flushed with pleasure.

"Oh, no! Please, look at anything you like. It is so seldom I have the pleasure of speaking with another medical man."

This time Val flushed, and it occurred to me that introducing them might have been a tiresome mistake. If I was not quite careful, the conversation could easily move into deeper and duller waters than I could navigate with patience. I cleared my throat delicately.

"Doctor Bent, we have called because I recently discovered something concerning my husband's health. Something that might have bearing upon this case."

Bent's eyes flew to my brother's tall figure, silhouetted against the bookcase. "He is entirely in my confidence," I assured him. Bent smiled. There was a dot of custard on his lapel, and a button swung gently from a single thread at his waistcoat.

"I shall be too happy to help," he told me. "But Nicholas wrote that he was going to Paris, and that the investigation was in abeyance until his return."

"Oh, of course. But this information just fell into my lap, most unexpectedly, and I thought I might save him a bit of time by consulting you in his absence." The lie fell smoothly from my lips.

He seemed satisfied with that and sat forward, his eyes gleaming with interest behind his spectacles.

"It appears that my husband suffered from syphilis, Doctor Bent. He had had it for some time."

He considered this a moment.

"Hmm. Yes, that does complicate matters," he said, his brow furrowing. If I had not been so humiliated by having to tell him, I might have been amused. He did not consider the personal ramifications of the syphilis, only its application to the case—a true medical man.

"Do you know how long he had the disease?"

I shrugged. "He contracted it sometime before we were married, a few months, perhaps. I am told he experienced a relapse of sorts some months after we married."

Bent nodded. "Yes, although it isn't precisely a relapse. From what we understand of the disease, it normally follows a pattern—an initial infection, then a period of dormancy, followed by another outbreak. Then a second period of dormancy. These quiet periods can last for years, during which time the patient is completely asymptomatic."

I must have looked blank, for he amended the word quickly. "Without symptom. The second phase of dormancy can even last the duration of the patient's natural life. But in most people, the second dormancy is followed by the most extreme symptoms of the disease—a breakdown in general health, uncertain temper, that sort of thing."

I thought of Edward's turns, his periods of malaise, his little black rages, and that short, terrible moment when we had looked at each other, the bits of broken vase littering the carpet between us, his hand raised, poised and twitching at my cheek.…

"Doctor Bent, is it possible that Edward did not suffer from heart trouble?"

"But he did," Valerius put in quietly. "He'd had it from boyhood, don't you remember? Old Cook always saying he'd never make old bones, just like all the Greys?" I did remember. I had told Brisbane of it only a few weeks before. But I had felt the ground shift under me when Cass had bestowed her revelation, and I found myself wondering which memories were true and which were lies. And I knew I would continue to do so for many years to come.

I turned to Bent, who was nodding, his eyes shrewd.

"Yes, sometimes syphilis will lodge in a patient's heart or lungs, especially if there is an underlying ailment. It is possible that the disease worsened his heart condition, or perhaps it affected it not at all. It is impossible to say without a proper postmortem, and of course, it is too late for that."

I shuddered, thinking of Edward's corpse, moldering away, the evidence quietly decaying during the months that I had wasted.

"Is it possible that Edward was not poisoned, after all? Could not the disease have accounted for his symptoms and the, er, discoloration?"

Val looked away and Doctor Bent reddened slightly. "No, my lady, I fear not. His symptoms were clearly those of poisoning. In fact, I think I have discovered the cause."

He put his hand out to rummage through the papers stacked precariously on his desk. After a moment he grunted in satisfaction. He extracted a single paper, an illustration of a flower. He handed it to me and Val came to look over my shoulder. There was a Latin inscription at the bottom of the page.

"Aconitum napellus," I read out. "Monkshood."

Bent nodded. "It is the only natural poison I could find that fits both the symptoms and the method. It is absorbed through the skin, and ferociously deadly in quite a short period of time."

"Wolfsbane," Val murmured, peering at the tall stalk of the capped blue flower.

"I remember it," I told him. "Do you? The werewolf stories they used to tell at the Gypsy camp." I turned to Doctor Bent. "My father always permitted Gypsies to camp on his lands in summer. One of the old men used to tell us tales of werewolves on the nights of the full moon."

"To what purpose?" Bent asked, smiling. "Simple campfire pleasures?"

"Hardly. His wife sold charms—little bags stuffed with flowers of wolfsbane and a silver coin for protection. As I recall she charged a fine price for them and always sold quite a few. But we always felt better for walking home with those little bags tied around our necks. Nanny always made us throw them away, of course. She was quite right to do so, I imagine, if the stuff is really absorbed through the skin. How stupid we must have been!"

Bent shrugged. "Safe enough, if the flower only was used, and it was kept in a bag. No, the greater danger by far is the root. When it is dried, the poisonous effects are greatly heightened. It can be reduced down to its most venomous components by careful preparation. Dangerous, of course, for the hands preparing it, but quite simple so long as certain elementary precautions are followed."

"So you are saying that anyone could have done this," I said slowly.

"I am afraid so. All it would take is a little privacy, a spirit lamp and some time. The rest of the ingredients would be perfectly innocent to procure from a chemist—a compound to dissolve the aconite into to spread it onto a sheath, and so forth. As for the monkshood itself—" he shrugged "—it grows in nearly every garden and often without."

"But the knowledge," I protested, "surely someone would have to have specific knowledge of deadly plants to attempt such a thing."

"You would be surprised, my lady. Such knowledge is not hard to come by, nor particularly difficult to understand. I warrant any good herbal would give the specifics on monkshood—and nearly every household I know possesses at least one herbal."

"Even mine," I said ruefully.

He smiled, a bright, comely thing in his dark face. "Just so. Of course, mistakes can be made, quite easily. If our poisoner was not careful, he could have poisoned himself without difficulty. I think you must look for a cautious but audacious man. An interesting combination, I should think."

I thought of Brisbane's observations about poison being a woman's weapon. "A man? Are you convinced it was a man?"

"No, I—"

There was a rustling sound from the next room and I saw Bent start a little, his eyes flicking to the barely open door. "The cat, probably after a mouse…pardon me, my lady."

He rose and went into the adjoining room, speaking sharply. He returned a moment later, carrying a large white Persian cat. He closed the door behind them, scolding her softly. She looked up at him with wide, cool eyes the colour of seawater.

"What a lovely creature!" I exclaimed. I put out a hand to pet her, but she swiped at my glove, hooking it with a claw.

"My lady, I am sorry—she is an ill-tempered beast, and not worth her keep."

Gently, he unhitched her paw from my hand and dumped her onto his desk where she sat, watching me, flicking her plumy tail with disdain.

"No matter, Doctor Bent. It was my own fault for attempting to pet her without asking. Cats never seem to like that, do they? No, do not be so hard on her. She must be worth her keep if she brings you mice."

"She is an aristocrat," he said, putting a finger out to rub her under the ears. She purred softly. "She eats better than I do and looks down her nose at the world."

"But she is pretty, surely that is reason enough to keep her."

She squeezed her eyes at me and I thought I might be forgiven for my initial faux pas. I glanced at Val, who had wandered off to the bookshelves again and was fingering a gruesome-looking volume on skin lesions.

"Valerius, would you wait in the carriage, please? I would like a few minutes more with Doctor Bent, nothing that touches the case, I promise."

He replaced the book he was perusing and came forward to shake Bent's hand. They made pleasant noises at one another, and after several attempts, I finally succeeded in getting him to leave us in privacy.

We resumed our seats and Bent fixed his attention carefully upon his cat, avoiding my eyes. He knew what I was about to ask.

"Surely, you are not concerned," he began.

"Of course I am. How am I to know without a proper examination?"

He shook his head. "My lady, you have complained of none of the symptoms. Sir Edward, for his faults, was careful to avoid passing the contagion on to you once he knew of it."

"That does not mean I am free of it," I said softly. "Surely you do not expect me to take my good health for granted. I cannot sit and wonder, waiting for the symptoms to appear, wondering if I shall go mad."

He looked up sharply.

"Yes, I know that much," I told him. "Edward was barely spared that. I might not be so fortunate. I must know."

He rose suddenly. "My lady, I cannot. Not now, it grows late. I have patients I must attend to. If you are troubled, certainly Doctor Griggs must be the physician—"

"No," I said sharply. "He knew of Edward's disease and did not see fit to warn me. I have no trust in him."

His warm brown eyes were sad as a spaniel's. "I am more gratified by your trust than I can possibly express. I cannot, not today. But if you are still determined—tomorrow, perhaps. I could come to Grey House."

I rose and extended my hand. "Thank you. I know you do not wish to do it, but I also believe that if you discover the worst, you will tell me. I have no such faith in the honesty of others."

He nodded sadly and let me out. Neither of us was anticipating our next meeting with any pleasure, but I knew I could rely upon him and I was determined that we would keep our appointment for the following day.

But Fate, and the murderer, had other plans for me.

THE THIRTY-NINTH CHAPTER

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free From my disease's danger, and from thee.

—Ben Jonson

"To Doctor Empirick"

The last person I wished to see upon entering Grey House was Doctor Griggs. But there he stood, retrieving his hat and stick from Aquinas. He regarded me coolly.

"Good afternoon, your ladyship," he said with exaggerated formality. He was marginally more cordial to Val.

I returned the greeting and flashed Val a meaningful look. He withdrew at once and I turned back to Griggs.

"Doctor, I hope you can spare me a few minutes. There is something I should like to discuss with you."

He assented, reluctantly, I fancied, and followed me into the drawing room. It was cold. No fire had been lit, but I did not wish to receive him in the comfort of my study. It seemed an intrusion even to have him in my home now, and I hoped the chill formality of the drawing room would convey the disdain in which I held him.

I turned to face him as soon as the door shut behind us. I did not bid him to sit.

"Doctor Griggs, I shall be brief. How long have you known that my husband had syphilis?"

He blinked slowly, as a tortoise will, and gave a deep sigh, of resignation or perhaps annoyance. It was impossible to tell.

"Five years, more or less."

"I suppose I must thank you for your honesty, if nothing else. I rather thought you might try to deny it."

"There would be little point in that," he said, his expression sour. He was finding this distasteful, at the very least. "Clearly you have discovered it for yourself. And your manner makes it quite apparent you have lost any ladylike scruples that would have kept you from pursuing this highly inappropriate matter."

I lifted my chin and drew myself up as Aunt Hermia had taught me.

"Inappropriate? The question of Edward's syphilis touches on my own health, health that you endangered by your silence."

He opened his mouth, aghast. "But I could not tell you! Such things are private between a man and his doctor."

"But not a man and his wife," I said bitterly.

He cleared his throat and attempted a mollifying tone. "It was an unfortunate thing that Sir Edward contracted this disease. I did not feel it warranted distressing your ladyship by revealing it."

"Do not, I beg you, dress your cowardice in the cloth of compassion. You kept your silence because it was the simplest thing to do. You told Edward to abandon my bed and any hope of an heir, but you never once thought what it might cost me. For him to leave my bed on the grounds of mortal illness is a thing I could have borne. For him to have left it, left me thinking it was because of my barrenness, was too cruel."

"It might have cost you your life or your sanity if he had not!" Griggs returned hotly, his plump cheeks trembling with rage. "Would you have rather he kept at you, trying for a child that would surely have been diseased and infecting you in the process? For that is what would have happened, my lady. I see it was too much to think that you might appreciate my efforts on your behalf."

We stared at each other a long moment, so far apart that we both knew the gulf could never be bridged. There was anger and bitterness and righteous indignation on both sides. Finally, I took a step backward, my hand on the doorknob.

"You may continue to treat Sir Simon until his death. After that, you will not come here again."

He gave me a bow from the neck, coldly furious. His mouth worked, as if he wanted to say something, but resisted it. I stepped aside to let him pass. I did not want even my skirts to brush against him as he left Grey House.

After Griggs left, I sat for a long time in the dimly lit drawing room, thinking over everything I had learned that day, none of it pleasant, perhaps some of it useful. I had been dealt a number of blows, to my pride, my vanity, my smug sense that I knew those about me. I had been so secure in my certainty, and yet there had been secrets, swirling about me like fog-bound shadows the whole time, while I stumbled, blindly oblivious to it all.

But after a while I grew tired of feeling sorry for myself and I rose, intending to go and change for luncheon. At the door I collided with Desmond, his head down, looking neither right nor left. He collected himself with a shudder.

"My lady! I am so sorry—please, I was not attending."

I brushed at the crease in my skirt. "It was nothing, Desmond. Do not trouble yourself. How is Sir Simon today? I thought to look in on him after luncheon."

The comely face clouded a little. "Not well. Doctor Griggs was discouraged at his lack of appetite."

"Well, I suppose that is to be expected." I looked closely at Desmond. His own face seemed thinner to me, his eyes ringed with shadow. "Are you eating enough yourself? I daresay your rest is broken with caring for Sir Simon. Perhaps the task is too great for one person. We could engage a nurse."

Desmond swallowed thickly. "No, my lady. I am quite well. The city air does not always agree with me."

"Ah, yes. You are country-bred, I know. Well, we shall soon have you back in the countryside. I have spoken to his lordship and he is very happy to have you come and tend the dogs for him at Bellmont Abbey."

Desmond bowed his head. "Thank you, my lady."

"Are you certain you don't mind the duties? Tending the kennel is a bit of a comedown from a footman's lot. And you won't have any livery to lord over the rest of the staff," I said, smiling.

He smiled back, blushing a little. "I do not mind that, my lady. I am out of my livery now, and the more comfortable for it. I look forward to tending his lordship's dogs. I think the country is where I belong."

"Well, it is settled, then. When your duties here with Sir Simon are concluded, I will send you down to the Abbey."

He looked distraught for a moment, doubtless thinking of the difficult days ahead as Simon's life drew to a close. I moved on, leaving him to his errand, and went to luncheon, making a mental note to myself to make certain that Aquinas had raised Desmond's pay. He was working himself to death for the Greys, and the poor boy should be compensated for it.

Luncheon was dull, or perhaps I was. I had no taste for the salmon and left the fish almost untouched on my plate, picking instead at my peas. Aquinas clucked softly as he removed my uneaten food, but did not scold. We talked briefly of Desmond and other household matters, but I had little interest in any of it. I was still quite overwhelmed by all that I had learned of Edward. I was thinking of Edward, in fact, when Aquinas brought my pudding, and something else.

"A list of supplies that Desmond has drawn up at Doctor Griggs' direction, my lady. With your approval I shall dispatch Henry after luncheon to the chemist."

He busied himself whisking crumbs from the tablecloth while I looked over the list. "It all seems in order, I suppose." It was written in Desmond's simple, painstaking hand, a holdover from his days at a village school, no doubt. His writing was plain and serviceable, meek even, nothing like Brisbane's bold scrawl. But Brisbane's hand would have left no margin at all, I thought with a smile, where Desmond's had left him a good four inches for a bit of doodling. He had a fair drawing hand, but his subjects were a touch morbid—understandable, I supposed, given his current post in a dying man's room. There was a tiny horse, plumed in funeral black, and a hideously accurate undertaker's mute with large, sorrowful eyes. It must have taken tremendous skill to infuse the little drawing with such mournfulness, I thought, raising the paper to scrutinize it more carefully.

Aquinas set his mouth in disapproval. "I know, my lady. I already spoke to the lad about using house paper for his drawings. That is the trouble with country-bred servants. They none of them know the cost of things in town."

"It isn't that, Aquinas. Look at the figure of the mute. He's obscuring something, but you can just see it, there."

Aquinas bent swiftly, peering at the page.

He paled, as white as the table linen.

"It is a gravestone, my lady."

I nodded. "Exactly like the one in the last note Edward received. I think I shall keep this, Aquinas."

He came near to me. "My lady, I shall send for the police."

"No!" I did not mean to thunder at him, but I think the silver rattled on the table. He stepped back sharply.

"As you wish, my lady."

I rose. "This must not become public, Aquinas. I could not bear that. I will speak to him myself first."

"My lady, you must permit me to be present when you interview him. For your own protection."

"You may wait outside. He will not harm me." I still do not know what made me so certain of that, but I believed it then.

I rose, having no appetite for pudding, and beckoned Aquinas to follow me out of the door and up the stairs to Edward's room. Once there, in those still, quiet rooms, where Edward seemed to linger, I hesitated, then gave Aquinas his instructions. He raised a brow, but did not demur. I moved across the hall and waited. After a moment, there was a soft scratch and Desmond entered. He did not look about him, but stood, staring at the floor.

"Does it make you uncomfortable, to be here? In his room?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply in his slender throat.

"My lady?"

"Do not pretend with me, Desmond." I held out the list of supplies with its tiny testimony of his guilt. "You should never have put one of your drawings on the note you sent to threaten Sir Edward. It was foolish."

I do not know what I had expected. Angry denials, violence, insults? Instead he crumpled inward, folding himself over like a wounded animal. He hugged himself tightly with both arms, as if to contain the pain.

"I never meant it," he said, so softly I had to move nearer to hear him. "Not really. I meant only to frighten him, to make him see what he had done to me."

"What had he done to you?" My voice would not go gentle. It cracked, and through the cracks, I could hear my own anger and disgust. But there was pity there, too, in spite of myself.

He shook his head angrily and scrubbed at his tearing eyes. "Oh, do not make me say it, my lady. You must know."

I did not make him say it. I did know, and that was enough. "When did it begin?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath and his head fell back, tears slanting backward down his cheeks. "Two years back," he said finally. "I did not wish it, but he was so kind when he wished to be. It was as if he cast a glamoury over me."

I started at the word, so old-fashioned. But then I recalled where Desmond came from—a tiny village, buried in the countryside. They still believed in such things, I had seen it in my own village of Blessingstoke. We even had our own white witch there. Why should Desmond not believe that Edward could ensorcell him into lovemaking against his will?

Of course, if he believed himself bewitched, it excused him from the greater crime of wanting it, I thought cynically. I looked at him carefully, from his pretty hands to his lightly-limned profile and wondered. How much force had Edward had to use? Persuasion, certainly, but force? I did not believe it.

"Why the notes? Was it really necessary to torment a dying man?"

He went all sorts of unnatural colours. White about the nostrils and fingers, red everywhere else. He wiped again at his eyes, shaking his head. "I was angry, my lady. There is no excuse for it."

"Angry? Why, then? By your own reckoning you had been his lover for a year already. Why then?"

He gave a shudder, like a tiny convulsion of pain.

"Because it was then that I fell ill," he said softly.

I felt my own breath leave in one sharp exhalation, as if I had been struck hard and fast in the stomach.

"You have syphilis." It was not a question; I stated it flatly, knowing it.

He nodded. "We were not always careful about using the sheaths. Sometimes, we were overhasty together."

If I had doubted this boy's passion for the affair before, I did not now. He had convicted himself with a pronoun. We.

"Were you angry enough to kill him?" I asked blandly. He stared at me, as if I had suddenly begun speaking another language, a foreign tongue he had never heard.

"Kill him? My lady, I loved him. I could not raise my hand against him enough to leave this house as I should have done, as I prayed to do so many times. How could I want to kill him?"

He still had not grasped the truth, and I watched him carefully as it was borne in upon him. A paleness washed over him, and a stillness with it, of so profound a shock and despair that I knew it could not be feigned.

"My God," he said softly. "Tell me this is a poor jest, my lady, for pity's sake."

"I wish that I could," I said evenly. "But my husband is dead by another's hand."

He started, violently, but I raised a placating hand.

"Not yours," I told him, holding his gaze with my own. "Not yours, you have not the stomach for it. But you must tell me this. Were you with him, as lovers, the night that he died?"

He hesitated, biting at his lip. He would have liked to refuse the question, but he knew that he could not. Finally, he nodded slowly, fresh tears coursing slowly down his cheeks.

"Half an hour before," he said softly. "The house was in such a bother about the party, it was easy to slip away. We had not been together for months. I had missed him so."

I remembered then what I ought to have recalled before. Desmond had been at Grey House while Edward and I wintered in Sussex, at my father's estate. We had only been in London a few days before we planned our entertainment. There would have been little opportunity for these tempestuous lovers to have renewed their relationship. But this brought a new question.

"Why did you lie with him if you were angry enough to send those notes?"

He flinched at my plain speaking, but he answered quickly enough, smiling a little at the memory.

"I was angry before because I had just learned of my illness. I learned I had not been the only one for him. I was jealous and angry. We were parted for the winter, and my bitterness was everything to me. I sent him the notes, but smiled to his face. He never suspected I was angry with him. But when he came back, and still wanted me—" He paused, his face rapturous. "I could not believe he had chosen me. He said we would be together, that he was finished with the others. I loved him, my lady," he ended on a sob.

I turned my face away as he wept softly. There was only one thing more to ask. "Why the sheath that last night? Both of you were infected, why bother?"

"The doctor had told him it was necessary for him to use them, even if he was with someone who already had the disease. Something about it making the disease more virulent if he were exposed again. I did not understand it entirely."

But I did. Edward's constitution was already weakened, almost fatally so. Even without the poison, he would have likely lived only a matter of months. But with his declining health, he could not risk a fresh infection of the disease—having it already was no protection against a new infestation of it, an infestation that could prove quickly fatal in his condition. It was ironic that the very device he used to preserve his health had been the means of destroying it.

I squared my shoulders and faced Desmond. "You will speak of this to no one. When your duties here are at an end, we will see you settled into a proper nursing home, where you will be looked after."

He nodded, his face awash with misery. He did not attempt to apologize again, and for that I was glad. I had dealt with him calmly enough, but I realized my hands were fisted damply at my sides. I needed a few moments to compose myself. I dismissed him with a jerk of the head and he left me. I sat woodenly on the side of Edward's bed, feeling raw with emotions I could not entirely identify.

Humiliation was only the first. How many others had there been? Who had known? Who had watched me with pity and scorn and the secret knowledge of what Edward was? I felt sick to my stomach with it, and I sat there, swallowing it down. I thought of the conspiratorial smiles Edward had given me, and wondered how many others had received them as well. The little jokes, the charming ways—I had thought them mine, at least for a while. I had been so bloody stupid, I told myself savagely. How could he have done such things, under my very roof? But more importantly, how could I not have known?

I looked about the room, silently hating everything in it. I had not been here since Magda and I had made an attempt to clear it. There were boxes, still only half-packed with suits of clothes. There were still sheets on the bed, a few shirts in the drawers. His ring and watch were still in a box on the dresser, his cologne still scented the air. I looked around at the little statues—a shepherdess, a flute-playing youth, a Roman warrior. I saw the invitations still tucked into his mantel mirror—from the wealthy and respectable. How many of those men—a cabinet minister, a vicar, a duke—had been party to his visits to the brothel? Were they all privy to that? Did they occasionally catch one another's eyes over the saddle of mutton at dinner parties, winking discreetly and thinking of other delicacies they would enjoy together as their wives sat, pretty and oblivious?

I wrenched my eyes away from the invitation cards and looked about the room, seeing Edward through his things. It was like reading a stranger's palm. His brushes, just so and painfully clean, without a single blond hair to mar their perfection. His books, clean and unmarked, because he preferred things fresh and new. His pictures, some good copies of famous pieces, some little paintings done by friends to commemorate happy times. There was a view of the Colosseum bought when he toured Rome, and another of a country folly, Gothic and dark, with autumn leaves curling at the foot of the stones.…

I stopped there, my progress arrested by this little sketch. I stared at it, scrutinizing the twisted branches and crumbling leaves, the carved stone and the pointed arches. I had seen another picture, very similar, but done by another hand. Between them, they linked two people to one shared moment, one place where they had been together, long enough to make separate sketches of the same courtyard, sketches they both kept as a memento. The sketches linked them to each other and to this place—and to a motive I had never guessed at.

In that minute, as I stared at the lightly penciled lines and arches, everything I had heard and learned over the past weeks came rushing back at me. I stood, letting them wash over me as I heard the voices, as clearly as if they were speaking in my ear. Whispers about mysterious travels, ravens and follies and thwarted, poisonous love, jealousy and disease, and a virgin's skull. Everyone had contributed something; their voices threaded and tangled, merged and knotted, but I could still hear them, saying the things that I had heard but not understood until just this minute, when it all fell into place and I simply knew, as one knows that fire is hot and sleep is sweet. It was just that sudden, that elemental, and it occurred to me then that the truth is precisely that—elemental. It is the essence of itself; it cannot be argued or winnowed down to something less than what it is. It simply is.

To be certain, I removed the sketch from the wall. The wallpaper was bright behind it. In all the years I had lived at Grey House, I had never seen this picture moved from its place, a significant place, I realized now. Edward would have been able to see it from his bed, the first sight of his morning, the last sight of his evening. I opened the frame and slid the sketch out. There was an inscription penciled on the back, very brief, but it was enough. I knew now who had killed Edward. And more important, I thought I knew why.

There was not much to be done. I made my arrangements for that evening, telling no one, not even Aquinas, what I had discovered. He went smoothly along with them, thinking that I was still pursuing poor, pathetic Desmond. I let him believe it because I had no choice. I had to face the murderer alone. I was not afraid, although I know now that I should have been. And as I dressed myself that night, I began to wonder if I had in fact known it all along.…

THE FORTIETH CHAPTER

Water, water I desire, Here's a house of flesh on fire; Ope' the fountains and the springs, And come all to bucketing. What ye cannot quench, pull down, Spoil a house to save a town: Better 'tis that one should fall, Than by one to hazard all.

—Robert Herrick

"The Scare-Fire"

I did not announce myself. I had taken care no one else would be about, and I slipped in quietly, hoping to catch him unawares. I do not know why, except that I wanted to watch him one last time, before this thing came between us. I wanted to see if his eyes were still innocent, those eyes that had looked into mine, closing just as he had kissed me, a kiss that I could feel on my lips still. It would brand me, I thought a little hysterically, this murderer's kiss. No matter how many others should kiss me in my life, I would remember his lips on mine.

It was a moment or two before he looked up and saw me there, motionless in the doorway. He smiled and I marveled. He did not know, still did not realize that I saw him for what he was. My heart turned within me at his smile and I faltered. I could not do this. I could not say what must be said. I made up my mind then to be silent, to make no accusation, but leave him alone with the knowledge of what he had done. It would be so easy, simply to smile back and ask him how he had been. I could make some pretext for coming to him now and he would not know, not entirely, that I had ever suspected him. It might lie between us, but not for long. Perhaps I could pretend.

But in the end, I could not. I stood there and simply held out the sketch to him. He stared at it, and for a moment, I wondered if he was going to lie about it, hoping that I had not read the inscription, that condemnation written in his own hand. He might yet have bluffed, taken the chance that I had not put the pieces together. But he read my face swiftly, and clever and destructive as he was, he was too tired of it all to pretend with me. I think he felt in that moment that I would understand him, and so he confided. I suppose it was a sort of compliment, but perhaps it was not. Perhaps he simply wanted to tell it to anyone, after all this time.

"So you know," he said softly. "Come and sit down. No, do not linger there in the doorway. You are perfectly safe with me. You forget, I have kissed you," he said with a seductive smile. "I have tasted your lips on mine, Julia. I could not destroy you, although I think the memory of it may well destroy you in any case." His laugh was mirthless. I sat as he bade me.

He looked at me awhile, his eyes searching my face. "Yes, you do know, I see it there. So much knowledge, so much bewilderment. You cannot understand it, can you? Even now, you cannot imagine why?"

I shrugged. "You were lovers and he betrayed you. You loved him, but he fell in love with someone else. It is simple enough. A story as old as time, is it not?"

His smile was wolfish. "How very progressive of you, my dear. You make it all sound so conventional. I might almost believe you approved of our sort."

His eyes were lively, snapping and bright with some private malice. He might claim to savor the taste of my kiss, but he wanted to hurt me, that much I could sense, as a hind senses a wolf in the wood.

"Your sort is not my concern. I merely supplied you with your motive as you asked."

His smile deepened, but I saw the lines of cruelty about the mouth and eyes that I had never noticed before. I had spent so much time with him; how could I have not seen it?

"Sweet, innocent Julia. I often thought it might be fun to tell you, to take you into our confidence. I suggested it once, but he got quite angry. A pity that my tastes do not extend to women.…" He broke off a moment, and I looked down at my hands, feeling sick. "Oh, yes, we might have made quite a game of it. Or at least that is what I used to tell him. The truth is, I don't think I could have borne sharing him, not even with you. But Edward could be tiresome in his misguided loyalties—and shortsighted, you know. He wanted to protect you. And the boy. I warned him about the boy, you know, but he did not listen."

"You killed him because of Desmond."

The predatory eyes sharpened. "I warned him. He could toy with others, but he loved me—only me. I even permitted him to marry you because I knew he did not love you, not really, not in the ways that mattered. I warned him he was getting too close to the boy, but he did not hear me. So I simply crafted a little test."

"The condoms," I said flatly. The eyes danced a little.

"Oh, she knows the word! Imagine that, the earl's little Dresden china daughter, knowing about such things!" He laughed but did not move near me. I thanked God for that. I could not have borne it if he had touched me. "Yes, just like the knightly contests of old. If he was worthy and faithful, as he promised, he would not die. But if he failed me, if he was not worthy, if he were faithless, his own treachery would be his undoing. An elegant little solution, I thought."

His mask of savagery slipped a little then, and I knew what he had suffered when Edward died. Knowledge not only of his own guilt, but of his lover's infidelity.

"Oh, Julia," he said, with his sly, beautiful smile, "have you never known me?"

"I begin to think not. You have kept yourself well guarded. I did not suspect what you were until this very evening."

I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were spoken. But I could not bring them back. If I hesitated now, he would spring some trap of his own devising, something I had not been clever enough to foresee. I had no choice but to go forward, but carefully.

His voice was silky. "You have not discussed your suspicions with anyone? Not even the clever Aquinas?"

"No," I said truthfully. I did not believe that he would hurt me, not even then.

He smiled again, those white, wolfy teeth gleaming in the dim light.

"Julia, do you trust me so well? And do you regret it now? How delicious to have you here at last, as if…ah, sweet mouse Julia has wandered into the tomcat's lair…whatever shall we do with her?"

It was difficult to believe I had ever seen a sign of ill health on this man. His voice was strong and alive, his eyes fairly glowing with pleasure. He radiated strength and vitality, and I think he might have been capable of anything in that moment.

With some great effort, I kept my voice level. "You will not harm me. You are sick, that is all. It is your illness that speaks so. This is not you. You have cared about me. I know it. Perhaps you even loved me. You will not harm me," I repeated, as much for my own sake as his.

He reached a hand out to take up a box of matches. He said nothing while he struck one, lighting a lamp. It flared, then settled to a warm glow, bathing us both in soft light.

"That is better," he said, settling himself comfortably even as he scrutinized my face. "You have changed through all of this," he said at length. "You have grown up. You have me to thank for that. You were so delightfully appealing in your innocence. I wanted to take you in hand, you know. I wanted to educate you, to strip the scales from your eyes. Perhaps that would have been a better revenge on Edward than killing him," he said thoughtfully, tilting his head to eye me better. "Yes, I think it would have been. I could have given him an infidelity to match his own. And it would have hurt him, you know. He did love you—or at least he tried. But I could not bear touching you any more than he could."

"What makes you think I would have complied?"

He gave a short laugh, but it had no power. I suddenly realized that the newfound strength and vitality, the awesome glitter in those savage eyes, was due to some drug. He had dosed himself, perhaps to assuage his ailment. Or perhaps he had grown accustomed to needing it simply to survive. But he had not taken enough, or had taken it too soon. It was wearing off, and soon he would be weak and puny with the aftereffects of it.

"You would have lain down for me," he said softly. "You have been ripe for it for years. All you want is the right man to say the right words and you will open like a well-oiled lock."

I said nothing. The accusation was too crude to merit a response. It was only later that I acknowledged that he knew me better than I ever suspected. I did not like to admit it, but it was possible that I would have lain with him, only just possible, but it was there. I had been lonely and unappreciated. Who was to say what I might have done, if the circumstances had been just so? If he had caught me at a vulnerable moment, if he had looked at me in just the right way, with murmured words of love and seduction, his hands gentle but eager, urging me…I like to think I would have had the strength to resist that. But I knew better.

"But I could not do it," he said regretfully. "My quarrel was with Edward, and there I kept it."

"When did you prepare the poison?" I asked curiously. This might well be the only time I would have to question him, and I wanted to ask everything. I did not want to wonder later.

"The autumn before he died." He laughed at the memory. His voice was softer than it had been, a little thready. "I nearly killed myself in the process. But it was easy enough. A few books, a few basic precautions, and the thing was done. Too easy, really. It's a wonder more people don't do it."

"And you put the sheaths into the box and left it in his room."

He nodded, his gaze distant.

He had been cautious, and yet audaciously bold, I thought with some admiration. It had been cleverly executed and brilliantly conceived. He had gotten away with it for a year. How much longer might he have kept his secret had I not gone meddling? And, more to the point, how long would I live, knowing what I knew?

As if reading my thoughts, he stroked the side of the lamp, studying the flame, and said, "You were a brave girl to come here and plan to accuse me of murder. And braver still to hear my confession."

I watched him watching the flame.

"I am tired," he said suddenly, the drug having spent itself quickly. "I wish I could play with you a bit longer, but I am tired now."

I made to rise. "You should rest now. You are not yourself. I will go."

"No," he said sharply, and the sheer power of his voice held me to my chair. "We must finish this. I cannot live," he cried, "not now. I don't even want to live, not without him."

"You are not thinking clearly," I said, edging to my feet. "You are ill and tired. Sleep now." And, thinking to reassure him, I added, "I will tell no one."

His eyes flashed and I knew I had made a critical miscalculation. "No, you will not tell. Not now. Not ever."

With his last words, he picked up the lamp in both hands and hurled it at me. I ducked, shielding myself with the chair. The lamp crashed against it, breaking and spilling oil and fire over the silk and wood. Flames rushed to the floor, racing over the carpet to the bed and to the hem of my skirts.

I screamed and batted at the fire licking my skirts. It extinguished immediately and I turned to where he stayed, smiling at me, though the fire was rising between us.

"Will you save me, Julia? And risk your own life? Or will you run away?" His voice was mocking, even now. I reached for him. God help me, I would have saved him even then. But the smoke and the fire were rising hotly and I was thrown back. I turned at the door and saw the bed, engulfed in flames.

"Simon!" I screamed. But there was no reply.

I took the stairs of Grey House two at a time, my scorched skirts high in my hands. My lungs, constricted with stays and smoke, were screaming by the time I gained the ground floor. The servants were gone, sent away for the evening at my insistence, and the empty house echoed with the sounds of the fire, the taffeta rustle of flames, and the shriek of shattering glass. The hall was filling with smoke and I could barely see my way.

Suddenly, above me, a black shadow swooped from above. In my terror I thought it was Simon, risen from his burning bed, but it was not. I nearly sobbed in relief as the raven wheeled before me, leading me on to the door. He screamed, flapping in front of me as I followed him. I reached the door, but the locks were fast, secured for the night as the staff were still out. I wept as I struggled with them. The smoke was billowing down the stairs, blackening the hall in a thick, sooty fog. My hands were slippery on the locks and I could not manage them.

Behind me, the raven continued to wheel and scream, scolding me, I thought. I cursed as I turned the first lock, snicking the bolt back. I moved on to the second, both hands wrapped around my skirt to grip it better. I took a deep, choking breath of the black smoke and nearly swooned. I was light-headed with it, scarcely able to see the lock in my hands. The raven screamed and I tried and failed, tried and failed again.

I took another breath and felt myself grow suddenly dreamy and tired. Another breath and I would not keep my feet. If I did not turn the lock now, I would never do so. Panting out the suffocating smoke, I tightened my grip one last time and the lock turned in my hands. I stumbled back in relief, yanked at the doorknob and felt the rush of sweet, cool, coal-gritted London air. My clothes and face were streaked with soot, my skirts charred where they had been afire, and I was red-faced with weeping and panic. But I was alive, I thought to myself exultantly. I staggered out onto the front step, feeling the rush of wings as the raven passed me to light on the iron railing.

I clung to the railing next to him, weeping and coughing. I felt a hand, slapping hard at my back, and looked up, straight into the face of the Ghoul.

"Good Lord, Julia, you look a fright. What is all the smoke about? Did Cook burn dinner? I just heard about Simon's bad turn. Am I too late?"

I stared at her, from her neatly flowered hat to her trim little boots. She had a carpet bag in one hand and a hatbox sat on the ground. She was freshly arrived from Twickenham, unexpected, and so much more than welcome. She was perfectly, utterly normal, and I felt laughter, hysterical and sharp, bubbling up as I looked at her.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I could not make the words happen. Instead I watched as the street, dotted with soft, glowing lamps, began to spin about me. I let go of the railing, my feet floating free of the earth. I heard a voice say, "Oh, dear, I believe she is going to faint."

And I did—straight into the arms of Nicholas Brisbane.

THE FORTY-FIRST CHAPTER

But whether Julia to the task was equal Is that which must be mentioned in the sequel.

—George Gordon, Lord Byron

Don Juan

I awoke a moment later to the pungent smell of the Ghoul's vinaigrette. Brisbane was no longer holding me. I had felt the sensation of lips on my brow and I tasted salty wetness on my mouth, like tears. But they must have been my father's, for it was he, with Aquinas, who held me up between them as I turned and retched up smoke. They held me up and kept me well out of the way as we listened for the bells of the fire brigade.

The Ghoul fluttered about, taking sniffs of her vinaigrette and wailing. "Why does he not come out? What does he mean, going into that place? Is he quite mad?"

I shook off my father's arm. "What is she talking about?" I asked him. At least, I thought I did. The smoke had roughened my voice and I could barely speak. He patted my arm absently.

"Brisbane has gone inside. To see if he can rescue Simon."

I thrust him away and made to sit up. "He cannot! The first floor is in flames—he will be killed!"

The more I protested, the more they held me. Finally, I gave in, spent, and sagged against my father, silent tears channeling through the smoke on my face.

"He came to me tonight," my father said softly. "He insisted you were in danger, only he could not tell me why. It was not until we were halfway here that he began to scream."

"Scream?" I croaked at him. He nodded gravely.

"He did not even realize what he was doing. He beat the glass of the carriage windows like a madman, screaming that he smelled smoke. Aquinas and I thought he was deranged. But he knew—my God, how did he know?"

"He has the sight," I told him, whispering in my smoke-thickened voice.

"Ah. That explains much." Father was country-bred as well. He could believe in such things, as did Aquinas, who nodded, his eyes fixed upon the open door of Grey House. We waited, it must have been only a few minutes, until the fire brigade arrived, all snorting horses and clanging bells. I watched, never taking my eyes from the open door, lit with the unholy glow of that fire. I watched until my eyes burned and my lungs clouded again with that smoke. I watched until my father finally forced me into the carriage and out of harm's way. I watched, but Brisbane never came.

They found him in the back garden in the end. He had made it nearly up the stairs before the heat had beaten him back. But his way through the hall had been cut off by then, and he had only escaped by kicking out a window and hurling himself through the broken glass into the garden. He had cuts and bruises, a few small burns to show for it, and a voice they said rasped as badly as mine.

I did not hear it for myself, for he did not come to me. I waited, as I had waited outside of Grey House that terrible night, but still he did not come. So I convalesced slowly at March House, under the care of my family, and Crab, the mastiff, who lay on my bed with her litter of pups and refused to budge, and Mordecai Bent, who was also doctoring Brisbane and sometimes brought me news of him.

It was not until nearly a week after the fire that I was strong enough, and Mordecai brave enough, to tell me all.

"He never went to Paris," he told me. "He followed you instead."

I thought back and made the connections I had missed.

"The old man with the twisted leg, in the Park."

Mordecai nodded. "He was the cat in my rooms, as well," he confessed, shamefaced. "I did not like to deceive you, but he insisted. He said that he must know."

I shrugged, stroking Crab's silky ears. "He had lost faith in me, and with good reason. I lied to him and I concealed evidence to protect someone. If he did not trust me, it was because I did not trust him first."

"Even so, he did not like it," Mordecai put in. "He followed you as much because he feared for your safety as to observe your movements. He knew you would object to being kept under surveillance, but he felt very strongly that you were in danger. He just did not know from what quarter."

"He did not suspect Simon."

Mordecai shrugged. "There was no reason to. The girl from the brothel told him what she had revealed to you. Nicholas decided to pursue Sir Edward's valet instead and make inquiries at his club. He believed that so long as you were at Grey House you were safe."

I gave a smoky little cough, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"I did not suspect Simon, either, not until that very day," I told him. "But the pieces all fit, however unlikely the picture."

We talked, quietly, of things that had passed. It felt good to unburden myself, and I knew he wanted to tell me things, things I needed badly to hear.

"He had dreams of you, you know," he said softly. "Terrible dreams. He believed you were going to die if he did not stand watch over you. But how could he tell you? He did not know that Fleur had told you about his gift—his curse. He has never willingly told anyone about it—not Fleur, not me. I found out by accident, much the same way Fleur did, when we were boys."

"Little wonder you are so close," I said with a smile. I could smell the smoke on my breath still as I spoke. Mordecai's smile was warm and nostalgic, but sad.

"It has been very difficult for him, trying to fit in, to be normal. He is an extraordinary person, in a very ordinary world."

"That he is," I agreed readily.

"And you will not forgive him," he said, the humour dying quietly out of his eyes.

I shook my head slowly. "Do not say that. I do not like to think that I should harbor ill feelings for him. No, I will forgive him. In time. And perhaps he will forgive me."

"He already has," Mordecai protested. "You will never know the panic, the battle-rage, he felt when he knew you were in that burning house. My lady, he—"

"Do not," I warned him sharply. "Do not declare anything for him that he will not say for himself. Whatever his feelings for me, he is not easy about them, or he would have come to me. Do you deny this?"

He shook his head woefully. "No, I cannot."

"Very well. He will get on with his life, and I with mine, and we shall see where that leaves us."

Mordecai left me then, sad but resigned. There were no tidy, happy endings here. There had been too much pain and too much mistrust for that. And if Crab minded the tears I wept into her neck, she did not say.

But there was some satisfaction, if not happiness, to be had. Desmond, ailing now, was removed to a nursing home in Kent. There were gardens where the patients might be permitted a little occupation at their leisure, and I was told he settled in quickly. Mordecai, having examined me from top to toe, pronounced me fit enough, in all respects, including the one I was most troubled about. He recommended a spell in a warm climate to restore my lungs, and my thoughts turned again to Italy. I made preparations quietly, to take Aquinas and Morag, and no others. I had had enough of family entanglements to last some time. We would travel slowly together, and after a while would meet with my brothers in Italy.

The only other development of note was my father, and his preoccupation with my sickroom. I noticed he was most often present when Fleur made one of her many calls, bearing salves and sweetmeats and armfuls of flowers. She read to me and brought me magazines of the latest fashions and tempted me to eat the little delicacies she had Therese concoct for me. Father always made some excuse to linger when Fleur was perched charmingly on my bed, laughing her pretty laugh and pampering me with her kind attentions. He looked a bit bemused by her, and I fancied I saw a spark there that I had never seen in him, but I resolutely made up my mind not to worry about it. If Father took up with Fleur, he could do far worse, I thought pragmatically. For that matter, so could she.

To his credit, Father managed to sweep all the ugliness of Grey House under the carpet with the rather prodigious March broom of privilege and influence. Grey House, uninsured, was a total loss, as were the contents. My sisters came forward with photographs and sketches, books and albums, piecing together for me the remnants of my childhood. Nothing could replace all I had lost, but their efforts helped, as did the extraordinarily generous check from Lord Porlock for the grounds on which Grey House had stood. Before the ruins were even done smoking he had teams of men shoveling out the rooms and architects on the site drawing up plans for his new town house.

The fire itself was recorded as a tragic accident, and everyone viewed it as a coincidence of divine order that the staff had all been given the evening off. Aquinas lied smoothly, saying the boon had been his idea, a treat for the servants so that they could enjoy the Queen's Jubilee celebrations, and no one could budge him from that. He knew that if the truth were known, if people understood that I had told him to dismiss the staff, it would cast suspicion upon me and my possible motives for wanting Grey House empty that night. Aquinas himself never reproached me for not confiding in him, but I knew that my failure to do so had broadened a breach between us, one that might only be healed with enough time. He had suspected what I was about, and that was why he had gone to March House, to beg my father to intervene. But he blamed himself for not acting sooner, and no matter how I tried to reassure him, I knew he felt he had failed me.

I castigated myself bitterly for not seeing what the consequences of my actions might be, but I had one consolation. In my stubborn insistence on confronting Simon alone, I had possibly saved lives that might otherwise have been lost in the fire. It was a very little consolation, but I clung to it like a drowning woman. It meant something to me that at least I had done one thing right.

Val confessed his own actions privately to Father, who took it rather handsomely and made arrangements with Mordecai for Val to work with him in his practice and under his direction. I thought this new gentleness of Father's might perhaps be Fleur's doing, but I could not be certain. In any case, Val moved back into March House, and their quarrels were largely a thing of the past.

Even the matter of the raven was settled, its presence at Grey House becoming public knowledge thanks to an enterprising newspaper reporter. Father was summoned to the palace, but Her Majesty, who was in a rather good mood due to the Jubilee celebrations, and who it must be said always had a fondness for handsome men as well as a natural sympathy for another widow, insisted upon writing out an order making me a gift of the raven in recognition of the bird's valorous conduct. My letter of thanks was answered with a somewhat terse reply from her secretary. I think she had begun to regret the impulsive gift by then, and I heard later that she had had a rather severe interview with Reddy Phillips' father. No one knew the exact details, but I did not think it an accident that a sizable statue of Prince Albert was immediately commissioned by the Phillipses to be placed on the village green near their country house.

Free at last to enjoy my new pet, I bought him a handsome cage and applied myself to thinking up a proper name for him. Not surprisingly, the staff of Grey House was dispersed save the handful I retained for myself, some going to the country, most being found new posts in London.

So everyone settled into the same, or more comfortable, circumstances than before. Everyone except me. I found myself brooding, silent for long periods of time, and thinking thoughts best left to darkness. I thought often of Simon and his terrible love for Edward. There had been a house party at the Phillipses' country house the same summer I had gone to the Lakes with my aunt, the summer before Edward and I wed. I had not wondered about it before, but now, when I thought of the melancholy sketches of the Gothic folly, and Portia's revelations of what the Brimstone Club had done there, I guessed. They had been lovers there, perhaps for the first time. That whole group of young men, so eager to be thought devils. Was this the worst of their secrets? Affections that would never be accepted? Love that could never be revealed?

But then I remembered what Simon had told me once, about fearing death so much that he had tried anything to save himself. And I thought of Portia, chattering on about the Brimstones and their belief that drinking from the skull of a virgin could cure diseases. Magda came to me, quietly, simply appearing in my room at March House late one evening. We talked for some time. She stroked my hand, murmuring endearments and lamentations in Romany as I spoke. I had worked it out for myself by then, but she confirmed it. It had been Simon who despoiled Carolina's grave, not Valerius. In his desperation to find a cure for his syphilis, he had exhumed Carolina to take her head for a drinking vessel. He had taken to his heels when Magda had appeared, probably quite relieved when she did not reveal his filthy secret. But she had plotted her own revenge, even then. And Simon's suffering at the end was not entirely due to the advanced stages of his syphilis, she admitted to me through her tears. The arsenic I had discovered in her room had not gone completely unused, in spite of her claim to me that she had harmed no one. I sent her away again then, sickened, but more sympathetic to her than I would have liked. I had forgotten to ask her about Mariah Young, the one mystery I had not solved, but I found it difficult to care. I had unearthed too much misery in my meddling, and I did not have the stomach for more. I dreamed of Carolina that night, as I dreamed of all of them, Simon, Edward, even my mother sometimes.

In an effort to end the dreams, I went to Highgate one afternoon, alone and heavily veiled. I walked through the cemetery, grateful for the quiet, broken only by the soft dripping of the rain onto the gravestones. I stood for a long time by Edward's grave, thinking over all that had passed, all that we had been to each other and all that we had not. I said goodbye that day, for the first time, and the last. And just before I walked away, I laid a small wreath of laurel at Edward's feet and another just next to it, at the stone whose inscription read only "Sir Simon Grey." There was no body there, and no poetry to mark where his body should have lain. But I had given him a place next to Edward for all of eternity. That should have been enough to appease any ghosts who might have lingered. I knew as I walked away that I would not come again.

But still the dead came to me. I dreamed of them, nearly every night, waking shivering and alone, and often weeping. Morag brought me warm drinks and bathed my brow, but we both knew it was time for me to move on.

"I shall speak to Mr. Aquinas about packing," she said one night, after a particularly unspeakable nightmare. "It is time to go."

I nodded, and between the two of them, they made all the arrangements. My father helped, and it was soon settled. My clothes had been replaced, thanks to Portia and the Riche brothers, and some new things ordered, suitable for travel.

"You will go to your brothers," Father advised me. "Ly writes that they are most concerned for you and would be happy to meet you in Florence."

I nodded, listlessly. "That will do."

He talked on, detailing things I did not care to know, before he reached down suddenly and took my hand.

"Julia, listen to me." I looked up and saw him, really saw him for the first time in days. "You have suffered a terrible blow, but you shall recover. You are young and strong, and you will feel this pain acutely because as yet in your life you have not suffered much. But you must believe me when I tell you that this will be blunted, the edge will not cut so deep after a while. You will enjoy life again, and you will laugh and love and weep for others."

He held me then and I wept against his shoulder, sobbing out an entire marriage worth of betrayal and pain and despair into his jacket. He simply held me, stroking my hair until I had finished. Then he pulled back and smiled at me.

"A good wet weep is always just the thing. You will feel better soon. Not just yet, but soon. And when you do, enjoy it. Life is too uncertain, my dear. You must seize happiness where you find it."

I nodded, and after he left, I thought for a long time on what he had said. But I was still not ready to face Brisbane. He had not written to me, or attempted to call upon me, and I woke the morning of my departure feeling grateful for it. I did not think I would have the strength to go if I saw him just then. How could I tell him that when I saw Grey House, blazing up into the evening sky, my regrets were for him, for what would never be between us? I had not mourned Edward then, or Simon. I had mourned him.

But there was time now to sort my feelings, and understand myself better, to ponder questions still unanswered. I still did not know quite where I stood in Brisbane's estimation, or for that matter, he in mine. Italy would be a new beginning for me, I thought exultantly. A renaissance in the land of rebirth, I decided as I walked out of March House, into the warm June sunshine. I had just stepped to the open door of Father's carriage when a messenger ran up, panting and holding a hand to his side.

"Lady Julia Grey," he gasped out. I motioned to him.

"I am Lady Julia."

He extended his grubby hand, bearing a small package, wrapped in brown paper and scrolled with my name. I gestured to Morag to give him a coin and settled into the carriage, glancing out the window as I did so. Across the square, barely visible through the leafy shade, I saw an old man, twisty-legged and very still, with a stout white cat with a plumed tail perched quietly on his shoulder. A breeze tossed the leaves, blocking my view, and by the time they had blown back again, the spot was empty.

I sat back and thumped the roof of the carriage with the end of my parasol.

The driver sprang the horses and we were off, Aquinas mounted with the driver, Morag seated opposite me. We would take Father's carriage to the station, then the train to the coast. We were sailing to Italy, through the Strait of Gibraltar, and I was very nearly numb with anticipation. Morag busied herself taking inventory of our reticules and boxes, certain that we had forgotten something. I waited until her attention was engaged before I unwrapped the little package. There was a box inside, but no message. Just a bit of soft cotton wool and a thin silver pendant, struck with the head of Medusa, strung on a black silk cord.

I turned it over, running my finger over the new engraving, freshly incised onto the reverse of the gorgon head. It was a series of letters and numbers, a code, but perfectly decipherable to one who had been fed Shakespeare with mother's milk. 2HVIIIIii362. No child of Hector March could mistake that attribution. It was from The Second Part of Henry VI, the third act, the second scene, line 362.

For where thou art, there is the world itself.

I threaded the cord under my collar, tucking the coin into the hollow of my throat, where it had lain so often on him. As I did so, Morag looked at me suspiciously.

"What was that, my lady?"

I passed the wrappings to her.

"A going-away present," I remarked lightly. I settled back against the cushion, anticipating my year away and the sharp pleasures that might await me at the end of it.

Of course, I did not realize it at the time, but it was to be nothing like a year before I came home again. I did not know when I would see Brisbane again, but I knew that I would. Someday.

And indeed I did. That is when we found the body in the chapel. But that is a tale for another time.

Silent in the Sanctuary

By Deanna Raybourn

CONTENTS

THE FIRST CHAPTER

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRD CHAPTER

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE NINTH CHAPTER

THE TENTH CHAPTER

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

THE FIRST CHAPTER

Italy, 1887

Travelers must be content.

—As You Like It

Well, I suppose that settles it. Either we all go home to England for Christmas or we hurl ourselves into Lake Como to atone for our sins."

I threw my elder brother a repressive look. "Do not be so morose, Plum. Father's only really angry with Lysander," I pointed out, brandishing the letter from England with my fingertips. The paper fairly scorched my skin. Father's temper was a force of nature. Unable to rant at Lysander directly, he had applied himself to written chastisement with great vigour.

"The rest of us can go home easily enough," I said. "Just think of it—Christmas in England! Plum pudding and snapdragon, mistletoe and wassail—"

"Chilblains and damp beds, fogs so thick you cannot set foot out of doors," Plum put in, his expression sour. "Someone sobbing in the linen cupboard, Father locking himself in the study after threatening to drown the lot of us in the moat."

"I know," I said, my excitement rising. "Won't it be wonderful?"

Plum's face cracked into a thin, wistful smile. "It will, actually. I have rather missed the old pile—and the family, as well. But I shall be sorry to leave Italy. It has been an adventure I shall not soon forget."

On that point we were in complete agreement. Italy had been a balm to me, soothing and stimulating at once. I had joined two of my brothers, Lysander and Eglamour—Plum to the family—after suffering the loss of my husband and later my home, and very nearly my own life. I had arrived in Italy with my health almost broken and my spirit in a sorrier state. Four months in a warm, sunny clime with the company of my brothers had restored me. And though the weather had lately grown chill and the seasons were turning inward, I had no wish to leave Italy yet. Still, the lure of family and home, particularly at Christmas, was strong.

"Well, who is to say we must return permanently? Italy shall always be here. We can go to England for Christmas and still be back in Venice in time for Carnevale."

Plum's smile deepened. "That is terribly cunning of you, Julia. I think living among Italians has developed a latent talent in you for intrigue."

It was a jest, but the barb struck too close to home, and I lowered my head over my needlework. I had engaged in an intrigue in England although I had never discussed it with my brothers. There had been an investigation into my husband's death, a private investigation conducted by an inquiry agent. I had assisted him and unmasked the killer myself. It had been dangerous, nasty work, and I told myself I was happy to be done with it.

But even as I plunged my needle into the canvas, trailing a train of luscious scarlet silk behind it, I felt a pang of regret—regret that my days were occupied with nothing more purposeful than those of any other lady of society. I had had a glimpse of what it meant to be useful, and it stung now to be merely decorative. I longed for something more important than the embroidering of cushions or the pouring of tea to sustain me.

Of my other regrets, I would not let myself think. I yanked at the needle, snarling the thread.

"Blast," I muttered, rummaging in my work basket for my scissors.

"We are a deceptively domestic pair," Plum said suddenly.

I snapped the threads loose and peered at him. "Whatever do you mean?"

He waved a hand. "This lovely villa, the fireside, both of us in slippers. I, reading my paper from England whilst you ply your needle. We might be any couple, by any fireside, placidly whiling away the darkening hours of an autumn eve."

I glanced about. The rented villa was comfortably, even luxuriously appointed. The long windows of the drawing room overlooked Lake Como, although the heavy velvet draperies had long since been drawn against the gathering dark. "I suppose, but—"

What I had been about to say next was lost. Morag, my maid, entered the drawing room to announce a visitor.

"The Count of Four-not-cheese."

I gave her an evil look and tossed my needlework aside. Plum dashed his newspaper to the floor and jumped to his feet.

"Alessandro!" he cried. "You are a welcome sight! We did not expect you until Saturday."

Morag did not move, and our visitor stepped neatly around her, doffing his hat and cape. They were speckled with raindrops that glittered in the firelight. He held them out to Morag who looked at him as though he had just offered her a dead animal. I rushed to take them.

"Alessandro, how lovely to see you." I thrust the cape and hat at Morag. "Take these and brush them well," I instructed. "And his name is Fornacci," I hissed at her.

She gave me a shrug and a curl of the lip and departed, dragging the tail of Alessandro's beautiful coat on the marble floor as she went.

I turned to him, smiling brightly. "Do come in and get warm by the fire. It has turned beastly out there and you must be chilled to the bone."

He gave me a look rich with gratitude, and something rather more as well. Plum and I bustled about, plumping cushions and making him comfortable with a chair by the fire and a glass of good Irish whiskey. Alessandro had never tasted whiskey until making the acquaintance of my brothers, but had become something of a connoisseur in the months he had known them. To begin with, he no longer made the mistake of tossing his head back and drinking the entire glass at one gulp.

After a few minutes by the fire he had thawed sufficiently to speak. "It is so good to see you again," he said, careful to look at Plum as well as myself when he spoke. "I am very much looking forward to spending Christmas with you here." His English was terribly fluent, very much better than my Italian, but there was a formality that lingered in his speech. I found it charming.

Plum, who had poured himself a steady glass of spirits, took a deep draught. "I am afraid there has been a change in plans, old man."

"Old man" was his favourite nickname for Alessandro, no doubt for its incongruity. Alessandro was younger than either of us by some years.

The young man's face clouded a little and he looked from Plum to me, his silky dark brows knitting in concern. "I am not invited for Christmas? Shall I return to Firenze then?"

I slapped Plum lightly on the knee. "Don't be vile. You have made Alessandro feel unwelcome." It had been arranged that Alessandro would come to us in November, and we would all spend the holiday together before making a leisurely journey to Venice in time for Carnevale. There was no hope of such a scheme now. I turned to Alessandro, admiring for a moment the way the firelight licked at his hair. I had thought it black, but his curls shone amber and copper in their depths. I wondered how difficult it would be to persuade Plum to paint him.

"You see, Alessandro," I explained, "we have received a letter from our father, the Earl March. He is displeased with our brother Lysander and wishes us all to return to England at once. We shall spend Christmas there."

"Ah. How can one argue with the call of family? If you must return, my friends, you must return. But know that you will always carry with you the highest regard of Alessandro Fornacci."

This handsome speech was accompanied by a courtly little bow from the neck and a noble, if pained, expression that would have done a Caesar proud.

"I have a better idea, and a very good notion it is," Plum said slowly. "What if we bring Alessandro with us?"

I had just taken a sip of my own whiskey and I choked lightly. "I beg your pardon, Plum?"

Alessandro raised his hands in a gesture I had seen many Italians employ, as if warding something off. "No, my friend, I must not. If your father is truly angry, he will not welcome an intruder at this time."

"Are you mad? This is precisely the time to bring someone outside the family into the fold. It will keep him from killing Lysander outright. He will behave himself if we cart you back to England with us. The old man has peculiar ideas, but he is appallingly hospitable."

"Plum, kindly do not refer to Father as 'the old man'. It is disrespectful," I admonished.

Alessandro was shaking his head. "But I have not been invited. It would be a great discourtesy."

"It would be a far greater discourtesy for Father to kill his own son," Plum pointed out tartly. "And you have been invited. By us. Now I must warn you, the family seat is rather old-fashioned. Father doesn't hold with new ideas, at least not for country houses. You'll find no steam heat or even gaslights. I'm afraid it's all coal fires and candles, but it really is a rather special old place. You always said you wanted to see England, and Bellmont Abbey is as English as it gets, dear boy."

Alessandro hesitated. "If I may be so bold, why is his lordship so angry with Lysander? Surely it is not—"

"It is," Plum and I chorused.

Just at that moment, sounds of a quarrel began to echo from upstairs. There was a shout and the unmistakable crash of breaking crockery.

"But the earl, he cannot object to Lysander's marriage to so noble and lovely a lady as Violante," Alessandro put in, quite diplomatically I thought.

Something landed with a great thud on the floor, shivering the ceiling and causing the chandelier above our heads to sway gently.

"Do you suppose that was one of them?" Plum inquired lightly.

"Don't jest. If it was, we shall have to deal with the body," I reminded him. Violante began to shriek, punctuating her words with tiny stamps of her heel from the sound of it.

"I wonder what she is calling him. It cannot be very nice," I mused.

Alessandro gave an elegant shrug. "I regret, my understanding of Napolitana, it is imperfect." He dropped his eyes, and I wondered if he understood more than politeness would allow him to admit.

"Probably for the best," Plum remarked, draining the last of his whiskey.

"Do not finish off the decanter," I warned him. "Lysander will want a glass or two when they have finished for the evening."

"Or seven," Plum countered with a twitch of his lip. I gave him a disapproving look. Lysander's marital woes were not a source of amusement to me. I had endured enough of my own connubial difficulties to be sympathetic. Plum, however, wore a bachelor's indifference. He had never said so, but I suspected his favourite brother's defection to the married state had rankled him. They had travelled the Continent together for years, roaming wherever their interests and their acquaintance had directed them, exploring museums and opera houses and ruined castles. They wrote poetry and concertos and painted murals on the walls of ancient abbeys. They had been the staunchest companions until Lysander, having left his thirtieth birthday some years past, had spotted Violante sitting serenely in her uncle's box at La Fenice. It was, as the Tuscans say, un colpo di fulmine, a bolt of lightning.

It was also a bit misleading. Upon further investigation, Lysander discovered Violante was Neapolitan, not Venetian, and there was quite simply nothing about her that was serene. She carried in her blood all the warmth and passion and raw-boned energy of her native city. Violante was Naples, and for a cool-blooded, cool-headed Englishman like Lysander the effect was intoxicating. He married her within a month, and presented Plum and me with a fait accompli, a sister-in-law who smothered us in kisses and heady jasmine perfumes. For my part, I found her charming, wholly unaffected if somewhat exhausting. Plum, on the other hand, was perfectly cordial and cordially perfect. Whenever Violante stepped from a carriage or shivered from the cold, Plum would offer her a hand or his greatcoat, bowing and murmuring a graciously phrased response to her effusive thanks. And yet always he watched her with the cool detachment one usually reserves for specimens at the zoological garden. I often thought there might be real fondness there if he could unbend a little and forgive her for coming so precipitously into our lives.

But Plum was nothing if not stubborn, and I knew a straightforward approach would only cause him to dig his heels into the ground like a recalcitrant pony. So I endeavoured to distract him with little whims and treats, cajoling him into good temper in spite of himself.

And then we met Alessandro, or to be accurate, I met Alessandro, for he was a friend of my brothers of some years' duration. Rome had been too hot, too noisy, altogether too much for my delicate state when I first arrived in Italy. My brothers immediately decided to quit the city and embark on a leisurely tour to the north, lingering for a few days or even weeks in any particularly engaging spot, but always pushing on toward Florence. We settled comfortably in a tiny palazzo there, and I began to recover. My fire-roughened voice smoothed again, never quite as it had been, but not noticeably damaged. My lungs were strengthened and my spirits raised. Lysander felt comfortable enough to leave us to accept an invitation for a brief trip to Venice to celebrate the private debut of a friend's opera. Plum pledged to watch over me, and Lysander departed, to return a month later after endless delays and a secret wedding, his voluble bride in tow.

Alessandro had kept us company while Lysander was away, guiding us to hidden piazze, revealing secret gardens and galleries no tourists ever crowded. He drove us to Fiesole in a beribboned pony cart, stopping to point out the most breathtaking views in that enchanted hilltop town, and introduced us to inns in whose flower-drenched courtyards we were served food so delicious it must have been bewitched. Plum always seemed to wander off, sketchbook in hand to capture a row of cypresses, stalwart and straight as a regiment, or the elegant curve of a signorina's cheek, distinctive as a goddess out of myth. Alessandro did not seem to mind. He talked to me of history and culture and we practiced our languages with each other, learning to speak of everything and nothing at all.

They were the most peaceful and serene weeks of my life, and they ended only when Lysander returned with Violante, bursting with pride, his chin held a trifle higher from defiance as much as happiness. With his native courtesy, Alessandro withdrew at once, leaving us to our privacy as a newly re-formed family. There were flinty discussions verging on quarrels, where we all went quite white about the lips and I could feel the heat rising in my face. Lysander had no wish to inform Father of his marriage, thinking instead to make a trip to England sometime in the summer, bringing his surprise bride with him then. Plum and I argued forcefully against this, reminding him of his duty, his obligation, his name. And more to the point, his allowance. If Father was made to look foolish, angered too far, he could easily slash Ly's allowance to ribbons or halt it altogether. Lysander was an accomplished musician, but he was a conductor manqué, a dabbler. He had no serious reputation upon which to build a career, and without a formal education, without proper connections, his situation was impossible. He relented finally, with bad grace, and Plum penned the letter to Father, writing in Lysander's name to tell him there was a new addition to the family.

The reaction had been swift—a summons to Lysander to bring his bride home at once. Lysander, in a too-typical gambit of avoidance, rented the villa at Lake Como, insisting we could not go home before Carnevale season and that we might as well spend Christmas in the lake country. But he had underestimated Father. The second letter had been forceful, specific, and brutal. We were expected, all of us now, to return home immediately. Lysander had masked his dread with defiance, dropping the letter on the mantelpiece and shrugging before stalking from the room. Violante had followed him, accusing him of being embarrassed of her, if I translated correctly. The Napolitana dialect had defeated me almost entirely from the beginning, and I think our inability to understand one another most of the time explained why Violante and I had learned to get on so well.

Suddenly, Plum cocked his head. "Listen to the silence. Do you suppose one of them has finally done the other a mischief?"

"Your slang is appalling," I told him, taking up my needlework again. "And no, I do not think one of them has done murder. I think they have decided to discuss the matter rationally, in a mature, adult fashion."

Plum snorted, and Alessandro pretended not to notice, sipping quietly at his whiskey. "Adult? Mature? My dear girl, you have lived with them some weeks now. Have you ever seen them discuss anything in a mature, adult fashion? No, and they will not, not so long as they both enjoy the fillip of excitement that a brisk argument lends to a marriage."

I blinked at him. "They are newlyweds. They are in love. I hardly think they need to hurl plates at one another's heads to enjoy themselves."

"Don't you? Our dear Violante is a southerner, who doubtless took in screaming with her mother's milk. And Lysander is a fool who has read too much poetry. He mistakes the volume of a raised voice for true depth of feeling. I despair of him."

"Do not worry, Lady Julia," Alessandro put in gently. Giulia, he said, drawing out the syllables like poetry. "To speak loudly, it is simply the way of the southerners. They are very different from those of us bred in the north. We are cooler and more temperate, like the climate."

He flashed me a dazzling smile, and I made a feeble effort to return it. "Still, it has gone too quiet," I commented. "Do you suppose they have made it up?"

"They have not," came Ly's voice, thick with bitterness. He was standing in the doorway, his hair untidy, his colour high with righteous anger, his back stiff with resentment. It was a familiar posture for him these days. "Violante is insisting we obey Father's summons. She wants to see England and to 'meet her dear papa', she says." He flung himself into the chair next to Plum's, his expression sour. "Hullo, Alessandro. Sorry you had to hear all of that," he added with a glance toward the ceiling.

Alessandro murmured a greeting in return as I studied my brothers, feeling a sudden rush of emotion for the pair of them. Handsome and feckless, they were remarkably similar in appearance, sharing both the striking green eyes of the Marches and the dark hair and pale complexion that had marked our family for centuries. But although their features were similar, their clothes stamped them as very different men. Plum took great pains to search out the most outlandish costumes he could find, outfitting himself in velvet frock coats a hundred years out of fashion, or silk caps that made him look like a rather dashing mushroom.

Lysander, on the other hand, was a devotee of the spare elegance of Brummell. He never wore any colours other than white or black, and every garment he owned had been fitted a dozen times. He was particular as a pasha, and carried himself with imperious grace. When the pair of them went out together they always attracted attention, doubtless the effect they hoped for. They had a gift for making friends easily, and more times than I could count since my arrival in Italy, we had entered a restaurant or hotel or theatre box only to have my brothers greeted by name and kissed heartily, food and drink pressed upon us as though we were minor royalty. They could be puckishly charming when they wished, and delightful company. Until they were bored or thwarted. Then they were capable of horrifying mischief, although they had behaved themselves well enough since I had joined them.

I flicked a glance at Alessandro from under my lashes. He was still placidly sipping his drink, savoring it slowly, his trousers perfectly creased in spite of the filthy weather. He was an elegant, composed young gentleman, and I thought that with a little more time he might have been a noble influence on my scapegrace brothers.

I smoothed my skirts and cleared my throat.

"My dear," I told Lysander, "I think it is quite clear we must return to England, and you must face Father. Now, we can sit up half the night and argue like thieves, but we will talk you round eventually, so you might as well capitulate now and let us get on with planning our journey."

Lysander looked wonderingly from me to Plum. "When did Julia become brisk? She has never been brisk. Or bossy. Julia, I do not think I much care for this new side of you. You are beginning to sound like our sisters, and I do not like our sisters."

I said nothing, but fixed him with a patient, pleasant look of expectation. After a long moment, he groaned. "Pax, I beg you. I am powerless against a determined woman." I thought of his tempestuous bride, and wondered if I ought to share with her the power of a few minutes of very pregnant silence. But there was work at hand, and I made a note to myself to speak with Violante later.

"Then we are agreed," I said. I rose and went to the desk, seating myself and arranging writing materials. There was a portfolio of scarlet morocco, stamped in gold with my initials, and filled with the creamiest Florentine writing-paper. I dipped my pen and gave my brothers a purposeful look, the tip of my pen poised over the luscious paper. "Now, we have also had a letter from Aunt Hermia, and I have managed to make out that she is intending to hold a sort of house party over Christmas. We must not arrive without gifts."

"Oh, for God's sake," Lysander muttered. Plum had brightened considerably, thoroughly enjoying our brother's discomfiture. Clearly the return of the prodigal son as bridegroom was not going to be a quiet affair. Knowing Aunt Hermia, I suspected she had invited the entire family—a not-inconsequential thing in a family of ten children—and half the village of Blessingstoke as well.

"Come on, old thing," Plum said. "It won't be so bad. The more people there, gobbling the food and drinking the wine, the less likely Father is to cut off your allowance. You know how much he loves to play lord of the manor."

"He is the lord of the manor," I reminded Plum. "Now, I thought some of that lovely marzipan. A selection of the sweetest little fruits and birds, boxed up and tied with ribbons. I saw just the thing in Milan, and we can stop en route to the train station. That will do nicely for the ladies. And those darling little bottles of rosewater. I bought dozens of them in Florence."

I scribbled a few notes, including a reminder to instruct Morag to find the engraving of Byron I had purchased in Siena. It would make a perfect Christmas present for Father. He would enjoy throwing darts at it immensely.

Suddenly, I looked up to find my brothers staring at me with identical expressions of bemusement.

"What?" I demanded. "Have you thought of something I ought to have?"

"You have become efficient," Lysander said brutally. "You are making a list. I always thought you the most normal of my sisters, and yet here you are, organising, just like the rest of them. I wager you could arrange a military campaign to shame Napoléon if you had a mind to."

I shrugged. "At least I would not have forgotten the greatcoats on the Russian front. Now, Plum has proposed Alessandro join us in England."

Lysander sat bolt upright, grasping Alessandro's hand in his own. "My friend, is this true? You would come to England with us?"

Alessandro looked from Lysander to me, his expression nonplussed. "As I already expressed to your kind brother and sister, I am reluctant, my friend. Your father, the Lord March, he has not invited me himself. And this is a time of great delicacy."

"There is no better time," Lysander insisted. "You heard Julia. Father and Aunt Hermia are planning some bloody great house party."

"Language, Lysander," I murmured.

Naturally he ignored me. "Alessandro, our family home is a converted abbey. There is room for a dozen regiments if we wished to invite them. And do not trouble yourself about Father. Plum has invited you, and so have I. And I am sure Julia wishes it as well."

Alessandro looked past Lysander to where I sat, his gaze, warm and dark as chestnut honey, catching my own. "This is true, my lady? You wish me to come also?"

I thought of the weeks I had spent in Alessandro's company, long sunlit days perfumed with the heady scent of rosemary and punctuated with serene silences broken only by the sleepy drone of bees. I thought of his hand, warm on the curve of my back as he helped me scramble over stone walls to a field where we picnicked on cold slices of chicken and drank sharp white wine so icy it numbed my cheeks. And I thought of what he had told me about his longing to travel, to see something of the world before he grew too comfortable, too settled to leave Florence.

"Of course," I said, with a firmness that surprised me. "I think you would like England very much, Alessandro. And you would be very welcome at Bellmont Abbey."

He nodded slowly. "Then I come," he said at last, his eyes lingering on me.

Lysander whooped and Plum poured out another splash of whiskey into their glasses, calling for a toast to our travels. I returned to my notes, penning a reminder to myself to send out for a timetable. As my hand moved across the page, it shivered a little, marring the creamy expanse with a spot of ink. I drew a deep breath and blotted it, writing on until the page was filled and I reached for another.

At length, the gentlemen left me, Plum to show Alessandro to his room, Lysander to tell Violante the news of our imminent departure. I was alone with the slow ticking of the mantel clock and the crisp, rustling taffeta sounds of the fire as it burned down to ash. My pen scratched away the minutes, jotting notes to extend our regrets to invitations, requests for accommodation, orders for hampers to be filled with provisions for the journey.

So immersed was I in my task, I did not hear Morag's approach—a sure sign of my preoccupation for Morag moves with all the grace of a draught horse.

"So, we're for England then," she said, her chin tipped up smugly.

"Yes, we are," I returned, not looking up from my writing paper. "And knowing how little love you have for Italy, I suppose you are pleased at the prospect."

She snorted. "I am pleased at the prospect of a decent meal, I am. There is no finer kitchen in England than that at Bellmont Abbey," she finished loyally.

"I would not put the matter so strongly, but the food is good," I conceded. It was plain cooking, for Father refused to employ a French chef. But the food was hearty and well prepared and one never went hungry at the Abbey. Unlike Italy. While I had revelled in the rich, exotic new flavors, Morag had barely subsisted on boiled chicken and rice.

I returned to my writing and she idled about the room, poking up the fire and plumping the occasional cushion. Finally, I threw down my pen.

"What do you wish to say, Morag? I can hear you thinking."

She looked at me with an affectedly wounded expression. "I was merely being helpful. The drawing room is untidy."

"We have maids for that," I reminded her. "And a porter to answer the door. Why did you admit Count Fornacci this evening?"

"I was at hand," she said loftily.

"Ha. At hand because you strong-armed the porter, I'll warrant. Whatever you are contemplating, do not. I will not tolerate your meddling."

Morag drew herself up to her rather impressively bony height. "I was at hand." She could be a stubborn creature, as I had often had occasion to notice. I sighed and waved her away, taking up my pen again.

"Of course," she said slowly, "I could not help but notice that his excellency, Count Four-not-cheese, is coming back to England with us."

"Fornacci, Fornacci," I told her again, knowing even as I did so I might as well try to teach a dog to sing. "And yes, he is coming to England with us. He wishes to travel, and it is a perfect opportunity for him to spend time in a proper English home. My brothers invited him."

"And you did not encourage him?" she demanded, her eyes slyly triumphant.

"Well, naturally I had to approve the invitation, as it were. It would have been rude not to do so."

I scrawled out a list of details that must not be forgotten before our departure. The heel of my scarlet evening slipper required mending, and I had left Plum's favourite little travelling clock with the watchmaker to have the hour hand repaired and the glass replaced. Violante had thrown it at Lysander and dented the hands badly.

Morag continued to loom over the desk, contented as a cat. I could almost see the canary feathers trailing from her lips.

"Morag, if you have something to say, do so. If not, leave me in peace. I am in no mood to be trifled with."

"I have nothing to say, nothing to say at all," she said, moving slowly to the door. She paused, her hand on the knob. "Although, if I were to say something, I would probably ask you how you think Mr. Brisbane will like the notion of you coming home with that young man."

A pause, no longer than a quickened heartbeat.

"Morag, Mr. Brisbane's feelings are no concern of mine, nor of yours. I shall retire in a quarter of an hour. See that the bed is warmed. It was chilly last night, and I shall blame you if I take a cold."

She made a harrumphing noise and left me then, thudding along the marble floors in her heavily soled shoes. I waited until she was out of earshot before folding my arms on the desk and dropping my head onto them. Nicholas Brisbane. The private inquiry agent who had investigated my husband's death. I had not thought of him in months.

Or, to be entirely accurate, I had suppressed any thought of him ruthlessly. I had smothered any thoughts of him stillborn, not permitting myself the indulgence of even the memory of him. There had been something between us, something indefinable, but there, I had been certain of it. But nearly five months had passed without word from him, and I had begun to think I had imagined it, had imagined the moments that had flashed between us like an electrical current, had imagined the one searing moment on Hampstead Heath when we had both of us reached beyond ourselves and clung to one another feverishly. There was only the memory of that endless kiss to comfort me, and the pendant coin he had sent me by messenger the day I had left England.

I drew the pendant from the depths of my gown, turning it over in my palm, firelight burnishing the silver to something altogether richer. It was warm from where it had lain against my skin all these months, a talisman against loneliness. I ran a finger over the head of Medusa and her serpent locks, marvelling at the elegance of the workmanship. The coin was old and thin, but the engraving was sharp, so sharp I could imagine her about to speak from those rounded lips. I turned it over and touched the row of letters and numbers he had had incised as a code only I would decipher. I had felt a rush of emotion when I had first read it, certain then that someday, in some fashion I could not yet predict, we would find our way back to each other. For where thou art, there is the world itself.

And yet. Here I was, five months on, without a single word from him, his pendant now cold comfort for his indifference. I laid my head back down on my arms and gave one, great, shuddering sob. Then I rose and carefully placed the pen into its holder and closed the inkwell. I tamped the pages of my notes together and laid them on the blotter. I opened the morocco portfolio and dropped the pendant into it. Medusa stared up at me, expectant and poised to speak. I closed the portfolio, snapping the closure with all the finality of graveyard dirt being shoveled onto a coffin. Whatever had sparked between Nicholas Brisbane and I was over; a quick, ephemeral thing, it had not lasted out the year.

No matter, I told myself firmly. I was going home. And I was not going alone.

THE SECOND CHAPTER

Britain's a world by itself.

—Cymbeline

There are few undertakings more challenging than planning a journey for one's family. It is a testimony to my good nature and sound common sense that I arranged our return to England without resorting to physical violence. Violante, who had raged and howled against not being taken to England to meet her new family, decided she had no wish to leave the land of her birth and commenced to weeping loudly over each meal, watering her uneaten food with her tears. Lysander, always the softest and most malleable of my brothers, persuaded by a sister's single shimmering tear or outthrust lip, had grown a carapace of indifference and simply went about the business of eating, paying no more attention to Violante than he did the dozen cats who prowled about our loggia, purring for scraps.

Although Plum had joined enthusiastically into the scheme of Christmas at the Abbey, it suddenly occurred to him that he was leaving the fine northern Italian light indefinitely. He spent most of his time in the salon, painting feverishly and ignoring the summonses to meals, contenting himself with a handful of spicy meats tucked sloppily into a hunk of bread and a bottle of wine filched from the cellars. It was left to me to organise our departure with Alessandro's help. He was invaluable, cheerfully dashing off to deliver a message or secure another cart for our baggage. No task was too menial for him. He wrapped books and tied parcels with as much good humour as he had shown introducing us to the delights of Florence. I sorely missed him when he left us the day before our departure, promising to meet us at the train station in Milan. He was secretive and a little quiet, I thought, but he smiled and kissed my hand, brushing his lips not over my fingers, but across the pulse at my wrist. Before I could reply, Morag managed to drop an expensive piece of porcelain that belonged to the owner of the villa, and by the time I had sorted out whether or not it could be repaired, Alessandro was gone.

The next day we rose early and made the trip into Milan, Plum resplendent in a garish tasselled red fez he had purchased on his travels. Violante sobbed quietly into her handkerchief, blowing her nose every minute or so, and Lysander was busily tapping his fingers on the window, beating out the measures of a new concerto. The morning was brilliant, the rich white-gold light of Lombardy rolling over the landscape, gilding the scene in the style of a Renaissance masterpiece. Even the smallest detail seemed touched with magic. The humblest peasant on the road was magnificent, a gift to commit to memory and treasure on a bleak grey day in England. I sighed, wishing Italy had seen fit to give us a kinder farewell. It would have been easier to leave her in a rainstorm.

Milan at least blunted the edge of my regret. The railway station was thronged with people speaking dozens of dialects in four languages, and I knew I would not miss the chaos of Italian cities. There was something to be said for the orderliness of English society, I reflected, looking for the fourth time to the station clock. Alessandro had scant minutes to find us, I realised. I scanned the crowd anxiously for his tall, elegant figure.

"Perhaps he's been run over by a carriage," Morag put in helpfully. I fished in my reticule and extracted her ticket.

"Board the train, Morag. Your seat is in third class. I will see you in Paris."

She took the ticket, muttering in Gaelic under her breath. I pretended not to hear her and turned away, just in time to see Alessandro approaching. He was hurrying, as much as Alessandro ever hurried anywhere. His clothes were perfectly ordered, but his hair was slightly tumbled, and when he spoke his voice was faintly breathless.

"Ah! I have found you at last." He greeted my brothers and Violante, who wailed louder and waved her handkerchief at him.

"Come along, Alessandro," I told him. "We've only a moment or so to board."

"Then let us embark," he said, bowing from the neck. He offered his arm, and I noticed his other was carefully holding a basket covered with a damask cloth. Luncheon, I thought happily.

We were seated quickly in a surprisingly comfortable compartment. Violante and Lysander had begun an argument and were quietly hissing at one another. Plum took out his sketchbook to record a face he had seen on the platform. Only Alessandro seemed excited by the journey, his dark eyes flashing as they met mine.

"I have brought you a gift, a souvenir of my country," he said softly, placing the basket on my knees. I stared at it.

"I had thought it was luncheon, but as the basket has just moved on its own, I rather hope it isn't," I told him.

He laughed, a courteously modulated sound. Florentines, I had observed, loved to laugh but only modestly.

At his urging I lifted the damask cloth and peered into the basket.

"How very unexpected," I murmured. "And how kind of you, Alessandro. I don't suppose you would mind telling me what it is, exactly?"

This time he laughed fully, throwing back his head and revealing a delightful dimple in his cheek. "Ah, Lady Julia, always you enchant me. It is a dog, what you call in your country an Italian greyhound. Surely you recognise her. Her breed has been painted for centuries."

I peered again at the trembling creature nestled against a cushion. She was black and white, large patches, with a wet black nose and eyes like two bits of polished Whitby jet. She lifted her nose out of the basket and sniffed me deeply, then sighed and laid her head back onto her paws.

"Of course. I see the resemblance now," I told him, wondering how this frail, ratlike creature could possibly be related to the cosseted pets I had seen gracing the laps of principesse in gilded frames.

"È ammalata," Alessandro said apologetically. "She is a little unwell. She does not like the travelling. I put her yesterday into her little basket, and she does not like to come out."

"Oh, that is quite all right," I said, hastily pulling the damask over her nose. "Perhaps she just needs a bit of rest. What is she called?"

"That is for you to decide."

I did not hesitate. "Then I shall call her after my favorite place in all of Italy. I shall call her Florence."

Alessandro smiled, a smile a nymph would envy, beautiful curved lips and even white teeth. "You pay the greatest honour to my city, my Firenze. I am glad that you like her. I wanted you to have some token of my appreciation for this kind invitation to your family's home."

Strictly speaking, the invitation had been Plum's and I noticed that there was no shivering, pointy-faced puppy for him. And as I clutched the basket and looked out of the window, saying my silent farewells to this country I had grown to love so well, I wondered what significance this present carried with it. Alessandro had implied it was a sort of hospitality gift, a way of thanking one's hosts for opening their home. Still, I could not help but think there was something more pointed in his intentions. And I was not entirely displeased.

* * *

Paris was grey and gloomy, sulking under lowering skies like a petulant schoolgirl. We had tarried a few days to shop and show Alessandro the sights, but none of us forgot for long we were being called home in disgrace. Lysander and Violante had made up their quarrel and spent most of their time cooing and making revoltingly sweet faces at one another. Plum, doubtless irritated at their good humour, sulked until I bought him the most outrageously ugly waistcoat I could find—violet taffeta splashed with orange poppies. He insisted upon wearing it with his fez, and wherever we went, Parisians simply stopped and stared. For his part, Alessandro was subdued. I had thought the glories of Paris would enchant him, but he merely regarded them and made notes in his guidebook. It was not until I found him murmuring Italian endearments to Florence that I realised the poor boy must be homesick. He had never left Italy before, and this trip had been a sudden, wrenching thing. There had been no pleasurable time of anticipation, no peaceful evenings by the fire with maps and guidebooks and lists at hand, no chance to dream of it. I think the reality of the cold grey monuments and the wet streets dampened his spirits as thoroughly as they dampened our hems. I promised myself that he would enjoy Bellmont Abbey and our proper English Christmas, even if it killed me. Of course, I had no way of knowing then that it would indeed kill someone else.

* * *

As a contrast to the dripping skies of Paris, London was lit with sunset when we arrived, the great gold light burnishing the dome of St. Paul's and lending a kindly glow to the chimney pots and brick houses stacked against each other like so many books in a shop. Even the air smelled sweeter to me here, a sure sign of my besotted state, for London's air has never been salubrious. I pointed out the important landmarks to Alessandro, promising him we would return after Christmas for a thorough tour. He sat forward in his seat, eagerly pressing his hands to the window, taking in the great city.

"It is so big," he said softly. "I never thought to see a city so large."

"Yes, it is. And filthy besides, but I love it dearly. Now, we will make our way to the Grand Hotel for the night, and tomorrow we will embark for Blessingstoke. The train journey is not long. Blessingstoke is in Sussex, and the Abbey is quite near to the village proper."

Plum leaned across Alessandro to take in the view. "God's teeth, it hasn't changed a bit."

"Plum, it may be Shakespearean, but it is still an oath. You know how Aunt Hermia feels about profanity."

He waved me off with a charcoal-smudged hand. "Auntie Hermia will be so happy to see her prodigal boys, she won't care if I come draped in rags and swearing like a sailor. I'll wager the fatted calf is being roasted as we speak."

On that point I was forced to agree. Our Aunt Hermia, Father's youngest sister, had come to live at the Abbey when our mother died from exhaustion. Ten children in sixteen years had been too much for her slight, graceful shape. Aunt Hermia had done her best to instill proper manners and a sense of decorum, but seven hundred years of March eccentricity was too much, even for her iron will. We were civilized, but the veneer was a thin one. In her later years, Aunt Hermia had even come to embrace her own peculiarities, and it was true that her drawing room was the only room in England where ladies were invited to smoke after dinner. Needless to say, Marches were seldom invited to Court.

"Speaking of returning home," Plum said, his expression a trifle pained, "I don't suppose we could stay at March House instead of the Grand Hotel?"

I blinked at him. "Plum, the arrangements have already been made at the hotel. I hardly think it would be fair to disappoint their expectations. Besides, Father is in Sussex. The house would have been closed up months ago, and I am certainly not going to simply turn up and expect the staff to scurry around, yanking off dust sheets and preparing meals with no warning."

"They are servants, Julia," Plum pointed out with a touch of exasperation. "They will be perfectly content to do whatever is expected of them."

I looked at him closely, scrutinising his garments. His coat buttons were loose, a sure sign he had been tugging at them in distraction. It was a nervous habit from boyhood. He dropped buttons in his wake as a May Queen dropped flowers. The maids had long since given up stitching them back on, and he usually went about with his coat flapping loosely around him. Yes, something was clearly troubling him, and I did not think that it was solely his irritation at Lysander's marriage. I suspected his pockets were thin—Plum's tastes were expensive, and even Father's liberal allowances only stretched so far.

Still, even if Plum was flirting with insolvency, there were other considerations. "It is impolite, both to the staff of March House, and the hotel," I told him. "Besides, I hardly think that it will help our cause with Father to have descended on March House with no warning and inconvenienced his staff and eaten his food. You know they will send the bills to him. Under other circumstances, I might well agree with you, but I think a little prudence on our part might go some distance toward smoothing matters for Ly," I finished.

Plum darted a look to the other part of the compartment where Lysander and Violante were huddled together, heads nearly touching as they whispered endearments.

"And we must do whatever we can for Lysander," Plum added, his handsome mouth curved into a mocking smile. He left as quickly as he had come, settling himself some distance away behind a newspaper. I turned with an apologetic glance to Alessandro, but he was staring out the window, his expression deeply troubled and far away. I did not interrupt him, and the rest of the journey into London was accomplished in silence.

* * *

The manager of the Grand Hotel, in an act of unprecedented kindness, assigned me a suite on a different floor from my family. There had been some difficulty with the arrangements, he said, fluttering his hands in apology, our letter had come so late, it was such a busy season with the holiday fast approaching. I reassured him and took the key, grateful for the distance from the rest of the party. Violante and Lysander had broken out in a quarrel again on the station platform, Plum was sulking openly, and Alessandro was by now visibly distressed. He only smiled when he noticed my trouble in coaxing Florence from her basket. She remained curled on her cushion, staring at me with the lofty disdain of a Russian czarina.

"Florence, come out at once. This is unacceptable," I told her. Alessandro smiled at me, a smile that did not touch the sadness in his eyes.

"Ah, my dear lady. She does not understand you. She is an Italian dog, you must speak Italian to her."

I stared at him, but there was no sign of jocularity in him. "You are not joking? I must speak Italian to her?"

"But of course, my lady. Do as I do." He bent swiftly and pitched his voice low and seductive. "Dai, Firenze."

The little dog leaped up at once and waited patiently at his heel. "You see? Very easy. She wants to please you."

The dog and I regarded each other. I had my doubts that she wished to please me, but I thanked Alessandro just the same and turned to make my way into the hotel. Florence sat, staring down her long nose at me.

I sighed. "Andiamo, Firenze. Come along." She trotted up and gave my skirt hem a deep sniff. Then she gave a deep, disappointed sigh.

"I know precisely how you feel."

* * *

The next morning I made my way down to breakfast in the hotel's elegant dining room, feeling buoyant with good cheer and a good night's sleep. Something about being on English soil again had soothed me, and I had slept deeply and dreamlessly, waking only when Florence barked out an order to be taken for a walk. I handed her off to a grumbling Morag with a few simple words of Italian, although I had little doubt Morag would simply bark back at her in Gaelic. But even Morag's sullenness was no match for my cheerful mood as I entered the dining room. I might have known that it would not last.

Resting against my plate was a hastily scrawled note from Lysander explaining that he and Violante had chosen to have a lie-in and would take the later conveyance instead of the morning train as we had planned. I wrinkled my nose at the note and crumpled it into my butter dish. A lie-in indeed. More like an attack of the cowardy-cowardy custards. Ly was nervous at the prospect of facing Father. The possibility of losing his considerable allowance, particularly with a wife to maintain, was a grim one. The notion of keeping Violante on the proceeds of his musical compositions was laughable, but also frighteningly real. Ly was simply playing for time, expecting the rest of us to journey down to Bellmont Abbey and smooth the way for him, soothing Father out of his black mood and making him amenable to meeting Lysander under happier terms.

It simply would not do. I applied myself to a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, porridge, toast, stewed fruit, and a very nice pot of tea. I enjoyed it thoroughly. The Italians, for all their vaunted cookery skills, cannot do a proper breakfast. A bit of bread and a cup of milky coffee is a parsimonious way to begin one's day. When I was well fortified, I had a quick word with the waiter and made my way to Lysander and Violante's rooms and tapped sharply on the door.

There was a sleepy mumble from within, but I simply rapped again, more loudly this time, and after a long moment, Lysander answered the door, wrapping a dressing gown around himself, his expression thunderous.

"Julia, what the devil do you want? Did you not get my note?"

I smiled at him sweetly. "I did, in fact. And I am afraid it will not serve, Lysander. We must be at the train station in a little more than an hour. I have ordered your breakfast to be sent up. I am afraid there will not be time for you to have more than rolls and coffee, but the hotel is packing a hamper for the train."

He gaped at me. "Julia, really. I do not see why—"

Violante appeared then, clutching a lacy garment about her shoulders and yawning broadly, her black hair plaited in ribbons like a schoolgirl's. She looked pale and tired, plum-purple crescents shadowing her eyes. I greeted her cordially.

"Good morning, Violante. I do hope you slept well. There has been a slight change in plans, my dear. We are all travelling down together this morning. Morag will help you dress. She is quite efficient, for all her sins, and the hotel maids are dreadfully slow."

"Si, Giulia. Grazie." She nodded obediently, but Lysander stood his ground, squaring his shoulders.

"Now, see here, Julia. I will not be organised by you as though I were a child and you were my nanny. I am your brother, your elder brother, a fact I think you have rather forgotten. Now, my wife and I will travel down to Blessingstoke when it suits us, not when you command."

I stared at him, eyebrows slightly raised, saying nothing. After a moment he groaned, his shoulders drooping in defeat.

"Why, why am I plagued by bossy women?"

I smiled at him to show that I bore no grudge. "I am sure I could not say, Lysander. I will see you shortly."

I turned to Violante who had watched our exchange speculatively. "Remind me to have a little chat with you when we reach the Abbey, my dear."

She opened her mouth to reply, but Lysander pulled her back into their room and banged the door closed. I shrugged and turned on my heel to find Plum lingering in his doorway, doing his best to smother a laugh. I fixed him with a warning look and he raised his hands.

"I am already dressed and the hotel's valet is packing my portmanteau as we speak. I was just going downstairs for some breakfast."

I gave him a cordial nod and proceeded to my suite, feeling rather pleased with myself. An hour later the feeling had faded. Despite my best efforts, it had taken every spare minute and quite a few members of the hotel staff to ensure the Marches were ready to depart. Alessandro was ready, neatly attired and waiting patiently at the appointed hour, but two valets, three maids, and Morag were required to pack the others' trunks and train cases. A Wellington boot, Violante's prayer book and Plum's favourite coat—a revolting puce affair trimmed with coffee lace—had all gone missing and had to be located before we could leave. I had considered bribing the valet not to find Plum's coat, but it seemed unkind, so I left well enough alone. In the end, four umbrellas, two travelling rugs, and a strap of books could not be stuffed into the cases. We made our way to the carriages trailing maids, sweet wrappers, and newspapers in our wake. I am not entirely certain, but I think I saw the hotel manager give a heartfelt sigh of relief when our party pulled away from the kerb.

Traffic, as is so often the case in London, was dreadful. We arrived at the station with mere minutes to spare. A fleet of porters navigated us swiftly to the platform, grumbling good-naturedly about the strain on their backs. I had just turned to answer the sauciest of them when I heard my name called above the din of the crowded platform.

"Julia Grey! What on earth do you mean loading down honest Englishmen like native bearers? Have you no shame?"

I swung round to see my favourite sister bearing down on me with a porter staggering behind her. He was gasping, his complexion very nearly the colour of Plum's disgusting coat.

"Portia!" I embraced her, blinking hard against a sudden rush of emotion. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"I am travelling down to the Abbey, same as you. I had not planned to go down for another week or two, but Father is rather desperate. He has a houseful of guests already and no one to play hostess."

"Christmas is almost a month away. Why does he have guests already? And what of Aunt Hermia? We had a letter from her."

Portia shook her head. "Father is up to some mischief. There are surprises in store for us, that is all I have been told. As for Auntie Hermia, she is here in London. She came up to have a tooth pulled, and is still too uncomfortable to travel. Jane is looking after her until she feels well enough, then they will come down together. In the meantime, Father sent for me. You know the poor old dear is hopeless when it comes to place cards and menus."

She cast a glance over my shoulder. "Ah, I see Ly is here after all. I wagered Jane five pounds he would hide out until someone else softened Father up for him. Hullo, Plum! I did not see you there, skulking behind Julia. Come and give me a kiss. I have rather missed you, you know."

Plum came forward and kissed her affectionately. They had always been great friends and partners in terrible escapades, though they had not seen much of one another in recent years. Plum had travelled too much, and was faintly disapproving of Portia's lifestyle. For her part, Portia had embraced a flamboyant widowhood. She habitually dressed in a single colour from head to toe, and her establishment included a lover—her late husband's cousin as it were. His female cousin, much to the shock of society.

Today she was dressed all in green, a luscious colour with her eyes, but her beloved Jane was not in evidence. Plum kissed her soundly on the cheek.

"That's better," she said, releasing Plum from a smothering embrace. "How do you like Lysander's bride? She's a pretty little thing, but I fancy she keeps him on his toes. She is a Latin, after all. And who is this?" she asked, fixing her gaze on Alessandro. He had been standing a small, tactful distance apart, but he obeyed Portia's crooked finger, doffing his hat and sweeping her as elegant a bow as the crowded platform would permit.

"Alessandro Fornacci. Your servant, my lady."

Portia regarded him with unmitigated delight, and I could see her mouth opening—to say something wildly inappropriate, I had no doubt. I hurried to divert her.

"Alessandro, this is our sister, Lady Bettiscombe. Portia, my darling, I think we must board now before the train departs without us. The station master looks very cross indeed."

I looped my arm through hers and she permitted me to steer her onto the train. She said nothing, asked no questions, which made me nervous. A quiet Portia was a dangerous Portia, and it was not until we were comfortably seated and the train had eased out of the station that I permitted myself to relax a little. Alessandro and Plum had taken seats a little distance apart, and Lysander and Violante, after exchanging hasty greetings with Portia had moved even farther away. Lysander was still sulking over his enforced departure, and Violante was too indolent to care where they sat. A foul smell emanated from the basket at Portia's feet, and I sighed, burying my nose in my handkerchief. If I sniffed very deeply, I could almost forget the odor.

"I cannot believe you brought that monstrosity," I told her.

Portia gave me a severe look. "You are very cold toward Mr. Pugglesworth, Julia, and I cannot think why. Puggy loves you."

"Puggy loves no one but you, besides which he is half decayed."

"He is distinguished," she corrected. "Besides, I note that you have a similar basket. Have you acquired a souvenir on your travels?"

"Yes. A creature almost as vile as Puggy. She is temperamental and hateful and she loathes me. Yesterday she gnawed the heel from my favorite boot simply because she could." I nudged her basket with my toe and she snarled in response. "She only understands Italian, so I am trying to teach her English. Quiet, Florence. Tranquillamente."

"What on earth possessed you to buy her if you hate her so much?" Portia demanded, peering through the wickets of the basket. "All I can see are two eyes that seem to be glowing red. I should be very frightened if I were you, Julia. Sleep with one eye open."

"I did not buy her," I told her softly. "She was a gift."

Portia's eyes flew to Alessandro's dark, silken head, thrown back as he laughed at some remark of Plum's. "Ah. From the enchanting young man. I understand. Tell me, how old is he?"

"Twenty-five."

She nodded. "Perfect. I could not have chosen better for you myself."

I set my mouth primly. "I do not know what you are talking about. Alessandro is a friend. The boys have known him for ages. He wanted to see England, and Lysander is too much of a custard to face Father without some distraction. That is all."

"Indeed?" Portia tipped her head to the side, studying my face. "You know, dearest, even under that delicious veil, I can see your blushes. You have gone quite pink about the nose and ears, like a rabbit. I think that boy likes you. And what's more, I think you like him, too."

"Then you are a very silly woman and there is nothing else to say. It is overwarm in here. That is all."

Portia smiled and patted my arm. "If you say so, my love. If you say so. Now, what news have you had of Brisbane? I saw him last month and I know he has been a frequent guest at Father's Shakespearean society of late, but I haven't any recent news of him."

"You saw him last month?" I picked at the stitching on my glove, careful to keep my voice neutral. "Then you know more of him than I. How did he seem?"

"Very fond of the Oysters Daphne," she said, her eyes bright with mischief. "He made me send along the receipt for his housekeeper. Julia, mind what you're doing. You've jerked so hard at that thread, you've torn the fur right off the cuff."

I swore under my breath and tucked the ragged edge of the fur into my glove. "You mean you had him to dinner? At your house?"

"Where else would I entertain a friend? Honestly, Julia."

"Did you dine alone?"

Portia rolled her eyes. "Don't be feeble. Of course not. Jane was there, and Valerius as well," she said. I relaxed a little. Valerius was our youngest brother and a passionate student of medicine. His favourite pastime was telling gruesome tales at the dinner table, not exactly an inducement to romance.

Portia poked me suddenly. "You little green-eyed monster," she whispered. "You're jealous!"

"Well, of course I am," I said, sliding my gaze away from hers. "I adore your cook's Oysters Daphne. I am sorry to have missed them."

She snorted. "Oh, this has less to do with oysters than with the haunch of a handsome man." She started laughing then, great cackling peals of laughter. I reached out and twisted a lock of her hair around my finger and jerked sharply.

"Leave it be, Portia."

She yanked her hair out of my grip and edged aside, a wicked smile still playing about her mouth. "You daft girl, you cannot possibly imagine I want him for myself."

I shrugged and said nothing.

"Or that he wants me," she persisted. Still I said nothing. "Oh, I give up. Very well, think what you like. Go on and torture yourself since you seem to enjoy it so. But tell me this, have you had a letter from him since you went away?"

I looked out of the window, staring at the houses whose back gardens ran down to the rail line. "How curious. Someone has pegged out their washing. See the petticoats there? She ought to have hung them inside by the fire. They'll never dry in this weather."

Portia pinched my arm. "Avoidance is a coward's tactic. Tell me all."

I turned back to her and lifted the veil of my travelling costume, tucking it atop my hat. "Nothing. I know nothing because he has not written. Not a word in five months."

My sister pursed her lips. "Not a word? Even after he kissed you? That is a shabby way to use a person."

I waved a hand. "It is all water down the stream now. I have done with him. I doubt I shall meet him again in any case. Our paths are not likely to cross. We have no need of an inquiry agent, and the only relation of his who moves in society is the Duke of Aberdour. And Brisbane has little enough liking for his great-uncle's company."

"True enough, I suppose."

I looked at her closely. "Do not think on it, Portia. It was foolish of me to imagine there was something there. I want only to put it behind me now."

Portia smiled, a smile that did not touch her eyes. She was speculating. "Of course, my love," she said finally. "Now I am more convinced than ever that you did a very wise thing."

"When?"

Portia nodded toward Alessandro. "When you decided to bring home that most delightful souvenir."

I slapped lightly at her arm. "Stop that at once. He will hear you."

She shrugged. "And what if he does? I told you before, a lover is precisely the tonic you need. Julia, I was gravely worried about you when you left England. You were ailing after the fire, and I believed very strongly that it was possible you might not ever recover—not physically, but from the trauma your spirit had suffered. You learned some awful truths during that investigation, truths no woman should ever have to learn." She paused and put a hand over mine. "But you did recover. You are blooming again. You were a sack of bones when you left and pale as new milk. But now—" she ran her eyes over my figure "—now you are buxom and bonny, as the lads like to say. You have your colour back, and your spirit. So, I say, complete the cure, and make that luscious young man your lover."

I laughed in spite of myself. "I am five years his elder."

"And very nearly a virgin in spite of your marriage," she retorted. I poked a finger hard into her ribs and she collapsed again into peals of merry laughter.

"Good God, what are the two of you on about?" Plum demanded from across the compartment.

Portia sobered slightly. "We were wondering what Father has bought us for Christmas."

Plum regarded her gloomily. "Stockings of coal and switches, I'll warrant."

Portia shot me an impish look. "Well, perhaps there will be other goodies to open instead."

This time I did not bother to pinch her. I merely opened my book and pretended to read.

THE THIRD CHAPTER

How like a winter hath my absence been from thee.

—Sonnet 97

The journey to Blessingstoke was quickly accomplished. The tiny station was nearly deserted. As it was a Monday, and still nearly four weeks before Christmas, the village folk were about their business, although a peculiarly spicy smell hung in the air, the promise of holiday preparations already begun.

Father had sent a pair of carriages for our party, and a baggage wagon besides. There was a brief tussle over who should have custody of the hamper of food, but Portia prevailed, and I made certain to find a seat in her carriage. Somehow she managed to maneuver Alessandro into our small party, and Plum as well, leaving the newlyweds with the maids and the dogs. When Morag let her out of her basket, Florence perpetrated a small crime against Lysander's shoe, and I made a mental note to ask Cook to find her a nice marrow bone when we arrived at the Abbey.

No sooner had we left the station than word spread we had arrived. It was possible to watch the news travel down the road, just ahead of the carriages, for as we bowled past, villagers emerged from their cottages to wave. The blacksmith raised a glowing red poker in greeting, and Uncle Fly—the vicar and a very great friend of Father's—lifted his hat and bellowed his regards. There was a stranger with him, a handsome, well-groomed gentleman who eyed us with interest as we passed. He was soberly but beautifully dressed, and he swept off his hat, making us a pretty little courtesy. His eyes caught mine and I noticed a small smile, only slightly mocking, playing over his lips. His expression was merry, comfortably so, as if laughter was his habit.

"That is not a serious sort of person," I observed as we rounded the bend in the road, leaving Uncle Fly and his jocular stranger.

Portia snorted. "That is Lucian Snow, Uncle Fly's new curate. I made his acquaintance when Jane and I were down this summer."

"Surely you jest. I would never have taken him for a churchman."

"Father says Uncle Fly is having the devil's own time with him. He is always haring off to one of the other villages to 'minister to the flock'."

"Oh, dear," I murmured. "I do hope that is not the phrase he uses. How terribly earnest of him."

"Indeed. I imagine Father will have him to dinner whilst we are in residence. He will certainly invite Uncle Fly, and he can hardly fail to include the curate. Plum, I know you are an atheist, dearest, but do mind your manners and try to be civil, won't you?"

Plum, whose only interest in Italian churches had been the artworks they so often housed, gave a scornful look. "If Father is kind enough to supply me with game, it would be churlish of me not to join the hunt."

"That is a terrible metaphor. Mark what I said and behave yourself. Oh, look there. I see the Gypsies are in residence, just in time for the holiday."

Portia pointed to a cluster of brightly painted caravans in the distance. Tents had been pitched and cooking fires kindled, and at the edge of the encampment a bit of rope had been strung around to keep the horses penned. I imagined the men, sitting comfortably in their shirtsleeves in spite of the crisp air, mending harnesses or patching a bit of tin, while the women tended the children and the simmering pots. As a child I had joined them often, letting them plait flowers into my hair or read my fortune in the dregs of a teacup. But now the sight of the camp brought back other memories, bitter ones I wanted only to forget.

Deliberately, I turned from the window. "Alessandro, tell me how you like England thus far."

The rest of the drive was spent pleasurably. We pointed out local landmarks to Alessandro, and he admired them enthusiastically. It is always pleasant to hear one's home praised, but it is particularly gratifying from one whose own home is crowned with such delights as the Duomo, the Uffizi, and of course, David.

Our points of interest were somewhat more modest. We showed Alessandro the edge of the Downs, rolling away in the distance like a pillowy green coverlet coming gently to rest after being shaken by a giant's hand. We guided his gaze to a bit of Roman road which he complimented effusively—a bit disingenuous on his part, considering that Florence was founded as a siege camp for Caesar's army. We pointed out the woods—a royal hunting preserve for ten centuries—that stretched to the edge of the formal gardens of Bellmont Abbey.

Just past the gatehouse, the drive turned flat and smooth and I explained to Alessandro that this was where, as children, we had raced pony carts.

"All of you? The Lord March must have owned a herd of ponies for so many children," he teased.

"No, my dear signore," Portia corrected, "you misunderstand. We were hitched to the pony carts. Father thought it a very great joke when we were behaving like savages to harness us up and have us race one another down the drive. It worked beautifully, you know. We always slept like babies afterwards."

Alessandro blinked at her. "I believe you are making a joke to me, Lady Bettiscombe." He looked at me doubtfully. I shook my head.

"No, I'm afraid she isn't. Father actually did that. Not all the time, you understand. Only when we were very, very naughty. Ah, here is the Rookery. This dear little house was originally built in the eighteenth century as an hermitage. Unfortunately, the sitting earl at the time quarrelled with his hermit, and the house was left empty for ages. Eventually, it was made into a sort of dower house."

"It is where we keep the old and decrepit members of the family," Portia put in helpfully. "We send them there and after a while they die."

"Portia," I said, giving her a warning look. Alessandro was beginning to look a bit hunted. She took my meaning at once and hastened to reassure him.

"Oh, it is a very peaceful place. I cannot think of any place I would rather die." She smiled broadly, baring her pretty, white teeth, and Alessandro returned the smile, still looking a trifle hesitant.

"There," I said, nodding to a bit of grey stone soaring above the trees. "There is Bellmont Abbey."

The drive curved then and the trees parted to give a magnificent view of the old place. Seven hundred years earlier, Cistercians had built it as a monument to their order. Austere and simple, it was an elegant complex of buildings, exquisitely framed by the landscape and bordered by a wide moat, carp ponds, and verdant fields beyond. The monks and lay brothers had laboured there for four hundred years, communing with God in peace and tranquillity. Then Henry VIII had come, stomping across England like a petulant child.

"King Henry VIII acquired the Abbey during the Dissolution," I told Alessandro. "He gave it to the seventh Earl March, who mercifully altered the structure very little. You'll notice some very fine stained glass in the great tracery windows. The Cistercians had only plain glass, but the earl wanted something a bit grander. And he ordered some interior walls put up to create smaller apartments inside the sanctuary."

Alessandro, a devout Catholic, looked pained. "The church itself, it was unconsecrated?"

"Well, naturally. It was a very great space, after all. The Chapel of the Nine Altars was made into a sort of great hall. You will see it later. That is where the family gathers with guests before dinner. Many of the other rooms were left untouched, but I'm afraid the transepts and the chapels were all converted for family use."

Alessandro said nothing, but his expression was still aggrieved. I patted his hand. "There is still much to see of the original structure. The nave was kept as a sort of hall. It runs the length of the Abbey and many of the rooms open off of it. And the original Galilee Tower on the west side is still intact. There is even a guest room just above. Perhaps we can arrange to have you lodged there."

Alessandro smiled thinly and looked back at the towering arches, pointing the way to heaven.

"How wonderful it looks," I breathed.

"That it does," Plum echoed. He looked rather moved to be home again, and I remembered then it had been nearly five years since he had seen the place.

"È una casa molto impressionante," Alessandro murmured.

The great gate was open, beckoning us into the outer ward. A long boundary wall ran around the perimeter.

Original to the Abbey, it was dotted with watchtowers, some crumbling to ruin. Just across the bridge and through the outer ward was the second gate, this one offering access to the inner ward and the Abbey proper. The horses clattered over the bridge, rocking the carriage from side to side. Overhead, emblazoned on the great stone lintel was a banner struck with the March family motto, Quod habeo habeo, held aloft by a pair of enormous chiselled rabbits.

"'What I have, I hold'," translated Alessandro. "What do they signify, the great rabbits?"

"Our family badge," Plum informed him. "There is a saying in England, a very old one, 'mad as a March hare'. Some folk say it is because rabbits are sprightly and full of whimsy in the spring. Others maintain the saying was born from some poor soul who spent too much time in the company of our family."

I clucked my tongue at my brother. "Stop it, Plum. You will frighten Alessandro so he will not dare stay with us."

Alessandro flashed me a brilliant smile. "I do not frighten so easily as that, dear lady."

Portia coughed significantly, and I trod on her foot. We passed through the second gate then to find the inner ward ablaze with the reflected light of a hundred torchlit windows. "Ah, look! Aquinas is here."

The carriage drew to a stop in the inner ward just as the great wooden doors swung back. Led by my butler, Aquinas, a pack of footmen and dogs swarmed out, all of them underfoot as we descended from the carriage. Aquinas had accompanied me to Italy but had returned to England as soon as he had delivered me safely into the care of my brothers. I had missed him sorely.

"My lady," he said, bowing deeply. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Aquinas. How good it is to see you! But I am surprised. I thought Aunt Hermia wanted you to tend to the London house while they were in the country. I cannot imagine Hoots has been very welcoming." The butler at Bellmont Abbey was a proprietary old soul. He knew every stick of furniture, every stone, every painting and tapestry, and cared for them all as if they were his children. He was jealous as a mistress of anyone's interference in what he regarded as his domain.

"Hoots is incapacitated, my lady. The gout. His lordship has sent him to Cheltenham to take the waters."

"Oh, well, very good. He wouldn't be much use here, barking orders from his bed. I suppose you've everything well in hand?"

"Need your ladyship ask?" His tone was neutral, but I knew it for a reproach.

"I am sorry. Of course you do. Now tell us all where we are to be lodged. I am perished from thirst. A cup of tea and a hot bath would be just the thing."

"Of course, my lady."

The second carriage arrived then, followed hard by the baggage cart. There was a flurry of activity as I made the introductions. Plum and Lysander had met Aquinas in Rome, and Portia was a favourite of his of long-standing. But he seemed particularly pleased to meet his compatriots. He offered a gracious greeting to Alessandro and advised him that he had been assigned to the Maze Room, one of the best of the bachelor rooms.

"Oh," I said, turning to Aquinas, pulling a face in disappointment. "I thought Count Fornacci might have the room in the Galilee Tower. Quite a treat for a guest, what with the bell just overhead."

Alessandro shied and I gave him a soothing smile. "It never rings, I promise. It's just an old relic from the days of the monks, and no one has bothered to take it down."

Aquinas cut in smoothly. "I regret that one of his lordship's guests is already in residence in the Tower Room, my lady. I believe Count Fornacci will be very comfortable in the Maze Room."

I sighed. "Perhaps you are right. It's warmer at least."

Aquinas bowed to Alessandro. To Violante he was exquisitely courteous, and upon hearing his flawless Napolitana dialect, my sister-in-law embraced him, kissing him soundly on both cheeks.

"That will do, Violante," Lysander said coldly. She ignored him, kissing Aquinas again and chattering with him in Italian. Aquinas replied, then bowed to her and addressed his remarks to Lysander.

"Mr. Lysander, I have put you and Mrs. Lysander in the Flanders Suite. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction."

Lysander gave him a sour look, collected his wife, and disappeared into the Abbey. Aquinas turned back to the assembled party. "Lady Bettiscombe, you are in the Rose Room, and Lady Julia is next door in the Red Room. Mr. Plum, you are in the Highland Room in the bachelors' wing. Signore Fornacci, if you will follow me, I will make certain the Maze Room is in perfect readiness for guests."

That was as close as Aquinas would ever come to admit to being unprepared. We had arrived with an unexpected guest, but Aquinas would forgo his own supper before he let it be known that all was not completely in order. We trooped into the hallway and Aquinas turned. "His lordship is in his study. He asked not to be disturbed and said he would see all of you at dinner. The dressing bell will sound in an hour and a half. I shall order tea and baths for your rooms. I hope that these arrangements are satisfactory."

He bowed low and turned to unleash a torrent of orders upon the footmen. In a matter of minutes we were whisked upstairs, separated according to our gender and marital status. Portia and I were in the wing reserved for single ladies and widows. Formerly the monks' dorter, it was now the great picture gallery, with our rooms opening off of it. Dozens of March ancestors gazed down at us from their gilded frames, punctuated by enormous, extravagant candelabra and a number of antiquities, some good, some of doubtful provenance. There were statues and urns, one or two amphorae, an appalling number of simpering nymphs, and even a harp of dubious origin. No weapons though. Those were reserved for the bachelors' wing in the former lay brothers' dormitory. Their paintings were all martial in subject, with the occasional seascape or Constable horse to provide a respite from the bloodshed. Between them hung arquebuses and crossbows, great swords and axes for cleaving, and in between perched suits of armour, some a bit rustier and more dented than others. I preferred the ladies' wing, for all its silly nymphs.

Some time later, after I had enjoyed a hot bath and a pot of scalding sweet tea, I was sitting in front of a roaring fire, enjoying the solitude, too drowsy to rouse myself. Morag had gone to her room to whip the fur back onto my glove. I had bribed her with a plate of fruitcake to take Florence with her, and I was very near to dozing off when there was a scratch at the door. Portia entered, already dressed in a magnificent gown of heavy oyster satin trimmed in puffs of sable.

"Portia! You do look spectacular. You will put us all to shame as country mice. What is the occasion, pray tell?"

She flopped as far as her corset would permit into a velvet gilt armchair and pulled a face. "I am meant to be the hostess, remember? I have to look the part, and make certain I am the first one in the drawing room to welcome our guests."

"Thank heaven for that. I thought I had dozed off and slept through the dressing bell."

Portia waved a lazy hand. "You've ages yet. So, what do you think of our new sister-in-law? I think she is just what Lysander needed," she said, a trifle smugly. Lysander had been rather brutal in his criticism of Portia's marriage to Bettiscombe, a sweet hypochondriac nearly thirty years her senior. No doubt watching Lysander and Violante bicker from London down to Blessingstoke had been rather deliciously gratifying for Portia.

"Don't be so cattiva," I warned her. "We have all made mistakes." We were silent a moment—both of us, I imagine, thinking of our marital woes.

"I am rather surprised Father wasn't present to greet us," I put in finally, breaking the somber mood that had befallen us.

Portia shrugged. "You heard Aquinas. He is doubtless up to some mischief. I had a guest list from him in my room, so at least I know the names. Aquinas, bless him, had already ordered the meal and prepared the seating arrangements, so there was nothing for me to do but approve them."

"And with whom shall we be dining?" I asked, yawning broadly.

"Heavens, I do not know half of them. Uncle Fly, of course, and Snow, the curate. Oh, and Father has apparently decided to begin his Christmas charity early—Emma and Lucy Phipps are here."

"You are in a foul mood, dearest. Perhaps you'd better have some whiskey before you go down."

She tossed a cushion at me and I caught it neatly, tucking it behind my head. "Besides, I always liked Emma and Lucy. They were nice-enough girls."

"But so desperately poor, Julia. Did it never trouble you, the way they would simply stare into our wardrobes and fondle our clothes? And Emma always read my books without asking leave. It was rude."

"She is our cousin! And she was our guest, in case you have forgotten."

Portia gave a little snort. "I was never permitted to. Every Easter for a fortnight. The dreadful orphans come to gape at the earl's children like monkeys in the zoo."

"You are a dreadful snob. Their lives were appalling. Can you imagine what it must have been like to live with those terrible old hags?"

She shivered, and we fell silent again. Emma and Lucy's history was not a happy one. Father's youngest aunt, Rosalind, had been a great beauty, the toast of Regency London, showered with a hundred proposals of marriage during her season. But she had scorned them all, eloping in the dead of night with a footman. Proud as a Roman empress, she took nothing from her family, and suffered as a result. They were desperately poor, and a series of miscarriages left Rosalind in poor health, her body ailing and her beauty wrecked on the shoals of her pride. At last she had a healthy child, but poor Rosalind did not live to see it draw breath. Her three sisters swooped in and took the infant from its father, or to be entirely accurate, bought the child, for ten pounds and a good horse. They called her Silvia and raised her in seclusion, as they believed befitted the issue of such a scandalous marriage, and it was no great surprise to anyone when Silvia went the way of her mother. She married a poor man without the blessing of her family, and lived to regret it. Silvia, too, bore half a dozen dead children, with only Emma to show for it. Ten years later, Lucy was born, and Silvia was buried by her aunts who clucked sorrowfully and gathered up the motherless girls and took them home. Their father vanished from the story, although Emma, an inveterate teller of tales, claimed he was a pirate prince, sailing the seas until he had amassed enough treasure to bring his daughters home. I never had the heart to scorn her for the lie. The aunts took the girls in their turn, sending them to the Abbey every Easter, for what they called "their respite". I had had some idea that they had been educated for governessing or work as ladies' companions. I had not seen either of them in years, and I was curious as to what had become of them.

"What have they been doing these last years? I have not had news of them."

Portia shrugged. "Emma took a post some years ago as a governess. She has been with a family in Northumberland."

"Good gracious," I murmured. "One must pity her that."

"Indeed. And Lucy has been in Norfolk, looking after Aunt Dorcas."

I pulled a face. Aunt Dorcas was, in fact, Father's aunt, which made her only slightly younger than God Himself. She was one of the trio of frightening old aunts Father called the Weird Sisters. These were the aunts that had had the raising of Emma and Lucy, and apparently Lucy had not yet managed to effect her escape.

"Poor child. Not much of a life for either of them, is it? Emma bossing other people's children about, and Lucy tending to that horrid old woman. I can't imagine which of them has the worst of it."

Portia arched a brow at me. "There but for the grace of God, dearest."

I nodded. "We are indeed the lucky ones. Now who else has been invited?" I asked Portia, stretching out my foot toward the fire.

"A pack of gentlemen I do not know, including Sir Cedric Eastley—I believe I have heard Father mention him, though I cannot recollect why—and a Viscount Wargrave, whoever he may be. Doubtless he will be a thousand years old and spend all of dinner leering down my décolletage. Then there is a fellow called Ludlow, and a Mrs. King, some relic of Aunt Hermia's, I'm sure. And of course, Aunt Dorcas."

I blinked at her. "You are joking. She must be nearly ninety."

"Nearer eighty," Portia corrected, "and with a host of indelicate habits, the likes of which I shall not alarm you with." She paused and her expression turned thoughtful. "Hortense is here."

"Is she? How lovely! She wrote the most delightful letters when I was abroad. I shall be exceedingly pleased to see her."

Portia's eyes narrowed. "You are a singular woman, Julia. I would have thought, given her notoriety, you might have found it a bit much that Father invited her."

"It seems a curious sort of hypocrisy to object to Hortense on the grounds that she was once a courtesan. Aunt Hermia has been rescuing prostitutes for years and forcing them on us as maids. Consider Morag," I reminded her. Morag had been one of Aunt Hermia's most doubtful successes. She was skilled enough, but entirely incapable of keeping a position with anyone who expected a conventional maid.

"Yes, but Father. He seems quite smitten with her. What if he marries her?"

"Then I shall give them a nice present and ask if I may be a bridesmaid."

"Ass. You are not taking this at all seriously."

"Because it is ridiculous. Father is nearly seventy, Hortense will not see sixty again. And she is delightful besides. Who are we to thwart their happiness?"

Portia nodded slowly. "I suppose you are right. Still, I would have thought you would have minded about her. Because of Brisbane."

She was watching me closely, and with some effort, I forced my voice to casualness. "The fact that she was Brisbane's mistress twenty years ago is no concern of mine. Their liaison ended decades ago. Besides, his affairs are his own business. I told you that on the train."

"I know what you said, Julia, but that is not necessarily what you believe. You are a faithful creature. I would be quite surprised if you were not still harbouring a tendresse for him."

"I thought you were the one encouraging me to molest our young houseguest with unwelcome attentions."

She snorted. "If you believe your attentions would be unwelcome, you are dafter than I thought. Do not think I failed to notice, dearest, you did not deny you still have feelings for Brisbane."

"Then let me do so now. Nicholas Brisbane is a person I will always think of with affection, for more reasons than I can enumerate. But as for any sort of future with him—"

The dressing bell sounded before I could finish, for which I was rather grateful.

Morag appeared then, and Portia tarried a few moments longer, bullying Morag into piling my hair onto my head. I had cropped it some months before, but had let it grow during my travels, and with a bit of artful pinning it looked quite becoming. Portia left as Morag was buttoning me into a severe crimson satin gown. There was not a ruffle or furbelow to be found on it, not the merest scrap of lace or tiniest frill. The simplicity was startling. I powdered my nose lightly and daubed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks, touching my lips with a rosy salve I had purchased in Paris. Morag grumbled about whorishness—a bit of duplicity, I thought, given her own past—but I ignored her and motioned for her to fix my earrings to my lobes. They were delicate things of twisted wires set with tiny seed pearls and bits of garnet. They were not costly, but they were very pretty and whenever I moved my head they glittered in the candlelight. I rose and instructed Morag to keep the fire hot to make plenty of coals for the bedwarmers. She trudged out, grumbling again, and again I ignored her.

I started from the room, then as an afterthought, Portia's words ringing in my ears, I hurried to my writing table instead. My morocco portfolio lay atop it, still clasped since I had last seen it in Italy. I snapped it open and scooped up the pendant Brisbane had given me. It took but a moment to secure it at the base of my throat. I paused to look at my reflection, surprised to see my colour was high. I must have over-rouged, I thought, wiping at my face with a handkerchief. I told myself I needed the pendant because the neckline of my gown was too revealing for a family dinner, but the truth was I had a dozen pendants more suitable, and scores of fichus and scarves that would have served just as well. If I had stopped to consider the matter, I might have realised I had put it on because now I was back in England what I longed for most was to see Brisbane again.

But I did not consider. I wore it as a curiosity instead, a piece of interest I might have bought in Italy. I could wear it among my family and no one save Portia would know it had been given to me by a man who had caused me more disappointment and more elation than any other I had ever known.

The dinner bell sounded as I left the room, and I hastened down the gallery. For all his eccentricities, Father disapproved of tardiness. I fairly flew down the staircase and along the corridor to the nave. From there it was some distance to the hall, but I could see the great wooden doors, fifteen feet high and propped open, light spilling over the great stones of the floor. Just outside the doors, in what had been one of the tiniest chapels, stood Maurice, the enormous stuffed bear one of our great-uncles had brought home as a trophy from a hunting expedition to Canada. He was a frightful old thing, with huge, sharp yellow teeth and claws that had terrified me as a child, and the bear bore him a striking resemblance. But now the bear was moth-eaten, and looked slightly embarrassed at the bald patches where we children had rubbed off his fur from too many games of sardines. I lurked behind him for a moment to catch my breath. The nave was deserted, the long shadows stretching empty up to the webbed hammerbeams of the ceiling. It appeared everyone else had already arrived. I took a slow, calming breath, then slipped through the doors.

As the Chapel of the Nine Altars, the hall had been built on mammoth proportions, and it had not been altered much over the years. A massive space, its walls were punctuated with nine curved bays that had once housed the altars of the most sacred place of the Abbey. The original stone had not been panelled, and the effect was impressively medieval. Tapestries warmed the stones instead—great, heavy things that told the story of a boar hunt in exquisite detail and rich colours that had grown gently muted over the centuries. Two of the bays had been converted to monolithic fireplaces, and in front of them wide Turkey carpets had been laid, although their silken pile did little to drive out the chill of the floors. Sofas and chairs were huddled near the hearths where fires blasted up the chimneys. In summer, lit with sunlight from the enormous tracery windows, the room was beautiful. On a cold winter's night, it was just this side of miserable. The other guests had already assembled, gentlemen doubtless grateful for their elegant coats of superfine, while the ladies shivered with bare shoulders. They were gathered near the hearths like wintering animals, and I saw Alessandro in particular looking rather pinched about the face. I noticed that Aquinas was moving about, pouring hearty measures of whiskey to ward off the cold. Portia's doing, no doubt.

She came toward me, her colour high and her eyes bright. "Dearest, where have you been? You've been an age. I was just about to go and look for you."

"The bell just rang," I began, but she was already towing me across the room to where Father stood in conversation with another gentleman whose back, in beautifully tailored black, was facing me.

"Julia!" my father boomed, in delight, I think. I kissed him, breathing him in as I did so. Father always smelled of books and sweet tobacco, a receipt for comfort.

"Good evening, Father. I was terribly slighted that you were not available to welcome me, you know," I teased him, smoothing his wayward white hair. "I might think you had forgotten I am your favourite." It was a joke of long-standing among us children to make him admit he loved one of us best. None of us had ever caught him out yet.

Father smiled, but I sensed somehow it was not at my little jest. There was something more there, some greater mischief, and I knew, even before the gentleman turned to face me, that I was the hare in the snare.

"Julia, my dear, I believe you already know Lord Wargrave."

And there in front of me stood Nicholas Brisbane.

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt.

—Julius Caesar

I stood motionless for a lifetime it seemed, although I know it cannot have been more than a few seconds. I summoned a deliberate smile and extended my hand, forcing my voice to lightness. Rather unexpectedly, both were steady.

"Brisbane, what a surprise to see you. Welcome to Bellmont Abbey."

He shook my hand as briefly as courtesy would permit, bowing from the neck, his face coolly impassive as Plum's beloved Carrara marble. He was exquisitely dressed in evening clothes even Ly would approve, all black-and-white elegance, down to the silken sling that held his left arm immobile just above his waist.

"My lady. Welcome home from your travels."

My smile was polite, wintry, nothing more. Any observer might have thought us the most casual of acquaintances. But I was deeply conscious of Father and Portia watching us intently.

"Thank you. Did I understand Father correctly? Are congratulations in order?"

"The elevation is a very recent one. In fact the letters patent have not yet been read. His lordship is overhasty in his compliments," he said mildly, but I knew him well enough to know this was no façade of modesty. Brisbane himself would not care about titles, and I could only imagine he would accept one because it ensured his entrée into the highest circles of society—a useful privilege for someone in his profession.

For my part, I was impressed in spite of myself. I was one of the few people who knew the truth of Brisbane's parentage and upbringing. To rise from that to a viscountcy was little more than miraculous. It meant whilst I had been sunning myself in Italy, Brisbane had busied himself investigating something very delicate and probably very nasty for someone very highly placed.

"I did not realise you were staying at the Abbey, my lord. I confess I am surprised to see you here."

Brisbane's eyes flickered toward my father. "I might say the same of you, my lady. His lordship declined to mention you were expected to return home before next summer."

Father's eyes were open very wide, a sure sign he had been up to mischief. He was incapable of feigning innocence. I looked from him to Brisbane, fitting the pieces together swiftly. My appearance was as much of a surprise to Brisbane as his was to me. He was pale under the olive of his complexion, and I realised he was attempting to compose himself. Whatever he had expected of his visit to Bellmont Abbey, a reunion with me was no part of it.

I had just opened my mouth to tease him when he looked past me and beckoned sharply to a lady hesitating shyly on the edge of our circle. I had not noticed her before, but now I wondered how that was possible.

"My lady," Brisbane said smoothly, "I should like to present to you my fiancée, Mrs. King. Charlotte, Lady Julia Grey."

I know that I put out my hand, and that she took it, because I looked down to see my fingers grasped warmly in hers, but I felt nothing. I had gone quite numb as I took in the implication of what Brisbane had just said.

"Mrs. King," I murmured. Recovering myself quickly, I fixed a smile on my lips and repeated the greeting I had given Brisbane. "Welcome to the Abbey."

"And welcome back to England, my lady," she said breathlessly.

She was a truly lovely creature, all chocolate-box sweetness with a round, dimpled face and luscious colouring. She had clouds of hair the same honeyed red-blond I had admired on a Titian Madonna. Her eyes were wide and almost indescribably blue. She had a plump, rosebud mouth and an adorably tiny nose unadorned by even a single freckle. Only the chin, small and pointed like a cat's, belied the sweetness of her expression. There was firmness there, perhaps even stubbornness, although now she was smiling at me in mute invitation to befriend her. Unlike me, she wore widow's weeds, although touches of purple indicated her loss was not a recent one. The black suited her though, highlighting a certain fragile delicacy of complexion no cosmetic could ever hope to simulate. She was a Fragonard milkmaid, a Botticelli nymph. I hated her instantly.

"I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady," she was saying. "Lord Wargrave has told me simply everything about you. I know we are going to be very great friends." She was earnest as a puppy, and I had little doubt most people found her charming.

"Has he indeed? How very kind you are," I said, fingering the pendant at my throat. It had been an involuntary action, and I realised as soon as my fingers touched the cool silver it was a mistake. Mrs. King's bright blue gaze fixed on the piece at once.

"What an unusual pendant. Did you acquire it on your travels?" she asked, peering closely at the coin.

"No. It was a gift," I said, covering its face with a finger. I turned to Brisbane, who was watching our exchange closely. I nodded toward the sling. "I see you have managed to injure yourself, my lord. Nothing serious, I hope."

He lifted a brow. "Not at all. A nasty spill from a horse a fortnight ago, nothing more. His lordship was kind enough to invite me to recuperate here away from the bustle of the city."

"And you will be here for Christmas as well?" I asked, forcing my tone to brightness.

"As will my fiancée," he replied coolly, locking those witch-black eyes onto mine.

I did not blink. "Excellent. I shall look forward to getting to know her intimately." The words were blandly spoken, but Brisbane knew me well enough to hear the threat implicit within them.

His gaze wavered slightly, and I inclined my head. "I do hope you will excuse me. I must greet the other guests. Mrs. King, a pleasure," I said, withdrawing from the group. Father caught my eye, his own eyes bright with mischief. I turned my head, not surprised to find Portia at my elbow.

"Well done, dearest," she whispered.

"Whiskey," I hissed. "Now."

In another of the little altar alcoves a sideboard had been arranged with spirits of every variety. We made our way to the whiskey decanter and stood with our backs to the room. Portia poured out a generous measure for both of us and we each took a healthy, choking sip. I swallowed hard and fixed her with an Inquisitor's stare.

"I shall only ask you once. Did you know?"

She paled, then took another sip of her whiskey, colour flooding her cheeks instantly. "Of course not. I knew Father meant to invite him down for Christmas. I thought it might be a nice surprise for you. But I had no idea he was being elevated, nor that he had that…that creature with him. How could he?"

Portia shot Brisbane a dark look over her shoulder. "He kissed you. He gave you that pendant. I thought that meant something."

"Then you are as daft as I. Drink up. We cannot hover over the spirits all evening. We must mingle with the other guests."

She stared at me as though I had lost my senses. "But are you not—"

"Of course, dearest. I am entirely shattered. Now finish your whiskey. I see Aunt Dorcas mouldering in an armchair by the fire and I must say hello to her before she decays completely."

Portia's eyes narrowed. "You are not shattered. You are smiling. What are you about?"

"Nothing," I told her firmly. "But I have my pride. And as you pointed out," I said with a nod toward Alessandro, "I have alternatives."

Alessandro smiled back at me, shyly, his colour rising a little.

Portia poked me. "What are you thinking?"

I put our glasses on the table and looped my arm through hers, pulling her toward Aunt Dorcas.

"I was simply thinking what a delight it will be to introduce Alessandro to Brisbane."

* * *

Aunt Dorcas had established herself in the armchair nearest the fire, and it looked as though it would take all of the Queen's army to roust her out of it. No one would call her plump, for plumpness implies something jolly or pleasant, and Aunt Dorcas was neither of those. She was solid, with a sense of permanence about her, as though she had always existed and meant to go on doing so forever. Disturbingly for a woman of her size and age, she had a penchant for girlish ruffles and bows. She was draped in endless layers of pink silk and wrapped in an assortment of lace shawls, with lace mitts on her hands and an enormous lace cap atop her thinning hair. She wore only pearls, yards of them, dripping from her décolletage and drawing the eye to her wrinkled skin. She had gone yellow with age, like vellum, and every bit of her was the colour of stained ivory—teeth, hair, skin, and the long nails that tapped out a tuneless melody on the arm of her chair. But her eyesight was sharp, and her hearing even better. She was talking to, or rather at, Hortense de Bellefleur, Father's particular friend. Hortense was stitching placidly at a bit of luscious violet silk. She was dressed with a Frenchwoman's natural elegance in a simple gown of biscuit silk, an excellent choice for a lady of her years. She looked up as we approached, smiling a welcome. Aunt Dorcas simply raised her cane to poke my stomach.

"Stop there. I don't need you breathing all over me. Where have you been, Julia Grey? Gallivanting about Europe with all those filthy Continentals?"

Her voice carried, and I darted a quick glance at Hortense, but she seemed entirely unperturbed. Then again, very little ever perturbed Hortense.

"Xenophobic as ever, I see, Aunt Dorcas," I said brightly.

"Eh? Well, never mind. You've put on a bit of weight you have, and lost that scrawny look. You were a most unpromising child, but you have turned out better than I would have thought."

The praise was grudging, but extremely complimentary coming from Aunt Dorcas. She turned to Hortense.

"Julia was always plain, not like Portia there. Portia has always been the one to turn men's heads, haven't you, poppet?"

"And some ladies'," I murmured. Portia smothered a cough, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Yes, Aunt Dorcas, but you must agree Julia is quite the beauty now," my sister put in loyally.

"She will do," Aunt Dorcas said, a trifle unwillingly, I thought.

I bent swiftly to kiss Hortense's cheek. "Welcome home, chérie," she whispered. "It is good to see you."

Simple words, but they had the whole world in them, and I squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "And you."

"Come to my boudoir tomorrow. We will have a pot of chocolate and you will tell me everything," she said softly, with a knowing wink toward Alessandro.

Before I could reply, Aunt Dorcas poked me again with her cane. "You are too close."

I obeyed, moving to stand near Portia. "Portia tells me you have been staying here. I hope you find it comfortable."

Aunt Dorcas puffed out her lips in a gesture of disgust. "This old barn? It is draughty, and I suspect haunted besides. All the same, I think it very mean of Hector not to invite me more often. I am family after all."

I thought of poor Father, forced to face the old horror for months on end, and I hurried to dissuade her. "You would be terribly bored here. Father spends all his time in his study, working on papers for the Shakespearean Society."

"The Abbey is indeed draughty," Portia put in quickly. "And we do have ghosts. At least seven. Most of them monks, you know. I shouldn't be surprised if one walked abroad tonight, what with all of the excitement of the house party. They get very agitated with new people about. Do let us know if you see a holy brother robed in white."

Portia's expression was deadly earnest and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. But Aunt Dorcas was perfectly serious.

"Then we must have a séance. I shall organise one myself. I have some experience as a medium, you know. I have most considerable gifts of a psychic nature."

"I have no doubt," I told her, shooting Portia a meaningful look.

Portia put an arm about my waist. "Aunt Dorcas, it has been lovely seeing you, but I simply must tear Julia away. She hasn't spoken to half the room yet, and I am worried she might give offense."

Aunt Dorcas waved one of her lace scarves at us, shooing us away, and I threw Hortense an apologetic glance over my shoulder.

"I do feel sorry for dear Hortense. However did she get landed with the old monstrosity?"

Portia shrugged. "We have suffered with Aunt Dorcas for the whole of our lives. Hortense is fresh blood. Let her have a turn. Ah, here is someone who is anxious to see you."

She directed me toward a small knot of guests gathered around a globe, two ladies and two gentlemen. As we drew near, one of the ladies spun round and shrieked.

"Julia!" She threw her arms about me, embracing me soundly.

I patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Hello, Lucy. How lovely to see you." She drew back, but kept my hands firmly in her own.

"Oh, I am so pleased you have arrived. I've been fairly bursting to tell you my news!"

"Dear me, for the carpet's sake, I hope not. What news, my dear?"

She tittered at the joke and gave me a playful slap.

"Oh, you always were so silly! I am to be married. Here, at the Abbey. In less than a week. What do you make of that?"

She was fairly vibrating with excitement, and I realised I was actually rather pleased to see her. Lucy was one of the most conventional of my relations, a welcome breath of normality in a family notorious for its eccentricity. To my knowledge, Lucy was one of the few members of our family never to have been written up in the newspapers for some scandal or other. We exchanged occasional holiday letters, nothing more. I had not seen her in years, but I was astonished at how little she had changed. Her hair was still the same rich red, the colour of winter apples, and springing with life. And her expression, one of perpetual good humour, was unaltered.

"My heartiest good wishes," I told her. I glanced behind her to where the other lady stood, a quiet figure, her poise all the more noticeable against Lucy's ebullience.

"Emma!" I said, moving forward to embrace her. "I am happy to see you."

Emma was wearing a particularly trying shade of green that did nothing for her soft, doe-brown eyes, her one good feature. Her hair was unfashionably red, like Lucy's, but where Lucy's was curly and vibrant with colour, Emma's was straight and so dull as to be almost brown. She wore it in a severe plait that she wound about her head, pinned tightly. Her face was unremarkable; her features would have suited the muslin wimple of a cloistered sister. But she smiled at me, a warm, genuine smile, and for a moment I forgot her plainness.

"Julia, you must tell us all about your travels. We have just been discussing Lucy's wedding trip," she told me, motioning with one small, lily-white hand toward the globe. Flanking it were the two gentlemen, one the elder by some two decades, and clearly the other's superior in rank and wealth. His evening clothes were expensively made and the jewel in his cravat was an impressive sapphire. Lucy went to him and put her arm shyly in his.

"Julia, I should like to present my fiancé, Sir Cedric Eastley."

If I was startled, I endeavoured not to show it. Had I been asked to choose, I would have picked the younger man for Lucy's betrothed. He looked only a handful of years her elder, while Sir Cedric might well have been her father.

"Cedric, this is my cousin, Lady Julia Grey."

He took the hand I offered, his manners carefully correct, although not from the schoolroom, I fancied. There was the slightest hesitation in his gestures, as though he were taking a fleeting second to remember a lesson he had only recently been taught. He performed flawlessly, but not naturally, and it occurred to me this was a man who had brought himself up in the world, by his own efforts, and his baronetcy had been his reward.

Lucy gestured toward the younger man, a tall, slightly built fellow with a pleasant expression and quite beautiful eyes.

"And this is Sir Cedric's cousin and secretary, Henry Ludlow."

Unlike Sir Cedric's very new, very costly clothing, Ludlow's attire spoke of genteel poverty, but excellent make. Clearly he had come down in the world to accept a post in his cousin's employ, and I wondered at the vagaries of fate that had clearly elevated the one while casting the other down. I thought they should prove interesting guests and I turned to Lucy to inquire how long they would be with us at the Abbey.

"Until the new year," she announced. "Cedric and I will be married here in the Abbey on Saturday by the vicar. Then we mean to stay through Christmas. It will be like the old times again, with all of the Marches together," she said, her eyes glowing with excitement. It seemed needlessly cruel to point out that her surname was not March and that she had in fact never spent a Christmas at the Abbey. I suspected she and Emma had yearned to belong to our family in a way that an Easter fortnight each year could simply not accomplish. Perhaps being married among us and spending her first Christmas in our midst would assuage some of that childhood hunger.

"Emma mentioned a wedding trip," I said, gesturing toward the globe. It was a sad affair, much mauled by us as children and by Crab, Father's beloved mastiff. She had taken to carrying it around with her as a pup, and by the time Father had trained her not to do so, the globe was beyond salvation.

Sir Cedric pointed to Italy. "We were thinking of Florence. And perhaps Venice as well, with a bit of time spent by the Tyrrhenian Sea in the summer. I know the loveliest spot, just here, below this fang mark."

I nodded. "Italy is a perfect choice. I understand the winters are not too brutal, and the scenery is quite breathtaking." I said nothing of the people, but I made the mistake of catching Portia's eye just as she was raising an eyebrow meaningfully toward Alessandro. I straightened at once.

Portia commandeered me again, excusing us from the little group and guiding me to where Violante and Lysander were standing with Alessandro. Violante was resplendent in a flame-coloured gown, her expression sedate. Father had given her a noticeably wide berth, and I wondered if he had spoken to her at all. I imagined he had given her a cursory welcome and then excused himself to speak with anyone else. To make up for his neglect, I addressed her with deliberate warmth.

"Violante, how lovely you look. That gown suits you. You look like sunset over the Mediterranean."

She smiled, her slow, lazy smile. "Grazie, Giulia." She waved her glass at me. "What am I drinking? It is very good."

I looked at her glass and grimaced. "That is Aunt Dorcas' frightful elderberry cordial. I am surprised at Aquinas pouring it for you before dinner."

"Plum, he brought it. I tell him I want something English to drink. Lysander, he has the whiskey, but I am given this. It is very nice."

Well, Plum might have found her something more suitable, but I was pleased he was making an effort to get on with Violante at all. "Mind you don't drink too much of it," I warned her. "It is an excellent cure for insomnia or incipient cold, but more than a tiny glass will bring on the sweats."

She blinked at me. "Che cosa?"

I searched for the word, but Alessandro stepped in smoothly. "La suda," he said softly. She looked at him a moment, then shrugged.

Portia elbowed me gently aside. "Alessandro, have you met my father yet?"

Alessandro shook his head. "I regret, no, my lady. His lordship has been very busy with his other guests."

Even before she spoke the words aloud, I knew what she was about. "In that case, Julia, you must perform the introductions. I know Father must be simply perishing to meet your friend."

I glanced over to where Father stood, still in conversation with Brisbane, then back to Portia. Her eyes were alight with mischief. Alessandro was regarding me with his customary Florentine dignity. "Ah, yes. I would very much like to pay my respects to his lordship, and thank him for his hospitality."

"Of course," I said faintly. "Portia, are you coming, dearest?"

"Oh, I thought I would get to know our delightful new sister-in-law," she said, delivering the coup de grâce. "But do not let me keep you."

"Come along, Alessandro," I said through gritted teeth. He cupped my elbow in his hand, guiding me gently—a wholly pleasant sensation, but I was still annoyed. I should not have been the one to make the introductions. He had been Plum's friend, and Ly's as well, before he had been mine. It had been their inspiration to bring him to England, but now that Father had to be dealt with, they were perfectly content to let me brave the lion's den on my own. Plum had made the acquaintance of Mrs. King and was busy giving her a tour of the room's beauties, and Lysander was too consumed with his bride to have a thought for anyone else.

And Portia was determined to stir the pot with Brisbane. I noticed his eyes sharpening as we approached, nothing more. There was no raising of his expressive brows, no naked curiosity, only the intense watchfulness of a lion lazing in the shade by a pond where the gazelle will drink.

"Father," I said, my voice a trifle thin, "I should like you to meet our friend, Alessandro. He came with us from Italy. Count Alessandro Fornacci. Alessandro, my father, Lord March."

Father turned to greet Alessandro, welcoming him with more warmth than I would have imagined. Alessandro accepted his welcome with exquisite courtesy, expressing his rapture at being in England and his extreme pleasure in sharing this most English of holidays.

"Hmm, yes," Father said, his eyes moving swiftly between us. Alessandro's hand had lingered a moment too long at my elbow, and Father had not missed it. "Your room is satisfactory?"

I suppressed a sigh. Father would not have cared if Alessandro had been lodged in the dovecote with only a blanket to cover him and a stray cat for conversation. He meant to detain him, to take the measure of him, and perhaps to let Brisbane do so, as well.

"My room is very nice. It overlooks a maze, very lovely."

"Excellent. You will want to see the maze up close, I'm sure. Mind you take a guide. Devilish tricky to get out of," Father said, laughing heartily. I stared at him. Father was never jolly. He was putting on dreadfully for Alessandro, and I was just about to send manners to the devil and lead Alessandro away when Brisbane put out his hand.

"Nicholas Brisbane."

Alessandro clasped his hand and bowed formally. "Mr. Brisbane." Father gave a guffaw. "Not just Brisbane anymore. He's a viscount any day now, my lad. Lord Wargrave."

"Milord," Alessandro amended.

Brisbane waved a careless hand. "No need to stand on ceremony. We are among friends here. Very good friends, I should think," he finished with a flick of his gaze toward me.

"Quite," I said sharply. "Ah, I see Uncle Fly and his curate have finally arrived. Come along, Alessandro. I should like to introduce you to my godfather."

Before I could manage our escape, Father caught sight of Uncle Fly and bellowed out, "What kept you, Fly? Damned inconsiderate to make me wait for my dinner."

Uncle Fly laughed and clapped a hand to Lucian Snow's shoulder. "Blame the lad. He was an hour tying his cravat. Doubtless to impress the ladies."

Father and Uncle Fly chuckled like schoolboys, and Lucian Snow smiled good-naturedly. "Well, with such lovely company a gentleman must trouble himself to look his best," he said, sweeping the room with a gallant nod. A few ladies tittered, but I realised Portia was not among them. She had taken herself off, and I cursed her for a traitor that she had dropped me in it so neatly and then fled.

But I had no time to consider her whereabouts. Uncle Fly had made a beeline for me, Snow following in his wake. My godfather smothered me in an embrace that smelled of cherry brandy and something more—earth, no doubt. Uncle Fly was an inveterate gardener and spent most of his time puttering in his gardens and conservatory. No matter how often he scrubbed them, his hands were always marked with tiny lines dark with soil, like rivers on an ancient map. His fingertips were stained green, his lapels dusted with velvety yellow pollen. And his hair, tufts of fluffy white cotton that stood out about his head where he had tugged at it in distraction, was usually ornamented with a leaf or petal, and on one memorable occasion, a grasshopper.

His curate could not have cut a more opposite figure. He was taller than the diminutive Fly by half a foot, and more slender, although one would never think him slight. His posture was impeccable; he was straight as a lance, with a slight lift of the chin that made it seem as if he were gazing at some distant horizon. But when the introductions were made and he bowed over my hand, his eyes were fixed firmly on mine. They were warm, melting brown, like a spaniel's, and they were merry. He twinkled at me like a practised rogue, and I found myself wondering how a man like him had come to hold the post of curate in an obscure country village. I introduced him to Alessandro, and Snow gamely attempted to greet him in Italian. It was laboured and wildly ungrammatical, but he laughed at his own mistakes, and Alessandro tactfully pretended not to notice.

Just then I saw Portia slip in, her expression smug. Before I could accost her, Aquinas entered and announced dinner. There was a bit of a scramble for partners, but since we were an odd number with more gentlemen than ladies, Portia insisted we dispense with etiquette and instructed each gentleman to choose the lady he wished to lead in.

To my surprise, Lucian Snow offered me his arm. "My lady, I hope you will do me the honour?"

I hesitated. Alessandro was hovering near, too polite to dispute with Snow, but a little dejected, I think. Just then Portia glided over, and slid her arm through Alessandro's.

"I do hope you will escort me, Alessandro. I simply couldn't bear to walk in on the arm of one of my brothers."

That was a bit thick, I thought. Lysander was already steering Violante to the door, and Plum was busy trying to lever Aunt Dorcas out of her chair. But Alessandro was too well bred to point this out. He merely bowed and smiled graciously at her.

"It would be my honour, Lady Bettiscombe."

I turned to Lucian Snow with a smile. "Certainly."

I took his arm, and he favoured me with a smile in return, a charming, dimpled smile that doubtless made him a great pet of the ladies. His features were so regular, so beautifully proportioned, he might have been an artist's model. One could easily fancy him posed in a suit of polished armour, light burnishing his golden hair, his spear poised over a rampant dragon. St. George, captured in oils at his moment of triumph.

"I must tell you, Lady Julia, I was not at all pleased at being invited here tonight," he said as we passed through the great double doors. Those warm spaniel eyes were twinkling again.

"Oh? And why not? Are we as fearsome as all that?"

"Not at all. But his lordship has been gracious enough to invite me to dine at least once a fortnight since I came to Blessingstoke, and I have gained half a stone. Another few weeks and I shall not be able to fit through that door," he said, his expression one of mock horror.

My gaze skimmed his athletic figure. "Mr. Snow, you are baiting me to admire your physique. It will not serve. I am an honest widow, and you, sir, I suspect are an outrageous flirt."

He laughed and gave my arm a friendly squeeze. "I know it is entirely presumptuous of me, Lady Julia, but I think we are going to be very great friends."

I raised a brow at him. Curates in country villages were not often befriended by the daughters of earls. But our village was a small one, and Father rarely stood on his dignity. He preferred the company of interesting people, and would happily speak with a footman over a bishop if the footman had better conversation. He must have made something of Snow for the curate to have been invited to dinner so often, and Snow seemed to be preening a bit under his favour.

The curate leaned closer, his expression mockingly serious. "I have offended you by my plain speaking. I am struck to the heart with contrition." He rolled his eyes heavenward, and thumped his chest with a closed fist.

"Gracious, Mr. Snow, are you ever serious?"

He rolled his eyes down to look at me. "On a very few subjects, on a very few occasions. I shall leave it to you to find them out, my lady."

He was an ass, but an amusing one. I primmed my mouth against the smile that twitched there.

"I shall look forward to the discovery," I said solemnly. We exchanged a smile, and I thought then that this might very well be the most interesting house party that Bellmont Abbey had seen since Shakespeare had spent a fortnight here, confined to bed with a spring cold. Of course, I was entirely correct about that, but for reasons I could never have imagined.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

Let it serve for table-talk; Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things, I shall digest it.

—The Merchant of Venice

The dining hall was an impressive, handsome chamber carved out of the space of the north transept. It had been fitted with a tremendous fireplace and a table long enough to seat forty. We entered to find the seating arrangements at sixes and sevens. I blamed Portia. Aquinas, if left to his own devices, would have manfully struggled to create some order out of our uneven family party. But Portia had absented herself just before dinner, and the organisation of the place cards demonstrated a wicked sense of mischief afoot. Aunt Dorcas had been slotted between Plum and Ly, a move calculated to unnerve both of my brothers. Hortense was flanked by Father and Fly, both of whom doted on her outrageously. And I had been bookended by Alessandro and Lucian Snow, the two most eligible gentlemen present. In a final masterstroke, Portia had placed Brisbane squarely opposite me, where he could not fail to notice their attentions. Portia herself took a chair on the other side of Alessandro, doubtless with an aim to directing his focus wherever she fancied. It was Machiavellian, and had I not been at the locus of it, I should have admired it greatly.

As soon as we were arranged, Father took up his glass and the company did likewise. He raised his high in a patently theatrical gesture, and proclaimed in a resonant voice, "'Now good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!'"

There was a chorus of "Hear, hear!", but as we drank deeply, I remembered that quote. It was from Macbeth, and I wondered with a shiver if that bloody play was an omen of things to come.

Just then Father's mastiff, Crab, pushed her way under the table, followed by her pack of pups. Mrs. King squealed—at a wet nose thrust under her petticoat to sniff her ankle, no doubt.

Father lifted the tablecloth, upsetting a few goblets and overturning a cruet of vinegar. "Down, you lot!" he thundered, and the dogs obeyed, settling themselves under chairs and onto feet, waiting docilely for a few titbits to be dropped. I smiled at how normal it all seemed. Well, normal for us in any event. I persuaded myself that I was being fanciful with my thoughts of omens, and I slipped a bit of lobster patty to one of the pups.

As we were finishing the fish course, talk turned to the wedding, and I heard Lucy chattering happily about the arrangements.

"Aunt Hermia has been an utter lamb. Before she left for London, she took me up to the lumber rooms to pillage the things that have been packed away. All the ladies came. We were the merriest party! Would you believe we found the most beautiful gown? Lyons silk, she told me. It must be quite seventy years old, but it is in very good condition. I imagine your mama must have worn it, Uncle March." Father lifted a brow at her, but merely continued eating his lobster patty. "And there was a bit of veiling from another bride, and a tiny wreath of orange blossom, fashioned out of silk. We took the things out for a good airing. Of course, there will not be flowers in the church. One forgets that an Advent wedding forbids it. I should have so loved to have carried even a bit of greenery, some holly, perhaps, tied with ribbons, with a few great buckets of it on the altar."

She was wistful, and Uncle Fly, who took a rather liberal view on church matters, waved his fish fork at her. "My dear girl, if you want flowers, have them. With the wedding here in the Abbey chapel and not at St. Barnabas in the village, no one is to know or care if you put a bit of nonsense here and there."

Lucy clasped her hands, her face alight with pleasure. "Do you mean it? Really? Oh, I should love that!"

Uncle Fly shrugged. "If you will come to the vicarage tomorrow, I will show you what I have in the conservatory just now. We can do better than a bit of holly, I'll warrant."

She was effusive in her thanks, but Uncle Fly merely nodded and applied himself to his fish. He was a great trencherman, and nothing pleased him more than a hearty meal from the Abbey kitchens.

"The pudding!" I said suddenly, and rather more loudly than I had intended. Conversation around the table stuttered to a halt, and everyone's eyes fixed on me curiously. "Yesterday. It was Stir-up Sunday, and Aunt Hermia was not here to make certain the puddings were stirred. And we were not here to make our wishes."

This was a calamity indeed. As long as Christmas had been celebrated at Bellmont Abbey, the family had gathered in the kitchens after church on Stir-up Sunday to give the Christmas puddings a stir and make a wish. Traditionally, there had been one great pudding for the entire household, but with ten children, Father had quickly seen the wisdom in having Cook prepare a small pudding for each of us. We would stand in a row, swathed in aprons, some of us tottering on stools as we dragged the long wooden spoons through the heavy batter, chanting together the traditional rhyme:

Stir up, we beseech thee,

The pudding in the pot;

And when we get home

We'll eat the lot.

As we stirred, Aunt Hermia would peer over our shoulders, reminding us to make our wishes, and to stir from east to west in honour of the Three Kings. Then she would flap her hands, turning us from the room so she might add the charms to the puddings, a thimble for a lucky life, a ring to foretell marriage, a silver sixpence to betoken wealth to come. It was one of my favourite customs of the holiday, and not just for the festivity of the stirring-up. The puddings were heavenly, richly spiced and studded with golden raisins and currants and all manner of good things. But with Aunt Hermia in London, there was little chance the puddings had been made, and the notion of Christmas without our beloved puddings was unthinkable.

"Do not fret," Father said with a benevolent smile. "We have had a saviour in the shape of Mrs. King. She organised the stirring-up yesterday. She even made certain there would be extra puddings for those of you come lately."

I looked at Mrs. King who had coloured delicately, a light stain of rose across her round cheeks.

"You are too generous with your praise, my lord," she said. But for all her modesty, it was apparent she was quite pleased to be singled out for such approbation.

"How very kind of you," I said with deliberate sweetness, "to put yourself to so much trouble for strangers."

If she felt the barb, she did not show it. She merely shook her head emphatically.

"Not at all, my lady. His lordship has been so kind to me, and so very good to Lord Wargrave." She hesitated, darting a bashful gaze at her fiancé. "It was the very least I could do. The very least."

I gave her a bland smile and was greatly relieved when the footmen stepped forward to remove the fish plates. We moved on to the next course, and the conversation turned as well. I never knew who introduced the subject, but after a moment I realised Father and Mr. Snow were engaged in a rather brisk discussion of the Gypsies.

"But surely you must see, my lord, that permitting them to camp on your land only encourages their lifestyle," Lucian Snow was saying to Father.

Father regarded him with something akin to amusement. Father loves nothing better than a spirited debate, and I have often seen him adopt a contrary opinion in the company of like-minded people, simply for the sport of disputing with them. But on this issue, I knew his mind. He was not sporting with Mr. Snow; he was completely in opposition, and it was a position he would defend to the death, regardless of the rules of hospitality.

"Mr. Snow, are we not enjoined by the Holy Scriptures themselves to aid our brethren? Surely providing a bit of ground for their camp and a stick of wood for a fire to warm them is an act of charity."

"A misplaced charity," Snow replied earnestly, "for which the rest of the village will have to pay. Will you be responsible, my lord, when the shops are victims of thievery, when the farmers are victims of pilfering, when women are victims of—"

Emma gave a soft little shriek and raised her napkin to her lips. Father held up a hand. "That is enough, Snow. The Romany have camped on my lands as long as I have been lord of this manor. Never once have they repaid my hospitality with the ingratitude you have suggested."

"Nor would they," I put in swiftly. "To steal from their host would violate the very code by which they live their lives."

Mr. Snow turned to me, his expression sorrowful. "Your womanly compassion does you great credit, my lady, but I am certain you would share my opinion if you understood the depths of degradation to which these poor souls must sink. But I cannot bring myself to speak of such grim particulars to a lady."

Across from me, Brisbane continued to consume his dinner, looking supremely bored with the entire discussion. He seemed to be managing quite nicely in spite of his injury, and I wondered nastily if Mrs. King had cut his meat for him.

"What do you propose, Mr. Snow?" I asked him plainly.

Lucian Snow laid down his fork, clearly more enthused about the topic at hand than his dinner. It was a pity really. Cook had outdone herself with port sauce for the venison.

"There are those who believe that the children may be saved, my lady, if only they are removed from the influence of their parents' savagery at a sufficiently youthful age. I am one of those. I think if the children can be taken into good Christian homes, educated, taught their letters and numbers and basic hygiene, a skill or craft by which they may earn an honest wage, their lives may be immeasurably enriched. The poverty of their vagabond lifestyle is so wrenching, so contrary to morality and civility, that a complete break is the only way to save these poor lost children."

I blinked at him and laid down my own fork. "You advocate taking children away from their natural mothers? Away from the only family they have ever known? Mr. Snow, I cannot think that is the foundation of any useful programme."

I was deeply conscious of the rest of the party listening to our exchange. My family were accustomed to sparring with guests; debate had always been a bit of a blood sport for Marches, and Brisbane had never turned a hair at our escapades. But I noticed out of the tail of my eye the wide-eyed curiosity of Mrs. King, and the slightly shocked expressions of Sir Cedric and his young cousin. Alessandro was diplomatically quiet, doubtless wondering if it was the habit of English ladies to brawl with their guests at table.

"My dear lady," Snow was saying, "how can we possibly persuade them there is a better way unless they are given no opportunity to fall back on their own vile habits? I believe your own aunt, Lady Hermia, embraces a similar philosophy at her refuge in Whitechapel."

Hoist with my own petard. It was true Aunt Hermia kept the prostitutes secluded on the premises of her reformatory until they were well on the path to decency. She feared the lure of easy money would be too strong for them when they were first applying themselves to their new way of life. But I was not about to concede the point to Snow.

"Those women are adults, sir. They choose freely to come to the reformatory. It is only in the difficult first weeks, when they are being weaned off drink and a host of other vices, that she restricts their freedoms. And they are free to leave at any time and never return."

"My lady," Mr. Snow replied, "I can only put to you this question—what sort of monsters must these people be to deny their children a warm and safe home, without security, without education, without Christian principles?"

"In that case, why don't you just have done with it and drown the lot like kittens?" Plum put in. His face had gone a dull, angry red, and a lock of his hair fell over his brow. He was mightily outraged, and rather attractive with it. Mrs. King was staring at him, her expression rapt, her lips slightly parted. I could understand the allure. Plum was a very personable man, and in defence of his views, he could be as deliciously ruthless as any buccaneer. In spite of his waistcoat—turquoise-blue taffeta splashed with pink peonies—he looked rather rakish as he turned the brunt of his wrath on Mr. Snow.

I opened my mouth to intervene with some inane, harmless remark, but Mr. Snow had the situation well in hand. He gave a quick laugh and flashed Plum a charming smile.

"Ah, you have been in Italy, Mr. Eglamour, where I will wager you learned a philosophy or two."

"Indeed not," Plum returned, his handsome mouth twisted with sarcasm. "I think little of a man whose morality may be swayed by his company. A man ought to think for himself and know what is right, and what I know to be right, Mr. Snow," he added with deadly precision, "is that those Roma have as much right as you or I to rear their families as they see fit."

I sighed. I had forgotten how rabid Plum could be on the subject of the Gypsies. He simply adored them. Once, when he was eight or so, and Father had confined him to his room for some transgression, he had packed his most treasured possessions into a tiny bundle and slipped out, scaling the Abbey walls with the aid of some helpful ivy. He had turned up at the Gypsy camp, thoroughly soaked from swimming the moat, and insisting defiantly that he would never go back.

The Gypsies dried his clothes and fed him, and when he was full and content, they brought him home, explaining patiently that if a lord's son was found among them, they would be taken in for kidnapping. Plum was an impetuous boy, but not a vicious one. He saw at once his new friends would suffer if he insisted upon staying. Reluctantly, squelching water out of his sodden shoes with every step, Plum returned. But he never forgot the kindness they had shown him, and whenever a question of Gypsy rights was raised, he was passionate in their defence. He made Father promise always to let them camp in the river meadow, and insisted the rest of us call them by their proper name, Roma. More than once as a lad he had engaged in fisticuffs when one of the village boys had taunted the Gypsies or thrown stones at them. I only prayed he would not brawl with the curate over the dinner table.

But Mr. Snow was determined to avoid a quarrel. He raised a hand, his expression genial. "Peace, Mr. Eglamour! I would no more spar with you than with your lovely sister. And indeed, who could be at odds when we have such good food, such fine company, and such a festive occasion?"

He raised his glass to us then, and we responded in kind, although I noticed Plum still looked faintly murderous.

Father settled back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "I propose a visit then. Tomorrow. We shall gather our party together and go to Blessingstoke. Fly can show off his church and his vicarage garden, what's left of it at this time of year at least. And we can call on the Romanies as well. The gentlemen can look over the horses, and what lady does not like to have her fortune told?"

There was a flash of excitement, murmurs from every quarter. Only Aunt Dorcas spoke audibly. "You oughtn't mix with them, Hector," she said to Father. "Some here might be unbelievers, and the presence of sceptics will disrupt the vibrations of their psychic gifts."

"For God's sake," I heard Lysander mutter, "has she been at the whiskey again?"

"Gin," Plum murmured back. "That was always her drink."

Unfortunately, Aunt Dorcas, like most of the aunts, had a tendency to tipple. None of them admitted to it, of course. Most of them sipped whiskey genteelly by the spoonful, claiming it was medicinal. Aunt Dorcas took a more forthright approach. She carried a flask, filled every morning by her devoted maid. For many years, the flask was tucked into her knitting bag, but when Plum was a boy he had poured out her gin and substituted vinegar instead. After that, she took to carrying it in her garters.

Aunt Dorcas opened her mouth again, but Father was too quick for her. "We shall make an outing of it. Any who do not wish to go may stay here, of course, but the rest of us mean to enjoy ourselves, vibrations be damned. Now, let us speak of something else. I am thoroughly bored with this subject. Mrs. King, have you read Lord Dalkeith's paper on the use of classical allusion in the sonnets of Shakespeare? It's rubbish of course, but I wondered what you thought of it."

Aunt Dorcas lapsed into furious silence, or rather into furiously muttering at her vegetables. But as her complaints were not audible to the rest of the company, we ignored her and turned our attention to Mrs. King.

She had ducked her head at Father's question and was blushing furiously, darting little glances from under her lashes. "Oh, your lordship, I hardly think I possess either the education or the natural intelligence to speak on such matters in such company. But I did think Lord Dalkeith's point about the Parthenon to be very well-argued, did you not, my lord?" she asked, turning to Brisbane.

Brisbane, in the middle of a very fine gâteau, paused. "Naturally I would defer to Lord March's opinion. I believe he has already questioned Lord Dalkeith's sources, is that not correct, my lord?" he asked, returning the question neatly to Father. Portia had mentioned his recent attendance at Father's society meetings, but to my knowledge Brisbane had no great love of literature. The only books I had seen in his rooms had been of an eclectic and scholarly bent. There were volumes on the natural sciences, history, warfare, and—oddly enough—lives of the mystic saints, but no plays, no poetry, no novels. Why then this sudden attachment to Shakespeare?

I looked from Brisbane, newly enthusiastic on the scriptures of the Bard, to my father, their greatest prophet. And in between them sat Mrs. King, a picture of pink-and-white innocence, wearing a betrothal ring from Brisbane on her left hand and chattering happily with both of them.

And I wondered precisely what my father had been doing while I was away.

* * *

After the conversation about Shakespeare had wound to a close and the gâteau was thoroughly savoured, Portia rose and gestured for the ladies to follow. At Bellmont Abbey, ladies withdrew, but not in quite the same fashion as in other great houses. Here, ladies were taken to the lesser drawing room to drink their own spirits and smoke a bit of tobacco without the gentlemen present. Hoots always fussed about the smell getting into the draperies, but Aunt Hermia just told him to open the windows and sweep the carpets, that the dogs were worse. Usually, the ladies greatly enjoyed a chance to "let down their back hair", and even the primmest of women was seduced into conviviality by our habits. Confidences were exchanged, little jokes made, and many ladies later claimed that the evenings they spent at Bellmont Abbey were among the most amiable of their lives.

I, however, was in no mood to be amiable. I was tired from the journey, and more than a little eager to gain the privacy of my room and turn over the many questions that had been puzzling me all evening. But I did not have the energy to make my excuses to Portia. She could have taught Torquemada a thing or two about extracting information, and I knew I would not escape her without endless questions. It seemed simpler just to follow along and endure.

As we withdrew, I noticed Violante, lagging behind, her hand pressed to her stomach. I slowed my steps to match hers.

"Violante, are you quite all right?"

She nodded. "The English food. It is not very good. Heavy. Like rocks."

I bristled, but did not mention how perfectly inedible I had found gnocchi. "I am sorry you are unwell. Won't you join us for a little while? I can have Aquinas brew up a tisane for you."

She shook her head. "I have the fennel pastilles in my room. They make me right. Buona notte, Giulia."

I kissed her cheek and sent her on her way, envying her a little. The poor girl looked every bit as exhausted as I felt. But as I entered the lesser drawing room, I noticed an undercurrent that immediately piqued my interest. Lucy and Emma were seated on a sofa, their heads close together as they darted glances about the room and murmured softly. Portia was busy fussing with decanters and glasses, and Aunt Dorcas had entrenched herself firmly in the best armchair. Hortense had taken up a book and was reading placidly. It was left to me to entertain Brisbane's fiancée. I turned to her, fixing what I hoped was a pleasant expression on my face.

"And how are you enjoying your stay at the Abbey, Mrs. King?"

"Oh, it is an extraordinary place, my lady." She spread her hands, gesturing toward the single great column standing stalwartly in the centre of the room and the tapestries, older and smaller than those in the great drawing room, but depicting the same subject, a boar hunt. "This room alone quite takes my breath away."

I shrugged. "I suppose it is impressive enough on first viewing. This room used to be the chapter house, where the monks gathered for the abbot to read the Rule of the Order. The vaulting of the ceiling is quite remarkable, although in the family we think it's frightfully inconvenient. That central column is necessary for support, but it makes it devilishly difficult to arrange the furniture properly. Besides which, the room is draughty and the chimney never draws properly."

As if to prove my point, a gust of wind roared down the chimney, scattering sparks and ash on the hearth and a few bits of soot on Aunt Dorcas. If the night grew any windier, we should have to dust her.

"Well, perhaps it is not the most convenient of rooms," she temporised, "but the history, the very ancientness of the stones. I cannot imagine what they have seen. And the tapestries," she added, nodding toward the stitched panels. "They are enough to rival anything in a museum, I should think."

Portia joined us then, passing tiny glasses of port that shimmered like jewels in the candlelight.

"If you like the tapestries, you must ask Emma to tell you the story behind them. No one can spin a tale like Emma," Portia advised Mrs. King, gesturing with her glass to our cousin. "Emma, pay attention, my dear. I am telling tales out of school about you."

Emma started like a frightened pony, then relaxed, smiling at Portia. "What have you been saying to Mrs. King?"

"That you are a splendid spinner of stories, actually," I put in. "Mrs. King was admiring the tapestries, and Portia suggested you tell her the story behind them. She is quite right. No one does it as you do." I thought to raise her confidence a little. She had always been quiet, but there was a new shyness in her that troubled me. I felt Emma was in danger of becoming a sort of recluse, particularly now that Lucy was marrying. Emma had always lavished all of her attention on Lucy, and I wondered what would become of her once Lucy became Lady Eastley. It was to be hoped Lucy would repay her many kindnesses with a home when it was in her power to provide it. Emma could not be happy governessing in the wilds of Northumberland. It would be a poor showing on Lucy's part to leave her there.

"Come, Scheherezade, tell us a tale," I coaxed.

Emma flushed a little, not prettily as Mrs. King did, but a harsh red stain that tipped her nose and ears.

"If you really think that I should," she said, looking hesitantly at Lucy.

"You must," Lucy said firmly, and we added our voices to the chorus, insisting she take a chair nearer to the fire. She seated herself, turning so the light threw her face in sharp relief as she began to speak.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in a woman.

—King Lear

The story begins long ago," Emma related, her voice soft. We gathered around her, skirts billowing over each other like blowsy roses in a country garden. Aunt Dorcas had nodded off in her chair, and her little snores punctuated the tale. Emma paused and took a breath, heightening our anticipation.

"This abbey was once the home of an order of monks, holy men who passed their lives in contemplation and good works. They tended the crops and the flocks, minding both the animals and the souls of men, and they were much loved. But then Henry VIII directed his lustful gaze at Anne Boleyn, and the monks were doomed. During the Dissolution, these lands were taken from them, and they were cast out of this holy place to make their way in the world, penniless and without friends. One of them, the elderly abbot, who had known only this place as his home since boyhood, cursed it as he left, calling upon the very stones themselves to witness the injustice visited upon his order. He conjured a curse against the new owner, a courtier of the king's, crying out that the man should not live out a year in his ill-gotten home."

She paused again and I glanced at Mrs. King, not surprised to see her spellbound expression. Emma had always been an excellent storyteller. During their Easter visits we frequently abandoned our books and games and insisted she spin us tales instead. She always demanded a trinket for her troubles, but her stories were so enthralling we never minded parting with a doll or pair of shoes as the price of an afternoon's entertainment. I turned back to her, noticing that her eyes were shining now, brightened by her enthusiasm for her story. She would indeed have made a fitting bride for Shahriar, I thought as she picked up her tale.

"The new owner, the Earl March, laughed at the old man, and swept into the Abbey with his young countess. But his bride, a girl of seventeen, was not so insouciant as her lord and master. She feared the old abbot, for she had seen that he was touched with holiness, and every night when she made her prayers she begged God to spare her husband, for theirs was a love match.

"The months stretched on, and the seasons turned, and the young countess began to hope her husband would survive the curse. She doubled her prayers, and spent so much time on her knees that she wore holes into the silk of her gowns. Her husband mocked her, but still she would not cease praying for his deliverance. Until one day, when he grew impatient with her piety, and they quarrelled. To calm his temper he whistled for his horse and his hounds and he rode out to hunt boar. The countess fell to her knees in the chapel, vowing not to rise until her lord returned."

Emma paused and leaned very slightly closer. "They brought him home the next day, carrying him on a door, broken and bleeding from the tusks of his quarry. He died that night, in agony. His countess, fearing her husband's spirit could never rest in this place, raised a crypt in the village churchyard and buried him there. And after his funeral, she withdrew to the chapel and began to stitch. For nine years she worked, her fingers bleeding, her hands stiffening until she grew so withered she could no longer put down her needle. She told the story of that fateful hunt in silk and wool, stitching her grief until at last the story was complete."

Emma raised her eyes to the tapestries, nodding toward the last, a magnificent piece that depicted the broken earl being carried home, his hunter and dogs trailing sadly behind.

"In all those nine years, not a morsel of food passed her lips. Village folk said it was a miracle, that she lived on her grief and her tears, nourishing herself with pain until her task was complete. And as soon as the last stitch was set, she lay down on the floor of the chapel and died. She was buried next to her lord in the crypt, but the tapestries survive to tell us the story. And somewhere in the Abbey, there is still a door, stained with the blood of a proud young nobleman, and no matter how many times the wood is sanded or scrubbed, the blood remains."

Emma sighed, and in an instant, Scheherezade was gone, and she was my plain little cousin again, her hair too severe, her complexion too sallow for prettiness.

"That was beautiful," Mrs. King breathed. "What a tragic story, and how wonderfully you tell it."

Emma smiled. "Words are a cheap entertainment," she said softly, catching Lucy's gaze. The two of them exchanged a knowing look, and I wondered how many times Emma's stories had kept them from despairing. I could well picture them, approaching yet another aunt's door, hand-in-hand, ready to be taken in with little grace and no warmth. Perhaps Emma's imagination had warmed them when they were cold, and comforted them when they were sent to bed in strange new rooms, where unfamiliar noises could seem like spectres, and shadows could be goblins.

"Emma, you have always had a great talent, you ought to write a book. Heaven knows I've seen people with far less ability make a success of it," Portia suggested.

Emma shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't. The notoriety, the attention, I could not bear to be looked at like that, as if I were a circus animal. No, I should far rather keep a little cottage and a flock of chickens. That would suit me quite well."

"Besides, I mean to keep her quite busy with nieces and nephews very soon," Lucy put in, bouncing up to embrace her sister. "Cedric has said that I may have Emma with me, to act as my companion, and later as governess to our children. We need never be parted again." Emma put an arm around her sister and hid her face in Lucy's neck.

I avoided Portia's eyes, but I could guess her thoughts well enough. Sir Cedric, a wealthy and important man, had offered his impecunious sister-in-law a post, not a home. It spoke of a meanness in his spirit I could not like. It would have cost him little to keep Emma simply out of kindness. But she would work for her bread.

"To your very fecund future in that case," Portia proclaimed, raising her glass to Lucy and tactfully ignoring the subject of Emma's employment. We toasted the bride and spent a pleasant half hour discussing plans for the wedding. Lucy was a happy bride, thrilled with her betrothed, and content to hear our ideas for her nuptials. Our suggestions grew more and more outlandish as the port decanter emptied.

Finally, I rose and stretched and made my excuses. Portia put out her tongue at me.

"You know you are not supposed to retire until the gentlemen have joined us. It is rude to our guests," she said, putting on her severe elder-sister voice.

I covered my mouth, smothering a yawn. "Would you have me dozing on the sofa in front of them? I think that would be far more uncivil. Besides, poor Mrs. King is drooping in that chair. I think she would like to retire as well, only she is too polite to say it. Is it our fault the gentlemen have clearly lost sight of the time? Mind you poke Aunt Dorcas awake before you retire," I said with a nod toward the old woman.

Mrs. King protested genteelly, but I bullied her, and I fancied she looked a bit relieved as we quit the drawing room. Aquinas had anticipated me and was lighting chambersticks in the hall.

"My lady," he said, offering me one. "Mrs. King."

"Thank you, Aquinas. Good evening."

He bowed and wished us both a good evening. As we moved toward the great staircase, I caught Mrs. King hiding a yawn behind her hand.

"I do apologise," she said. "I am simply not accustomed to keeping late hours. It is silly, I know. I live in London and keep city hours. One would have thought coming to the country would mean early to bed and early to rise."

I gave a little snort of laughter as we started up the staircase. There were great carved panels of wood at the foot to keep the dogs out, or would have done if anyone had ever bothered to close them. A few of the puppies followed us up the stairs, lumbering along sleepily.

"You would do well to take one of the little brutes into bed with you. They haven't fleas, and the pups will be far cosier than any warming pan," I advised her.

She nodded, and for an instant her expression clouded.

"Mrs. King? Is everything quite all right?"

She hesitated, her pretty face drawn a little with an emotion I could not identify. Fear, perhaps? "Lady Julia, I do hope you will not think me terribly foolish, but—are there ghosts at the Abbey? I did not like to ask one of the gentlemen, they are so prone to think us ladies silly when we say such things." She gave me an apologetic little smile, but her lips trembled. "I just thought perhaps if I knew…"

I stroked a wriggling pup. "Well, I suppose there are a few old ghouls running about, and the odd monk here and there, but nothing you need trouble yourself with, my dear. Particularly the monks. Cistercians took vows of silence, you know. Our monks would likely just wave at you. Besides, these stones have been standing for more than seven hundred years. Naturally they would have acquired a spectre or two."

Her face fell, and for a moment I thought I saw moisture shimmering in her eyes. I would not have thought her so sensitive. I felt a stab of unwilling pity. "You must not worry about such things. I have lived here most of my life, and I have never seen a ghost. I do not think anyone has, not for ages." I was struck by a sudden thought. "But you have been here for some days. Why does this weigh on you now? Have you seen something?"

She bit her lip and darted a glance around, peering into the shadows at the end of the hall. "Last night," she whispered. "It was very late, but I was wakeful. I thought I heard a footstep, and yet not a footstep. It seemed to slither past my door. I could not move for a moment, I was quite paralysed with fear. And then, I do not know how I managed it, but I found the courage to open the door."

She paused, her eyes round. I realised my own heart was beating very fast. Even the puppy had gone quite still under my hand, as if hanging on her every word. "And then I saw it. Or rather the faintest impression of it. A swirl of grey and white, not quite a figure, and yet it was more than just a bit of mist. There was a shape to it. My breath caught in my throat, and it turned then, turned and looked at me, although it had no face."

"Good God!" I cried. "What did you do then?"

She shrugged. "What could I do? I slammed my door and locked it tightly. I burrowed under the bedclothes until morning. I did not dare to come out until the sun was up. I shall never forget the way it looked right through me."

I hastened to reassure her. "Mrs. King, I am so very sorry you were frightened. I can only tell you I have never heard of anyone in this house encountering a phantom in the whole of my life. And I have every expectation it will not happen again."

She smiled, and this time her mouth was firm. "You are very kind to reassure me. I know you will not mention this bit of foolishness to the gentlemen. I should so hate for them to think me foolish."

"Of course not. If anything else distresses you, you must come to me immediately. I insist. Now, I will wait here while you go to your room to make sure you are comfortably settled. If you require anything at all, just ring the bell. One of the maids will see to it, and I am but a few steps down the corridor in the Red Room. I will see you at breakfast, my dear," I said.

She bade me good night, and ducked her head shyly, as if embarrassed at her nerves. She clucked at one of the pups to follow her into her room and he did, waving his tail like a jaunty plume. My own puppy started to wriggle, and I gave him a little pat on the bottom to send him on his way. I stared at Mrs. King's closed door for a long moment, then passed to my room, humming a tuneless song as I went.

Once in my room, I disrobed quickly and attempted with no success to persuade Morag to take Florence again.

"I will not," she said, tucking my gown into the wardrobe. "She shakes like a poplar."

"That means she is cold," I told her in some exasperation. "She wants a little coat."

"She wants an exorcism," Morag muttered, slamming the wardrobe door. "If you don't want nothing else, good night."

I knew that tone well. It meant that I daren't want anything else. I climbed up into the bed, stretching my toes toward the warming pan, careful not to touch it.

"Remind me to have a word with Aunt Hermia about your grammar. It is a disgrace."

She said nothing, but poked up the fire and bobbed an exaggerated curtsey before taking her leave. I regretted my flippancy. Morag might be a creature of the streets, but she had her dignity, and she had worked terribly hard to raise herself from the squalor of her previous life. Her grammar had progressed substantially, and the worst of her brogue had been smoothed into something I could actually understand. It was wrong of me to needle her about it, and I made a mental note to apologise to her in the morning. I was far too cosy to leave my bed to deal with her at present. She had done a masterful job of warming the bed, and from the way Florence was snuggled into her basket, I suspected Morag had lined it with warmed towels. For all her sins, she was a thoughtful creature at times.

"Buone notte, Firenze," I said, with a nod toward the basket on the hearth. "Good night, Florence."

Florence growled in return, and I took up a book from the night table, determined to finish it. It was a rather spicy little novel Portia had given me, and I was in agonies of suspense as to whether the beautiful English captive would choose to stay in the harim of the sensual sultan or make her escape with the dashing Spanish buccaneer.

I must have dozed, for when I opened my eyes, the fire had burned down and the book had slipped to the floor. I blinked for a moment, uncertain why I had awakened. Then I heard it, a soft slithering footstep just outside my door. I glanced to the hearth and saw Florence, sitting up in her basket, ears pricked up, lips drawn back.

"Shh," I soothed her softly. The hands of the clock on the mantel read two minutes past two. I considered the matter carefully. Violante and Charlotte had both been abed by the time I had retired. Portia would have rousted the ladies out of the drawing room and to their beds no later than midnight. I had heard a flurry of doors closing just about that time. So the ladies were accounted for, and even if the gentlemen had decided to play a game of billiards or retire to the smoking room, those rooms were on the opposite side of the Abbey. I thought of Mrs. King, her lips trembling as she spoke of what she had seen.

For what I did next, I can only blame my own unseemly reading habits. For years I wallowed in the unhealthy pursuits of Gothic heroines, tracing their footsteps as they wended their way through crumbling churchyards and decaying crypts. I walked with them into ghoulish dungeons hung with chains, and mouldering attics festooned with cobwebs. I thought them impossibly stupid, and yet when faced with the opportunity to chase a phantom of my own, I did not even stop to put on my slippers. I snatched a lace wrapper from the foot of my bed and hurried to the door, easing it open as silently as any practised burglar.

I slipped out of my room and into the shadows of the gallery. Bars of soft moonlight from the great Gothic windows illuminated the corridor, throwing the statues into sharp relief and casting sinuous, quatrefoil shadows over the floor. I peered one way, then the other, searching the gloom for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing. I waited half a minute, willing myself to breathe quietly. Still nothing, and my feet were beginning to freeze on the stone floor. I had just turned to regain my room when I saw it, there at the end of the gallery, flitting past a statue of Diana.

It was a ghost, or at least something that looked very like how I imagined a ghost should look. It moved slowly, gliding soundlessly, perhaps a foot above the stone floor, and whiter than the marble of the goddess' motionless arm. The figure trailed ragged draperies behind it, foamy and billowing like fingers of damp fog on a moonlit night.

It paused then and so did my heartbeat. It was silhouetted against a tapestry of Venus and Adonis, silvered by the faint moonlight. I stared at it from my place in the shadows, suddenly horribly aware that in my white lace wrapper, I was as visible to it as it was to me. Before I could move, it gave a high, unearthly moan, then whirled and vanished, leaving behind nothing but a patch of shadow and the tapestry, stirring ever so slightly.

Before the tapestry had settled, I was back in my own room, door firmly locked, cowering under the bedclothes with a struggling Florence clutched to my chest. She kicked and fussed until I let her go, then marched to my pillow where she gave me a resentful look and promptly curled up with her tail over her nose and went to sleep. It was not much, but it was some comfort, and I put a hand on her silky back. She twitched, but did not move away, and after a long while I slept.

It was not until Morag unlocked the door with my morning tea, rousing me with malicious pleasure, that I realised what I should have known all along: that particular tapestry covered one of the hidden passages of Bellmont Abbey. The Abbey itself had been lousy with them as it provided the brothers an easy means of moving from place to place without disturbing one another or exposing themselves to inclement weather. Most had been blocked up or fallen into disrepair, but some remained, and a few were even used by the servants as service passages. And though I could not explain how a human being could levitate as perfectly as my phantom had done, it would be a very poor ghost indeed to require hidden passages to creep about the Abbey instead of walking through walls.

And if the ghost was not supernatural, then one of the inhabitants of the Abbey was up to something highly irregular and thoroughly interesting. An intrigue was afoot, and I was determined to unearth it.

I hurried through my ablutions, eager to begin investigating my little mystery. I was thwarted by Morag, who insisted on taking her time with my hair, and Father, who sent a note requesting my presence in his study after breakfast.

"Bother," I muttered, slipping the note into my pocket. The missive was perfectly courteous, but a summons from Father carried all the weight of a papal bull. "Finish, Morag. I've no more time to waste on your ministrations."

She jabbed the last pins in my hair with what can only be described as unnecessary force. I rose and hurried to the door, turning to smile sweetly at her. "Mind you walk the dog. And I was quite serious about a coat for her. I've a pretty little jacket Plum purchased for me in Milan. Persimmon is a frightful colour for me, but it should suit Florence nicely."

Morag crossed her arms over her chest and fixed me with a baleful stare. "I'll not be sewing for a dog."

I looked at her closely. Morag could often be cajoled into acquiescence, but once she had reached her limit, there was only one method by which it was possible to persuade her.

"I will pay you four shillings and will thank you for picking my pocket."

Morag was nothing if not avaricious. She gave me a thin-lipped smile and scooped up the dog, tucking Florence under her arm. "Come on then, ye wee rat. Let us take the measure of you and fit you for your wardrobe."

When I left the room, I took the opportunity to examine the spot at the end of the gallery where the ghost had disappeared. The egress was easy enough to find provided one knew where to look. The statue of Diana, poised on one foot, bow uplifted, obscured the view of the tapestry's edge. Not much, but enough to confuse the eye, particularly on a moonlit night with ghostly draperies fluttering about.

With apologies to Venus and Adonis, I slipped behind the tapestry and found a solid stone wall, or at least the appearance of a solid stone wall. This was no simple case of a doorway that had been covered over for the sake of convenience. This was a proper secret passage, with a mechanism that had been oiled recently from the smell of it. I reached up to the single stone carved with the tiniest of March hares and pushed. The door swung back soundlessly. The passage beyond was black as pitch and freezing. I paused, listening intently, but of course I heard nothing. I stepped back and swung the door shut, moving out of the way as it slid into place.

I stood behind the tapestry, considering the matter carefully. The passage, although quite antique, had been well maintained, and the little hare had been carved by the family to clearly identify the key stone. Presumably the monks were cleverer than the Marches, and had found their way without such aides-memoire. The passage went some little way, then terminated in a flight of tight, twisting stairs up to a suite of lumber rooms. Originally a row of cells used as scriptoria by the monks, they were terribly useful for storage. The little passage itself had been occasionally used to move carpets or tapestries, but its dimensions had not permitted its use for anything more substantial. It was useful for the maids, for their rooms were in the attics, divided from the lumber rooms only by a short corridor. We children had used the passage when playing sardines or other such games, and I remembered sulking there once or twice when I did not wish to be found. I had not used it in a dozen years, and I did not think Morag even knew of its existence.

Who, then, did? My brothers, naturally, and Father and Portia. But try as I might, I could not imagine any business that would necessitate any of my family wandering the Abbey in the guise of a ghoul. There was Aunt Dorcas, of course, but I snickered when I thought of her attempting to negotiate the snug little staircase with her bulk.

That still left the guests, any one of whom might have heard of the passage from a member of the household and decided to do a bit of exploring. Harmless enough, but why in the form of a spectre?

Interesting questions indeed, and I pondered them as I descended to breakfast. My little detour had taken longer than I thought, and by the time I reached the breakfast room, it was empty and most of the chafing dishes had been scraped clean. Aquinas entered with a steaming pot of tea and a rack of fresh, crisp toast as I peered at the sideboard, frowning.

"Do not tell me I have missed Cook's kedgeree," I said mournfully.

"I took the liberty of putting a bit back for your ladyship. I have been keeping it warm in the butler's pantry. I will fetch it now."

I seated myself and sighed. There are few greater pleasures in life than a devoted butler. I counted myself very fortunate to have secured Aquinas. I had offered him an outrageous sum to leave his previous employer, an act that had stricken me from that particular hostess' guest lists for eternity. It was a small price to pay for such competence, I reminded myself as he served a generous portion of the delectable kedgeree.

While I ate, Aquinas busied himself at the sideboard. I had just popped the last bit of buttery toast into my mouth when I had a thought.

"Aquinas, did Uncle Fly and Mr. Snow spend the night, or did they return to Blessingstoke last night?"

He lifted my plate and whisked the toast crumbs into his little silver pan. "I called the carriage for them at midnight, my lady. His lordship offered them rooms for the night, but the Reverend Mr. Twickham was feeling a trifle unwell and wished to sleep in his own bed."

I looked up sharply. "Uncle Fly was ill? Nothing serious, I hope."

"Not at all, my lady. If I may speculate, I believe Mr. Twickham indulged himself a bit more than is his custom."

I burst out laughing. "He was drunk."

Aquinas looked mildly shocked. "I should be heartily sorry if I suggested such a thing, my lady. However, if I were to observe that he seemed to have a bit of difficulty putting on his coat, and that entering the carriage proved so treacherous he nearly ended up in the moat, these would not be exaggerations."

"Poor Uncle Fly. His head will be sore as a bear's this morning. And we lot are supposed to descend upon him for luncheon! How ghastly."

Aquinas agreed and removed my empty plate. I sat over the last few sips of my tea, making note of the fact that Uncle Fly and Lucian Snow could be eliminated from the list of possible miscreants who had donned the ghostly garb.

But instead of simplifying matters, it muddied them. Snow had a sort of puckish charm, and Uncle Fly had always been good for a joke, particularly of the elaborate and practical variety. If I numbered gambling among my vices, I would have wagered handsomely on one of them being our prankster.

Still, it left me with several interesting questions yet to be answered, including the one that intrigued me the most: what had Brisbane been doing when the clock struck two?

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

O, that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it comes.

—Julius Caesar

The door to Father's study was closed, but I had no doubt he was within. I could smell his pipe tobacco, and if I pressed my ear quite tightly to the door, I could hear him talking. From the rhythm of his speech, it was apparent he was reciting one of his beloved soliloquies. Lear, no doubt. He was particularly fond of Lear.

I rapped sharply, and after a moment he called for me to enter. I felt a sense of peace descend as soon as I stepped over the threshold. Father's study held only the most pleasant connotations for me. Any childhood transgressions were dealt with as a matter of business, and lectures and punishments were meted out in his estate office where farmers and servants were given their pay or their notice. Here, there was only the memory of spending time alone with Father, a rare privilege in a household of ten children. It was in this room rather than in the schoolroom that each of us had learned our letters, following Father's finger as he traced out a line of Shakespeare and encouraged us to sound out the words. There was always a treat if we excelled—crumpets Father toasted over the fire, turning them on forks until they were brown and crisp.

There was a fire now, crackling away merrily on the hearth, the mastiff Crab stretched out lazily in front of it, her immense paws thrust into the ash for warmth. The walls were lined with books, none particularly valuable. The rare and costly volumes were shelved in the formal library where they were regularly dusted and rubbed with neats' foot oil. The study was the home of Father's private collection, the bulk of it devoted to Shakespeare, with some poetry and a bit of history as well. The tall Gothic windows were hung with claret velvet, and a pair of enormous thick silk rugs from Turkey warmed the stone floor. The furniture was lushly upholstered in more claret velvet. There were curiosities as well—an enormous armillary sphere, the stone wing of an Italian putti, a revolting stuffed monkey called Cyril that Father had won in a wager against the King of the Belgians—but it was a comfortable room, a gentleman's retreat. I remembered the hours I had spent in the window seat, secluded by those same velvet draperies as I read the books of my youth.

Father laid his book upon the desk. Bound in green leather and stamped with the March coat of arms, it was part of the set of Shakespeare that had been printed for him as a gift by the queen upon his accession to the earldom. I hazarded a glance at the cover as I took a chair opposite his. King Lear. I smiled to myself, but Father missed nothing.

"You seem in good spirits," he observed.

"I was merely thinking how nice it is that some things do not change."

He raised a silvery-white brow. "Like me? I shall never change. I am half as old as Methuselah and I mean to live forever. I shall point and laugh when Stonehenge crumbles to dust and I am still here."

"Just as well. I am told there is no more space left in the family crypt."

He pulled a face. "That may be, but when the time comes I shall make room for the old crone if I have to turn half the family out and sell their bones to make corsets."

"I presume you are referring to Aunt Dorcas?"

Father stretched his legs, wincing only slightly. I could only assume his rheumatism was paining him. His little twinges usually presaged a change in the weather.

"I had forgotten how awful she could be," he mused. "Hard to imagine now she was once the toast of the Regency and her sisters with her. All four of them were painted the year the elder two came out. The paintings are in the little alcove outside the music room. Striking girls, they were. All the bucks were in love with them."

"Even Aunt Dorcas?"

"Indeed so. An heir to a dukedom shot himself for love of her when she rejected his suit. They said she heard the news, then put on her prettiest gown and went to a ball where she danced every last dance, drank two bottles of champagne, and swam the pond on Hampstead Heath just to watch the sun come up."

I shook my head. It seemed impossible to reconcile that desiccated old toad with a ripe, nubile young woman who broke men's hearts as easily as one might crack an egg.

"I suppose time changes people," I hazarded.

"Time and regret," he corrected. "Dorcas and her sisters were outraged by Rosalind's elopement with a footman. They withdrew from society and refused to marry. They thought they were disgraced, as if marrying one's footman is any worse than the rest of the antics they got up to," he finished, reaching for the cup of tea on his desk. "They immured themselves in that old house in the Norfolk fens, and scarcely spoke two words to the rest of us for decades."

"How dreadful! To shut themselves up like that, with only each other for company. Why did we never visit them?"

Father shrugged. "They made it quite clear no one was welcome. They were content to fester in the country, quarrelling with one another and complaining bitterly about the pittance of an allowance they received."

This surprised me. "They were not given proper allowances?"

Father named a figure that made me gasp. "Generous enough, by anyone's standards," he commented dryly, and I was forced to agree. "Added to which, Grandfather settled the Norfolk house on them and paid for the maintenance. Their expenses were virtually nonexistent. I'll wager there is a small fortune stuffed under a mattress or behind a fireplace brick in that house."

"But I thought that side of the family was poor," I protested. "Emma and Lucy, always coming to us looking little better than charity children, complaining about cold-water baths and wearing the aunts' castoffs."

Father sipped at his tea. "Living in isolation can turn a person's mind, and their minds did not have far to turn," he said with a meaningful look over the rim of his spectacles.

"You mean they became peculiar?"

"In a word. They began to hoard things from the reports my father received. Money, newspapers, jars of jam. And never spent a ha'-penny if they could help it. Dorcas even had her sisters buried in paupers' graves in the churchyard in Norfolk to save a few pounds. She was certainly not going to spend her life's savings educating two girls she viewed as the fruits of sin."

"Their parents were married," I pointed out.

"Hmm. Yes, well, there was some confusion on that point."

I blinked at him. "Good heavens. Why did I never know any of this?"

Father shrugged. "Old family gossip. You were always burrowed somewhere with your nose in a book."

"And here I thought the family was in danger of becoming respectable." I still could not quite take it in. Lucy and Emma, bastards, and Dorcas and her sisters mad as hatters, after a fashion.

"But Aunt Dorcas' pearls and the lace," I began. Father shook his head.

"The pearls are glass beads, and the lace was her mother's. Her maid has been tearing it off and sewing it onto different gowns for fifty years. And what she has not hoarded, she has pilfered. Mind you lock up your valuables, I cannot vouch for their safety," he said with a sigh. "I could almost feel sorry for the old trout, but she is one of the most tiresome women I have ever known."

"Then why did you invite her for the wedding?"

Father's usual benign expression turned murderous. "I did not. That would be the handiwork of your Aunt Hermia, who I hope is suffering mightily from the pangs of her conscience as well as a toothache. She insisted if Lucy was to be married from here, Dorcas had to be present, and then she hared off to London while I have endured the old terror," he said with real bitterness.

"Aunt Hermia cannot help a toothache," I chided. "Besides, with so many other guests, you cannot be much bothered with her."

"Emma was not best pleased to see her," Father confided. "Although I imagine she has had an easier time of it than her sister. I would rather have the keeping of ten children than one old woman."

"You did have the keeping of ten children," I reminded him. "Now, tell me how it came to be that Lucy is to be married here."

Father shrugged. "Cedric is an acquaintance from the Shakespearean Society. Lucy was visiting London with friends. She called upon me, quite properly. I was just about to leave for a meeting, and the girl trotted along. Cedric was there, and I introduced them. He was instantly smitten, and since then they have been inclined to view me as something of a faery godfather. I have been told they mean to name their firstborn after me. It is all incredibly fatiguing."

"And Mrs. King? She is a member of the society also?" I asked carefully.

Father levelled his clear green gaze at me. "She is. As is Brisbane. They both began attending in September. I introduced them as well."

"You are a regular Cupid," I commented lightly. "You will want only a bow and arrow to complete the illusion." I chose my next words carefully. "I am surprised their courtship has progressed so quickly. Mrs. King does not strike me as the type of woman to become engaged to a man she has known but for two months, although perhaps I have misjudged her."

Father said nothing, but he sipped at his tea and his eyes slid away from mine. He knew something, and he was determined not to speak of it. And when Father made up his mind, it was pointless to attack him directly.

"What do you think of Violante?" I asked, and I do not think I imagined he looked relieved.

"I like her fine. She seems a rational sort of girl, from what I could determine with my faulty Italian. Pleasant enough, although with a beastly temper, I should think."

"Then you are not still angry with Lysander for marrying her?"

He set the cup into the saucer with a sharp rap. "Why the devil should I be angry? Ly has to live with her—"

Too late, he remembered the letter, the summons home with dire threats if we failed to obey. It had been a blind then, a lure to bring us back, for some other purpose entirely. But Father could hold his counsel well enough when he chose. If I wanted to know what he was about, I should have to lull him into security first.

I cut in smoothly. "I am so glad to hear it. She is indeed a delightful girl, and it is not kind to say it, but I think Lysander needs to be shaken up a bit. He is too tightly bound within himself. She is a tonic for him."

Father laid down his cup and smoothed his waistcoat, a fraying affair in aubergine stripes. His sartorial taste was frighteningly close to Plum's. "I am glad to hear it. Now, the reason I sent for you. Say hello to your friend. He has missed you, you know, and I don't mean to keep him forever."

He nodded toward the corner behind me. I turned to see a large, ornately wrought birdcage standing where a bust of Kean usually held court. Inside the cage was a bundle of sleek black feathers and a pair of intelligent jetty eyes.

"Grim!" I cried. I went to the cage and leaned near, careful to keep my arms behind my back. It would not do to have the tweed of my sleeves shredded by his sharp talons. He looked up at me, his head tipped quizzically to the side. After a long moment, he opened his beak.

"Good morning," he said cordially.

"Good morning," I returned. It was Grim's favourite greeting, no matter the time of day. I opened the cage door, and he bobbed his feathered head and hopped out. His wings were tucked behind his back, and he walked across the carpet with the dignified air of an elder statesman. Grim might have been a souvenir of the previous investigation, but he was also a great deal more. He had begun his life as a Tower raven, property of the Crown and petted darling of the Tower's inhabitants. I wondered sometimes if he missed the social comedown he had suffered when the Queen had made me a present of him.

I returned to my chair and Grim followed. Father passed me a small box of sugared plums and Grim's eyes brightened. "That's for me."

"Yes, it is, Grim." I tossed a plum onto the carpet and averted my eyes. Grim was a lovely companion, but watching him eat even confectionery required a rather stronger stomach than I possessed.

Father rose and shot his cuffs. "I must take my leave of you, my dear. I have estate business to attend to before we depart for the village. Be ready in an hour."

There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. He sounded like a man about to effect an escape, and that only heightened my curiosity.

But this was no time to confront him. I merely smiled affectionately. "No matter. It will give me time to read the newspapers. I haven't had the English papers for weeks. I am frightfully out of touch."

Father paused. "I am afraid Aquinas is too efficient by half. He has burned them all. Read the latest Punch instead. It's just there on my desk," he prodded.

I picked it up and opened the cover. I waited until he had closed the door behind him, then counted to one hundred. When I finished, I tossed another plum to Grim and went to the lidded basket by the hearth where Father always stuffed newspapers he had not yet finished.

With apologies to Crab for disturbing her, I knelt and opened it. I was not surprised to find it was half full. Another mystery, and it was not yet nine o'clock, I mused. Quickly, I perused the pages, not quite certain what I was looking for. It was not until the second time through that I saw it: each bit of newspaper he had saved carried some piece on the same subject, a recent riot in Trafalgar Square, all written in the last fortnight.

When I was finished, I replaced the papers just as I had found them. Then I wiped my hands on my handkerchief and coaxed Grim back into his cage with the last of the sugared plums. This house party was proving intriguing indeed.

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work.

—Henry IV, Part I

The party that assembled in the hall an hour later was merry, but somewhat diminished. Violante was still unwell, and Hortense, who was fluent in Italian and not fond of the cold, offered to sit with her. Aunt Dorcas refused again to go, insisting the vibrations were bad and the weather would turn, her beady eye fixed firmly on Aquinas. I had no doubt she would insist on a hot tray for both elevenses and luncheon, and a fire in the library. From what Father had told me, it was apparent her food allowance did not extend to the luxuries one might find in the larders at Bellmont Abbey. No doubt when she left the house her trunks would be stuffed with vintage champagne and tins of caviar and lobster, but it would be rude to search them.

The rest of us made a picturesque group. The gentlemen were in country tweeds, even Plum, although he sported a velvet waistcoat in a particularly virulent shade of cerise. He carried his sketchbook, and his pockets bulged, doubtless with pencils and gums and grubby bits of charcoal. Brisbane too wore country attire, though his arm was confined in a black woollen sling now, and over his dark tweeds he had thrown an enormous black greatcoat. A man of lesser inches would never have carried it off, but he did so quite impressively. As usual, he was hatless, and as usual, his thick black hair was just unruly enough that I had to thrust my hands into my pockets like a schoolboy to keep from organising it.

In contrast, Father was dressed like a pedlar of dubious origin. His tweeds were thirty years out of fashion, and his shirt, though made for him by the finest tailor in London, had been stained with ink and tobacco until the cuffs were quite disreputable. He wore a cape one of the grandchildren must have unearthed from the dressing-up box, all bright red wool and braided gilt trim, like something out of Gilbert and Sullivan. To complete the ensemble, he had clapped a crumpled deerstalker on his head and wrapped a length of sky-blue velvet about his neck.

In comparison, the ladies were a vision of decorum. Lucy and Emma were nearly identical in grey flannel, serviceable as anything a governess might wear. Lucy had attempted to brighten hers with a jaunty green bow, to mildly depressing effect. Mrs. King, in simple black merino, and Portia, in green tweed with a dashing feather in her hat, were more decorative. My own costume, a delicious purple tweed edged in violet velvet, was not entirely unflattering, I decided, smoothing my cuffs.

"Do stop that," Portia muttered in my ear. "Yes, the fabric is divine and the cut is perfection. You needn't preen."

I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane's gaze on me, his expression thoughtful. It was not the first time he had witnessed such behaviour on my part, and I turned away, my face hot, as Father began ordering us about.

"All right, I make it twelve of us then. Can't all possibly fit in two carriages, so I have ordered horses for the gentlemen. Not you of course, Brisbane," he said with a chuckle. "I suppose you had best ride with the ladies." Brisbane did not smile.

In the end, Alessandro and Plum elected to ride with us as well, and after a short delay a second carriage was brought round. There was a jolly scramble for seats, and I was surprised to find myself sharing a carriage with Brisbane, Alessandro, and Mrs. King. I could not have engineered a more awkward arrangement, but when Portia winked at me as she hoisted herself into her own conveyance, I had little doubt she had had a hand in it.

"Oh, this is cosy!" Mrs. King declared as the footman slammed the door. The horses sprang and she gave a little shriek. Opposite me, Brisbane flinched, and I could not help but prod him a little.

"I do hope the motion of the carriage does not jostle your arm, my lord," I said. "I know how painful those falls can be. I remember a dozen devilish tosses when I was learning to ride. I was quite purple with bruises for the whole of that summer."

"I am perfectly well," he said blandly.

"I am glad to hear it," I replied, mimicking his tone. He shot me a black look, but I ignored it and turned to Mrs. King.

"Now, Mrs. King, you must tell me what you think of my home. But I warn you, I am quite partial and will not be swayed from thinking it the most perfect of spots."

"Oh, I quite agree!" she exclaimed. She proceeded to comment on everything we passed—the symmetry of the maze, the magnificence of the bell tower, the cleverness of the carp ponds.

And then she saw the gates. She went into raptures about the iron hares that topped them, the darling little gatehouse, the pretty shrubbery by the road. Another twenty minutes was spent on the straightness of the linden allée, and by the time we reached the village of Blessingstoke, my ears had gone numb with the effort of listening to her. Brisbane had spent the entire journey staring out the window, while Alessandro was fixed upon Mrs. King, regarding her with an expression of bemusement. He handed me out of the carriage on our arrival, and I asked him, sotto voce, if he was all right.

"So many words," he murmured. "I did not think one person could know so many words."

I patted his arm and made soothing noises at him until Brisbane poked him less than gently. "Terribly sorry, but would you mind?"

Alessandro stepped aside with a flurry of apologies as Brisbane climbed down from the carriage and extended his good hand to Mrs. King.

"Never mind," I told Alessandro, tucking my arm through his. "Let me show you Blessingstoke."

It had been arranged we would take luncheon with Uncle Fly once we had toured the village, and then pay our visit to the Roma camp. This pleased me, if for no other reason than it provided us with an opportunity to escape Mrs. King. Alessandro and I proceeded directly toward the village church of St. Barnabas, an elaborate confection of neo-Gothicism at its worst. It put me in mind of a great cake, frosted with sugar angels and roses and every possible embellishment the masons could imagine. Alessandro declared it was nothing to touch the elegance of the Abbey, and I smiled at him in approbation. I guided him through the tiny churchyard where a gloomy crypt stood watch over Marches who slumbered away the centuries beneath stones green with mould. I showed him the wishing well, just beyond the lych-gate, where legend told that wishes would be granted if two people sipped from the well at the same time. He made to unpin his sleeves to take up the bucket, but I stopped him, pointing out Mrs. King, headed in our direction, chattering as she clung to Brisbane's good arm. We scurried away in the direction of the baker's where we met Sir Cedric and Lucy, and Alessandro was introduced to the delights of a Bath bun and a glass of cider. We glimpsed Mrs. King once more, Brisbane in tow, but managed to avoid her by ducking into the linen draper's. I purchased a quantity of pretty silver ribbon, enough to trim a gown and Florence's coat as well, although I was quite certain Morag would charge me treble her fee when she saw it.

I had just concluded my transaction when the bell of St. Barnabas struck one, the appointed hour for luncheon. As we made our way to the vicarage, I noticed Alessandro seemed very quiet. I drummed my fingers lightly on his arm, and he smiled.

"I am not a good companion today," he said ruefully.

"You are woolgathering," I teased.

His expression clouded. "Woolgathering? I am no shepherd."

I laughed, but lightly so as not to hurt his pride. "Woolgathering is a silly expression. It means you are thinking of other matters, like building castles in Spain."

"Spain?"

I sighed. "Another one of our idioms."

"But why Spain? It is too hot, too rocky. If I were going to build a castle, it must be in Toscana."

"Yes, Tuscany is the best place for castles," I agreed solemnly.

He looked at me, his liquid dark eyes intent with emotion. "You think so? You would like to live in a castle in Toscana?"

Something had shifted between us, faintly, but the change was almost palpable. Our friendship had sat lightly between us, an ephemeral thing, without weight or gravity. Once, in the Boboli Gardens, under the shadow of a cypress tree on an achingly beautiful October afternoon, he had kissed me, a solemnly sweet and respectful kiss. But weeks had passed and we had not spoken of it. I had attributed it to the sunlight, shimmering gold like Danaë's shower, and had pressed it into the scrapbook of memory, to be taken out and admired now and then, but not to be dwelled upon too seriously. Perhaps I had been mistaken.

"Who would not?" I countered, a lightness to my voice I did not feel. I tugged at his arm. "Come now. We mustn't be late or they will begin without us."

We hurried along, Alessandro trailing a bit behind. He looked a trifle defeated, like a scolded puppy. As I had neither the time nor the inclination to coax him out of his melancholy, I did the next best thing, and seated him next to Portia at luncheon. She could be relied upon to flirt with him outrageously, and hopefully restore his good spirits in the process.

To my dismay, Uncle Fly looked worse than expected. His overindulgence had left him pale and not inclined to eat, although he waved us to the table and encouraged us to heap our plates. His cook was a local woman, very competent, and the food was almost as delicious as anything one could find at the Abbey.

Mr. Snow took the seat next to mine, and I was surprised to find I did not mind. His views on the Roma were simply appalling, but he was still a personable and charming man, and when the subject of the Gypsies was raised again, he merely shrugged and said pleasantly, "I am prepared to be educated."

This caused me to warm to him considerably, and altogether, luncheon was a thoroughly satisfactory affair. When it was concluded and the last plates had been scraped clean of apple cake and cream and the last cups of coffee drunk to the dregs, Uncle Fly waved us along.

"I mean to take to my bed. A bit of rest and I shall be right as rain. Snow can show you through the conservatory—mind you don't disturb my orchids," he finished with a severe look at Snow.

Snow's glossy gold brows drew together. "I am only too happy to guide our guests, but I shall worry for you, sir. Is there anything you require?"

Uncle Fly's expression was sour. "A glass of bismuth and a hot brick in flannel," he replied tartly. "Take a length of brown paper and a few buckets for Miss Lucy's flowers. She will want some for the altar as well."

Snow nodded and rose to hold my chair. We thanked Uncle Fly and flocked out of the snug vicarage and into the humid warmth of the conservatory. Lucy squealed in delight when she saw the profusion of white heather, a full month before one might expect to see it flowering on the heath. Uncle Fly had even managed to coax a few white violets to appear, and Snow wrapped those as well, careful to pack them in a bit of damp moss. A very polite argument broke out between Father and Snow as to whether the fragile blooms would survive until Saturday, but Lucy had fairly swooned at the sight of them, and Snow promised to look after them personally. In the end, two large buckets were filled with armfuls of heather, and the clumps of violets and a few other dainties were heaped carefully into a trug.

Snow and Mr. Ludlow carried them to the carriages, along with Snow's small travelling case. He was joining our house party to help with the wedding preparations and share in the festivities. And perhaps to perform the ceremony as well, if Uncle Fly was not better in four days' time, I thought ruefully. He rode with Emma, Lucy, and Portia to the Gypsy camp. It was a short journey, but long enough to send Mrs. King into raptures about the quaintness of the village, the picturesque beauty of the Gypsies, and the excellence of their site in the river meadow. The gaily painted caravans were particularly enchanting to her with their bowed tops. There were only a few of these. The majority of the Roma still lived in tents, and some of the caravan owners slept out in tents when the weather was holding fine.

We alighted and immediately were surrounded by a flurry of activity. Children ran to us chattering excitedly, while their parents moved more sedately, the men to take the horses, the women to offer us the bitter tea brewed over their cooking fires. Although most strangers were treated with suspicion, we were greeted with affection because of Father. I noticed Snow, watching with a benevolent expression, and I wondered if he was indeed prepared to be of liberal mind. If any group of Roma was likely to change his views, it was this. Comprised of three families, all related in various degrees, they were flamboyant and emotional, but also easygoing and amiable. I had known most of them from childhood, and they greeted me now, embracing me fondly and asking after my health.

The spoke to us in English—Romany was not a gift they shared with outsiders—but I heard a thread of it carried on the wind as an elderly woman scolded her granddaughter for dropping a basket of washing. I flicked a glance at Brisbane. He gave every appearance of not hearing or understanding, but I knew he was drinking in every word and, moreover, that he knew I was watching. Romany had been his first language, taken with mother's milk, although he rarely spoke it, and few knew he was a half-blood. With his faint burr—a souvenir of his boyhood in Edinburgh—he passed as a Scot among Englishmen, although rumours still abounded that he was a Bonaparte, a bastard prince perhaps, who would look well in an emperor's robes. Others said he was a Spanish adventurer; still others claimed he was Turkish or Greek, with the blood of sultans or minor gods running in his veins.

But one only had to see him with his own kind to realise how absurd those stories were. No one could match the Roma for their proud carriage, the elegance of their walk. In Brisbane, the line of his profile, the smoothness of his gait, even the way he held his head, all betrayed him for what he was, and I was astonished the rest of our party did not see it at once.

I had not realised I was staring so long, but he turned his head then, just enough to catch my gaze. I knew he was thinking of the other time we had visited a Gypsy camp together—the first time I had seen him with his own people, the first time I had heard him speak the language, the musical syllables spilling from his tongue like the sweetest wine, the first time he had kissed me.

First and most likely the last, I thought. A thick little lump of regret rose in my throat and I swallowed hard against it as he turned away, striking off from the camp on the path to the river. My fingers went to the pendant at my throat, warm even through the soft leather of my glove. It was useless to pine for what was not to be, I told myself severely, and I made up my mind to put the pendant aside once and for all when I returned to Bellmont Abbey.

At that moment, a woman unfolded herself from where she had been squatting, stirring her cooking pot. The smell of spices and savoury meat filled the air, clinging to her skirts and shawls and even her plaited hair as she came to us, but it was not the fragrance of her supper that startled me.

"Magda," I said, more loudly than I intended.

She gave me a sly smile. "Yes, lady. I am with my people again."

Magda had been my laundress for a time, taken in when her own family had banished her for breaking one of their taboos. I had sheltered her and given her work, and she had betrayed me. An understandable betrayal, given the circumstances, and I had forgiven her. But I had not thought to see her so soon. The sight of her had taken me a little aback.

"I am glad. I hope you are in good health."

It was a foolish little speech, and pompous as well, but Magda merely nodded. "And also you, my lady." She glanced around at the rest of our party. "The gentlemen will wish to see the horses. My brother, Jasper, has few to sell now, but for the right price he might be persuaded."

The gentlemen, manipulated by her sly insinuation, hurried to where the small herd was staked, all except Plum, who made for a convenient outcropping to sit and sketch. Only the five ladies remained, and Magda turned to us with a knowing smile. "You wish to have your fortunes told. Cross my palm with silver, ladies, and I will reveal all to you."

She put out her hand and I stepped back sharply. "No, thank you." I turned to the others. "The rest of you do go ahead. Magda is quite good at that sort of thing. I am sure you will find it most interesting."

I turned and left them, chattering like magpies as they quarrelled genteelly over who should go first. Plum was already consumed with his sketching, and I knew he hated to be disturbed. I made instead for a little clump of trees some distance away where I spied a familiar figure. I waited until I was near to hail him.

"Not interested in horseflesh, Mr. Ludlow?"

Like Plum, Mr. Ludlow was attempting to sketch the scene, but his talents fell far short of my brother's.

"Say rather the situation puts me in mind of a child with his face pressed against the window of the candy shop without a tuppence in his pocket," he said with a rueful smile.

I motioned to his sketchbook. "I hope I am not interrupting you?"

He laughed, showing lovely, even white teeth. "I am but a dilettante, a hobbyist. It is an act of mercy to prevent me from putting pencil to paper."

He tucked the sketchbook and stub of pencil into his pocket. "And you? No liking for the prognostications of Gypsy witches?"

I shuddered. "I have had quite enough of those to last a lifetime, thank you. In any event, they always say the same things, don't they? Tall strangers, unexpected legacies, shipboard journeys. None of it ever comes true."

He dusted off a bit of fallen tree with his handkerchief and we sat. We were silent a moment, comfortably so, to my surprise. His posture was relaxed, but lightly, as if he were accustomed to holding himself in readiness. He had the bearing of an athlete, and it occurred to me he had probably taken a number of prizes at school.

"This is a peaceful spot," he said finally. "I can understand why they come back here every year."

"It is also very near St. Leonard's Wood, which is of course an attraction to them."

He turned to me with a puzzled expression. "St. Leonard's Wood?"

"Do not tell me you have not heard of it!" I cried. "You have been here some days, and no one has told you the tale? There is an enchanted wood, just the other side of that coppice. It is said that centuries ago a French hermit by the name of St. Leonard battled a dragon there, and slew it. But he was injured in the fight, and wherever his blood fell, there God raised white lilies to bloom every year. And in return for his bravery, God banished all snakes from the wood, and hushed the nightingales so that St. Leonard could meditate in peace."

Ludlow was smiling. "A charming story, but it seems a bit harsh on the nightingales."

"I thought so, too," I confided, "but you can well understand why the Roma would wish to camp where they would not be troubled by snakes."

"Indeed I can," he agreed. We fell silent again. It was a pleasant afternoon. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the scene, burnishing the Roma camp in its gentle light. It was a scene fit for a Romantic painter, and I wondered if Plum would be able to capture it. The ladies were apparently taking it in turns to enter Magda's tent and have their fortunes told. I knew the nuances of her performance, for I had seen it often enough.

First she would offer them a choice: cards, palms or leaves. Once they had chosen, she would compose herself, drawing inward as though straining to hear a voice from another world. After a long moment, when one's nerves were stretched and the hairs on one's neck were prickling, she would open her eyes and put out her hands. No matter the medium, her hands were always deft and warm. They moved through the cards quick as a conjurer's, or stroked one's palm with the same gentle firmness one would use on a cat.

The leaves were different. She kept a kettle of water hissing away by the fire outside, and when a visitor approached, she brewed the tea in a battered pot and poured it carefully into a chipped china Jubilee cup painted with the face of the queen. The tea was thick with leaves and never sweetened. It was quite a trick to strain the tea between the teeth as Russians do to keep the leaves in the cup. When the cup was empty, Magda tapped and swirled and inverted it, then turned it right again to scry the depths. Her expression never varied, nor did her tone. She spoke flatly of what she saw, relating the future as calmly as one might speak of the weather or the state of the roads. For her, nothing was yet fixed in stone. Choice and free will had as much to do with one's future as any fortune-teller's tricks. She told only of what might come to pass, not of what must be, and I had long suspected her of embellishing her fortunes slightly to suit her audience.

Now, for instance, Lucy was just leaving the tent, smiling widely and reaching out to embrace her sister. She was radiant with happiness, and I thought it very likely Magda had spied her ring and spoken cannily to her of wedding trips and babies to come. She might have mentioned a house as well, and a trunkful of pretty frocks. Lucy was a simple creature, and Magda knew well how to take the measure of a person, for good or ill.

Emma went next, reluctantly, I fancied, but Portia was in an organising mood and firmly motioned her into the tent. Lucy linked arms with Portia and Mrs. King and began to chatter, doubtless relating every detail of Magda's predictions.

I turned to Mr. Ludlow. "I wonder if you will think me very impertinent, but I should like to ask—will they be happy, do you think?"

Mr. Ludlow was a young man of sound common sense. He did not flinch or pretend to overly precious manners. The question was a serious one, and he regarded it as such.

"I believe they will, my lady. My cousin is a simple man, and from what I have been able to determine about Miss Lucy, she is a simple girl."

"And that is a simple answer," I teased.

He smiled again, a bit tiredly, I thought. "I meant only that most people get on well enough so long as their interests are compatible. He wants to live a luxurious, comfortable life and to have sons. She wants the same. I see no reason they should not be happy."

I nodded. "Where does Sir Cedric live?"

"He keeps a house in London, but I have been commissioned by him to find a country house. Kent, he suggested. Someplace with good, fresh air and plenty of grounds for exercise."

"For the children?" I hazarded.

"For the children." He paused and looked toward the cluster of gentlemen ranged about Magda's brother. They were examining a very fine hunter, chestnut brown with an elegant back. "He never thought to marry, you know. He shall not see fifty again. He will tell you quite freely he thought all that rubbish was behind him. And then he met Lucy and was, quite simply, bewitched."

I looked to where Lucy was sitting on a piece of carpet, nibbling at the fingers of her gloves, her expression sweetly vacant. "I do not see it," I said flatly.

Mr. Ludlow's mouth twitched. "He does, my lady. And who are we to judge her charms? She is pretty and pleasant, and he is growing old."

"I have been frightfully rude to ask such things, and it is very kind of you to pretend not to be shocked."

His eyes widened, and I noticed they were a rather subtly spectacular colour, brown and green and flecked with gold, like a cool country stream in the dappled light of a summer's afternoon.

"My lady, you have not asked anything that all of society has not asked. At least you asked directly instead of inviting me to supper to pretend an interest in my hobbies."

"Really, how appalling!"

He shrugged. "It has only happened twice, and since I refused to speak of the matter, I am certain it will not happen again. Word has got round that I am unforgivably silent on the subject, and people do not think to invite me for any other reason."

To express sympathy to him would have been insulting, even though I felt acutely sorry for him. He had clearly been raised a gentleman's son, perhaps with expectations. It seemed apparent some financial ruin had befallen his family, and now he must depend upon the kindness of his better-heeled relation to employ him. A man would have to exercise all his skills of diplomacy, purge himself of pride, to accept such a position.

I nodded toward the horse. "What do you make of that creature? He seems sound enough from here."

Ludlow did not hesitate. "He is too nervous. You can just see the white of his eye all round. Sir Cedric will tell you he is spirited, but Cedric knows steamships, not horses. That animal would throw you at the first gate and happily leave you to limp home. Why do you smile, my lady?"

"Because that was my brother Benedick's horse. He sold him for precisely that reason. I do hope Father does not buy him again."

"Again?"

I nodded. "Father has purchased him three times, and sold him on every time because he cannot be controlled. Then he forgets how awful the beast was and buys him back again. It's really quite foolish of him."

Ludlow and I shared a smile. It occurred to me then that some men demand a second glance, others require it. Ludlow was the latter, nondescript and calm as a millpond, but calmness has its own attractions. "May I dare to ask a further impertinence?"

He bowed gallantly from the neck. "Of course."

"What will become of you now that Sir Cedric means to settle in the country?"

Ludlow stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. "I shall remain in London, I daresay. His investments are diverse. It takes a man quite in the thick of things to handle the correspondence. Sir Cedric thinks he can manage very well spending most of his time in the country. I shall travel down to Kent as needed to receive instructions, and the London office will be under the supervision of his director. And, of course, he must be in London during the Season. He has many interests in Parliament, and must be in attendance when it is sitting."

"He sounds quite the magnate," I said lightly.

"That he is, and entirely self-made, although he does not much care for people to know it."

"I hold the American view that self-made men are the most worthy," I told him. "If a man can better himself through his own gifts, his own native wit and determination, why are we so quick to think the worse of him for it?"

Ludlow considered this for a moment. "Perhaps because we have a thousand years of history instructing us to the contrary. We are taught that a man is born to his place, and in his place must he die," he finished, with the faintest edge to his voice.

"You must be quite invaluable to him, that he would entrust such responsibility to you."

A fleeting wistful smile touched his lips. He nodded toward Snow, who stood just at the fringes of the crowd gathered round the hunter. Snow had doffed his hat and was raising his face to the fading sunlight. He looked like a man thoroughly contented with his lot in life, his expression one of perfect contentment.

"That gentleman has the life I would have chosen for myself."

"Really? I should think you would have made an excellent curate. You have a soothing voice. One does not like to hear about damnation from a man who sounds as if he were pronouncing a sentence from the Queen's Bench."

Ludlow laughed. "I was reared for it. My mother and Sir Cedric's were sisters, daughters of a vicar with a country living. Sir Cedric's mother married a miserly merchant who died when Cedric was but a lad. Cedric was brought up in poverty. He was apprenticed at the age of seven, if you can imagine it. My lot was quite different. My mother married a gentleman, the fourth son of a baronet. It was always hoped I would be given the living attached to the baronetcy's estate."

"And you would have been happy there?"

He closed his eyes briefly. "It is the most sublime place I have ever seen. It is in Cornwall, sheltered in a valley so beautiful, it must have been wrought by the hands of angels. I went there only once, but the memory of it lives with me still. The rectory was small, a doll's house, but perfect in every detail. There was a rose garden and a chicken house and a nuttery and every last gift that nature can offer."

He sighed, and in that one small exhalation I heard a lifetime's anguish. "My father quarrelled with his brother, the current baronet. They did not make it up before my father died, and though I tried to apologise and make amends, my overtures were not received with approval. I was given to understand my father's sins would not be forgiven, nor mine for being his son. It was up to me to make my way in the world, as best I could."

I shook my head. "I cannot approve this system we have of keeping young men on leashes to be led about by their betters. My sisters and I are settled with some degree of independence, but my brothers feel the weight of my father's authority, even as grown men. And my father has been the soul of liberality. Any other man in England would have thrust my brothers into the church and the army and the navy just to be rid of them, whether they had any vocation for those institutions or not."

Ludlow gave me a look of approbation. "Most ladies would have no sympathy for impecunious gentlemen, tossed by fortune's whims."

"Mr. Ludlow, I like to believe I would have sympathy for anyone thwarted in his happiness."

He smiled, the first genuine smile I had seen from him. The corners of his eyes crinkled; he looked younger suddenly and almost content.

"My lady, I may at least lay claim to being useful. Believe me when I say that service has its own rewards."

I thought of my own exhilaration when I embarked upon the investigation into my husband's murder, and the killing boredom when it was finished, the restlessness that came with stitching cushions and pressing flowers day after monotonous day.

"On that point, Mr. Ludlow, we are in complete agreement." I rose, and he jumped to his feet. "No, no. Stay where you are, I insist. I mean to walk a bit and admire the scene. Perhaps you will make that sketch after all."

He laughed, a light, pleasant sound, and reached for his sketchbook. "I may at that, my lady."

I left him then, and turned my steps toward the path to the river and Brisbane.

THE NINTH CHAPTER

You would look up to heaven, but I think The devil, that rules i'th'air stands in your light.

—The Duchess of Malfi

I walked nearly to the river before I spied him, his good shoulder propped against an ancient willow. He was staring at the dark water as a soft river breeze ruffled his hair. He did not turn, even when I drew close enough to touch him.

"Curiosity is a character flaw, and a dangerous one," he remarked in an acid tone. "Or didn't your father teach you that?"

"He tried," I said cheerfully. "But I am afraid that lesson, like so many others, simply did not take."

He turned then and looked directly at me. I had forgot how singularly intense his focus could be. He had a trick of staring quite through me, stripping me bare while revealing nothing of himself. There had been moments, only a few, when he had been unguarded with me, giving me the smallest glimpse into the man behind the impenetrable façade. This was clearly not to be one of them. He kept his arms folded over the breadth of his chest, and I wondered if the gesture was meant more to contain himself or to keep me at bay.

With some effort, I was able to breathe evenly, and when I spoke, my voice was steady.

"I do hope you are enjoying your stay at the Abbey. Have you been in Sussex long?"

He ignored my opening gambit. "I will not tell you anything," he said flatly.

I opened my eyes very wide and blinked at him. "Of course you mustn't. I should not expect it of you. You are a professional, after all."

He ground his teeth together in a manner I knew only too well. "On that point, I must request your discretion."

"Why, Brisbane, are you suggesting that your fiancée does not know what you are? I am astonished. A gentleman should be more forthcoming with his intended. How is she to know if you can support her adequately if you do not share these things?"

He took a step closer, using his height to great advantage. The breeze had risen, whipping his greatcoat about him like great black wings, and he loomed over me like some sort of fallen angel. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he demanded.

I nodded. "Oh, immensely! And you must promise to invite me to the wedding. I shall be bereft if I cannot wish you well on your nuptial day. I think I shall wear green. Not fashionable for weddings anymore, but during Tudor times it was just the thing. I believe it has some connotations of pagan fertility, but we shall draw a veil over that."

His jaw tightened a bit more. "I will not discuss this with you. Not Charlotte, not my profession, and not my presence here at Bellmont," he repeated.

I fluffed the velvet trim on my cuffs and adopted a tone of supreme indifference. "So you have said, and I agreed with you. Really, Brisbane, you do not listen at all. You shall want to remedy that before you take a wife. A lady likes to be listened to. Tell me, as we are friends, what became of Mr. King? She did not murder him, did she? I shall feel quite nervous for you if you marry a murderess."

His hand twitched, and though he did not reach for me, I knew I had prodded him too far. Teasing Brisbane was not a sport for the faint of heart. It was only slightly safer than baiting bulls. I could not help myself. Perhaps I wished to punish him for the long, lonely months without word. Perhaps I wished to punish him for forcing Charlotte upon us. I only knew I wanted to hurt him, not deeply, but the temptation to twist the knife was irresistible.

"Honestly, Brisbane. You cannot seriously expect me to believe you intend to marry her. She is ridiculous. She would bore you to sobs in a fortnight."

He opened his mouth, to say something vicious I have no doubt, but I held up a hand. "No, you mustn't tell me. I would rather not know." I tapped the black sling firmly. To his credit he did not flinch. "I do hope you are convalescing well. The air here is quite restorative."

"I am fine, thank you for your concern," he ground out, his lips stiff with anger.

"Excellent. And how is Monk? Keeping well, I trust?" Monk was his majordomo, as well as a sometime operative in his investigations. I had only the vaguest theories as to Brisbane's activities whilst I had been away, but I knew whatever they had been, Monk would have been at the thick of them.

"Monk is in London. And since you will learn of it as soon as you speak with Valerius, I will tell you he is looking after Monk while he recovers from a broken leg."

I gaped at him. This was most unexpected. "Valerius is treating him? But he is a student. He is not qualified—"

"Under Mordecai's direction," he amended. That eased my mind a little. Mordecai was Brisbane's oldest friend. An excellent physician, he had taken my wayward younger brother under his tutelage. Father would never consent to let Valerius establish his own consulting rooms, but with Mordecai's help, he could do some real good in the slums that festered behind the elegant quarters of London.

"When did he break his leg?" I asked suddenly. The speed of the attack caught him off his guard.

"A fortnight ago," he replied, and I had little doubt if he had thought on it, he would have given me a lie.

"A fortnight ago," I repeated innocently. "The same time you fell from your horse. How very unlucky. And how very fortunate that neither of you were near Trafalgar Square. I understand there was a terrible riot there, just about a fortnight past. Why, either one of you might have been injured much worse."

"I read of it in the papers," he said smoothly, refusing to rise to the bait.

"As did I. Just this morning. The stories were utterly appalling. Ten thousand people marching to register their protest at the treatment of the Irish, and two thousand soldiers beating them back. I understand some poor souls were left with broken bones, and shots were even fired. So barbaric."

I paused, holding the eyes that never left mine. "Well, I must be getting back to the others. You should come along and watch them conclude the deal for the horse. It should be most entertaining. Oh, I am sorry, I forgot," I said, with a meaningful look at his sling, "you do not ride." I spun smartly on my heel and started down the path.

"Julia—"

I turned back in surprise. He had never once called me by my Christian name. Emotions warred on his face, feelings I could not identify as I waited, only an arm's length from him, expectant, hoping for some word, some declaration.

But he simply stood staring at me, locked in a silence he would not, or could not, break, and after an endless moment I let out a ragged little breath that sounded almost like a sob.

"You know, Brisbane, if you thought to rouse my jealousy by bringing her here, you have failed. Abjectly. She is welcome to you, with my blessing."

He spoke then, something profane, but he did not follow me as I walked away.

After my tête-à-tête with Brisbane, I felt thoroughly exhausted, drained of all feeling and numb with cold and a bit of misery as well as I retraced my steps to the Gypsy camp. I had not been gone a very long time, but it was sufficient for the ladies to have finished their fortunes. Emma and Portia had joined Lucy on her bit of carpet by the cooking fire, and were sipping at chipped mugs. More of Magda's dreadful tea, no doubt, but at least it would keep the rising chill from one's bones.

The gentlemen were still haggling, though they had been joined by Plum and Mr. Ludlow. Mrs. King was some little distance apart, attempting to converse with a charming little girl whose glossy black plaits swung to her waist. Next to the child's exotic charms, Mrs. King looked like a fragile Dresden shepherdess. I thought of warning Mrs. King it would be prudent to keep an eagle eye upon her valuables, and to count the coins in her reticule when the child left, for there was no knowing if the girl was old enough to realise we were friends and not to be stolen from. But just then she looked up and waved at me, her betrothal ring from Brisbane sparkling on her finger, and I held my tongue.

I made for the knot of gentlemen instead, meaning to join them when a figure swayed out from behind the nearest tent. "You do not wish me to tell your fortune? I am never wrong, lady, as you well know."

I sighed. "No, Magda. Thank you. I trust the ladies paid you sufficiently for your services?"

She shrugged. "Is there enough silver in the world to exchange for knowing what the future holds?"

"Probably not. In that case, I shall leave you to it."

I made to step around her, but she stood in my path, not touching me, but making it impossible for me to pass.

"What do you want?" I demanded.

Magda shook her head, rattling the coin-bedecked chains at her ears and throat. Roma woman often dressed thus, carrying their life's savings on their person for safekeeping. "You were kind to me once, lady," she said, pouting a little.

"For which you repaid me in ways that would have bought you a gibbet if I had gone to the authorities. Instead I arranged for you to leave London, at great personal cost to myself," I reminded her. "Do not think to win me with your petulance. It is a child's trick."

She curled her lip at me and tossed her head. "Very well then. But I will tell you this for free—that one still walks with the dead," she whispered, nodding toward the dark figure slowly walking toward us from the river path. She grasped my arm fast in her bony fingers. "I told you once before the screams of the dead echo in his steps. You did not believe me, and you nearly died. Do you believe me now?"

I wrenched my arm free. "That is a faery story meant to frighten children. What did you tell my cousin Lucy? That she would marry and take a shipboard voyage?"

Magda looked at me in surprise. "Of course I did. That is what she wished to hear, and it was the truth. And I tell you the truth as well—that man is like the raven. His shadow speaks of death to come."

"Enough!" I cried, and pushed past her.

"Tell me, lady, has he ever told you the truth about Mariah Young?" she called after me, laughing her harsh, grating laugh.

I stalked off, refusing to turn and address her. The question she asked had nagged at me since I first heard the name Mariah Young. I knew little about her, save that she had some attachment to the Roma, and some connection to Brisbane as well. And that she had been murdered. Beyond that I knew nothing. I had asked Brisbane only once, and he had refused to speak of her. The fact that Magda knew I would have asked, and that Brisbane would not have confided in me, confirmed she knew both of us better than I could have wished.

The gentlemen were just concluding the deal when I approached, with much slapping of hands and laughter and no doubt a few ribald jokes as well. They had dispersed to join the ladies, all save Sir Cedric who remained, stroking the hunter's nose with an air of proprietary satisfaction.

"Ah, Lady Julia!" he cried as I approached. "Congratulate me, if you please. I have just become the owner of this magnificent animal."

I peered at the hunter's face, noting the edge of white showing cleanly around the entire eyeball. I smiled.

"Congratulations, indeed, Sir Cedric. I hope Mephistopheles will make you an excellent mount."

His hand paused. He looked at me, a trifle uncertainly. "Mephistopheles? Like the devil?"

"Yes, but I am certain it is a term of opposite affection. As one will name a black kitten Snowflake, that sort of thing."

His expression eased and he went on petting the animal's nose. It was the first opportunity I had had to assess Lucy's fiancé in any sort of detail. He had removed his gloves to better acquaint himself with his purchase. His hands were manicured, but all the creams and unguents in the world could not erase the patchwork of scars and calluses formed from many years of hard labour. His tweeds were well-cut and almost alarmingly new. They bore the hallmarks of good tailoring, doubtless from the finest shops in Savile Row. Beneath his hat, a few stray locks of silvering blond hair curled to his collar. His whiskers were the same odd mix of silver and gold, and with his ruddy complexion and tawny eyes, the whole put me greatly in mind of an aging lion. His physique was powerful and sturdy, though he lacked Brisbane's inches.

"Well, what do you make of the old boy then?" he asked, and I turned my attention to the horse.

"A very fine hunter. Perhaps he needs a bit of training to settle his nerves, but with the proper handling—"

"Not the animal," he corrected. "Me. Shall I pass muster to marry Lucy? Or am I too rough a creature to be connected to the Marches?"

He spoke lightly, with a chuckle underscoring his words, but I fancied I heard something else there, the faintest note of resentment.

I reached out and stroked the horse's nose. He flared his nostrils at me, but ducked his head to be rubbed again.

"Sir Cedric, you have met my father's Aunt Dorcas. The fact that we still own her as one of ours should speak volumes on the subject."

He nodded. "She does seem a bit of a Tartar, that one. There is not much love lost between her and Emma and my Lucy."

I hesitated. If our dirty linen was pegged out, the line would stretch from Brighton to Newcastle. And yet, Sir Cedric was not yet kin. I did not like to air too many of our troubles before him.

"I think many young ladies of spirit resent the hand that curbs them," I temporised. "You needn't have her to stay once you are settled. She will expect it, of course, but Father will make certain she is cared for."

Sir Cedric drew back, a trifle affronted, I think, his colour rising. "Lady Julia, I hope I shall always do my duty by my relations, both by blood and marriage."

"Of course you will," I hastened to soothe him. "I had a very nice chat with Mr. Ludlow earlier. I know you gave him a place when he was left to make his way in the world. Very commendable."

His face relaxed, the swift ruddy colour abating a little. I had not thought him so easily vexed, but it appeared he had the temper to match his complexion. I only hoped Lucy knew how to manage him.

"I did. He is a clever boy, and I could have searched the City twice over and not found his match. He can tally a ledger page just by running his eye over the figures, and he can write a perfect letter the first time through, with nary a blob or smudge. Any employer would be lucky to have got him, but he is mine and I mean to keep him."

A peculiar turn of phrase, I thought, and I wondered briefly if he thought the same about Lucy.

I smiled. "Well, I will leave you to your acquisition, Sir Cedric. I wish you every happiness with him."

I gave the horse a final pat and turned in the direction of the ladies and their little tea party on the carpet.

As I moved away I heard Sir Cedric give a sharp exclamation. "He bit me! Here, sir, I shall not want this horse. The damned thing bit me!"

I covered a smile with my hand and hastened my steps. Retrieving his money from Jasper's pocket would be a frustrating and ultimately futile exercise. Watching him try would have been tempting, but there was other game afoot.

As I neared the ladies, Mrs. King approached me, having abandoned her efforts at conversation with the Gypsy child.

"My lady!" she called. I waited for her, and she hurried, her face a trifle pale.

"Mrs. King, are you quite all right?"

She paused, biting at her lip. "I do not know. My lady, can you tell me if that woman—Magda, I believe her name is—can you tell me if she is quite truthful?"

I shrugged. "She is as truthful as any of her race."

Mrs. King blinked at me. "I thought you were their champion. I am surprised to hear you speak thusly."

For some unaccountable reason I felt cross with her, and I did not trouble to hide the edge in my voice. "Mrs. King, I am no one's champion. I hope the Roma may be treated with respect and compassion. But those hopes do not prevent me from seeing them as they are. They have been greatly persecuted by our laws for centuries. Duplicity is simply their means of surviving in an unjust world. If I say they lie, I mean it as a statement of fact, and only because they are forced to it, as you or I would be in the same circumstances."

She shook her head. "I do not mean to quarrel with you about the Roma. But I must know if this woman speaks truly. Does she have the sight?"

I tipped my head to the side and looked at her carefully, from the pale complexion to the tiny lines sketched at the corners of her eyes. I had not noticed them before. "She frightened you, didn't she? When she told you your fortune."

Mrs. King dropped her eyes, but not before I saw them fill with tears. "She touched my betrothal ring at first. I thought she was going to give me a fortune like Miss Lucy's. I expected her to speak of wedding trips and trousseaux. Instead she dropped my hand and stared straight through me. She bored into me with those black eyes. I felt quite faint for a moment, but I heard her distinctly. She warned me about ghosts. She said I was in danger, if I did not leave the Abbey, some terrible fate would befall me."

I nearly snorted, and to cover the sound, I coughed behind my glove. Mrs. King clapped me heartily on the back.

"Are you quite all right?"

I waved her away. "Perfectly, I assure you."

Magda, for all her faults, could occasionally perpetrate an act of genius. Doubtless she had heard through the grapevine of village gossip that Mrs. King was betrothed to Brisbane. And though she liked to utter her Cassandra-like warnings about him to me, she also knew I harboured a tendresse for him. Magda and I had had our troubles, but she would always be loyal to me, in her own fashion.

I touched Mrs. King's arm. "I should not worry if I were you, my dear."

Mrs. King clutched at me. "She said I should retire early, bolt my door, and not stir until morning," she whispered.

Gently, I detached her fingers. "Excellent advice. The Abbey is full of odd little staircases and twisty corridors. One might take a nasty tumble in the dark. Far better to stay safely in your room."

She nodded, clasping her hands together. "I must warn the others though. It would be selfish of me not to do so."

I raised my hand to pat her again, then thought better of it. "Do whatever you think is best, my dear."

She thanked me, and I think would have even tried to embrace me, but Brisbane had spotted us together and was moving rapidly in our direction.

"Ah, here is your fiancé now. I am sure he will be only too happy to allay your fears. If you will excuse me," I murmured, making a hasty retreat.

When I was a safe distance away, I hazarded a glance back over my shoulder. Mrs. King was turned away from me, her face buried in Brisbane's shoulder. He was staring over her head at me, his expression unfathomable.

Then I remembered the lesson of Lot's wife, and hurried on my way.

THE TENTH CHAPTER

Men should be what they seem.

—Othello

The rest of the afternoon idled pleasantly by.

The Roma provided us with a simple tea—just thickly-cut bread with fresh butter—but, sauced with the lovely view and the brisk air, it was utterly delicious. Father managed to avert a disaster by purchasing Mephistopheles from Sir Cedric himself, and Plum completed a rather superb series of sketches from his vantage point on the little outcropping. Mrs. King insisted upon telling the party of her ominous fortune, and though the ladies responded with murmurs of sympathy, the gentlemen jollied her out of her fears by telling the most outrageously silly ghost stories. Father went to great lengths to soothe her worries by insisting the ghosts of Bellmont Abbey were of the very best sort, and terribly friendly as well.

"That is precisely what I am afraid of," she pointed out, and the entire group broke into laughter. She laughed as well, and after that seemed much more at her ease.

Alessandro was prevailed upon to tell us tales of Tuscan strega, and Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Snow made their contributions as well, relating folktales of their travels to India and China. Then Jasper was persuaded to bring out his guitar and sing a few Gypsy songs. Several of the children had crept quite close to hear the ghost stories, and they sang along with Jasper's melodies, a high, sweet chorus, not as pure as any in Westminster Abbey, but just as engaging. They were enchanting, and it was not until the sun had sunk completely below the horizon that Father rose to his feet and motioned toward the gathering darkness.

"It will be full dark soon, and I do not like the look of that sky. The temperature is falling as well," he added, rubbing his hands together briskly. "I think we shall be in for a bit of snow from the look of the cloud just over the Downs." Naturally the gentlemen had to spend another quarter of an hour debating the weather as the ladies stood shivering, Portia rolling her eyes at me behind Father's back. In the end, they all agreed that, yes, it was indeed growing colder and darker and we ought to depart at once for the Abbey.

"Thank God for that," Portia muttered, thrusting a hand into the crook of Alessandro's arm.

We made our thanks to our hosts and pressed coins upon the children. As we picked our way to the carriages, Mr. Snow fell into step beside me.

"What think you now, Mr. Snow?" I teased gently. "Do you have a better liking for our travelling friends? Or do you still mean to reform them?"

He smiled and took my elbow in his hand, guiding me over stones in the dusk. "They do seem happy enough, I grant you. But it will be cold tonight, bitterly so, and I cannot help but think of them, shivering in their caravans, huddled together for what meagre warmth they can find."

I glanced ahead to where Brisbane strode, tall and strong, a far cry from the starveling child he had once been.

"If today teaches you anything, Mr. Snow, let it be this—you must never underestimate them. No race on earth has a greater capacity for survival."

Mr. Snow sighed theatrically. "It is difficult for a man to admit his errors, my lady, but how can he resist so lovely a teacher?"

This gallant speech was accompanied by a lightly mocking smile. I fixed him with my sternest expression.

"You are outrageous."

"You are not the first to say so. And since you have seen this leopard in all his spots, let me say further that I am extremely pleased to have been invited to join this happy party, if only because it means I shall be in proximity to the most enchanting lady I have met in a very long time."

His charm was thick as treacle and just as cloying. He could be a merry companion, but I was in no danger of falling prey to him.

"Tell me, what led you into the church? Did you always have a vocation for the religious life, or were you converted in a brilliant flash of light, a new St. Paul on the Damascene road?"

If he was disappointed his attempt at flirtation had fallen flat, he bore no grudge. He relaxed then, and I decided I liked him better when he was at his ease.

"I was in the army, that last great hope of all second sons. My father was a knight, and a poor one at that. My elder brother inherited a crumbling estate in Surrey and four sisters to keep. I was bought a commission and sent into the world with a pat on the head and one good suit of clothes." I slid a sidelong glance at the suit he wore now. Well-cut and fashioned of quality tweed. His tastes were beyond the reach of a curate's meagre compensation, and I wondered idly how he managed.

"And did you like the army?"

"I did, actually. I found I was terribly competent at standing in a row and marching where I was told. I was even rather good at shooting. I did, however, find it quite disturbing when my opposite number in a skirmish decided to shoot back at me."

"I can well imagine," I murmured.

"I was lightly wounded, not enough to maim me forever, but enough to permit me to leave the army without lifting eyebrows. My brother prevailed upon connections of his to find me a living, and so I entered the church. This is my third parish, and I must say, it is my favourite thus far. I find I am suited to the contemplative life."

He was smiling again, that small smile that hinted at some greater amusement and invited me to smile with him. He seemed to take nothing too seriously, including himself. We had reached the carriages by then, and he handed me in, leaving his hand in mine a trifle longer than strictly necessary. I watched him as he strode away. He reached his conveyance just as Emma moved to enter the carriage. She stepped back shyly, but he put out a hand, smiling as winsomely as he had at me. She laid her tiny hand in his gloved palm, darting a tremulous glance at him from under her lashes, and I sighed. It was a pity that something as mundane and dull as money should prevent a marriage between otherwise suitable partners.

As we rode back to the Abbey, Brisbane again stared out of the window, and Alessandro was a captive audience to Mrs. King's prattling, leaving me free to think on Mr. Snow. He was mischievous and gallant, and I would wager there was a fair bit of roguish Irish blood in him. But I knew better than to think his attentions were reserved for me alone. I had observed his flattery toward Portia as well, and it was not difficult to understand him. An impoverished younger son with a sybarite's tastes, his way in life would be greatly eased by the acquisition of a rich wife. He had scarcely spoken two words to Emma, not out of any inherent unkindness, I decided, but simply because she was poor, and a poor lady could do nothing but weigh him down, like stones in a drowning man's pocket. No, his charm had been directed solely at the unattached ladies of means—or at least the ladies he thought were unattached. It seemed impossible he could have failed to hear the gossip that followed Portia, and he had even met Jane, although it was possible he had not guessed the precise nature of their relationship. Or perhaps he had and was prepared to be a liberal husband about such matters. After all, the Duke of Devonshire had entertained a similar arrangement between his wife and her best friend, I mused. Of course, the lady in question had shared her bed with the duke as well as his wife, but for all I knew that might have been an attraction to Snow.

"Penny for your thoughts," Mrs. King said suddenly, smiling winsomely at me.

"Not for a pound," I replied tartly. "Look there, the Abbey. How lovely it is, blazing with lights! Quite the faery palace."

We were silent the last few moments of the drive, and matters quickly fell to chaos when we alighted. There was much calling back and forth, noise from the dogs, orders being shouted to the footmen and grooms, and it was some minutes before everyone was sorted.

Just as I was about to step inside, I realised Mrs. King had lingered in the inner ward, hanging back as the carriages were driven away and the gates were rattled into place for the night, locking us in as effectively as any prisoners. The inner ward was deserted except for the small, lone figure in black. She stood perfectly still, staring up at the stone walls of the Abbey and did not stir, not even when I went to her.

"Mrs. King? If you stay out here, you will take a chill, and as I must stay with you out of politeness, I shall take one also, and I would very much rather not."

For a long moment she did not look at me, but when she did, her expression was one of awe. "I wonder, my lady, I do wonder if you realise how lovely it all is."

I blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

She sketched a broad gesture with her arm, sweeping from the courtyard cobbles to the great iron bell of the Galilee Tower, encompassing all of it, from moss-slick stones to the crooked little watchtower that looked as if it might well have been laid by a slightly inebriated mason.

"All of this. This place, your family. I wonder if you know how perfectly wonderful it all is."

I thought on it for a moment. "I don't suppose I do. It is all I have ever known," I told her, a trifle apologetically.

She nodded, her lips pursed. "Yes, that makes sense. I don't imagine Parisians go around marvelling at how wonderful Paris is either."

"But Paris is not wonderful. It is appallingly filthy. Of course, it is a garden compared to Rome. Now Rome—"

She laid a finger on my arm, tipping her head slightly as a kitten will when it is being especially appealing. "Thank you, my lady. I have never been so warmly welcomed, nor so kindly treated as a guest."

"Ah, well, we do try. It is a draughty old place really, and with Aunt Hermia gone I cannot entirely vouch for the maids. Aquinas does his best, but he is far too soft with them. And just so as not to catch you unawares, I must warn you that arguments will erupt. It is not a March family party until something is broken," I said, with an attempt at lightness.

Mrs. King shook her head, her face sweetly serious. "I still think it is wonderful—so natural and unaffected. I really do not think you realise how extraordinary your upbringing has been. To be raised with such liberality, such freedom."

I was surprised she thought so. Most people were horrified by our upbringing, and Father had received regular letters from clergymen and meddling society mothers detailing how we were being ruined. I felt a rush of genuine, if somewhat tepid, affection for Mrs. King.

"How very kind of you to say. It puts most people off terribly, you know. We are scarcely received in society at all. I love my family dearly, but we hardly know how to behave properly." That was appallingly true. Our manners had changed little from my grandfather's day, when gambling and drinking to excess were the norm, and duelling and philandering were the sports of kings. I had elderly aunts who still turned quite misty with nostalgia whenever the scandals of the past were raked over again. They complained bitterly that society had all but ended with the Regency, and that the queen was nothing more than a dull German hausfrau. They mourned fancy-dress balls that lasted a week, and affairs with lords and their valets alike. Their adventures were the stuff of legend, and few of us managed to equal them. My own murdered husband and burned house were the merest peccadilloes in comparison.

I smiled at Mrs. King. "We cannot even manage a simple dinner without throwing the table of precedence completely out of order. But we mean well enough."

She hesitated, nibbling at her bottom lip. Then, in a rush, "My lady, I wonder if you might call me Charlotte."

I hesitated and she hurried on. "No, I am sorry. It is a presumption. Please forgive me."

I put a hand to her sleeve, giving her a sweetly duplicitous smile. "Of course it is not. You are betrothed to Brisbane, and I like to think I shall always count him a friend. I must think of you likewise. I should be very pleased to call you Charlotte."

The lovely lips curved into a seraphic smile, and her entire face seemed illuminated with pleasure. "And may I call you familiar as well?" she asked shyly.

"I should be disappointed if you did not," I told her. I looped my arm through hers. "Now, let us go inside. We haven't much time until the dressing bell, and I do not mean to be late for dinner. I have it on good authority that Cook has roasted ducks in perry tonight."

She followed me in, but just as we were about to mount the stairs, I spied Lucy, staggering under the weight of one of the great buckets of heather. I sent Charlotte along and hurried down the nave.

"Dearest, one has footmen for this sort of thing," I reminded Lucy, taking up one handle of the bucket.

She heaved a sigh of relief and straightened. "Bless you, Julia. I know the footmen are supposed to carry these, but they managed to drop the first one and crush half the heather! It simply will not do," she said, and for an instant I was reminded of the stubborn child she had once been. She had always been more obviously willful than Emma, although she was often the one made to give way. Emma had a gift for getting what she desired without ever appearing to want it at all. Lucy, on the other hand, was more forthright in her demands, and was just as often punished for her acquisitiveness.

Still, every bride wants her little pleasures, I reminded myself, and perfect flowers were a small enough thing to ask. We carried them to the chapel, the one part of the great Abbey that had remained completely untouched after the Dissolution. Virtually nothing had changed in the three hundred years since the monks had fled.

Except for the bucket of sodden heather on the floor, I thought sourly. I righted the bucket and began stuffing the crushed blooms into it.

"I shall have one of the footmen fill the bucket and attend to the spilled water. It has done no damage, except to the flowers, poor things."

Lucy left the altar and spun slowly on her heel, taking in the shadowy chapel. It was chilly in the darkness with only the great iron candelabra on the altar for warmth.

"I've never been in this part of the Abbey. It is so cold here. How did they bear it?" she asked, rubbing her arms.

"I suppose they were accustomed to it. None of the Abbey was heated, you know. The monks used to complain that the ink in the scriptoria froze when they were trying to copy manuscripts."

Suddenly, her eye alighted on something, an iron ring fixed to the wall. The iron plate behind it was wrought in the shape of a mask, like some gruesome relic of Carnevale. It looked like a throwback to pagan times, like some wicked creature out of myth, its hair wrought into the rays of a burning sun, the empty holes for its eyes staring in sightless menace.

"What is that?" she demanded, moving closer to it in the flickering shadows.

"A sanctuary ring. This was the Galilee when the Abbey was still a church, a sort of vestibule where the faithful would gather before the mass. We are just below the bell tower here. It was consecrated ground, and the ring was put there for the use of felons who might claim sanctuary from the law. The bell rang out whenever the right of sanctuary was invoked."

She touched it lightly, then turned to me. "What became of them? They stayed here? Forever?"

I thrust the last sprig of heather into the bucket, snapping it in two as I did so. Lucy did not seem to notice. Hastily I shoved it behind the others.

"No. A felon being pursued by the law could, if he reached that ring, claim sanctuary for forty days. At the end of that time, he had to turn himself over to the authorities for trial or confess his guilt and be sent into exile."

Lucy turned back to the ring. "Astonishing. And people actually did that here?"

"Naturally," I said. "Murderers, thieves, heretics, they all came here and clung to that ring, invoking the right of sanctuary." Lucy showed no inclination to leave, but from far away I heard the familiar chime of the dressing bell. I moved toward the great oaken doors leading to the nave. "If you are really interested, you must ask Father. There is a book somewhere in the library. It lists the criminals, with all the ghoulish details. You would enjoy it thoroughly," I finished in a brisk, nursemaidy tone. "Now if you will excuse me, I must dress for dinner."

"Oh, Lord! That was the dressing bell, was it not? I must fly!"

She gathered her skirts in her hands and dashed out, hurtling down the nave. I followed, feeling a hundred years old and wishing Sir Cedric the very best good luck. I had a suspicion he was going to need it.

* * *

Once in my room, I had very little time to dress, and everything seemed to conspire against me. Florence was sitting up on a hearth cushion, yapping at nothing in particular while Morag bustled about, dragging things from the wardrobe and shoving them back again.

"No, not the black. The décolletage is too severe without a sizeable necklace, and I've nothing that will do. Fetch the bottle-green velvet. That will serve."

Morag heaved a sigh. "I have only just sponged it."

I dared another look at the mantel clock, then began shoving pins into my hair myself. "The dark pink satin then."

She folded her arms over her chest, puckering her lips. "I have not yet finished whipping the hem."

"Whyever not, for heaven's sake?" I jammed another pin into place.

"Perhaps because I spent the better part of the day playing dressmaker to that wee beastie," she countered, pointing at Florence. The dog, sensing we were talking about her, fell silent and cocked her head. She put me greatly in mind of Charlotte King just then.

"Then the black will have to do."

Morag shot me a darkly triumphant look and spread the heavy black satin onto the bed, smoothing it with a proprietary hand. When she was finished, she pointed to a box on the dressing table that, in my haste, I had not seen.

"Mind you don't forget to open that. Mr. Aquinas was very specific. He brought it up after breakfast and said to be certain you opened it before you went down to dinner."

I tucked the last pin into place and took up the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with a bit of ordinary tape such as solicitors use. There was a small piece of card tied to it, penned with two words in my Father's hand: Wear me.

"What the devil is he up to now?" I muttered. Father adored little japes of any sort, but I was in no mood to play Alice. I wrenched the wrappings free and found a box—a familiar box of dove-grey velvet.

"It cannot be," I said softly. I stared at it a long moment.

Morag came to peer over my shoulder. "Well, it is. When did you see them last?"

I did not open the box. "Before Edward's death. They were still in the bank vault when he died, and I did not wear them during my period of mourning. I had half-forgot they were there."

Still I made no move to open it. Morag finally gave me a little push, and I flicked open the clasp. Another moment's hesitation, and I opened the lid.

There, nestled against a bed of black satin, was the most perfect collection of grey pearls in England. Even the queen had nothing to touch them. They had been assembled at great effort and expense, by Edward's forebears. Known as the Grey Pearls, they were a sort of gemological pun. They had been given to each Grey bride on her wedding day. My own mother-in-law had bitterly resented giving them up, and it had taken every bit of Edward's considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to part with them. I had worn them that day, but I had never liked them. I always associated them with Edward's sour mother. Much later someone mentioned to me in passing that for every pearl a bride wears she shall shed one tear. They had been only too prophetic in my case.

But even I was forced to admit they were magnificent. I stared down into the box where they nestled like pale sleeping serpents. There was a great collar, earrings, and matching bracelets. The collar was fastened with a heavy silver filigree clasp, worked with an Imperial eagle, the red eyes of its double profiles a pair of winking rubies. The bracelets had been copied from the collar; the earrings were simpler. There was a final piece as well, an enormous rope of pearls that, when hung straight from the neck, reached to the knees. Every pearl in the set was enormous, and perfectly matched to its brothers.

I turned over Father's note, but there was nothing else. He had gone to some trouble to remove these from the vault in London—not in accordance with proper bank policy, but then there were advantages to being an earl—and by the time I had puzzled out his motives, dinner would be a distant memory.

"Fine. I will wear them. They will suit the black in any case," I said finally, thrusting the box at Morag. She clipped and fastened and looped until I was weighed down like a Michaelmas goose.

Just as she clasped the last piece into place, I gasped. "You've scratched me."

She peered at the collar. "Not I. One of the eagle's heads is bent. His beak has nipped you, it has."

She reached to meddle with it, but I waved her away. "I've no time to bother with it now. I will wear them tonight, and then send them to the jeweler to be mended."

Morag fetched my slippers then, dainty things of thinnest black kid, overlaid with exquisite Spanish lace and perched on black velvet heels. I had paid a fortune for them, and was giving serious thought to having all of my evening gowns shortened by an inch to show them off to best advantage. I wriggled my feet into them and tucked a handkerchief and small box of violet cachous into the tiny pocket sewn into the seam of my gown. Morag reached for a small fur tippet, and as she scooped up the bit of fur, Florence began to howl.

Morag had the grace to look abashed. "She thinks it is her friend. They've spent the afternoon together, and Florence has grown rather attached."

I took the fur from her and dropped it in the basket. "Then she may keep it. It smells of dog now, in any case."

Morag snorted indignantly. "It does not. That dog is as clean as you or I."

I had little doubt the animal was as clean as Morag, but I knew it was more than my life was worth to say so.

Florence grabbed at the tippet with her tiny teeth and dragged it farther into her basket, growling happily.

Morag leaned over and clucked at her. "Haud yer sheesht, wee a body."

I stared at her. "Have you gone completely daft? You cannot teach that dog Scots."

She rounded on me, hands firmly at her hips. "I certainly can. You are teaching her English, and Scots is just as good a language."

I opened my mouth to reply, but she held up a hand. "You will be late for dinner, and I've had a long day. I am in no humour to be hauling trays up at midnight because you've not had enough to eat. Off with you."

I took my leave, grumbling under my breath. Between my family, my maid, and my pets, my life was clearly no longer my own.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

Yet men will murder upon holy days.

—The Eve of St. Agnes, Keats

Dinner was a spirited and lively affair. Conversation and wine flowed in equal abundance, and everyone seemed in high spirits with only a few exceptions. Violante sat next to Father, nibbling at pickled chestnuts and bestirring herself only to reply to questions. She kept her hand firmly at her belly, and I began to wonder if there was not perhaps a happy event in her future.

Hortense had survived her day with Violante and Aunt Dorcas and was seated at Father's other hand, coolly elegant in ice-blue satin trimmed in silver ribbon. She looked like a pale snow queen, rimed in frost, a few tasteful diamonds winking out from her hair. Emma and Lucy were dressed in the same gowns they had worn the previous evening, as was Charlotte, although she had added a scrap of purple lace to the bodice, a perfect foil for her roses-and-cream complexion. Portia was resplendent in jade green, her wrists heavy with carved jade bracelets purchased from the hold of a Chinese merchant ship. My jewels were by far the most extravagant, and as the soup course was served I began to feel a little embarrassed by them. Father had shown no flicker of recognition when I entered the room, and if he had heard the exclamations of delight by the ladies, he betrayed no sign of it. For his part, Brisbane flicked one glance at the spectacular jewels draped over my skin and turned back to his whiskey.

We talked of many things that night at dinner: our venture to the Gypsy camp (which caused Aunt Dorcas to shudder into her consommé muttering about vibrations) and the Irish question (a subject Father changed as quickly as possible) among them. Alessandro was prevailed upon to answer questions about Italy, and from there the conversation turned to travel.

Sir Cedric had chanced to mention his excursions in Kashmir, enthusing about the natural beauties of the place.

"In fact, I am of a mind to take Lucy there after Italy," he finished. "Italy is all well and good, but it takes a half-savage place like India to know you are truly alive."

Mr. Snow gave a little grimace of distaste. "If by 'alive' you mean tortured by insects, heat, filth, and disease, then I will grant you are correct, sir. Not to mention the difficulties between the races. My posting to India was the most trying of all my time in the army. No, I am afraid I must dispute with you. It is a place where the hardiest man may be well and truly tested. It is no place for the gentler sex."

"On the contrary," Lucy put in brightly, "Emma was there some years ago, and she found it most enchanting."

Portia and I exchanged quick glances. Emma's foray to India with Aunt Gertrude to find a husband had not been a success, and it was less than discreet of Lucy to mention it. Poor Emma had returned from India after a single season, as unattached as the day she arrived there, and it was this failure to find a husband that had forced her into service as a governess.

Brisbane turned to Emma. I could not see his expression, but his tone was one of sincere interest. "Most ladies find it a challenge. Did you not mind the climate? The language difficulties?"

"Oh, no, my lord," she said quietly, her expression earnest. "I found it paradise. The climate was quite exhilarating, and the native people, so warm, so friendly and artless. I would go again tomorrow if I were able." There was a wistfulness about her I found oddly touching, and I felt suddenly sorry for her, constrained by her station and her lack of income to suffer the whims of others. She could travel only by invitation, on the largesse of another.

As if cued, Lucy cried out dramatically, "Then you must come with us!" She was sitting across from her sister, and she looked from Emma to Sir Cedric, imploringly. He hesitated for the barest moment, and before he could speak Emma did so.

"No, Lucy," she said gently. "I am sure Sir Cedric wishes to make his wedding trip without accompaniment. There will be other travels. Perhaps in a few years, when there are children who might benefit from a little supervision from their Aunt Emma," she finished with a smile. Sir Cedric threw her a look of pure gratitude, and Lucy blushed deeply at the mention of children. Snow was watching Emma with a warm gleam in his eyes, and I wondered again if something might be done to nudge them toward a match.

Conversation turned again, this time at Portia's behest, and a spirited debate broke out on the subject of trout, for reasons I never clearly understood. I was too busy watching Father, who had been noticeably quiet that evening. His eyes darted over the company ranged at his table. He was keenly watchful, as though he expected something to happen, but what, and by whose hand, I could not imagine.

After dessert the ladies adjourned briefly to the lesser drawing room. I was not surprised my pearls drew their attention as flame will draw moths. They gathered round for a better look—even Portia, who had seen them often enough. Only Mrs. King hung back, her expression pensive.

Violante pronounced them molto bellissimo, though Aunt Dorcas merely rolled them in her palm, dropped them with a decided sniff and took her chair by the fire. I glanced at Hortense, who had suffered Aunt Dorcas for the better part of the day. She was concentrating intently on her needlework, but her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. Lucy was the most appreciative. She ran her fingers over the pearls at my wrists, sighing softly.

"Cedric has promised me pearls for a wedding gift, but I cannot think they will be as fine as these," she remarked. Lucy was nothing if not practical. "How long have they been in the Grey family?"

I shrugged. "Ages. The clasp is a double-headed Romanov eagle, perhaps a sign they were fashioned for Russian royalty. The Greys always liked to claim they belonged to Catherine the Great herself." I furrowed my brow. "Now that I think on it, I should probably send them to Edward's heir."

"Whyever so?" Portia demanded as she lit a thin Spanish cigar. "The pearls are yours. Edward's will was quite specific."

"Yes, but I never wear them. Besides, his cousin has the estate and not enough money to keep it. Perhaps he could sell them. It is a hard thing to inherit an enormous beast of a house and no funds to maintain it. Pity it's entailed. He cannot even sell it to recoup his losses. I imagine the pearls would go quite a long way toward refurbishing Greymoor."

The estate was not far; in fact its eastern border was the western property line of Bellmont Abbey. It had been a nice-enough house when Edward's father was alive. But his untimely death, coupled with Edward's neglect, had wreaked havoc on the property. Edward's distant cousin had inherited the old wreck, and though he had a comfortable income, he had nearly bankrupted himself simply trying to keep a roof on it. It would have been wiser to abandon the old place and buy a nice sturdy new house, but he was stubborn. Turning the pearls over to him might make quite a difference to his gently impoverished family. Viewed in that light, letting them moulder in a London vault seemed a rather criminal act.

Portia drew deeply on her cigar, puffing out a perfect ring of blue smoke. I sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of it as she fixed me with an indulgent smile. "God, you are sentimental."

Mrs. King moved forward then, throwing Portia a look that might almost have been reproachful. "I think it is a truly admirable sentiment, Lady Julia," she said quietly.

"Yes, well," I said briskly, "they are only bits of oyster grit after all. I far prefer rubies. Now, I should like to hear more about India. Emma, I had forgotten you were there. Will you oblige us with a story?"

Emma hesitated, but the others gathered around, murmuring encouragement and settling themselves comfortably. She gave me a shy smile, then took a tiny sip of the port Portia had pressed upon her.

"I suppose what I remember most clearly are the gardens, in particular the moonlight garden of the Amber Palace."

"Oh, how romantic!" breathed Charlotte.

"It was. The garden had been commissioned by a prince as a wedding gift for his bride. You see, this prince was very strict, and followed the customs of his Mohammedan overlord. His wives and concubines lived in seclusion, locked away from the world so long as the sun shone. But once dusk had come, and darkness had fallen over the land, the royal ladies were permitted to stroll in the gardens. Out of his love for his bride, the prince constructed this particular garden to be at its most spectacular by moonlight."

Her eyes took on a faraway gleam, and I knew that Emma no longer saw the stone walls and tapestries of an English drawing room. She saw only India, with all of its exotic beauties, and she brought us with her by the magic of her words.

"There were jasmines, of course, and tuberose, filling the air with such strong perfume that the ladies wore no scent because they knew they could never compete. There was a formal parterre, which was completely cleared and replanted several times each year so the garden would always be perfect. In the center of the parterre was a fountain of gold, fed by a stream that ran through the garden which the servants called the Stream of Paradise. At one end there was a throne where the prince could sit and watch his ladies enjoy the pleasures of the garden, and above the throne was carved the words, 'If there be paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this…' And along each side ran colonnades, the columns so thick with bougainvillea and jasmine that you could not see the marble for the flowers. It was truly an enchanted place."

"How did you come to see it?" Portia ground out her little cigar in a china dish and waved her hand to clear the air. I stared at the slender stub and realised suddenly where I had seen that particular variety of cigar before. Reluctantly, I turned my attention to Emma.

"The prince loved to entertain. He often gave dinners for the regiments and the English diplomats. He always toasted the queen and insisted his children be brought out to mingle with the guests. It was important to him that they learn English. He believed the future of India lay with England, and he wanted his children to be forward-thinking." She hesitated, ever the consummate storyteller, the pause heightening our interest. "And yet, even as we ate his food and listened to his talk of progress and the modern age, I always thought of the ladies, locked behind marble walls until the moon rose and they were freed, like enchanted princesses under the spell of an evil queen. I liked to imagine them dancing to their strange, sad, quavering music, dancing through the columns and the fountains and the parterres, and out of the gates, leaving him behind forever."

"Would they do such a thing?" Charlotte asked.

Emma gave her a sad smile.

"No. For much the same reason that Julia's pet raven does not leave her, although his cage is seldom closed.

Sometimes captivity is a comfortable place."

I would have liked to have heard more—if nothing else the condition of women in the East was an excellent subject for brisk debate—but the gentlemen joined us then, and an exuberant discussion broke out over how we should amuse ourselves. I listened as the others bantered, edging around the group to Portia's chair. I leaned close enough to brush her ear with my lips.

"Tell me, dearest, how long have you been smoking Brisbane's cigars?"

Portia waved a lazy hand. "He sent a box of them after the last time he dined with us. I had invited him to smoke after dinner and admired the scent of them." She slanted me a wicked look. "I thought you were not jealous."

"I am not. I was simply going to offer you a pastille to sweeten your breath. I'm sure it smells vile after that cigar."

She laughed then and gave me a little push. I looked up to find Alessandro watching us, his dark eyes unusually brilliant. I gave him a small smile and he returned it warmly, suggestively even. I dropped my eyes then and we turned our attention back to the question of amusement. Charades was suggested and mercifully rejected. Someone else put forth the idea of word games; another made an argument for a theatrical, and Aunt Dorcas suggested a séance. Mrs. King blanched visibly and the proposal was quickly abandoned.

Finally, the notion of sardines was bandied about, and found to be agreeable to everyone. After another lengthy discussion concerning rules and procedures, it was established we should each play alone, and that the upper floors would be considered out of bounds for fair play, as well as the servants' accommodations and offices so as not to disturb the staff. Aunt Dorcas insisted upon remaining in the lesser drawing room beside the fire, and Hortense nobly offered to sit with her and keep her company. To my surprise, Violante joined our merry group, her olive cheeks flushed with hectic colour.

Aquinas was summoned to supply each guest with a candlestick and lit taper. As Father had never bothered to install gaslights or proper heating on the main floor, it would be dark and chilly hunting one another.

Amid much laughter, we drew lots to see who would hide, and Charlotte King was the chosen one. She clutched her candlestick nervously, perhaps a bit timid at having to brave the darkened Abbey alone to hide. She hesitated at the door, looking tremulously back at the group of us, but someone—it might have been Portia—called a little word of encouragement and she seemed to take heart. She slipped out, and the rest of us joined in a circle and began to count.

When we reached one hundred, we broke apart and took up our candlesticks. I heard Lucy's high laugh, and Sir Cedric's answering chortle. It occurred to me then that although we had agreed to hunt alone, the game was a perfect opportunity for the betrothed couple to steal a few kisses. The thought was not an appetizing one.

As soon as we left the drawing room, the group scattered like startled birds, some flocking down the side of the cloister toward the library, others taking the opposite tack and exploring the approach from the nave that led to the great drawing room. I decided to take a more thorough approach. There were few better hiding places than the shadows behind Maurice the bear. I slid into the space behind him, holding my candle aloft, careful not to singe his shabby fur. I had just decided that Charlotte must have chosen another place for her concealment when a hand clamped down upon my bare shoulder.

I gasped and turned on my heel, but before I could speak, the hand moved to my waist, drawing me hard against a masculine form and bold lips searched out my own.

With a bit of effort, albeit belated, I pushed with my free hand against the hard, muscular chest under my fingertips.

"Alessandro, really!" I licked my lips. He had tasted warmly of brandy.

He drew back, breathing heavily, a single lock of dark, silky hair spilling over his brow. He kept one arm locked about my waist, his other holding his candle high. The shadows threw his face into the sharpest chiaroscuro, and for a moment he seemed a stranger to me, harder, more forceful. Then he spoke, and the illusion faded.

"Il mio Giulia caro, I can hold my tongue no longer. My heart, it is so very full."

"Oh, dear," I murmured.

"Please," he said urgently, "I must speak. For months I have known you as the sister of my very dear friends. I have honoured you as the greatest lady of my acquaintance. But now I must tell you that I wish you to return to Italy. With me."

I blinked at him and pushed at his arm so that I could breathe.

"But Alessandro, there is every possibility I shall return to Italy. Plum and I spoke of that the night we invited you to come to England. Do you not remember?"

He shook his head, his glossy hair gleaming in the candlelight. "No. Just this evening, Lysander tells me Violante is expecting a child."

"Is she! How wonderful for them. I suppose that explains the pickled walnuts," I mused.

"Yes, and I am happy for my friend. But he wants the baby to be born here. And wherever Lysander goes, there goes Plum as well. I know you will not return to Italy alone." He grasped my hand in his. "So come with me."

I swallowed hard. "Alessandro, my dear boy…" I began.

He raised a hand to silence me. "No, say nothing now. Now you will refuse me. I can see this. You must think on it." He pressed his lips to my fingers ardently, then disappeared as quickly as he had come. I counted to twenty, waiting until I was certain he had gone. I slid out from behind Maurice, giving the old dear a pat as I did so. I wondered how many other such scenes he had witnessed.

I had not gone four steps when I collided heavily with another figure, bouncing ever so slightly off a solidly muscular form. The other player's candle was held just at my line of sight, dazzling my eyes.

"I do hope I didn't interrupt your interlude with Count Fornacci," Brisbane said nastily.

"Lower your candle, you've half-blinded me."

He placed it on a table, and I could just make out his face, inscrutable in its fitful light. There were times I understood him better than most, I liked to think. Other occasions, I found him as difficult to comprehend as ancient Greek.

"If you mean Alessandro, I can only say you are being absurd. He is a boy."

Brisbane arched a brow at me. "You are ungenerous. I would have called him a man fully grown."

I tapped the toe of my slipper on the carpet. "I will not quarrel with you, Brisbane. Besides, we are meant to be playing sardines, and I have not yet begun to hunt properly."

"Do not bother with the dining room. I have already been there."

"How kind of you to share your intelligence with me. Now, if you do not mind—"

Brisbane turned, maneuvering me down the hall toward the nave. "I thought we should try the billiard room."

"We are not supposed to work together," I reminded him.

He ignored me, and it occurred to me then that he had some ulterior purpose in seeking me out. For an instant, I thought of Alessandro's declaration and wondered if Brisbane had something similar in mind. Immediately, I rejected the notion and cursed myself for a fool. He was betrothed to Charlotte King, and although I was certain the engagement would come to nothing, he insisted upon maintaining the fiction of their relationship. No, Brisbane wanted me with him for some other reason, but I could not yet work out what it might be.

Grumbling, I allowed him to lead me to the billiard room. We searched the shadows, and I found it curious how the near-darkness heightened my senses. I could hear my pearls click softly in the silence and the hushed rustle of my taffeta petticoats. I was conscious too of Brisbane, never more than a few feet from me. I caught the scent of him, his shaving lotion—something herbal, with a hint of spice, and something else, something indefinable but essentially Brisbane. It was a distinctive scent, and had I been blindfolded and asked to choose him out of a thousand men, I should have done so without hesitation.

I shook myself from my fancies and moved away to look behind the heavy draperies at the window, but Brisbane followed me. He was casual about it, lazy as a panther stalking a deer, but just as effective.

"There is no one here," I said finally. "I mean to try Father's study."

"A fair idea," he said smoothly, opening the door for me. He had taken it as understood I would not question his accompanying me again, and it is a credit to how well he knew me that I did not. He could be silent as a tomb when he chose, and nothing would pry him open.

I preceded him to the study, and after a lengthy conversation with Grim, we searched it, turning up nothing. My gaze lingered on the box where Father kept the newspapers, the ones that told of the vicious riot in Trafalgar Square. Questions trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I did not ask them. We were at last forced to admit defeat and moved on, closing the door softly behind us.

A few shadows flickered in the nave, a few glimmers of light glowed from under closed doors, but there was no one about. I had just begun to wonder if we were entirely alone in this part of the Abbey when the silence was shattered by a broken scream.

It faltered, then started again, over and over, until I thought I should run mad from it.

"The chapel," Brisbane muttered. He grabbed my hand, crushing it in his, and began to run. I dropped my candle along the way, glancing back only once to make certain the flame had not sparked the carpet.

I dropped the candlestick and pressed my free hand to where a pain stabbed my side. "Brisbane, I am tightly laced. I cannot run so quickly."

If he heard me, he did not care. He did not slow his pace until we reached the great oaken doors of the chapel. One was closed; one stood open a scant few inches. Light spilled across the carpet of the hall, and yet I was as reluctant to enter the chapel as I would have been to cross the very threshold of hell.

The screams had stopped, and there was only a tense, expectant silence as Brisbane pushed open the door and we stepped inside. The scene before us was like something out of a nightmare.

Lucian Snow was lying on the cold stone floor just in front of the altar, his neck twisted so that he faced us, his eyes wide open and staring.

And above him stood Lucy, clutching an iron candelabrum that dripped slow, heavy drops of crimson blood onto the floor.

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple…

—Macbeth

In an instant Brisbane was beside her, but before he could pry the candelabrum out of her fingers, she dropped it. It made a horrendous clatter on the stones. She flinched and turned her face up to Brisbane's, her eyes rolling back white. He caught her with his good arm before she could slide to the floor. He looked at me over his shoulder, and I stepped quickly over Snow's body to retrieve the candelabrum.

"Put it aside, out of the way," he instructed me softly. "I shall wish to examine it later." It was typical of him to worry about the evidence before the girl.

I carried the candelabrum at arm's length, mindful not to disturb the blood or other, nastier bits. I tucked it behind the altar and hurried back to help Brisbane lower Lucy carefully to the floor a little distance away. She opened her eyes and Brisbane spoke calmly to her, but she made no reply. Her gaze was fixed on Lucian Snow's broken head. I heard Brisbane tell her she should stay where she was and not move, then he joined me at the body.

"I suppose it is quite certain he is dead?" I asked faintly.

"There are bits of him stuck to your shoe," he remarked, rather unhelpfully. I felt instantly sick, but I swallowed hard, forcing the sensation down. Brisbane was making a quick study of the body, noting its position and the arrangement of the clothes, as well as the scene. I knew better than to interrupt him. Brisbane did not take kindly to distractions whilst he was working. Instead I moved to where Lucy was sitting.

Her shoulders shook as if she were sobbing, but there were no tears, and not a sound escaped her lips. Impulsively, I put my arm around her.

"It is all right, Lucy. I am here with you. You are not alone." If she heard me, she did not give any sign of it. She simply sat, her shoulders shuddering as if with extreme cold. I noticed then that her hands were wet with blood. She held them open in her lap, staring at her red, sticky palms.

I rose and went to Brisbane. "Your coat. Lucy needs it."

His eyes did not leave the corpse. He had thrust his good arm into the sleeve of his fine wool evening coat; the rest of the coat was simply draped over his other shoulder like a cape. He stripped it off without hesitation. "That is good of you," I whispered as he thrust it into my hands.

He nodded absently, still scrutinising the body. I turned to Lucy, but before I could reach her, Father appeared in the doorway, Portia just behind, Ludlow hard on her heels.

"We heard screams. What is wrong?" Father demanded.

His gaze moved from the broken, bloody body on the floor to Brisbane, to me, to Lucy and her hands wet with blood.

"Oh, Miss Lucy, what have you done?" Ludlow murmured mournfully. Lucy roused then, looking from Ludlow to Father to Brisbane. Then her eyes lit on the iron ring in the wall, and somewhere in the sluggish depths of her shocked mind, something must have stirred.

She rose and staggered toward Father. Her face pale as moonlight, her steps unsteady as she held out those gore-stained hands in front of her.

"My lord! In this holy place, I claim the right of sanctuary!" Her voice was shrill, her eyes burning with emotion. The phrase, the gestures, were the grossest of melodrama, but Father did not laugh. He looked down at her, his expression grave.

"Child, what have you done that you would invoke sanctuary?"

The rest of them, Cedric, Charlotte, Plum, Ly, and Violante, arrived just in time to see Lucy throw herself to her knees, her white face upturned to my father's.

"My lord, I claim sanctuary. You cannot take me for murder. Under the law I am given forty days. You cannot take me," she repeated. There was a gasp from the doorway, and I glanced up to see that Emma had arrived, pushing past the others to witness her sister's declaration.

Father reached out to Lucy, but she drew back in terror, her eyes rimmed in white. Suddenly, she rose and ran to the wall, wrapping her fingers about the hideous iron ring, clutching it like a drowning woman. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and she bore a striking resemblance to another Lucy, the mad, bloodstained Bride of Lammermoor.

At that moment pandemonium broke loose. Emma fell into a swoon. Cedric caught her, cursing. Violante began to shriek; Plum pushed Ly who supported her and urged her away. Henry Ludlow was deathly pale, but maintained his composure. Charlotte went very white to the lips, and seemed to stagger a little. Plum reached out to steady her, his expression grim.

I still stood clutching Brisbane's coat, but I made no move either to return it to him or give it to Lucy. Portia went to Lucy and put her hand on the poor girl's shoulder, shaking her a little.

"Lucy, what are you saying? You could not have killed Mr. Snow."

Father flicked his eyes toward Brisbane. Lucy shook off Portia's hand and tightened her grasp on the sanctuary ring. "I invoke the right of sanctuary. I cannot be compelled to leave this place, by force or persuasion. I am protected by God and the law."

Brisbane looked incredulous, but to my amazement, Father held up his hand. "You have my word, Lucy. You have invoked sanctuary and sanctuary you shall have. We shall not remove you."

I could hear Brisbane's jaw grinding from where I stood, but he did not speak. Sanctuary laws had been repealed under the Stuarts. The law had every authority to remove her from the chapel and interrogate her given the circumstances. But Father clearly had his own reasons for acquiescing to Lucy's bizarre request, reasons to which none of us would be privy until Father had a mind to tell us. In the meantime, there was much to be done.

First, Father ordered Sir Cedric to take Emma and Charlotte to the lesser drawing room. Ly had already removed Violante, probably to the drawing room as well. Emma had revived from her swoon, but she was frightfully pale. Charlotte had recovered herself and stood a trifle closer to Plum than propriety permitted. His hand hovered at her elbow, ready to support her should she have need of him. Sir Cedric, his ruddy face drained of colour, looked back for a long, lingering moment at Lucy, his expression anguished. Then he seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders sagging as he turned and left the chapel, his mouth working furiously though he said nothing. Father gave Portia a significant glance, and she accompanied them. I had no doubt by the time everyone was settled in the drawing room, she would have poked up the fire and rung for brandy. Portia was not a particularly nurturing sort of person, but she was very efficient in a crisis.

Wordlessly, Brisbane took his coat out of my hands and draped it around Lucy's shoulders. She slumped against the cold stone wall, but in spite of Father's reassurances, she would not relinquish her hold on the ring.

Brisbane and Father went to study the body, and I stepped near, shielding Lucy from the sight of it.

"We must remove the body, my lord," Brisbane said sotto voce. "If you mean to keep her here—"

"I know you do not approve, my boy. But you will simply have to trust me. I must have a care here."

The tension in Brisbane did not ease, but he relented. "If you wish, my lord," he said finally, the syllables clipped. "But the body must be attended to. And the candelabrum."

Father's brows rose a little. "Ah. Is that what it was? I suppose you have put the weapon aside for safekeeping?"

"Just behind the altar," I whispered. "I took care not to disturb the, erm, matter on the base of it."

Father nodded. "Julia, my dear, will you fetch Aquinas? Tell him what has happened here and that Brisbane and I will require his assistance. I want him to prepare a suitable resting place in one of the offices." He brightened a little. "The vegetable larder, you think?"

I felt a lurch in my stomach and I suddenly regretted the second serving of duck I had eaten at dinner. "I hardly think so, Father. The food…"

"Ah, quite right. Any room without a fire will suffice. They are all cold enough to serve our purpose. Tell him to use his best judgement. And we shall require a footman, I suppose, to help us shift the body."

Brisbane was regarding my father with an approving glance. His eyes moved to Lucy, and Father, taking his meaning, nodded. "Someone must sit with Lucy. She should not be left here alone. And tell Aquinas we will require a sturdy footman to keep watch outside the door. I would not have her try to leave us. Also, a sheet for poor Mr. Snow, I think. We may give him that dignity at least."

"What of Uncle Fly? He must be told, and it would be horrid for him to learn of this from the servants. You know how they gossip."

Father stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I will send a note. Best wait until morning. No point in rousing his entire household this time of night."

To my surprise, Brisbane spoke up. "I will go myself, if you like."

Under other circumstances, I might have thought it curious Brisbane had volunteered to deliver the note instead of asking a footman, but I knew him better than that. He wanted a chance to play the sleuthhound around before news of the murder spread. Snow had boarded with Uncle Fly, and it was entirely possible his staff could shed some light on why my cousin would have found it necessary to murder him. Lucy herself seemed in no condition to speak of it. She kept her grip on the ring, eyes closed, keening softly.

I took one last look at the battered remains of Lucian Snow and left the chapel.

I met Aquinas just outside the door and blessed Portia's efficiency in sending him along.

"Aquinas, I am afraid the Reverend Mr. Snow has died suddenly."

Aquinas was a superior servant; he betrayed little reaction to the news that there was a corpse in the chapel. He merely blinked once, slowly, and then crossed himself.

"I do hope it was not the duck, my lady."

My stomach lurched again. "No, nothing like that. Mr. Snow was murdered. Mr. Brisbane, that is, Lord Wargrave is attending him now. If you could find someplace suitable to er, store Mr. Snow, I think that would be best."

"Of course. One of the larders, I expect, will serve nicely."

"Father said the same thing. It seems terribly unhygienic, what with the food and all. And I cannot think that Cook will appreciate having a dead man in the larder when she is trying to feed a house party," I objected.

"Of course, my lady, but he must be kept in a place sufficiently cool enough to retard decomposition—"

I held up a hand. "I do not wish to know. Father is expecting you," I finished, gesturing toward the chapel. He bowed apologetically.

Leaving him to it, I hurried upstairs to my room, poking Morag awake from where she was dozing by the fire. As quickly as possible, I sketched the evening's events. She gave a little scream, then shoved her fists into her mouth to stifle it.

"Murder? Here at the Abbey? We will all be killed in our beds, we will!"

"Do not be an ass. Now, Lucy must not be left alone in the chapel. She is quite fragile right now, and there is no one else to sit with her. Emma is too distraught at present. Lucy needs someone of sound common sense, and you will do, provided you do not start wittering on about murder."

Morag's eyes were round with terror. "What if she tries to kill me?"

"Morag," I said through gritted teeth, "there will be a footman at the door should you have need of him, but you will not. The girl is quite overcome. What she requires now is compassion. Take your needlework and a few coverlets, for you and for Lucy. It is chilly in the chapel."

"Shall I bring a weapon, just to defend myself in case of murderous attack?"

"By all means," I said brutally. "Bring your embroidery scissors. You can cut her hair if she threatens you."

Morag obeyed, but sulkily. She took her time gathering her things, and I used the opportunity to remove the pearls. I had a wretched headache from their weight and a sore spot on my neck where the twisted beak had pecked me. It was a relief to be rid of them.

Morag was still muttering sourly under her breath, and I followed her to the chapel myself to make quite certain she carried out my instructions. The body was gone and a quick glance behind the altar revealed the iron candelabrum had been removed as well. Chairs had been brought, hard, pitiless things from the corridor. Lucy was sitting on one, slow tears dripping down her face. Someone must have brought a basin, for her hands were clean now and faintly pink, as if from hard scrubbing. She had been persuaded to release the sanctuary ring and sat with her hands resting in her lap. She looked very small, and quite vulnerable. At the sight of her, Morag's demeanour changed.

"Poor little poppet," she said softly. She moved the other chair to sit beside Lucy, folding a woollen coverlet over the younger woman's shoulders. "Now, Miss Lucy, you know me, don't you? I am Morag, Lady Julia's maid. I've come to sit with you for a bit. You won't mind that at all, will you?"

Lucy shook her head and turned, burying her face in Morag's shoulder. Morag patted her awkwardly, crooning something soothing in Gaelic. She waved me away and I slipped out, closing the heavy doors behind me. A footman had taken up his post outside and he stood up as I passed.

He was pale and wide-eyed, and I wondered exactly how useful he would be in a crisis.

I paused by his chair, looking at him closely. He could not have been more than twenty. "Which one are you?" I asked him.

"William IV, my lady," he answered immediately. This was one of Father's little whimsies. Unable to remember the names of the dozens of young men who had served as footmen at the Abbey, he had taken to calling them all William, using numerals to distinguish between them. I gave him a reassuring smile.

"I am sure you will do quite fine, William. Just mind the door, and do not let anyone in or out without his lordship's permission. Have you a weapon?"

"A—a weapon, my lady?" he stuttered.

"It might be useful, should matters get out of hand," I mused. "Still, you are a sturdy lad. I'm sure you can handle any trouble that arises with your fists."

I smiled again, but he merely nodded and murmured, "Yes, my lady," his expression worried.

I hurried to the domestic offices, not entirely certain where I would find my father and Brisbane. I finally ran them to ground in the game larder. It was a suitably grisly place, any number of dead feathered and furred things hanging from steel hooks in the ceiling. There were a few other lumps of meat, things I could not immediately distinguish, and my thoughts went at once to my Aunt Lavinia who had adopted a ferociously vegetarian diet. The notion seemed oddly attractive to me now.

The worktable had been cleared of all foodstuffs, all the little pots of paté and forcemeats, and Lucian Snow had been arranged atop it. He was decently draped in a sheet, and at his head the iron candelabrum lay as a sort of macabre decoration. I glanced from my father to Brisbane.

"Well, it did seem the best place after all," Brisbane began defensively. "There is a proper table and it is very cold."

I shuddered, and Father gave a brisk nod. "He will do well enough in here for tonight. There is not enough light to do any sort of proper examination. Perhaps in the morning…"

I stared at him, not quite comprehending his meaning. "But Father, you must summon the authorities. We cannot deal with this as a private matter. A man has been murdered in our home."

"Do you think I am not aware of that?" he demanded. His lips thinned, and his eyes were hard with anger and grief. "Child, I am the authority in this part of Sussex, or had you forgotten?"

"Of course not, I simply meant—"

"I know well enough what you meant. You think I ought to summon the coroner, that there should be an inquest, neat and tidy, and with what result? My own niece sent to be hanged?"

"Surely they will not hang her."

His anger ebbed then, leaving him spent. He rubbed a hand over his face. "That is the difficulty. They will not hang her. They dare not because she is of my blood. And yet, how can I ever look any man in the eye after that and pronounce justice if I will not seek it for my own?"

Brisbane remained silent, his good arm folded over the sling at his chest.

"What do you mean to do then?" I asked softly.

"I must send to London tomorrow. The Metropolitan Police may be depended upon to be discreet and to be impartial."

I did not like to point out to him that no one was likely to be impartial when an earl was involved in a murder investigation.

Instead I nodded. "Very well. And what of this examination?"

Brisbane spoke up. "Much may be learned from studying the corpse, but it must be done quickly. In the morning we can go into Blessingstoke and telegraph Scotland Yard, though it is anyone's guess how long it will take them to dispatch an investigator. In here, he will be quite cool and fresh whenever their man arrives. I mean to examine the victim first and make very certain they miss nothing."

Already he was thinking of Snow as the corpse, the victim. It was astonishing to me how quickly Brisbane could slip into the role of investigator, but even as I looked at him I could see his eyes were bright, his jaw set, his very mien one of intense excitement.

I sighed. Between the pair of them they had decided on a course of action I could not entirely approve. The villagers were accustomed to thinking of Father as little less than a demigod. Yet I could not help but wonder how they would like having their minor county officials passed over entirely in favour of London investigators. They would very likely be affronted, and to add insult to injury, I was not completely certain what Father was proposing was legal. But the point was not worth arguing. The combination of Father's very deep pockets and very blue blood was a potent one.

"There are no windows. There will not be ample light," I pointed out, hoping to dissuade them on the grounds of practicality. Father waved a dismissive hand.

"With a few mirrors and enough lamps, I believe we can illuminate the room sufficiently."

"Not to mention all of the helpful kitchen maids and scullery maids and pot boys. Really, Father, there is no hope that this will go unnoticed."

"I am aware of that, Julia," Father said with some asperity. "I am also aware I must bear the responsibility of the reckoning of this crime. Every decision I make will be scrutinised and found to be lacking. That is why I must have your help, both of you."

He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his thick white hair. "Brisbane, you will have to gather the evidence and prepare the reports. With Julia's help."

I felt a hot rush of triumph. Brisbane did not even look my direction. "I am prepared to do what I can for you, my lord, but surely there is no need to involve Lady Julia."

"There is," my father put in wearily. "She knows the family and the Abbey. She can give you information, and she will be invaluable in dealing with the ladies of the party. I know the wretched girl has confessed, but I wish every provision for her innocence to be explored." He shook his head. "I can only think that her mind must have been quite deranged for her to have done this terrible thing."

"Very well," Brisbane said, grudgingly. "Lady Julia and I will work together."

"Good," Father replied. "Now, we will seal this room, and address the rest of them."

"What will you say to them?" I asked as we filed slowly out of the game larder.

Father shrugged, his upright posture failing him only a little. "I cannot imagine. But I shall think of something."

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

The game's afoot!

—Henry V

As I made my way from the game larder to the lesser drawing room, I realised the lights, doused for the game of sardines, had been lit. Every sconce, lamp, and candelabrum blazed, banishing the shadows. It was little consolation. The very air of the place felt different to me now that murder had been done here, and I wondered if I would ever feel quite as I once had about my home.

Just as I approached the drawing room, the door was flung open and Alessandro bolted out, his face twisted with emotion.

"Ah, Julia!" he cried. He rushed to me, but before he could engage in any impropriety, I raised a hand. He stopped in his tracks, scant inches from me. He took my hand in his.

"Alessandro. I see that you have heard about Mr. Snow. It is a terrible thing."

He shook his head. "Julia, I do not understand this. I knew nothing until Lysander came and found me. I was on the other side of the Abbey, in the room with all of the plants. I cannot think of the word."

His brow furrowed in concentration, or perhaps in frustration.

"The conservatory?" I hazarded.

"Si, conservatory. I was there, and Lysander came to look for me. He said that Signore Snow has been murdered in the chapel, and that Miss Lucy, she has confessed to this horrible thing."

I could feel the confusion emanating from him. I had left Father and Brisbane to finish their preparations in the game larder, and I knew I had but a moment until they appeared. For either of them to find me in a tête-à-tête with Alessandro was not a complication I relished.

I adopted my most soothing tone. "Yes, it is frightful. And what Lysander told you is correct. But my father has matters under control, and we must soldier on."

He started, his skin going quite pale under its usual olive cast. "Soldiers? There will be soldiers here?"

"No, my dear. It is simply an expression we English use. It means we must do our duty and not give way to emotion."

Alessandro blinked at me, and I realised then how impossible it would be to explain the concept of a stiff upper lip to an Italian.

I turned him and prodded him toward the door. "Come now. Father wishes us all gathered in the drawing room, and he will be along any minute."

He cast a doubtful look at me over his shoulder, but he went without a murmur. If only every man in my life were so biddable, I thought ruefully. He paused at the door to permit me to enter first, and I made at once for the chair nearest Portia.

In the drawing room, the assembled company was solemn. Brandy and tea had been supplied, but no one seemed very inclined to partake. Cups and glasses were clutched in pale, nerveless fingers, and Charlotte for one, trembled so badly I thought her cup would shatter in its saucer. Plum stood by the window, glowering at the blackness beyond. Violante was grasping Ly's hand so tightly their fingers had gone white.

"Where is Aunt Dorcas? And Hortense?" I whispered to Portia.

"Bed," she murmured. "The old fright was tired, so Hortense saw her up to bed. Then she told Aquinas she was retiring herself. Something about a headache. They would not have heard the screaming, and I thought it best to let them be."

I nodded. "Time enough for them to hear of it tomorrow."

By way of reply, she took a deep swallow of whiskey, closing her eyes for a long moment. I could just see the fine lines at their corners, newly incised from fatigue. I felt a rush of affection for her then, and covered her hand with my own. She grasped it, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.

Portia looked up in relief a moment later when Father entered, but it was Emma who rose, deadly pale but composed.

"My lord uncle!" she cried, her lips trembling. She bowed her head and raised a handkerchief to her mouth.

Father patted her back, a trifle awkwardly. "There, there, my girl."

"What happened?" she asked him, simply, as a child might have done.

Father shook his head. "I do not know, save that Mr. Snow is murdered, by her hand, Lucy claims. She refuses to leave the chapel, and I have respected her wishes."

"But why?" Emma demanded, pulling away. "It is so cold there. Why can she not go to her room?"

"My dear," Father said, moving to take a chair by the fire, "I would have been perfectly willing to confine her to her room if she had wished it. She remains in the chapel by her own choice."

"Confined to her room?" Emma followed him, sinking to a needlepoint hassock at his feet. "Why must she be confined at all?"

Sir Cedric interjected, his face stormy, "I imagine his lordship feels he has no choice." His voice shook, as though he held the reins of his emotion, but only lightly.

Father said nothing, but merely looked at Emma, waiting for her to comprehend. Portia handed him a whiskey, and he gave her a feeble smile in thanks.

Emma shook her head slowly. "You cannot believe it of her. She could never have done this."

Father took a sip of his whiskey. "Child, there is a dead man in my house, and a girl who claims to have killed him. I am compelled to believe her."

Emma gave an anguished sob and tore at her handkerchief, shredding the fine lawn with her nails. "No! I will not believe it."

The rest of us were silent as Emma gave vent for a moment to her emotion. Charlotte and I caught one another's gaze, and I was moved to see she looked quite devastated by our family's tragedy. Portia went to pour whiskey for Brisbane and myself, while Sir Cedric sat, his face betraying his disquiet. He seemed to be struggling, and I wondered if he doubted Lucy. They had known each other a bare two months. Was he pondering now if the girl he loved so passionately was capable of bashing a man over the head with a candelabrum?

Henry Ludlow simply stared into the depths of his teacup as though scrying for answers. His eyes were shadowed, and he looked desperately tired. Perhaps he felt guilty for his outburst in the chapel, condemning Lucy as she stood, her hands wet with the blood of Lucian Snow. Or perhaps he was relieved to think his kinsman had been spared marriage to a woman capable of such atrocity.

From the window, Plum moved to stand behind Charlotte's chair, his face pale in the shadows. She did not turn to look at him, but her back relaxed a little, and I noticed that Brisbane watched the pair with as much interest as I did.

After a moment, Emma composed herself, wiping her eyes and smoothing her hair. "So she must be turned over to the assizes?"

Father shook his head. "Tomorrow I will send to Scotland Yard for an investigator and hand this matter over to the proper authorities. Any local justice will be seen as tainted."

Emma's face fell, and I knew she must be thinking of the little girl whose plaits she wove with ribbons when they were children, the little girl she comforted with bedtime stories. Father looked at her, his eyes warm with sympathy. "We have this short time until the investigator arrives to gather any evidence that the courts may take into consideration when choosing to exercise leniency."

His tone, however, left small doubt that he considered leniency an unlikely prospect.

I had thought she would weep afresh at this, but she merely nodded and resumed her seat next to Sir Cedric.

Sir Cedric rose, his face purpling with rage. "I have heard quite enough. I will not have my future wife treated like a common criminal. She will be released now, and I will take her away from here myself."

Father rolled his glass of whiskey between his palms. His voice was deadly pleasant. "I think not, Cedric. This is my home, and the girl is my relation. You are not yet married, therefore you have no rights in the matter. If you do not care for my management of this affair, you are free to go. But if you stay, you will not question me again."

For a moment I thought Sir Cedric might actually have an apoplexy on the spot. He raised a shaking finger at Father. "How dare you, sir! Your high-handedness is not to be borne. I will not have her treated with such suspicion."

"She will be treated with suspicion the whole of her life if you do not do as I say!" Father roared, slamming his whiskey glass onto the table. "Do you not see that, man? Everywhere she goes, whispers will follow her. Everyone she meets will wonder, did she get away with murder? The taint will live with you forever, poisoning your lives, and it will poison your children's lives as well. Is that what you want?" Father demanded brutally.

Sir Cedric opened his mouth, then closed it again, gaping like a newly caught fish. Finally, he gave up the fight and dropped heavily into his seat. "I will put all of my resources at her disposal," he said hollowly. "I will do everything in my power to secure her freedom."

Emma murmured her thanks, and I caught Brisbane's glance. I believe in that moment we were thinking the same thing: for all Father's breeding and Sir Cedric's money, Lucy had confessed to murder. It seemed rather a good bet she would swing for it.

Father cleared his throat. "I have asked Lord Wargrave, as he has some experience in these matters, to prepare the reports and statements the courts will require. You will all cooperate with him fully, should he choose to avail himself of your assistance."

Father's tone left no room for misinterpretation: this was an order. The rest of us, accustomed to such directives, merely nodded. But Charlotte King dropped her teacup. The delicate handle snapped and tea splashed over her pretty slippers.

"Experience?" Her eyes flew from Father to Brisbane. "My lord, what can his lordship mean?"

Brisbane regarded her coolly. "His lordship means in my capacity as a private inquiry agent."

Charlotte clutched at the saucer. Her complexion was noticeably paler, and I wondered for a moment if I should ring for a vinaigrette.

"My lord, you astonish me. I had no notion you were in trade," she said, her voice flinty. "I think we must speak of this when we have more privacy."

Brisbane inclined his head, and I smiled to myself. Behind her, Plum's expression had turned decidedly smug.

Father issued a few more instructions then, most notably that no one was to approach the chapel without his permission, nor were messages to be sent to Lucy that he had not first approved. Emma asked if she might go and sit with her now that she was in command of herself, and he agreed. She also received permission to bring her sister a few articles she might require for her comfort.

Father then bade the party good-night in a clear gesture of dismissal. First to leave was Charlotte King, sweeping out without a word of apology for the broken cup or a glance for her erstwhile fiancé. Plum trailed behind her and Portia followed with Emma. Ly and Violante walked out slowly, murmuring softly in Italian. Alessandro followed them, casting bewildered glances at me as he left. I lingered with Brisbane, watching Sir Cedric and Henry take their leave.

Father stretched his legs to the hassock. His rheumatism was doubtless playing up again as a result of the cold. He showed no sign of stirring. I laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you coming, Father?"

He shook his head. "Not quite yet. I mean to finish this rather excellent whiskey and have a bit of a think. Good night, both of you. There will be much to do tomorrow."

Brisbane and I bade him good-night and left him. Much to my surprise, Brisbane escorted me up the staircase and through the long gallery of the dorter toward my room. It was a breach of propriety for him to do so, but I did not think anyone would trouble about it under the circumstances.

Before we reached my room, Brisbane took my elbow and turned me to face him.

"I realise his lordship has sanctioned your involvement, and I do not deny you could be quite helpful in the present circumstances," he began. I bit back a retort. "However," he went on, "I will reserve the authority to remove you from this investigation at any time should I feel your safety may be in jeopardy."

I could not help it. I laughed.

"Brisbane, you must be joking. That is quite possibly the most pompous thing you have ever said to me."

His grip tightened. "I am not in the mood for jokes, my lady. I meant precisely what I said. If at any time I think there is even the merest possibility of danger, I will have you out of here if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out on my back."

The image was a delicious one, but I pushed it aside. I could feel the warmth of his palm even through the heavy satin of my sleeve. "But we were partners together—we solved a murder between us, or had you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing," he ground out. His eyes dropped for an instant to my lips, and I knew he was thinking of that reckless kiss on Hampstead Heath. He dragged his gaze back to mine, his eyes suddenly cool and pitiless. "Most particularly, I have not forgotten that I bungled that investigation so badly you nearly died."

I paused. It was true the investigation had ended badly. But that had been due as much to my own foolhardiness as anything else. In fact, Brisbane's timely intervention had saved my life. I could not believe he thought otherwise.

I shook my head slowly. "No," I whispered, "all those months in Italy—not a word from you. It was not because of that. Not even you could be so willfully, blindly stupid. You saved my life."

"I nearly cost it," he countered. I searched his face, but it was implacable, cold and white-lipped as marble.

He dropped my arm, and I stepped back. His fury was almost tangible as it crackled in the air between us.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to evenness. "I have as much right to investigate this murder as you. This is my home, my family, and it is my father who has lent his authority to my involvement. So do not think that I mean to step aside simply because you click your fingers at me. We are partners again, whether it pleases you or not. Besides," I finished with a malicious smile, "someone will have to make inquiries while you settle matters with Charlotte. I rather think your engagement is at an end."

I hurried down the corridor to my room. I hazarded a glance behind me as I gained my room, and was not surprised to find Brisbane staring after me with a baleful expression.

As I undressed, I realised my hands were shaking, an inconvenience without Morag to assist me. But eventually I fought my way out of the gown and went to stand in front of the looking-glass. Where Brisbane had grasped my arm there were bruises rising, faintly violet in the candlelight. The sleeve itself was crushed, and no amount of sponging would salvage it. I thrust the gown into the wardrobe and closed the door. I would not wear it again.

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

Who dares not stir by day must walk by night.

—King John

In spite of the evening's events, I drifted off to sleep rather quickly. I had thought the image of Lucian Snow's shattered head would stay with me, but even that horror was not able to blunt the dullness of the volume of Plutarch I had taken to bed. I fell asleep with it draped over my chest and woke some time later to find the candle guttered and the fire nearly burned down to ash. It was chilly in my room despite the tapestries and thick carpets, and I rose to poke at the fire, wrapping myself in a coverlet from the bed. Florence was slumbering away in her basket, only her nose poking out from the fur tippet.

I jabbed at the fire a bit and tossed a shovelful of coal onto the grate. It caught, and I sat for some minutes, warming myself and thinking of Lucian Snow. He had been an attractive and charming man and a confirmed flirt, that much was certain. But what about him had driven Lucy to murder? Had he flirted with her, then scorned her? The notion was laughable. I had a suspicion Lucian Snow reserved his attentions for wealthy, unattached ladies of good family. Lucy was betrothed, decidedly not wealthy, and though she was a March, the connection was a slender one. Of course, he was younger and much more personable than Cedric, and there was always the possibility he might have seduced Lucy away from her bridegroom. She was young and impulsive to the point of recklessness at times. It would not be difficult for a persuasive and passionate man to open her eyes and awaken her sensuality, I mused.

But no, Lucian had seemed to have more of an eye to the main chance than that. I thought of our conversations, his warm eyes and lingering fingers. He had been laying the groundwork for a courtship, I was certain of it. He had nocked his arrow toward something more profitable than an impoverished virgin.

But if he had no interest in Lucy, then what was her interest in him? He was worldly and whimsical and no doubt irreligious, all qualities to be deplored in a curate, but who among us had not met a dozen such like him before? Fortune was not always kind to second and third sons. With no solid expectations, the church was often the only means of a comfortable living. More than one churchman had been made of a dissolute rogue. Clearly, this had been Lucian's lot, but how did it touch Lucy?

Asking her directly was out of the question. She was in a state, and I had no doubt it would take all of Father's considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to abandon sanctuary and give herself over to the authorities. I had little confidence she would stand up to their questions; I was not prepared to subject her to mine.

But I knew I would not sleep again without attempting to find some answers. I rose from my seat by the fire and found my slippers and a heavy velvet dressing gown. I relit my chamberstick from the fire and fixed it firmly into its holder. Silently, I slipped from my room and made my way down the gallery of the dorter, across the landing, and down another corridor until I reached the turning I wanted.

I peeped around the corner, scanning the bachelors' wing for any sign of activity. Formerly the lay brothers' dormitory, the bachelors' wing was comprised of a broad corridor with windows overlooking the central cloister spanning the length on one side, and a chain of bedchambers on the other. The wing ended at the door to the guest room in the Galilee Tower. In that room a tiny spiral stair rose to the bell tower itself where the great bell rested in silence. I thought of Lucy grasping the sanctuary ring with blood-slicked hands and shivered. The bell ought to have rung for her, but it had remained silent, perhaps rusted mute after centuries of disuse. Deliberately, I pushed aside such morbid thoughts and tugged my dressing gown about me more tightly as I moved into the bachelors' wing.

The clock had just struck two, and all was perfectly still in that part of the Abbey. A faint moon, very nearly full, shed its pale silver light through the bank of graceful leaded windows. Hastily, I blew out the chamberstick. The moonlight was just enough illumination for my purpose.

Holding my breath, I crept along the corridor, careful to keep to the middle of the way where the stone floor was thickly carpeted. The bars of dull silver moonlight gave just enough light to read the cards slotted by each door. I squinted at the names. The Honourable Eglamour March, Plum, as he was known in the family. He was sleeping in the Highland Room, a smallish bedroom, charmingly furnished with tartans and antlers. The door was closed, and though I paused a moment I heard nothing. Beyond lay the Maze Room—so named for its perfectly framed view of the Tudor maze in the garden—and Alessandro. All was silence there as well.

I moved on. Sir Cedric Eastley. Aquinas had put him in the Yellow Room, the best of the bachelor rooms with its primrose taffeta hangings and a pair of Gainsboroughs flanking the bed. Strictly speaking, the room ought to have gone to Brisbane as the ranking bachelor, but Aunt Hermia had probably devised the sleeping arrangements before she left for London. She never did manage to work out such details properly.

I had passed Sir Cedric's door and had almost reached the Tower Room when I felt a rush of air against my face. I opened my mouth to exclaim, but before I could do so, a strong hand clamped about my wrist and dragged me into the room. The door was closed behind me and I was pushed up against it, the hand now firmly pressed over my mouth.

I shoved it away. "Brisbane," I hissed, "what do you think you are about? If you wanted to speak to me—"

"Do shut up," he whispered harshly. I shivered as his lips grazed the curves of my ear. "You are not the only person about."

I pushed his hand aside and caught my breath. "Who?"

"I do not know yet. I was just about to find out when you came blundering along."

"I do not blunder," I began, but a single firm finger laid over my lips silenced me. I was acutely conscious then of my state of relative undress, and his. He was still wearing his evening trousers and a fine, heavy white linen shirt, but this last garment had been casually opened almost to the waist, and topping the ensemble was a long robe of handsome dark red silk, flung over his injured shoulder to dashing effect. His hair was a trifle more unruly than usual, and the faint smell of sweet Spanish tobacco clung to the finger that still touched my lips.

His strong form pressed me to the door, and I began to be aware of a somewhat breathless sensation, quite like the one I had experienced during my trip to Florence upon first seeing Michelangelo's excellent rendering of David. I had spent rather a long time admiring the perfect symmetry of the statue's musculature, the way the breadth of his shoulders and the arrogant stance of his legs had countered the elegance of his profile and the sleekness of his flanks. It occurred to me, pressed as I was between Brisbane and the door, that Brisbane himself seemed to have almost precisely the same proportions as that exquisite work of art.

"Stop wriggling," he growled, his breath warm on my neck.

I cannot recall precisely what happened next. I must have said or—rather more likely—done something which conveyed the direction of my thoughts, for the next thing I knew, he was kissing me with thoroughness and enthusiasm. It was highly gratifying.

I had just begun to apply myself to a response with complete abandon when a faint noise distracted me. It took some seconds to place the sound, and several more to get Brisbane's attention. His focus was quite masterful. In the end, I was obliged to use rather forceful measures.

He swore and broke off, rather short of breath and rubbing his shin. "You kicked me! What the devil was that for? For the love of God, Julia, if you did not want me to kiss you, you should never have—"

I broke in swiftly, untwining my fingers from his hair. "I heard a noise, a door closing in the corridor." It only occurred to me later I should not have interrupted him. It might have been highly useful to know what action on my part had prompted such an uninhibited response.

Brisbane's eyes glittered in the feeble moonlight and he swore again, which I must admit rather pleased me. I too was rather regretting the end of our interlude. But the investigation must necessarily take precedence, and I primly removed his good hand from my person. He stepped back, and I patted my garments into place, giving a little sigh of impatience.

"Brisbane, you have ripped my favourite nightdress."

He showed not the slightest remorse. "I will buy you another," he muttered, pushing me aside and kneeling to peer out the keyhole.

"You most certainly will not. Of all the wildly inappropriate—" I let my voice trail off as I glanced around the room. It was round, as all tower rooms should be, the narrow lancet windows fitted with stained glass depicting the March hares. The draperies and bedclothes were bottle-green velvet edged in gold, enhancing the medieval atmosphere. I was not surprised to see that Brisbane had already put his stamp upon the place. He did not so much stay in a room as inhabit it. A pair of boots stood upon the hearth and a stack of books teetered on the bedside table, each of them marked with a playing card to hold his place. A telescope perched on slender legs at one of the windows, a chart of the stars unfurled beside it. His discarded silk neckcloth was draped carelessly over his pillow, doubtless where he had tugged it off as he began to disrobe. I looked hastily away, noting the half-empty glass of whiskey and the nearly full decanter on a little inlaid table that stood beside the velvet armchair by the fire. There was a cushion squashed into the depths of the chair and his black greatcoat shrouded the back of it, a comfortable place to while away a cold winter's evening with a good book. Toilet articles—combs, clothes brushes, and a wickedly sharp razor—were neatly arranged on the washstand, and I wondered how he managed his ablutions with his injury.

"Brisbane," I whispered. "How do you shave yourself? You've only the one good arm. I should think it frightfully awkward to manage."

"It did not seem to hamper me a moment ago," he returned mildly.

Whether he was making reference to his abduction of me or to what followed, I could not say. Before I could speak, he had sprung to his feet and was easing the door open.

The corridor was empty.

I prodded Brisbane. "If you heard something, we must investigate."

"I know that," he said through clenched teeth. "Would you kindly remove your finger from between my ribs?"

I obliged him and we slid out into the corridor, moving swiftly as we dared. When we reached the end of the corridor, Brisbane flung out his arm, pressing me flat against the stone wall and knocking the breath out of me.

"Ooof," I said, gasping a little. He shook his head, frowning at me. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I thought of his methods, but by that time he was edging his head around the corner to determine if the staircase was clear. He gave a little exhalation of disgust and dropped his arm. I took this as a sign I was free to move and stepped around him into an empty gallery. There were perhaps a dozen doors that led off of it, and at the end the main staircase, leading to the other floors and a hundred other rooms.

I stepped back. "If there was indeed a phantom, we have lost him. He might have gone anywhere, and if we attempt to follow him now, we shall doubtless rouse the entire household. Shall we search Mr. Snow's room instead?"

Brisbane gave me a piercing look. "Why?"

I sighed. "Because he is the victim. Perhaps among his possessions lurks some clue to why Lucy did this terrible thing. Perhaps even some mitigating factor can be found that might sway the judges to clemency."

Brisbane shot a quick look back down the gallery, then took my elbow and led me to Lucian Snow's room. Father had taken the precaution of having it locked, but such an inconvenience was of no consequence to Brisbane. From the pocket of his dressing gown he extracted two slender steel picks. He handed one to me. "Put this into the lock and hold it steady," he instructed. He knelt, his thigh brushing my leg, and slid its mate into the lock. He kept his eyes closed, working by touch, and as his hand grazed my fingers, I had the oddest sensation that this was somehow even more intimate than the kiss we had just shared. He had the lock sprung in a brief moment, and we were inside, the door closed behind us.

The room was gloomy. A cloud had passed over the moon, throwing the room into deep shadow. Brisbane went to the bedside table, swift and sure-footed as a cat, and struck a match to the candle, illuminating the room passably well. I glanced about, not entirely surprised to find that Lucian Snow was not a particularly tidy person. A discarded shirt and neckcloth were draped at the foot of his bed, and the writing table was a litter of books and papers. He had been given the Blue Room, a small but elegant chamber, with dark blue and silver hangings and a rather nice suite of mahogany furniture. There was a bottle of excellent port on the table, as well as a humidor filled with expensive cigars. The air was thick with the acrid smell of stale smoke.

I glanced around, taking quick inventory of his belongings. There was a small toilet case, and a portfolio of fine morocco on the writing table. I searched them both, paying particular attention to the letters in the portfolio. There were only two, pleas from his sisters for money, and nothing of any interest whatsoever in the toilet case. His brushes were not as clean as they might have been, but were exceptionally fine quality, as was the ivory razor slotted neatly into its case.

"Mr. Snow did appreciate nice things," I murmured. When Brisbane did not reply, I looked up to find him standing as I had left him, propped against the door. I would have thought him bored with the entire endeavour, save that his expression was one of expectation, as though he were waiting for something.

"Do you not mean to help?" I demanded.

He shrugged his good shoulder, the candlelight playing off the planes of his face, throwing the tiny scar on his cheekbone into relief. It was a small, perfect crescent moon and I wondered, not for the first time, on which of his travels he had acquired it. "You seem to have the matter well in hand."

"Don't be obstructionist. We are supposed to be investigating Snow's death. It seems logical enough to begin here if we mean to understand why Lucy killed him."

"She has confessed it. The motive is largely immaterial."

I snapped the case closed and straightened, fixing him with a basilisk stare. "You gave Father your word you would investigate. You know perfectly well the courts may grant her leniency should there be cause for it."

"Yes, and she is the proper one to supply it. Sniffing through Snow's things will not tell us what we need to know to save Lucy from the noose."

"You are a brute," I told him. I moved to the wardrobe and eased it open. Snow had been a bit more careful with his clothes than the rest of his things, or at least the footman who had unpacked for him had been. The garments were neatly hung, and his shoes were arranged on the floor of the wardrobe with precision.

"I do not understand you," I complained, feeling the pockets of Snow's clothes for anything unexpected. "Were you not the one who preached to me that stones must never be left unturned in an investigation?"

"Yes, if one has nothing more pressing."

I ducked back out of the wardrobe to look at him. "It is half past two in the morning. What engagement can possibly be more pressing than searching Snow's rooms?"

He said nothing, and after a moment, it occurred to me he had not heard me at all. His eyes had a faraway look, and it was apparent he was listening closely to something on the other side of the door.

I felt a quick, sharp lance of misery. Surely he could not have a liaison planned with Charlotte? She had been icy and aloof when she retired for the evening. She had neither looked at him nor spoken to him after it was revealed that he was an inquiry agent. But what if he meant to cajole her, to soothe her to sweetness, affection even, with an explanation? If any man could do it, it was Brisbane. I had more cause than most to appreciate the devastating effect of his charm when he chose to employ it.

Before I could ask what he was about, Brisbane eased open the door and slipped out, closing it silently behind him.

"Men," I muttered, returning to the wardrobe. I continued to complain to myself as I searched. I did not relish putting my hands into the pockets of Snow's clothes, or into the toes of his shoes. The only time I had ever handled Edward's clothes had been after his death when, as a good widow, I packed up his belongings and sent them to charity.

I was just about to admit defeat when I thrust my hand into the last shoe and my fingers touched something hard and lumpy. I turned the shoe over and emptied it into my palm. It was a handkerchief, knotted securely. It took some minutes to release the knots, but I did so, careful not to damage the fabric. Inside, I found a tiny collection of jewels. There was a string of amber beads, a bracelet of flowers fashioned out of coral, a brooch set with turquoises and seed pearls. And in the midst of them sat a clever little jade monkey, his tail curved like a question mark.

I looked over each piece carefully, making note of the engravings. They were dainty, delicate things, suited to a lady's boudoir, and I could not imagine how Snow had come by them. I wrapped them carefully in the handkerchief, touching the embroidered monogram lightly with a finger as I slipped the little bundle in my pocket. There were two mysteries to solve now, I reflected. First, why had Lucy killed Lucian Snow? And why were my Aunt Hermia's jewels in his possession when he died?

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

We that are true lovers run into strange capers.

—As You Like It

Despite my iron resolve to search Snow's bedchamber thoroughly, the room was growing colder by the minute, and I was uncomfortably aware that I had not yet solved the mystery of the phantom. I knew it for pretense, of course, a childish trick to alarm the superstitious. But I could not like the idea of someone playing tricks when there were other, more sinister events afoot. A man had been murdered in my home, and it was not impossible that his death had some connection, however tenuous, to our spectre.

Certainly, the costume of a phantom could be assumed for entirely innocuous reasons. An assignation, for one. Not only would a spectral disguise keep people at a distance if one happened to be spotted, it also rather neatly preserved one's incognito. Certainly it might have been Sir Cedric, but I had little doubt Lucy intended to hold him at bay until she was properly married. Given her mother's sad history, Lucy would have marked her lesson well and insisted upon a ring before submitting to the ultimate caresses.

But Sir Cedric was not the only gentleman with a lady love at Bellmont Abbey, I realised with a start. Father had brought Hortense under his roof, a notion that did not bear thinking about, I decided with a shudder. I liked Hortense very well, but the idea of Father playing the Casanova was faintly distasteful. Besides which, Father would never think it necessary to don a disguise to pay a nocturnal visit to his inamorata. He would be discreet, I was certain, but haunting his own hallways was carrying things a bit too far.

That left Brisbane. Instantly my mind whipped back nearly two years in time, to a conversation I had had with Portia as we strolled in Hyde Park. I had just met Brisbane for the first time, and Portia was entertaining me with tales of his exploits, both as a fighter and a lover. He uses disguises sometimes in the course of his investigations…for discretion…he came to her once dressed as a chimney sweep. Quite invigorating, don't you think?

Ruthlessly, I pushed the memory aside. I refused to torment myself with thoughts of him and Charlotte. He did not mean to marry her, and whatever his game with her, I meant to discover it.

And then there was Plum, I thought, dread rippling in my stomach. I had seen him once or twice watching Charlotte with some warmth. Her manner toward Brisbane had been correct and deferential, but not affectionate. Perhaps, for her part, the marriage to Brisbane was a means of securing her future. And if her heart was not involved, she might well permit herself to engage in a dalliance with Plum. For Plum's part, he was a great admirer of beauty, and not overly scrupulous if the beauty belonged to another. The fact that donning ghostly draperies and lurking in corridors was just the sort of lark Plum would find hilarious did not comfort me.

I shook myself, ashamed of my doubts. Plum's amorous exploits in Italy—and they had been legion—had been restrained compared to most of the travellers we had encountered. Everyone went to Italy to dally with the signorinas. Holiday romances were one thing. To assume he would interfere with a betrothal was another, and I resolved to put the notion from my mind.

I extinguished the light and crept to the door, easing into the corridor. There was no one about. Brisbane had disappeared, and in spite of his twitchiness, there was no sign of the spectre. On a whim, I turned my steps to the staircase and made my way silently downstairs. It was slow going, for the moon had disappeared entirely, and I had to hold the banister, feeling each step carefully beneath my slipper before I descended another tread. At the bottom a lamp glimmered faintly, the night-light that Aquinas always left lit—a single brave little flame, wavering in the chilly draughts. It threw shadows down the main corridor, but I steeled my resolve and made my way toward the chapel. At the opposite end of the nave I could just make out Maurice, his claws and teeth terrible in the half-light.

Another turn and I was at the chapel, the doors firmly closed, William IV asleep at his post. His head was sunk low on his chest, bobbing heavily with each slow breath.

I clicked my tongue at him. "Really, this won't serve. Do wake up," I said, poking at his shoulder. Suddenly, he gave a great shudder and slid down in the chair. He gave a deep, resonant snore and muttered in his sleep.

I bent swiftly and smelled his breath.

"Dead drunk," I murmured. He smelled strongly of brandy and there was a faint, seraphic smile curving his lips.

I stepped over him and put my eye to the keyhole of the great doors. The key had been lost ages ago and never replaced. Now the enormous keyhole was a tidy little window on the chapel and its erstwhile inhabitants. Not surprisingly after her ordeal, Lucy was curled onto a crude pallet of blankets, sleeping deeply, her mouth agape, one hand flung above her head. Emma was slumped next to her, a hand tucked in Lucy's. The tableau touched me. I was close to my own sisters, Portia in particular, and I could only imagine the anguish Emma must be feeling at the possibility of losing her beloved girl to the hangman's noose.

It seemed like an intrusion to spy upon her grief. I turned to leave then, and saw something gleam out of the tail of my eye. I peered closer and realised it was a brandy bottle, tipped on its side and quite empty. I looked at the slumbering footman and bent swiftly to look under his chair. No bottle or glass there, I observed. How then did he manage to become intoxicated?

Nibbling my lower lip, I turned the heavy knob of the chapel door, easing it open just enough to slip inside. I tiptoed to where my cousins slept. I picked up the bottle and sniffed it. Brandy, yes, but something more, a shadow of something bitter.

I leaned over Emma, listening to her quiet, even breathing. It was so soft I could scarcely hear it, and when I pressed a finger to her wrist, I felt the merest flutter. Frightened now, I put my hand to her heart. The beat was faint and slow. I paused only to touch the pale skin at Lucy's wrist. It was as weak as her sister's. I took to my heels, bottle in hand, fairly flying up the stairs and down the dormitory wing to the Tower Room. I was careful to keep to the carpet, my slippers noiseless, and when I reached Brisbane's room, I scratched softly, muttering prayers as I did so.

He opened the door at once and I pushed inside. He closed the door behind me and turned, his back to it as if to shield me from whatever had caused me to take flight.

"What has happened?" he demanded. The bedclothes were askew and the bed still bore the impression of where he had lain, but the lamps were lit and he held a book in his hand.

"It's Emma and Lucy. I think they have been drugged, and the footman as well," I told him, holding out the bottle.

He took it, sniffing deeply. "Brandy, but it has been tampered with." He sniffed again, then touched his tongue to the rim of the bottle.

I snatched it from him. "Are you quite mad? You do not know what may be in there."

He shrugged. "It is laudanum, quite a lot of it, I should think. How are they?"

I spread my hands helplessly. "Senseless. They seem to be sleeping, but I can scarcely feel the pulse at their wrists, and their heartbeats are slow and heavy. The footman has been drugged as well, but he seems less affected."

"He is taller than either of them by a foot and doubtless heavier than either by an hundredweight," he commented, moving to the wardrobe. He flung open the door and pulled out a small leather case.

"Brisbane, you cannot mean to physic them yourself. They need a doctor."

"Look outside," he ordered. "The snow has begun, and it will only get worse. It would take more than two hours to fetch a doctor from Blessingstoke and they haven't that long if we mean to keep them alive."

"Oh," I said faintly. I drew myself up to my full height and squared my shoulders. Whatever horrors the night would bring, I was prepared to face them.

Brisbane turned at the door, the case tucked under his arm. He nodded toward the washstand. "Bring the basin. This is not going to be pleasant."

I gulped and nodded, snatching up the basin and following him to the chapel.

The next hours were not ones I can remember with any pleasure. It began with a vicious argument between Brisbane and myself as to whether the rest of the household should be roused. He insisted we should deal with the situation alone, maintaining that until he knew how and why the girls had been drugged, he did not want to alert the malefactor who had attempted to harm them. I flew at him, accusing him of suspecting a member of my family, which he coldly affirmed, and matters deteriorated from there. We were hardly speaking by the time we reached the chapel. Brisbane knelt swiftly over William IV, palpating his pulse and counting.

"He will be fine. His heartbeat is strong. Roll him onto the floor and let him sleep it off," he ordered.

I did as he bade me, swearing fluently under my breath the entire time. William IV was a substantial lad, and it took all of my strength to wrestle him off of the chair and into a more comfortable position on the floor. By the time I reached Brisbane in the chapel he was already finishing his examination. The crimson dressing gown was pooled at his feet, the leather case open beside it. I could just make out an assortment of lethal-looking instruments and small, smoked-glass vials tucked inside.

He glanced up at me, his eyes boring into mine. "They have not been drugged," he said, rising to his feet. "They have been poisoned. We must get them moving and we must dose them with stimulants. Fetch Aquinas and have him bring tea, pots of it, as hot and sweet as he can manage."

I nodded and moved swiftly to the door. I paused the barest moment, glancing back at him. He was on his knees, draping Emma's arm over his good shoulder, levering her to her feet. Her head lolled back against him, her features peaceful and immovable. There was an expression of grim determination on his face and I could hear him talking softly to her, demanding she open her eyes and respond to him. I blinked back sudden tears and left them. It was in God's hands now, God's and Brisbane's.

I rapped lightly at Aquinas' door. He roused at once and answered the door wearing a dapper dressing gown of striped China silk over his trousers.

"My lady?" he inquired, as brightly awake as if I had rung for him at teatime.

"Brisbane needs you. He is in the chapel. Someone has poisoned Miss Emma and Miss Lucy with laudanum. He said to bring tea, masses of it, as hot as you can."

"And sweet," Aquinas said knowingly. "The sugar will help with the shock."

I blinked at him. "How do you—never mind. I do not wish to know. Bring enough for William IV. He has been dosed as well, but Brisbane says he is not as unwell as the ladies. Mind you are quiet. Brisbane does not wish to rouse the household."

I scurried back to the chapel, and in a remarkably short time, Aquinas appeared, bearing quantities of hot coffee and tea, both liberally sweetened. The three of us took turns for the next few hours walking the girls, slapping lightly at their faces and ladling hot drinks down them. They vomited often, but Brisbane merely commented that this was good and encouraged it. William IV slept on, rousing only to take a few cups of tea before resuming his slumbers. Aquinas hefted him onto his back and carried him to his own room, reasoning that the boy would have more privacy in the butler's room than the footmen's dormitory. Some hours before dawn something turned, and both Emma and Lucy seemed suddenly stronger. Their pulses were even now, and stronger, and Brisbane let Emma slide gently to the floor. "They are sleeping," he told me. He stretched then, like a bear rousing itself from winter sleep.

"This cannot have been good for your shoulder," I said softly. "You must be in pain."

He shrugged.

"I have methods," he said blandly. "The ladies ought not stay here," he observed. "It is too cold, and they will be vulnerable to a chill. Aquinas, you take Miss Lucy and I will carry Miss Emma. They will do well enough in their own room."

Aquinas moved quickly to take up Lucy as Brisbane hefted Emma up once more. I remained behind to clear up the traces of the unpleasantness, bone tired and moving as slowly as an old woman. It would be dawn in a few hours and the household would begin to stir. I washed the basin in the butler's pantry and realised I must return it to Brisbane's room before the gentlemen rose.

Once more I traversed the dormitory, scratching lightly at Brisbane's door. After a long moment he answered, still wearing his dressing gown and trousers.

"I have brought your basin."

He took it, but to my surprise, stepped aside. I moved wearily into the room and sank down into one of the armchairs by the fire. "So we may presume they were drugged intentionally. To what purpose?"

Brisbane took the chair opposite me. "Perhaps because they wished to escape the inevitable."

I stared at him. "I do not think I comprehend you. I am stupid with tiredness. Do you mean to suggest they took the laudanum on purpose?"

He shrugged. "Possibly. But unlikely. I could believe it except for the footman. If Emma had brought the drugged brandy into the chapel for the purpose of destroying herself and her sister, how did the boy come to drink it?"

I said nothing, but merely nibbled at my lip. It was a dreadful but alarmingly possible theory. Emma was just devoted enough to take Lucy's life to save her from the horror of a state execution. Naturally she would take her own life as well. I hated to admit it, but Brisbane might well have deduced it.

He passed a hand over his brow. I looked at him sharply.

"Headache?"

He smiled, a thin, wry twist of the lips. "Not yet. I have managed to keep them at bay for some time."

"A new medicine?" I asked hopefully.

"Of a sort."

I had discovered during our last investigation that Brisbane was prey to violent headaches, migraines of the most virulent type. After employing traditional medicines to no avail, he had been driven to more exotic methods.

He rose and rummaged in the wardrobe for a moment, returning with a peculiar piece of apparatus he placed on the floor in front of him. It was a tall, slender glass vessel, reaching as high as his knee and divided into a few chambers. Into one he poured some water. Then he fiddled with a live coal and a bit of silver paper and a small greenish-brown brick of some substance I did not recognise. There was a tube attached to the vessel ending in a carved mouthpiece. Brisbane put his mouth to it and drew in a breath. He did this a few more times, and after a moment I could detect a heavy, sweetish smell, very unlike his usual tobacco.

"I know what that is!" I cried suddenly. "It is a hookah!"

"And you know this from your many nights spent in opium dens?" he inquired blandly.

"Alice in Wonderland, actually," I admitted. "The caterpillar. 'You are old, Father William.'"

Brisbane said nothing but drew in a deep, languid breath. He held it in rather a long time, then exhaled slowly, letting a thin, sinuous plume of smoke curl over his head.

"That is not your usual tobacco," I pointed out.

He took another slow, sensual draw off the pipe. "It is called hashish. It is widely used in the East. In small doses it relieves pain and acts as a mild intoxicant."

"And in large doses?"

Brisbane shrugged. "Hallucinations, if one is stupid enough to take too much."

I was silent a moment, thinking of the one time I had seen Brisbane in the throes of a sick headache. Absinthe had been his drug of choice then, leaving him prey to hallucinatory stupors. The experience had been disturbing.

But as he smoked, I realised the hashish seemed to have no effect beyond a mellowing of his temper. He smoked slowly, and as I watched, his pupils dilated and he relaxed visibly. His posture eased, and his eyes, always expressive, seemed to take on a Byzantine slant. It was oddly fascinating. He might have been a sultan at his ease in a harim, and I his trembling concubine. The thought was a diverting one, but this was no time to pursue it.

He said nothing for a long while, then he removed the mouthpiece and held it out to me. I swallowed hard, then reached out and took it. His eyes never left mine as I pulled in a modest breath of sweet, heavy smoke. I coughed and my eyes watered, but by the second draw I was comfortable and by the third I held it, then blew the smoke out slowly between my lips.

He pulled the pipe out of my hands. "That is enough. I shall not be responsible for your corruption."

I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he waved me to silence.

"Now," he began, more briskly than I had expected, "let us theorise for a moment on why anyone else would wish to harm Lucy and Emma."

"Because they saw or know something they oughtn't," I said promptly.

"And who would wish to do that?"

I shrugged. "Poisoning is a woman's method. We must look to the ladies of the house."

"Not necessarily," he began to argue.

I persisted. "I think it was a woman. Moreover, I think she masquerades as a ghost." I paused, then took a deep breath. "I saw a phantom last night, at the end of the ladies' wing in the dorter. It was at least a head shorter than six feet, and the draperies were filmy stuff, wispy, like fingers of fog."

To his credit, Brisbane did not doubt me.

"What did it do?"

"It did nothing. It seemed to look at me, then it vanished."

He looked at me severely. "I would thank you to save the nursery stories for Charlotte. What did it do?"

"I simply mean it was there one moment, and not the next. It slipped behind a tapestry concealing a hidden passage. That particular passage leads to the lumber rooms in the scriptoria, and from there, one might go anywhere in the Abbey. The ghost might have been about some nefarious business. We have, after all, had a murder and two attempted murders since it appeared."

Brisbane shook his head slowly. "It is too early to theorise. We must know more. When the ladies have awakened tomorrow, they must be questioned, and the footman as well. And there is still a corpse to examine and the Reverend Twickham to call upon with the news of his curate's murder."

I gave him a smug smile. "That ghost is somehow connected to this ghastly business. And you will have to admit that I am right."

Brisbane said nothing, but resumed his pipe. The smoke curled around his head, thick and sweet. I felt suddenly light as a feather.

"Brisbane, honestly. I do not see how you can stand the smell of it. It makes me feel quite queer."

He gave me an enigmatic smile and regarded me through half-lidded eyes.

"'You'll get used to it in time.'"

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

—Hamlet

For the remainder of the night—what little there was of it—I slept as one dead. I do not know if it was due to the effects of Brisbane's exotic smoke, or simply fatigue from a broken night's rest, but I rose with a slight headache and heavy-lidded eyes. My first thought was of Aunt Hermia's jewels. I had hidden the lumpy little bundle under my pillow for safekeeping. I felt a stab of guilt when I realised I had forgotten to show them to Brisbane. Then I remembered his occasionally high-handed behaviour and smothered it. It would give me great pleasure to present him with the jewels and a reason for their presence among Snow's belongings.

I rose slowly, stretching and yawning widely enough to crack my jaws. Florence was lethargic as well, barely opening her eyes when Morag brought my morning tea. I waved scraps of buttered toast under the dog's nose, but she turned away, burrowing into the fur tippet with a sad little moan.

"Morag, I think Florence is ailing. Ask Cook for some beef tea. If she drinks that, then an egg, softly cooked, or a bit of chicken and potato."

Morag grumbled at the extra work, but dressed me quickly in a thick gown of black merino edged in velvet ribbon. When she turned back to the wardrobe, I tucked the bundle of Aunt Hermia's jewels into my pocket.

"And my boots. I may step out after breakfast," I told her, making up my mind then that I would accompany Brisbane when he called upon Uncle Fly to break the news of Snow's death.

"You'll not stir a foot outside," Morag said roundly. She went to the draperies and flung them back, rattling the rings on the pole. I went to her side and gasped.

"Heavens, it must have snowed all night."

"As near as. The moat is iced, but not solid enough to walk upon, and the gates are frozen shut. We'll none of us be leaving the Abbey today, not even poor Mr. Snow," she said, her expression mournful.

I stared out at the sullen winter landscape. I did not recognise the view at all. Rather than the sweep of lawns from the moat's edge to the formal gardens and woods, and then to the rolling Downs beyond, there was only softly billowing white, like a great pale ermine mantle draped over the landscape. The distinctive architectural features of the grounds—the statues and staircases, gates and urns—were shapeless white lumps. Beyond the formal gardens, the trees were black against the bleak grey sky, their bare branches encased in ice, like so many gnarled skeleton fingers. Just below my window, the waters of the moat moved black and fathomless beneath a paper-thin sheet of ice. Morag was unfortunately and entirely correct. We were housebound at Bellmont Abbey.

And Morag, who loved nothing better than a good disaster, smiled.

* * *

As soon as I left Morag, I made my way to Hortense's chamber. Mindful of Brisbane's instructions not to speak of Emma and Lucy's ordeal, I went to her only for comfort. Hortense's presence was a balm to the most wounded spirit, and I had neglected her terribly since I had returned home. She had been given the Empire Room, perhaps as a compliment to her native country. It was elegant in its simplicity and perfectly suited to set off Hortense's serene beauty. The walls were hung with lily-strewn striped silk, pink and white, and the floor was warmed with an Aubusson, a relic from Madame de Pompadour's apartment at Versailles, if legend was to be believed.

Hortense opened the door at once, her lovely face wreathed in smiles.

"Julia! How lovely to see you. I was just having my morning chocolate. You must have a cup." She was dressed in a morning gown of lilac velvet with a little frill of silver lace at the neck. She resumed her seat and patted the sofa beside her. I sank onto it gratefully.

"We have had so little time to speak, my dear," she chided gently. She poured a cup of thick, frothy chocolate and I sipped at it, feeling the warmth of it clear through to my bones.

"I know. I have missed you as well. And you have been an angel to take on Aunt Dorcas. She is the most terrible old fright, and you are a guest. You should not have to sit with her and pretend to enjoy it."

Hortense did not settle back into the sofa as I had. Even at sixty her posture was exquisite. She perched on the edge, her spine straight as a dancer's. When she reached for her cup, it was like something out of a ballet.

"My dear, it is nothing. She is not such an ogre, you know. She still has some scandalous gossip, though how she manages, living in such isolation, I cannot imagine."

"Well, you are a better woman than I."

We fell quiet a moment, companionable in silence as we sipped at our chocolate.

"I do hope you've given Aquinas your receipt. This is divine," I told her finally.

"I shall do so before I leave, I promise you. And now I know what to give you for Christmas. I've far too many chocolate pots and some of them are very pretty. You must choose your favourite."

I did not insult her by protesting. Although she lived like a lady of means, in truth Hortense's funds were rather thinly stretched. A number of her former lovers, Brisbane included, provided her with annuities, but the sums were not great, and she performed little economies from time to time, such as passing along a treasured possession rather than shopping in the costly establishments on Bond Street. As her things were invariably expensive and her taste was exquisite, I did not mind.

"He is looking well," Hortense said softly. I wondered if thinking of Brisbane had conjured the idea of him.

"Absolutely. Pity about his shoulder, but I am sure he will be perfectly recovered soon enough."

"I was very surprised to hear of his elevation."

I shrugged. "It is not so uncommon. It is the Prime Minister who decides such things. If Brisbane was useful enough in diverting some scandal or righting some wrong, he would wish to show his gratitude."

Hortense was pensive, but even in thought, she was careful not to furrow her brow. Years of strict discipline had kept her face unlined and smooth as a girl's. I tried once to copy her. For an entire day I neither smiled nor frowned. By teatime, I had a vicious headache and resigned myself to wrinkles.

"Still, Nicholas is not so very highly born."

"Not on his mother's side, no. But his father is the grandson of a duke, and his great-uncle, the present duke, still has considerable influence. If he decided to press for the honours, the Prime Minister might well oblige him."

"Perhaps. Your cup is empty, chérie. May I pour for you again?"

I held out my cup, watching her slim, elegant white hands as she poured. I had accused her once of using witchcraft to keep her beauty, and it did not seem an entirely ridiculous notion. She was lovelier at sixty than any woman of my acquaintance half her age. Even her hands bore little trace of her years. They were smooth and unblemished, as fine as the porcelain she held.

"Do you look for a ring?" she teased.

"No, of course not," I lied, taking my cup and drinking deeply to cover my confusion. I scalded my tongue.

Hortense smiled at me in spite of herself. "I am not betrothed to your father, you know. And I never will be."

"Hortense, I am sorry. It is none of my concern."

She waved a hand. No jewels sparkled there, but at her wrist she wore a lovely cameo set with diamonds that seemed vaguely familiar.

"Of course it is, my dear. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be your stepmama. But to do so, I would have to marry your father, and that is something neither of us has a mind to do."

I set the cup into the saucer carefully. "Then you've spoken of it?"

She lifted a velvet-clad shoulder. "Naturellement. But I am a woman very much in love with my freedom, and Hector is a man very much in love with his wife."

I blinked hard, and when I spoke my voice sounded thick to my own ears. "He still loves Mother?"

Hortense's smile was patient as a Botticelli Madonna's. "He is a very loyal man, your father. He has a great heart, and there is a tiny corner of it for me. That is enough for both of us."

I sipped at my chocolate, feeling suddenly very relieved. "You really do not wish to marry him?"

Hortense's eyes danced with mischief. "And have to endure his family? Absolutely not. You are all quite mad."

She winked at me and laughed her sweet, silvery laugh. When she sobered, she wagged a finger at me.

"I should be very cross with you. Never once in your letters did you mention the delicious Conte di Fornacci. I think you are the black horse."

I blinked at her. "Ah. Dark horse. Yes, I suppose. It was all very simple really. He is a friend to Lysander and Plum. He very kindly showed us all over Florence, and when we moved on to Lombardy, it seemed quite natural to invite him along."

"Hmm." That one little syllable held a world of meaning within it.

I gave her a severe look. "He is a friend."

"And do you mean to return to Italy with this friend?" she asked, drawing out the last word ever so slightly.

My cheeks were hot again. "I do not know. It was discussed, but circumstances may have changed now," I replied, thinking of Violante's new expectations. "He has asked me," I mumbled into my cup.

Hortense tipped her head and gave me a long, thoughtful look. "You should take a lover."

I choked on my chocolate, and it was a long moment before I regained my composure. "How precisely did we move from you possibly becoming my stepmother to advising me on my amours?"

She tapped my knee. "I am a woman of the world, chérie. There is nothing I have not seen, and very little I have not done. Think on what I have said."

"I imagine I should have trouble forgetting it."

Hortense pulled a face. "Now you will be English and proper again. We are not supposed to speak of such things. Very well. I too can be English. We shall talk about the weather. It is cold."

In spite of myself I laughed. "You are very silly, Hortense. And very good to care what happens to me."

For an instant, the cool mask slipped, and I saw real affection in her eyes. "I like to think if I had ever had a daughter, she might have been something like you."

I reached out and took her hand. It was smooth and supple in mine, and smelled of summer roses.

"Of course, she would dress better. That gown," she said, clucking her tongue. "So severe, so masculine in the cut."

I wrinkled my nose at her. "I happen to like this gown. I bought it in Milan. It is very smart."

Hortense gave me the gently raised eyebrows that indicated disagreement, then squeezed my hand. "You used to call me Fleur, like my closest friends. You must do so again or I shall think you are cross with me."

I rose and dropped a kiss on the top of her beautifully coiffed head. "I could never be cross with you. Now I must fly. I have nearly missed breakfast altogether."

I moved to the door, but before my fingers touched the knob, she spoke. "He does not love her, you know. He never did."

I went quite still, my back turned to her. "It is his own affair, Fleur. I am no part of it."

"Still, I thought you should know. He has said nothing to me, of course, but I have known him since he was a boy. He has not changed so much that I cannot read him."

A flash of memory from the previous night, his lips, his hands, his breath coming hard and ragged after he kissed me. Then I thought of Charlotte and the burden of guilt he still carried from our first investigation.

Ruthlessly, I pushed the thought of him away and reached for the knob.

"As I said, it is no affair of mine."

She made no reply. I did not blame her. It was a foolish lie. It did not deserve a response.

* * *

As soon as I left Hortense's room, I met Portia just coming from her room. Outwardly unruffled, her eyes were snapping and the tiny jet drops at her ears trembled violently.

"Oh, dear. Whatever is the matter?"

We fell into step as we descended the stairs.

"What isn't? Aquinas has informed me that none of the staff from the village will be able to make it in today, so we are lacking two footmen, four maids, and a boot boy. Dear brother Benedick trudged from the Home Farm to shout the news that the telegraph line at Blessingstoke has collapsed under the snow, so I cannot send to London for anything we should require. And, no great surprise, Cook is threatening to quit because there is a dead man in the game larder. As an interesting side note, Violante has packed her bags and is demanding to be taken to the station at once and put on the first ship back to Italy."

"Pressing problems indeed," I agreed.

"And one of the cats has given birth, quite nastily, in the linen cupboard."

"How sweet! Which one?"

She gave me an arch look. "Christopher Sly. Which is all rather odd, as Father was quite certain he was a tom."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose the most immediate concern is Violante. Is she still upset?"

Portia shrugged. "How the devil should I know? I coaxed her back to her room and sent for Lysander to manage her, but she kept babbling on about dead men in the game larder and how such things aren't done in Italy."

I tipped my head, musing. "I wonder where they house their murder victims then? In the scullery? Or perhaps the laundry? No, altogether too hot there, I should think."

"There is no cause for flippancy, Julia. I have a headache that has begun at my knees and gone right over the top of my head and back down again. I do not look for improvements as the day goes on."

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I patted her arm. "I shouldn't worry about the staff. They will be snug enough in the village, and heaven knows we've plenty of hands to keep this place running without them. And don't mind too much about Violante. I have no doubt it's her pregnancy making her hysterical."

Portia sighed heavily. "I suspected she was breeding. I have never seen anyone eat so many pickled chestnuts. Her fingers were quite shrivelled from them. I suppose I had best go speak to Cook and make certain we've plenty more of them."

"While you're about it, assure her the body will be removed as soon as possible. And tell Aquinas to make certain the staff are given black armbands to wear as a token of respect for Mr. Snow."

Portia put her hands on her hips, giving a perfect impression of one of the maids in a pet. "Any more instructions, missus?"

"Do make certain the linen cupboard door is kept shut. I shouldn't like Florence to get a taste for kittens."

She put out her tongue at me and moved to turn away.

"One last thing, dearest. Do you know where Aunt Hermia keeps that funny little jade monkey Uncle Leonato brought her from China?"

Portia threw up her hands in exasperation. "Really, Julia, of all the impossibly stupid things to wonder about." She paused and thought, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Oh, very well. The last time I saw it, she kept it on her night table."

"And the amber beads from Russia?"

"In a box next to the monkey." She started to tap her toe on the carpet.

"And the coral bracelet from the Java Sea?" I pressed.

"In her knickers."

I gave her a sour look. "You might be a little more helpful, Portia."

"Well, honestly. She isn't even here. Why you would ask about her little trinkets is beyond me. If you are so keen on them, have a look for yourself. You know she would not mind. Now, I really must go and find something for my head."

"Ask Brisbane," I called after her sweetly. "He has a new cure I think would suit you perfectly."

* * *

In the end, I had no time and little stomach for breakfast. I had thought to make a dash into the dining room for a bit of toast, but the notion of Lucian Snow, lying cold and possibly bloated in the game larder put me firmly off the idea.

The game larder itself had been fashioned into a crude sort of laboratory. A stone counter ran the length of the room. On it, propped against the walls, was a quantity of mirrors, from tiny things fit for a lady's reticule to enormous looking-glasses taken from the dressing rooms. In front of these were as many lamps as the counter could hold. The effect was dazzling, so bright I blinked as I entered the room.

Brisbane was already there, dressed in shirtsleeves and making an adjustment to one of the lamps. He grunted when I came in but did not look up. I turned my gaze firmly away from the sheet-draped figure on the table. I noticed a small table had been brought in and laid with a clean white cloth. Brisbane's leather case was there, and a book with a mouldy green cover. A few instruments such as tweezers and scissors had been arranged neatly on the cloth. I did not look further to see what else might lurk there.

"There are aprons on the hook behind the door," Brisbane said finally. "Put yours on and bring the other for me."

I put out my tongue behind his back and went to the door. The aprons were not the dainty pinafores the maids wore, but the thick white canvas affairs the footmen donned for the most menial chores. It was not until I was halfway back, aprons in hand, that I realised what he had said.

"Brisbane, surely I do not need an apron. I mean, I won't be—"

He turned, raising a brow coolly at me. "Of course you will. I have one good hand and his lordship is not at liberty to assist."

He put out his hand for the apron.

"What do you mean Father is not here? What else could he have to do?"

Brisbane's nostrils flared in impatience. "He was speaking with Miss Lucy and Miss Emma. I rose early this morning and told him about the drugged brandy. But now I believe he is searching for Lady Dorcas. The upstairs maid says she has disappeared."

I stared at him, clutching the aprons in nerveless fingers.

"Disappeared? Are you quite serious?"

"As the grave. My apron?" He put out his hand again and I thrust it at him, my mind whirling.

"Where could she have gone? The gates are frozen shut and the moat is covered in ice. She cannot have gone far."

"Then she is probably quite safe."

Brisbane whipped a quick knot into the strings at the neck of the apron, then looped it over his head, mussing a lock of hair onto his brow. He reached his good arm behind his back, then gestured for me to help him. I crossed behind him, reaching around him for the strings. For such a large man, his waist was narrow, and I crossed the strings, moving in front of him to tie them securely. He said nothing, but I glanced up to see the hint of a smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.

"Brisbane, how can you be so calm? She is an elderly lady, and that was a killing storm. She might be frozen in a snowdrift for all we know."

Brisbane moved to the little table and opened the book. "Put on your apron. This might prove a little unpleasant and that is a very nice gown."

I obeyed him, my fingers stiff with cold and dread. When the apron was secure, I went to his side, peering over his shoulder at the book. I was instantly sorry.

"I haven't given up on the subject of Aunt Dorcas," I warned him. "But this is a more immediate problem," I said, waving a hand from the hideous plates in the book to the motionless figure on the table. "I do not think I can do this."

Brisbane looked at me severely. "Did you not insist to me just last evening that you would have your part in this investigation?"

I clamped my lips together against the faint smell emanating from the body. I nodded.

"Very well. This is part of an investigation. That body may hold information for us, and if it does, I mean to find it."

I swallowed hard, terribly grateful I had eschewed breakfast. "But you cannot possibly, that is to say, those pictures are quite specific and very, erm, thorough. I really think only a trained physician should make such an extensive examination. And don't you think the authorities will notice if you cut him like that?"

Brisbane looked back at the book. After a moment he nodded, reluctantly, I fancied. "They might at that. Very well. I shall not perform a proper post-mortem. But I will do everything else. Now, you must be my hands."

For the next hour I did as I was told. I started by unpinning my sleeves. When I rolled the first above my elbow, Brisbane's eyes lingered for the briefest moment on the soft white skin at my wrist. I glanced up when I turned back the second, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the book in his hand, and from that moment on his manner toward me was coolly proper.

"Begin by drawing back the sheet," he instructed quietly. "Fold it down all the way, and mind you don't disarrange anything further."

I reached a hand to touch the sheet, then drew it back sharply. "I know it is just a fancy, but I thought it moved."

Brisbane looked up from the book. "If this is too much for you, I can ask Aquinas."

I shook my head, forcing myself to take in one slow breath, then release it calmly. "No. If you can do this, so can I."

I would have expected a tiny spark of admiration in his gaze for that little speech, but his nose was buried in his book again, and I rolled my eyes. This time, I approached the sheet and removed it, as crisply as any housemaid about her chores.

Following his explicit instructions, I loosened Mr. Snow's clothing, removing his evening jacket, waistcoat and neckcloth. I felt them carefully, but the pockets were empty. I laid them aside and steeled myself for what must come.

"Wait," Brisbane said, bending swiftly over the body.

"What is it?" I demanded, elbowing Brisbane a little. His expression was grim. "There."

He pointed to Lucian Snow's neck. Bruises blossomed around the throat, heavy blackish-purple things, livid against the pale skin. It was clear, even to my amateur's eyes, that they were finger marks, borne in with great pressure.

"What fools we have been," Brisbane muttered.

I stared at the bruises, my mind working furiously. "Lucy could not have done that."

Brisbane rose, stroking his jaw. It was darkly shadowed, as if he had shaved quickly and without particular care that morning. It was oddly attractive.

"No, she could not. And those bruises would not have shown half so violently if he had been strangled after death." Brisbane took his good right hand and fitted it to the bruises, his own handspan matching the marks nearly perfectly. I could almost see the crime in my mind's eye, the murderer, facing Lucian Snow, bearing down upon him, crushing the life out of him as they stared into each other's eyes.

Abruptly, Brisbane moved to Lucian's head. Before I could look away, he had turned the head and was probing the wound gently. I swallowed hard, refusing the heaving insistence of my stomach. After a moment, Brisbane drew back his hand and shook his head.

"There is a bit of a depression here where the bone was broken, and a fair amount of blood matted in his hair."

"He was struck down before he was strangled?" I asked.

Brisbane nodded. "A fair hypothesis, I think. Had he been struck after death, there would have been very little blood."

"To what purpose?" I asked.

"To incapacitate him," he replied. "A blow there would have rendered Snow unconscious, an easy victim for his killer. And that would explain why there is only one handprint," Brisbane added. "The murderer did not require both hands to subdue him."

I looked at Brisbane's left arm, firmly strapped to his chest and blinked. He marked the glance.

"Yes, my lady, I am the obvious suspect," he said, a trifle acidly. "Is my word good enough, or would you care for an alibi? I seem to remember I was with you when Snow was murdered."

"Sorry," I mumbled. I ducked my head to hide my blushes.

"The question is, if the girl could not have killed him by strangulation, and the blow struck with the candelabrum was landed before he died, what did she see?"

I began to pace the room, putting a little distance between myself and the gruesome relic on the table.

"Either Lucy was an accomplice, perhaps striking the blow with the candelabrum herself, remaining behind when her partner fled…" I began.

That mesmerizing pair of eyes fixed on me intently. "Or she did not touch him, but is taking the blame upon herself for another's crime," I finished.

I could not imagine Lucy creeping up on a man and striking him viciously with a candelabrum. Of course, until the previous night, I would have thought her incapable of any violence at all. I was rapidly revising my opinion of her. My first investigation had taught me the unlikeliest of suspects may be the most culpable.

"It may have all happened quite quickly," Brisbane said. "The murderer strikes Lucian Snow with the candelabrum, then finishes him off with a carefully placed hand to the throat. He is free to leave, perhaps without a spot of blood upon him. He might have slipped past Lucy in the darkness, or if he heard her coming, he had only to duck into one of the empty rooms along the nave and wait until the hue and cry was raised when the body was discovered. In the meantime, Lucy could have entered the chapel, found the body and, with a striking lack of good sense, picked up the candelabrum and implicated herself in a murder."

"Or," I said slowly, "Lucy might have been there all along. She may have seen the strangler at work, and stayed behind to make certain the deed was finished with a savage blow of the candelabrum once the murderer departed."

I looked up to find Brisbane regarding me with a curious mixture of distaste and admiration.

"That is the most gruesome notion yet. And it took a woman to think of it. No, it will not signify. I still maintain the blow with the candelabrum was struck before he died. The coroner may have a different opinion on the matter, but I am convinced."

The rest of the examination was swiftly carried out. I obeyed Brisbane's instructions dispassionately, as though I was comfortable handling lifeless things. To my everlasting relief, Brisbane at least observed the propriety of not having me strip the body completely. He asked me only to remove Snow's shirt. I busied myself tidying Snow's things while Brisbane examined the torso beneath the flannel undergarment. It was over more quickly than I had expected, and the conclusions were inescapable: Lucian Snow had been, to all appearances, a healthy man, killed in his prime by strangulation.

Brisbane's eyes were alight with an enthusiasm I knew well. Rather than a straightforward murder, this crime was something more puzzling. There was a challenge here, and Brisbane loved nothing more than a knotty problem to untangle.

"I suppose the first order of business is to speak with Lucy and Emma," I said at length.

"Indeed," Brisbane said, "although I suspect they will not have much to contribute. Still, there may be something useful there. I will take the footman."

"You mean you do not object to my questioning Lucy and Emma?" I asked, astonished.

He gave me the slow, lazy stare one might give to a backward child. "I cannot. They are unmarried ladies confined to their bedchamber."

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that my undressing a dead man could hardly be considered proper, but I did not. It was enough that he had acknowledged the necessity of my role in the investigation. In truth, I felt a little deflated. He had capitulated so easily. I had girded myself for a fight.

I looked at Brisbane. He was gazing down at the body of Lucian Snow rather thoughtfully. Then he reached out and twitched the sheet over the still, white face.

He turned to me, his eyes quite black in the magnified light of the mirror-lit larder. "You must find out everything that they might try to conceal. Be ruthless. Leave them no secrets to cling to, use whatever tactics you must. No man deserves that fate," he finished with a flicker of his gaze toward the shrouded form.

I glanced from Lucian Snow's remains to Brisbane's implacable face. "I will not fail," I told him firmly.

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

Truth will come to sight, murder cannot be long hid.

—The Merchant of Venice

I was surprised to find Sir Cedric standing outside Lucy and Emma's door, shouting at the footman who barred his way. Sir Cedric was clearly in a temper, his usually ruddy complexion dark red at the ears and nose. The footman, William V, I think it was, looked at me with something like desperation.

"Good morning, Sir Cedric," I greeted. "Is there something I can do for you?"

He looked from the footman to me with narrowed eyes, silent for a moment as if he were trying to place an unfamiliar face. Tiny flecks of saliva had gathered at the corners of his mouth, and I felt a little rush of pity for Lucy.

"Lady Julia. I have a mind to see my fiancée, but this buffoon will not open the door to me."

I cleared my throat gently. "Well, it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances."

His complexion darkened further still and I began to fear he would have an apoplexy, an eventuality too gruesome to consider. To begin with, there would be no place to store another body.

"The circumstances are, my fiancée is ill, and no one will give me news of her and she will not see me."

I gave him my most winsome smile. "How terribly frustrating for you. Why don't you go and have a cup of coffee, or perhaps a nice cigar? I will speak with Lucy and bring you news of her straightaway."

The narrow eyes relaxed a little. "Will you? Straightaway?"

I patted his arm, drawing him away from the door. The footman seemed to sag a little in relief. "I promise. Sometimes ladies do have these little indispositions. I am sure it is nothing for you to concern yourself about."

"She better not have taken a chill in that chapel last night. I warned March not to leave her there, and if she falls ill from it, I shall know who to blame," he warned me.

I smiled again. "Lucy has suffered a very great shock, and we all want what is best for her. Now, you go and make yourself quite comfortable and I will do what I can."

He thanked me grudgingly and took his leave, glancing back once or twice darkly at the footman. When he had rounded the corner of the dorter, the boy leaned against the door.

"Oh, thank you, my lady. I could not make him understand that Lord March said to admit no one except yourself or a maid. I thought I would have to hit him, and I do not think his lordship would have approved of that."

I smiled at his earnestness. "You might be surprised, William. Has anyone else attempted to see the Misses Phipps?"

He thought for a moment. "No, my lady. The maid brought them a tray for breakfast, and Lord March was here very early to look in on the ladies."

"Very good. And how long have you been here?"

"Mr. Aquinas fetched me out of bed a few hours before dawn to keep watch and let no one past. He said it was on Lord Wargrave's orders, and when Lord March came he said that Lord Wargrave had been quite right."

I nodded. "Excellent. You were perfectly right to refuse Sir Cedric."

He blushed with pleasure. "Thank you, my lady." He stepped aside smartly and opened the door for me.

The room was warm and quiet, and I moved inside, motioning for William V to close the door softly behind me.

"Julia," came a feeble voice from the bed. I approached, surprised to find Emma awake. Lucy slumbered on, curled as tightly as a puppy against her sister. Emma held out her hand to me and I took it. It was cool and light as a bird.

"How are you feeling?" I asked her in a whisper. Lucy stirred but did not wake.

Emma gave a short shake of the head. "As well as one may expect. Uncle March was here earlier. He explained about the laudanum in the brandy."

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and I tightened my hand over hers. She smiled mistily at me.

"Julia, I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to us."

I hesitated. I did not like to pose such a question, but it must be asked. "Then you did not…" My voice trailed off.

She shook her head, almost angrily. "Of course not. How could I do such a thing to my Lucy?" She turned her head on the pillow to look at her sister nestled against her.

"I am sorry, Emma. It was a possibility, you know."

She closed her eyes. "I know." We sat in silence so long I began to think she had drifted into sleep. But then she opened her eyes and looked at me.

"That would have been the coward's way, and I am no coward," she said, more to herself than to me.

Before I could reply, Lucy stirred and raised herself a little. "Lie down, dearest," Emma told her. "You must not tire yourself."

Lucy obeyed, and I moved around to her side of the bed. She turned, giving me a sad, sleepy smile. "Hullo, Julia."

I moved straight to the heart of the matter. "Lucy, I know this has been a terrible shock for you, but you must know that your family stand with you. We know you did not do this thing."

She laid the back of her arm to her brow, staring up at the ceiling. She made no reply, and I went on. "Lucian Snow was not killed by your hand. We know this for a fact. The evidence says he died of strangulation, by a hand much larger and stronger than yours."

Without preamble, a sob erupted from her, tearing from her throat. She folded in half, her face to her knees, keening. Emma started for her, but I put an arm about Lucy's shoulder.

"I do not know why you claimed you did this, but we know you did not. And we will make certain the authorities know it as well."

Suddenly, Lucy stumbled from the bed to the washstand and began to retch. She had eaten nothing, but she doubled over, heaving until the spell passed. Emma went to her and stroked her back, murmuring soothing things until she finished. Then I handed her my handkerchief to mop her face. When she was done, she looked a great deal more lucid than she had since we had discovered her bending over Lucian's body.

She returned to the bed, and when Emma had tucked the coverlets firmly about her, Lucy clutched at my hand, pressing it to her hot face. "Oh, Julia, I do not know what happened. All I remember is leaving the drawing room to play sardines, then a great blackness. There is simply nothing there until I came to when you found me, standing there…" She broke off, her voice catching, but with a great effort of will she mastered it. "I have thought and thought, but I cannot retrieve any memory of the time between. I only know that I saw him there, broken, and I knew I had struck him. I knew that I must have done something unspeakable."

I thought of the Easter holidays Lucy and Emma had spent with us as children, of the little nothings that sometimes went missing, children's trinkets, but usually something of sentimental value. I thought of how Lucy's nose always itched when she lied about whether she had seen them. Always, that telltale little twitch, giving her away. I watched her now, pressing the handkerchief hard against the tip of her nose.

"Did you see anyone when you were playing sardines?"

Lucy shrugged helplessly. "I do not know. I have no memory of it." She scrubbed at her nose. "It is so cold here," she said apologetically, not quite meeting my eyes.

We talked for a long time. Emma said nothing. Perhaps she knew how important it was for the questions to be asked, and answered. I questioned Lucy by every possible method, but her answers were always the same. She had quit the lesser drawing room alone. From the time she left until the time Brisbane and I had discovered her with the candelabrum, she had no memory whatsoever—not of sound or sight, nor even scent. After awhile she began to droop, and I took pity on her.

I rose and Emma threw me a grateful look. "Lucy, you must eat something. You also, Emma. It's very important to keep up your strength. I promise you, we will discover the truth."

Emma smiled her thanks, but Lucy was not looking at me. She was staring at the ceiling again, her eyes fixed once more on the slender web of hammerbeams that hung above her head.

* * *

Luncheon was an understandably solemn affair. Father had said nothing about Aunt Dorcas, but to my astonishment, he seemed angry rather than worried. Violante sulked openly while Lysander chewed his fingernails and did not even pretend to eat. Plum pushed the food around his plate as he shot significant glances at Charlotte King. That worried me a trifle. Plum was subject to occasional fancies, not the least of which was a penchant for the role of Galahad. He loved nothing better than to rescue damsels in distress, and Charlotte bore all the hallmarks of a lady in need of a knight. She was a comely, vivacious widow whose engagement was likely at an end, marooned in the middle of Sussex with a houseful of people she scarcely knew and a murderer. Even more worrisome, she did nothing to discourage Plum. Instead she alternated hurt, puzzled looks at Brisbane with gazes of mute longing toward my brother. With such a performance, it was a wonder she was able to eat at all, but I noticed she managed to tuck away three helpings of the curried lamb. If she was not careful, she would soon have to let out her stays, I thought spitefully.

For his part, Brisbane was entirely indifferent. He too ate three helpings of the lamb, as well as a sizeable portion of roast potatoes and an enormous plate of cherry tarts with almond cream. Father managed a bit of everything, but he seemed distracted, putting mustard on his peas and salt on his dessert. He ate it anyway, and I noticed Hortense doing her best to amuse him. From time to time he smiled wearily at her, and I looked away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. It was apparent to me now that he needed her, and I was pleased to find that I was comfortable with the notion. I turned to Alessandro then, sorry to find him quiet and withdrawn. The murder had upset him terribly, and from the hollow look about his eyes, I thought it entirely possible he had not slept at all the previous night. I did my best to entice him into conversation, but his replies were succinct to the point of backwardness, and after a few minutes I gave up.

Understandably, Sir Cedric and Henry were quiet, eating stolidly, without contribution to the conversation or any apparent pleasure in their food. I had not yet had a chance to speak with Sir Cedric about Lucy, and he spent most of the luncheon hour shooting me significant glances. I tried giving him a reassuring nod, but he simply redoubled his efforts. I ignored them and toyed with my food, too often putting my fork down still laden; the image of Snow's cold corpse was yet too vivid and too many unanswered questions lingered in my mind. Portia heroically took on the chore of steering the conversation, butterflying from subject to subject, skillfully avoiding any topics which might be awkward. I suppose that is how we arrived at the subject of Christmas again, and Charlotte's role in the stirring up of the puddings.

"So very kind of you to lend a hand," Portia finished brightly.

I speared a bit of potato and pushed it around the plate.

"My dearest mama always taught me, 'One must lend a hand wherever one can,'" Charlotte put in earnestly.

I threw Brisbane a hateful look. I still could not quite believe he had taken the trouble to propose marriage to her. She was ridiculous, with her cloying sweetness and her silly platitudes. She could not have held his attention for the duration of a fish course, much less the rest of their lives.

Lysander roused himself then. "Who is expected for Christmas? I am rather surprised we have not seen Benedick and his brood yet."

Benedick, perhaps the favourite of my brothers, lived on the Home Farm, the other side of the Abbey from Blessingstoke. He had been conspicuously absent of late. I missed him, and his delightful wife. My nieces and nephews were another matter altogether. They were like very good, aged cognac: delicious, but only in very small doses.

"Benedick's lot are in quarantine," Portia advised him. "Measles. They look to be recovered by Christmas, but if they come, Olivia and her family will not."

I blinked at her. It was not like Benedick to be at odds with any of our siblings. Most of us quarrelled with one another from time to time, but Benedick was usually the only one on speaking terms with everybody.

"Olivia's children infected his with measles," Portia explained. "Benedick made some remark about the stupidity of taking one's children visiting when they've come out in spots, and she took it rather badly."

"I see," I said, poking at a piece of lamb. "What of the rest of them?"

Portia laid down her fork and began to tick them off on her fingers.

"Bellmont is in London for the little season. He has parliamentary duties and cannot get away. Olivia and Benedick we have spoken of. Nerissa is unwell," she said with a lift of the brows. I took her meaning instantly. Unlike most of our sisters, Nerissa did not bear children easily. For every healthy living child, there had been a handful of miscarriages. She had adopted the habit of taking to her bed during each pregnancy, and if she was breeding again, we would not see her again until the child was christened.

"Lysander, Plum, you, and I are here, Julia," she said, nodding at me and continuing to tick off her fingers. "Beatrice is being set upon by all of her husband's family. They are descending to Cornwall en masse for the holiday, and there is no chance of her escaping them. That leaves only Valerius, and he has not yet made up his mind whether to spend Christmas in the bosom of his family or dosing the lower orders in Whitehall."

"So many Marches," Violante murmured.

"Indeed," Father replied. I did not know if Lysander had informed him yet of Violante's expectations, but from the kindly way Father was regarding her, I suspected he had. Father adored grandchildren, and the only thing that made him happier than being covered in them was escaping them and spending an afternoon locked in his study while they overran the Abbey like savages.

At least that was one family matter settled, I thought as I stared irritably at my peas. I could not imagine why I should feel so twitchy, so bad-tempered. I could have cheerfully thrown my cutlery at someone's head, and it was only when the dessert dishes were being cleared that I realised it was because I was frustrated. Luncheon, a lengthy family affair, had interrupted my burgeoning investigation, and what I wanted most, what I craved, was time alone to puzzle over the pieces I had collected and fit them together.

The coffee was replenished, and I had just made up my mind to excuse myself when Aquinas entered, Morag hard on his heels. Aquinas' expression was as carefully schooled as ever, but his wiry grey hair was ever so slightly dishevelled, and his cuffs were not shot. Morag looked faintly deranged.

Aquinas made straight for my father, bent to his ear, and whispered. Father listened, then murmured, half to himself, "Good God, not this too."

He waved a hand. "Tell Lady Julia. Something ought to be done to recover them." He covered his face with a hand.

Around the table, cups and spoons stilled, conversation halted. Every face swivelled to face Aquinas expectantly. He cleared his throat.

"I regret to inform you," he began, but Morag interrupted, her bony cheeks hot with indignation.

"Something of great value is missing in this house!" she announced to the assembled company. She paused, glancing slowly around the table, holding everyone's gaze in a gesture Sarah Siddons would have envied. When she had circled the entire table, her eyes flashing, she lifted her chin and proclaimed, "The Grey Pearls have been stolen!"

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

All that you meet are thieves.

—Timon of Athens

To say that pandemonium broke out would be an understatement of the grossest kind. Naturally, I blamed Morag.

I rose and took her by the elbow, dragging her toward the potted palm in the corner. "What do you mean by coming in here and making an announcement like a character in a melodrama? What must our guests think?"

She wrenched her elbow from my grasp and folded her arms over her chest. "There is a dead man stinking in the game larder," she reminded me sourly. "I hardly think a few missing pearls will be the ruin of this house party."

"He does not stink," I told her severely. "At least not much."

A mêlée had erupted at the table behind us. Sir Cedric had apparently tired of holding his temper and was shouting at Father, calling him Fagin and asking what sort of house he kept where innocent men were murdered and ladies' jewels went missing. Father shouted back, calling him a jumped-up boot boy (a barbed reference to the fortune Sir Cedric made in selling cheap shoes to the working classes) while Hortense and Ludlow were busy coaxing them apart. Meanwhile, Violante was scolding Lysander in her native language in extremely colourful terms if Alessandro's expression was any indication, and Plum had taken advantage of the pandemonium to cover Charlotte's hand with his own.

Brisbane left them all to it and joined me. Morag bobbed him a clumsy curtsey, but her expression softened a touch. She would never admit it, but she was fond of Brisbane—for his slight Scottish burr, if nothing else.

"M'lord," she murmured.

"Morag, always a pleasure," he said as if he meant it. "When did you notice her ladyship's jewels were missing?"

"Just now. I went to do her chamber—"

"You just now went to do my chamber?" I interrupted. As my lady's maid, it was Morag's duty to bring my morning tea, help me dress, then tidy the room and prepare my clothes for the afternoon. The fact that she had not touched my room until luncheon was highly unusual.

"I had to tend the wee doggie," she informed me loftily. "She would only sip at the beef tea. Three trips I made to the kitchens for food for that animal. And then she had to—" She broke off, colouring slightly as she glanced at Brisbane. "She had to you know, and I took her to the courtyard, only she would not put a paw on the snow. She kept rolling over and staggering until I finally scraped the snow out of one of those great stone boxes and found some greenery. I put her there and she did what nature expects."

I rolled my eyes heavenward. "That bit of greenery was Father's prized hare topiary."

"Was it so? It did have a look of a rabbit, now that you mention it," Morag mused.

Brisbane cleared his throat. The muscle in his jaw was not yet jumping, but it was twitching ever so slightly.

"Morag, kindly tell his lordship everything he needs to know about the pearls."

The chaos behind us had eased to a mild roar, and it appeared Father and Sir Cedric were organising a truce. Father had stopped shouting and Sir Cedric had resumed his seat, his colour still alarmingly high.

Morag clucked her tongue, thinking hard. "Well, this morning, after I tended the wee doggie, I realised I had best look sharpish about finishing Lady Julia's room because luncheon was nearly over. I went in with a bit of underlinen—" she whispered the word "—and that was when I realised the pearls were not on the dressing table."

"What do you mean they were not on the dressing table? You did not put them away first thing this morning? They ought to have been locked up as soon as you finished dressing me."

She pursed her lips. "And how was I supposed to do that and tend to Florence? You said to take care of the doggie."

"Because I thought you understood the pearls were to be taken care of immediately."

"But you did not say so," Morag countered, her expression triumphant.

"I did not think I had to," I said through gritted teeth. "I assumed you knew a parure of pearls worth thousands of pounds would be of a higher priority than ministering to the needs of a dog."

"And you are quite certain the pearls were there this morning?" Brisbane cut in smoothly.

Morag and I paused, staring at one another.

"Now that you mention it…" she began.

"Oh, no," I moaned. I had removed the pearls myself the previous evening, dropping them onto the dressing table when I had collected Morag to take her to the chapel to sit with Lucy. I could not say with certainty I had seen them since.

Morag shook her head. "No, m'lord. They were gone when I brought the tea things this morning."

Brisbane's eyes narrowed. "You are quite certain?"

She nodded. "I am. I remember now. I did not have to move them aside to put down the tea tray. Lady Julia put them square in the middle of the table last night. If they had been there this morning, they would have been in my way."

Brisbane thought for a moment. "That will do for now, Morag."

She bobbed another curtsey and fled, giving me one last nasty look over her shoulder.

"I cannot believe they are gone. So careless," I fretted.

"Perhaps not gone. Just mislaid," Brisbane said, his expression thoughtful. He was staring at the luncheon guests, and in that instant, I knew he suspected someone in particular of having stolen them. But he said nothing.

Involuntarily, my hand went to my pocket, feeling the outline of the knotted handkerchief with its cache of Aunt Hermia's humble jewels. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I had discovered in Snow's room, but as I watched him stare at the assembled company, his expression smugly satisfied, I realised he had no intention of including me in his triumph.

He turned to me. "My lady?" He looked at me quizzically, inviting me to speak.

I smoothed my skirts. "Nothing, Brisbane. I am sure the pearls will turn up eventually."

* * *

One development of that harrowing lunch party was the revelation to the company at large that Aunt Dorcas was missing. Father made the announcement after coffee, rather offhandedly, in my opinion.

The reaction was predictable. Sir Cedric flew into a rage again, and it took all of Henry Ludlow's considerable powers of persuasion to settle him down. Portia and Plum fired questions at Father until he raised a hand for silence.

"A poor choice of words on my part. She is not missing. She is elsewhere, and I am assured she is in perfect health," he finished smoothly, but there was an edge to his voice and I knew he was not as satisfied with the matter as he pretended.

The rest of us stared at each other in bewilderment.

"Such an unusual household," Charlotte King murmured finally. "First jewels disappearing, now people. I begin to think I am in a faery story of the most fantastic kind." Her lips trembled a little, and I almost felt sorry for her. "Perhaps we ought to look for her," she ventured.

"Unnecessary," Father cut in sharply. "Amuse yourselves as you will this afternoon. I shall be in my study and I do not wish to be disturbed unless God Almighty himself comes to call."

He rose and threw down his napkin, stalking off, Crab and a few of her pups trotting closely behind.

Charlotte, perhaps chagrined at being dismissed so brutally, bit her lip. Plum leaned near and murmured something that brought a sudden smile to her face. Through it all, Brisbane appeared thoroughly disinterested. He merely sipped at his coffee as though waiting for something to happen.

For my part, all I could think on was the pearls and what Father had said of Aunt Dorcas' penchant for pocketing little trinkets she admired. Was it possible she had taken my pearls and then fled with them? But the weather would have made that impossible, I reminded myself.

"Perhaps then a walk on the battlements of the boundary wall," Charlotte said. "I should so like some fresh air."

"That sounds delightful," Plum said, his fez fairly quivering with anticipation. They made to depart, and I signalled to my brother.

"Plum, a word, dear. Mrs. King will want to fetch her warmest things if you mean to venture onto the battlements, and this will only take a moment." He agreed, with bad grace, and we watched as Violante rose quickly, with Hortense's gentle support. She had soothed the girl and promised Lysander she would look after her and sit with her while she rested. Lysander gave her thanks, but grudgingly so. In spite of himself, he was beginning to like Father's inamorata.

Sir Cedric and Henry Ludlow excused themselves next, Ludlow moving quickly to keep up with his volatile kinsman. I had been correct in my initial estimation of Sir Cedric: he was only lightly civilised, as his behaviour of late had shown. He could play the gentleman well enough, but when provoked by circumstances, he reverted to the slum-born starveling. He had come so far from the poverty and degradation of his upbringing, I reflected, but I wondered if he had come quite so far as he pretended.

And as I regarded Sir Cedric, a horrible thought rose in my mind. If Lucy had indeed taken the blame for another's crime deliberately, as well she might have, what man would she have better reason to shield than her own fiancé? Remembering the bruises on Snow's neck, I glanced at Sir Cedric's hands. The fingers themselves were not long, but his palms were broad as an ape's. His handspan would fit the bruises perfectly. I looked from his sturdy hands to his supple wrists. It had been a mistake to look at this man and see only the web of wrinkles at his eyes, the mane of hair shot with silver. I had ignored the strength left in him, the savagery that might well lurk just below the surface. What would it take to rouse it? I wondered.

"I have to speak with Cook about tea," Portia announced. "That seed cake she served yesterday was appalling, and if she sends up wine biscuits one more time…of course she is very sensitive. She might just as well throw a cleaver at my head as give me a ginger biscuit."

She rose and looped her arm through Alessandro's, pulling him to his feet. "I know. I shall bring her this delicious young man as a peace offering."

Alessandro seemed to struggle to find the proper words. "My lady, I would be very happy to accompany you, but Lady Julia's pearls. Perhaps we ought to search for them."

Portia smiled at him fondly. "Yes, and as soon as I have spoken to Cook, we will poke around belowstairs and see if we can find them. Perhaps Morag forgot what she was about and left them in the pantry."

Alessandro threw me a pleading glance, but I pretended not to see it. As much as I enjoyed his company, and as much as he deserved to be rescued from my sister, I was acutely aware of his intentions after his declaration of the previous night. I had no wish to be alone with him until I had formed an answer to his question. At present, I could give him none. The investigation, with all its winding paths and blind alleys, demanded my full attention.

Finally, only Plum, Brisbane, and I remained in the dining room. I excused myself, dragging Plum into the transept while Brisbane savoured his coffee. I glanced around to make quite certain we were alone.

"What is it, Julia?" Plum asked, folding his arms over his chest.

"It is Alessandro. You've been frightfully negligent hosts, you and Ly both. You must do something with him this afternoon."

"Like what? In case you have failed to notice, the Abbey is inescapable."

"Not for Aunt Dorcas," I muttered.

He rolled his eyes. "Aunt Dorcas is famous for disappearing when there is trouble because usually she is the cause of it."

I poked his chest as hard as I could, pressing hard on one of the tourmaline buttons of his waistcoat. "I hardly think she is responsible for the murder of Mr. Snow."

"Ouch. I meant the theft of your pearls. She's a terrible old cat about pearls, you must know that."

"Father did say something to that effect," I admitted. "But how did she leave the Abbey? And where is she now?"

Plum shrugged. "She might have gone to the village to call upon Uncle Fly. She might have taken the train to London. She might have gone home for all we know."

I blinked at him. "I had not considered that. I suppose she might have left before the snow was too thick to travel. But how?"

"Julia, Father said not to worry. He has had word she is all right. She is probably sitting at the Home Farm, warming herself by the fire and driving Benedick to madness."

I remembered then what Portia had said about Benedick braving the snow to come up to the Abbey and shout news to Father.

"Of course. I am just being silly. I'm sure she is perfectly fine. But about Alessandro—"

He groaned and raised his hands. "Very well. I promise to entertain him properly. But not now. Charlotte is waiting."

A warning trembled on my tongue, but I swallowed it. Plum was a man fully grown. He would not thank me for interfering in his affaires du coeur.

"Thank you, dearest. Mind you include Ly. He is looking frightfully peaky."

Plum rolled his eyes again and left me, and I was glad of it. He had been in a frightfully bad temper for months, and his mood seemed to have darkened since we returned home. I trailed slowly back into the dining room and joined Brisbane at the table. I picked up my cup and put it down again. I had no appetite for cold coffee.

"What did you discover from Lucy?" he asked finally.

I pulled a face. "Nothing. She claims she has no memory whatsoever from the time she left the drawing room, until we found her, standing over Snow's body, clutching the candelabrum." A sudden thought occurred to me. Brisbane had a working knowledge of mesmerism. "Perhaps Lucy had been influenced by someone who knew how to wield the prodigious powers of the mind. Is that possible?"

Brisbane ran a hand over his temple. "Possible, but entirely too convenient for my taste."

"Agreed," I said briskly. "So the question is, whom is she protecting? Sir Cedric is the obvious choice."

"Actually, Emma is the obvious choice," Brisbane countered.

"Yes," I said impatiently, "but we have already established, that is, you have already established, this murder was done by a man."

"True enough," he said, far more amiably than I expected.

"So Sir Cedric is our most obvious candidate for murderer," I finished. "We must search his rooms."

"I will search his rooms," he corrected. "It would be highly inappropriate for you to do so."

I felt a little thrill of pleasure at this demonstration of his regard for me. "You mean because a lady should not be present in an unmarried gentleman's bedchamber," I teased, thinking of the many trips I had made to his own chamber the previous night.

"No," he said slowly, his eyes warm with amusement. "I mean it must be done properly and by a professional. You, my lady, are still an amateur."

He was still laughing when I left him.

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

He who would search for pearls must dive below.

—All for Love, John Dryden

We had not gone five feet outside the dining room before Brisbane struck out on his own without a word. I cleared my throat. He turned, his brows knit with concentration.

"Yes?"

"I thought we were meant to search together," I told him, reaching for the ragged edges of my patience.

His stance was arrogant, legs wide apart and firmly set. He did not even have to speak to expose his stubbornness; I could read it in every line of his body. "I do not see why that should be necessary."

"Because we are investigating this murder together." There was a tart edge to my voice, even to my own ears. Brisbane ignored it.

He shrugged. "I do not require your assistance to search Sir Cedric's room. Go and have a poke around the lumber rooms. Perhaps your pearls will turn up. At the very least, you can have a look through Snow's portmanteau. I presume that is where it was stored."

My hands fisted at my sides. I forced them to relax, and gave Brisbane my sunniest smile.

"What an excellent notion. I shall go there at once."

He turned on his heel and left me then, but not before I saw an expression of relief flicker over his features. He was pleased to be rid of me, but why? I had known as soon as Father instructed us to work together that Brisbane opposed the idea, but this was more than simple obstinacy. Brisbane had some deeper purpose in keeping me at bay, and I knew the only way to discover it was by stealth. He was a complicated riddle of a man, but puzzling him out was a task to which I felt more than equal.

Determined to solve at least one of the mysteries afoot in the Abbey, I made my way up the staircase to the dorter. On impulse, I paused at Emma and Lucy's door. William V nodded at me genially and I tapped.

Emma called for me to enter, and I was pleased to see that she was sitting in a chair by the fire, wrapped in a dressing gown, a luncheon tray balanced on her knees. There were a few little dishes of invalid food, a bit of soup, a blancmange, a compote of softly stewed fruits.

"I am glad to see you eating," I remarked, taking a chair beside her.

She gave me a gentle smile. "I cannot manage much, but I must recover my strength. Lucy will need me," she added, glancing at the bed. Lucy still slept, bundled in coverlets, her hair spilling across the pillow.

I turned back to Emma. Her eyes were still resting upon her sister's sleeping form. Her face puckered, and for a moment I thought she was going to weep. But her eyes remained dry, and I took the opportunity to study her. The horrors of the night were clearly marked upon her face. Her eyes, usually her best feature, were sunk and darkly rimmed. A few threads of grey I had not seen before wove through her dull hair. Her thin face was pale, and her hands trembled a little as she dipped a spoon into the blancmange. She brought it to her lips, then laid it down untasted, her expression apologetic.

"It is difficult to manage anything. I just kept thinking of where we were, what awful thing Lucy had confessed to. And then the brandy. It seemed quite unreal."

"I know," I told her, my voice warm with sympathy. "But there is hope."

Her eyes lit with the fervour of a mystic saint. "What hope? Julia, you must tell me. If there is any chance, however remote, that my dearest sister may be saved, comfort me with it."

I patted her arm. "I cannot speak of it, but know this—the evidence clears her name. What other troubles she may still face, I cannot say, but of murder she is innocent."

Emma's eyes closed and her head drooped on her slender neck, as a flower nodding on a stem. When she looked up, tears sparkled on her lashes, lending a sudden brilliance to her eyes.

"Bless you. I cannot tell you what this means to me." She hesitated, then rushed on, the words spilling out of her quickly. "The maid who brought the tray said Aunt Dorcas has gone missing. Is this true?"

I nodded. "I am sorry to say it is. But everything that may be thought of to recover her is being done."

"That poor old woman," she murmured.

I hastened to reassure her. "Do not worry, I beg you. She cannot have gone far. There are no tracks in the snow, so she must be here in the Abbey somewhere."

Emma clutched at the neck of her dressing gown. "I never spoke of this, but I am sorry to say she is prey to odd turns from time to time."

"Odd turns? Of what sort?"

"When Lucy and I lived with her, occasionally she wandered off, sometimes even overnight. It used to frighten us terribly, but always she was found, wandering and confused." Emma paused, as if steeling herself, then hurried on, perhaps hoping to confide before her courage deserted her. "Often, when we found her, there would be a trinket, sometimes a jewel, in her pocket. We never spoke of it, of course. Oh, Julia, you mustn't tell anyone what I have said. She always recovered quickly enough once she was home again. She would be furious if she knew I told anyone. But to think of her, so old, so vulnerable—" She broke off, fresh tears coursing down her cheeks. She dashed them away quickly with the back of her hand.

"We have only to find her. A rather sizeable needle in a fairly small haystack," I finished with an attempt at jollity. "Besides, Father says he has had word and she is quite safe. Just off for a bit of an adventure."

She shook her head. "I cannot bear to think of it. She could be stern, you know. I cannot say that I ever liked her. But she did her duty by us. She took us in when we were motherless. I will pray for her, and Lucy will as well."

"I am certain your prayers will be effective," I said, almost meaning it. Personally, I preferred more immediate action than petitioning the Almighty, but I tried very hard not to think less of those who believed differently.

We parted then, and I made my way up the tiny, twisting stair, the soles of my shoes scraping lightly the stones that so many sandaled monks had trod before me. The lumber rooms, formerly the scriptoria where manuscripts were copied, were every bit as cold and miserable as I had expected. Frost rimed the tiny windows under the eaves of the larger of the two rooms, permitting only the faintest light to penetrate the shadowy corners. I scurried around, lighting lamps and banishing the gloom, and gathering quite a collection of cobwebs with my hems. Hoots never allowed the maids entrée to the lumber rooms, preferring to dust them himself. He claimed it was because there were too many objects of value tucked away up here, but everyone knew better. Hoots had made himself a rather cosy nest, far away from his butler's pantry and bedchamber. Furnished with a cast-off velvet recamier and a few excellent bottles of Bordeaux, the little corner under the eaves was a perfect bolthole. Father never minded—the Bordeaux was his traditional Christmas present to Hoots—and Aunt Hermia always said Hoots worked harder than twelve men and deserved whatever rest he could snatch.

Now the little couch looked forlorn, and the Bordeaux was far too cold to drink with any pleasure. Poor Hoots. He would miss Christmas at the Abbey terribly. I made a note to remind Father to send him a hamper of delicacies, crowned with the best bottle of wine in the cellars. Perhaps his doctors would make an exception and permit him a thimbleful in honour of the season.

I took up one of the lamps and walked slowly around the room. Most of the contents were as familiar to me as my own face. We had played here as children, exploring each trunk and hatbox, prying open crates to peer at the treasures within, dressing ourselves up in shredded velvets and Prince of Wales feathers that had once graced noble brows during Court presentations. Those little attic rooms echoed with our games and silly songs of our own invention. Eventually we outgrew our Cavalier plumes and Regency silks, letting them fall where we tired of them. It was left to Aunt Hermia to pack them tenderly away in tissue and lavender, and the scent of the herb lingered still, stale and sharp in the cold air. Holding the lamp high, I looked carefully at each trunk, touched the crumbling frames of decaying paintings. I traced the spiders' webs and the dust, and noted the lack of footprints and smudges. This lot had not been disturbed. No one had been here since Hoots had last enjoyed his wine, and I was careful to blow out the lamps, taking one with me to light my way to the lesser lumber room.

This room told another tale as soon as I opened the door. While the larger room was used to hold the Abbey's more important unused treasures, the smaller was the repository of more humble items. The castoffs of daily life found their way here. Instead of court trains and Tudor lace, this room held neglected toys and clothes long out of fashion, pieces we had used for our amateur theatricals. There were my brother Bellmont's schoolbooks in a teetering stack in the corner, nibbled by mice and smelling strongly of mould. A crate by the door held a service of china Aunt Hermia had been given as a gift and hated on sight. And on the opposite side were bags, the trunks and portmanteaux of the houseguests, mine included.

The baggage told an interesting story of its own. Portia and I used similar trunks, of excellent make and quiet colour, discreetly marked with our ciphers. Sir Cedric, on the other hand, had an enormous boat of a bag, peacock-blue leather stamped with his monogram in gilt letters six inches high. Ludlow's was a sober affair of brown calf, a small portmanteau barely adequate for a gentleman's wardrobe. It was mute testimony to his poverty, but at least he had a portmanteau at all. Lucy and Emma had nothing here, I realised as I searched. I had seen them thus far in only two dresses each, and it occurred to me then that was likely all they had. Plain, sober colours for evening, and serviceable wool for day. With a pair of stout walking boots each and a pair of evening slippers, this was their wardrobe. I glanced again at Sir Cedric's exotic baggage and shrugged. I could well understand Lucy's attraction to him. He had spent more money on that single trunk than Lucy had seen in her entire life, I would wager, and when she married him, she would command a sizeable part of that fortune. Such a man would wish his wife to be dressed in the first rank of fashion, noticeably, gaudily even. After a lifetime of living in the shadows, dependent upon the charity of others, the prospect of such riches would be heady.

I moved to Charlotte's trunk. It was small and fashioned of pale kidskin and completely empty, as were the others I searched. I even poked through my own and those of the rest of the party who had come from Italy. I had a notion Alessandro would mind terribly if he found out, so I searched his quickly and closed it with a stab of guilt. I could not truly suspect him of any villainy, but that was the difficulty with murder. It took more than a life; it killed trust as well. I now looked more closely at everyone, scrutinising those I had known well, wondering what secrets lay hidden that friendship or family bonds could not penetrate.

And what of other, deeper and more abstruse emotions, I wondered, staring at Brisbane's bag. That he felt some attraction to me, I had no doubt. Neither did I doubt he was fighting it with every weapon at his disposal. He claimed to blame himself for the calamitous end to our first investigation, for the danger to me, but I felt in my bones there was more to his aloofness. I ran a hand over the soft black kidskin, as if touching his possession could teach me about the man himself.

I suppose I could justify opening the trunk on the grounds that I meant to search all of the bags in the lumber rooms, but the truth is far simpler: I wanted to know more of him, and I thought there might be the slightest chance some article left behind in the bag could give me some enlightenment. As if a bottle of toilet water or a spare comb could interpret a character as complex as Brisbane, I thought bitterly as I threw back the lid, cursing my own foolishness even as I hoped for some bit of illumination.

What I found was no bottle of toilet water, no broken comb or discarded pair of boots. It was a gown, a white gown of sheerest gossamer laid over silk, trailing fingers of cloudy white like fog on a windy night.

I stared at it for a long moment, scarcely believing my eyes. I reached into the trunk cautiously, as if expecting it to move of its own accord. The silk was cold to the touch, and when I lifted it, it foamed up, springing to life. I jumped back, then approached it again, poking at it with a nervous finger. Something sharp jabbed into my flesh and I jerked it back, staring at the bright bead of blood welling on my fingertip. I wrapped my handkerchief carefully about my finger and inspected the dress more closely. Each layer was fitted with a thin bit of wire at the hem, a wire that could be bent to one's whim. The layers could be made to trail out, even when the wearer was quite still, and the effect would be one of ghostly movement.

I laid it aside and removed the rest of the contents. There was a bit of black veiling, sheer but without sheen or pattern. A headdress of sorts followed, more of the white silk overlaid with gossamer tissue. And below this was the most interesting find of all, a pair of pattens. I had not seen them since I was a girl. They were for country-dwellers, an apparatus to strap over the shoes on muddy days. Put simply, they were soles on high iron rings, lifting the wearer out of the muck. They made a tremendous clanging sound as one walked, but as I inspected the bottoms, I realised these would be perfectly silent. They had been fitted with black felt soles, rendering them noiseless, even on the stone floors of the Abbey.

I sat back, staring at the bizarre collection before me. Individually, the pieces were unusual enough; together they made a ghost, dressed in trailing white draperies, features obscured by a bit of black veiling, pattens to make it seem as if the spectre were floating above the floor.

Somewhat against my will, I was forced to admire the ingenuity behind the costume. I realised as I looked closely, it had been assembled from bits and pieces found at the Abbey. The white costume was one Aunt Hermia had worn to a midsummer masked ball. Titania, I think she was. The pattens had been long discarded. Old-fashioned and ungainly, they had been decaying in the lumber rooms for years. I remembered them from my childhood. The bits of black veiling and felt were easily explained as well—a mourning bonnet stripped of its veil, a wide hat cut into soles. The whole had been cleverly done, and all of it from here in the smaller lumber room. It would not have taken more than a quarter of an hour to effect the necessary modifications, and hey, presto, a phantom was born.

But who? And why hide the costume in Brisbane's trunk? The latter question was easier to answer. Brisbane was clearly too large to be the ghost. If a white gown was found in his trunk, it might occasion some snickering, but no real danger to him. It was a nasty prank on the part of someone who did not wish him well, but it would not do him any lasting harm.

The greater question was who? And as I packed the costume carefully back into the trunk, I realised there was but one way to find out.

* * *

Feeling pleased with myself in spite of the meagre results of my search—Snow's bag had been empty as well—I hurried down the stairs. I had just crossed the gallery with the intent of meeting up with Brisbane in the bachelors' wing when I happened to glance down the gallery toward the ladies' bedchambers. A flicker of movement caught my eye as Charlotte's door opened and a familiar black head edged out.

Just then, I heard a footstep rising on the stair and leaned over the banister to see who approached.

"Charlotte!" I cried, rather more loudly than necessary. From the tail of my eye I saw the black head disappear and the door to her room close swiftly.

Charlotte nodded at me as she gained the gallery. She looked rosy from her outing on the boundary wall, her hands still tucked into a dainty muff of squirrel fur.

"I hope you have had a pleasant walk," I said, my eyes lingering on a hairpin dangling just above her ear, the curl above it threatening to escape.

She did not flush, but I noticed her lips were pinkly moist and a little swollen. She licked them before she replied.

"Very pleasant, thank you."

I dared not let my gaze slide past her shoulder for fear she would turn. I detained her for a moment, asking inane questions about her comfort—Had she enough to eat at luncheon? Was her bedchamber warm enough?—keeping my eyes firmly fixed on her face. She replied that she was quite comfortable, and we exchanged pleasantries.

A few minutes' worth of imbecilic conversation was all the situation required, I decided, and I was just about to take my leave of her when she laid a hand on my sleeve. Her expression, sweetly placid before, had taken on an anxious cast. Her eyes darted about, as if she feared to speak freely.

"My lady, I wonder…" She broke off, worrying her lip with her tiny, pearly teeth.

"Yes?" I prodded. The great irony of Charlotte King's character was that when one craved silence, she chattered like a monkey, but when one wished her to speak, she was silent as an oyster. I gave her an encouraging smile, determined to pry her open.

She twisted her hands together. "I feel a vile creature for even suggesting such a thing, but I did wonder—the death of the curate, the disappearance of Lady Dorcas, the theft of the Grey Pearls—these terrible events might possibly be connected."

I resisted the urge to pinch her for pointing out the obvious. It was unfair to expect her to handle these developments with any sort of equanimity. Those of us born into the March family enjoyed a long and illustrious heritage of drama and disaster. I endeavoured to explain this to Charlotte.

"My dear, of course they are connected. They all happened here, in our family home. But you must realise such things have been happening to us for more than three hundred years, and for four centuries before that prior to our taking up residence in the Abbey. One has only to read a history of the March family to see that we are an unprincipled, unpredictable lot. There have been beheadings and elopements, abductions and accidents. We are rather too accustomed to such things, I suppose."

Charlotte shook her head, the loosened lock of silky primrose-yellow hair falling free over her shoulder. "You misunderstand, my lady. I do not refer to the past history of the March family. I speak only of the present." She leaned closer, and I smelled fennel seed on her breath. "I speak of your present connections."

I held my breath for the space of a heartbeat. Surely she could not mean Brisbane?

"The Gypsies," she whispered, her voice urgent.

I laughed. It was impolite, but I could not stop myself. She was so earnest, so determined to help.

"My dear, it is not possible."

She tightened her grip on my sleeve. "Are you quite certain? Think on it, my lady. Mr. Snow was adamant in his condemnation of them. He proposed taking their children away and putting them into orphanages. They might well have heard of his views and took steps to ensure he could not see them to fruition."

"Mr. Snow revisited those thoughts after we called upon their camp," I protested.

She shook her head, dropping her lashes to fan her cheeks. It was a lovely, sorrowful expression and I rather thought Plum ought to paint her thus. He could title it Beauty Grieves.

"He did not change his mind, not truly," she told me. "If you thought so, it was because he believed it prudent to be polite to his hosts. He admitted as much last evening before dinner. We spoke of it, just before we withdrew to the dining room."

I said nothing, and she pressed her advantage. "And what of the pearls? Surely so great a treasure would be an impossible temptation to those already accustomed to thieving?"

"And Lady Dorcas?" I asked, not bothering to blunt the edge to my voice. "Even if you could persuade me the Gypsies had reason to slay Mr. Snow and to purloin my jewels, you cannot possibly conceive any reason they would trouble themselves to steal a portly old woman."

Charlotte shrugged. "They would if she had seen what she ought not. And who else would be so cunning as to send a message that the lady is well? Lord March would not question such tidings from them. And all the while she may be among them, in distress, in need of our aid, never realising it will not come."

I gaped at her. "Are you seriously suggesting the Romanies trespassed into the Abbey, murdered Mr. Snow, hid themselves for some time, then crept upstairs and stole the pearls from my dressing table, unseen by anyone except Aunt Dorcas? And then to cover their crimes, they abducted their only witness, into the snow, over a distance of miles, without leaving a single track outside the Abbey?"

She raised her chin, summoning her dignity. "I think it a likely solution, yes. And if you are not afraid of them, I am not ashamed to say I am. They are a ruthless, vicious people, and I for one will be glad when I am gone from this place and away from them."

She tipped her nose into the air and took her leave, banging her door behind her. I stood for a moment, lip caught between my teeth as I worried the notion like a dog at a bone. That the Roma were capable of less than impeccable behaviour, I was fully aware. I had seen examples of their cunning and their duplicity with my own eyes.

But I had never seen them behave maliciously. They could be terrible foes if they decided to revenge a wrong, but they were peaceable to those who treated them with courtesy, and my father had been a patron of sorts to them for many years. It was the grossest violation of the Roma code to betray the goodwill of one's host, and murder was an unspeakable crime to them. Neither would they steal from me. As the daughter of my father and a friend to them, I was always treated with respect. And the notion that Aunt Dorcas would have been stolen away to preserve her silence as a witness was laughable. She was old, but age had done nothing to impair her volume. She was capable of shouting down the rooftops if she wished, and if anyone laid hands on her, I had little doubt the villagers down in Blessingstoke would have been roused from their peaceful slumbers.

No, it was a pretty, tidy theory for Charlotte, who liked pretty, tidy things. Unfortunately, it crumbled beneath the smallest scrutiny. I wondered if she had expounded her theory to Plum. With his devotion to the Roma, he would have put such a flea in her ear their budding friendship would have withered on the vine. But the smell of fennel seed on her breath had convinced me they had gotten up to more than conversation. Plum always chewed the vile things, claiming they sweetened his breath. I hated them; their hard striped backs put me too much in mind of little insects. He might have offered her a few from the gilt snuffbox he carried in his pocket, but there was something indefinable about her, some self-satisfaction she carried this afternoon I had not seen in her before that convinced me otherwise. An interesting notion, if it were true. I had always suspected Brisbane's attentions to her were manufactured, but I also believed he would not break with her until it suited him. I wondered how well he would like it if she threw him over for more amiable company first.

Dismissing Charlotte from my thoughts, I entered my room, closing the door softly. The fire was banked up and Brisbane was seated near the hearth in an armchair, Florence tucked in his lap as he stroked her head. Morag was nowhere to be seen.

"This is a cosy scene," I commented, drawing up a chair for myself. Florence protested with a growl, but I put out my tongue at her and she laid her head down again on Brisbane's thigh, content to let him fondle her ears. He said nothing for a long moment. He simply sat, petting the pup's silky head in long, supple strokes that never varied in their rhythm.

"You've very nearly put her to sleep," I commented.

He raised his good shoulder in a shrug, careful not to disturb Florence as she dozed. "It would not be difficult. She has been drugged."

"I beg your pardon?"

Lifting her carefully with his good hand, he settled her into her basket and tucked the fur tippet gently about her. She gave a little sound that might have been a purr had she been of another species, and settled in for a nap.

"What do you mean she has been drugged?"

"Some narcotic, perhaps laudanum as well, certainly an opiate. When I ducked in here, Morag mentioned she had trouble rousing the dog. I had a look at her, and when you consider what happened in this room, it is perfectly logical."

It spoke volumes about the unconventional nature of our relationship that Morag did not question his presence in my room. Fortunately for me, Morag's penchant for gossip was entirely one-sided. She might carry tales to me, but she was a gorgon when it came to protecting my privacy.

I suddenly realised what Brisbane had just said. "What happened in this room?"

"The theft of your pearls," he said patiently. "Everyone knows Florence stays in your chamber. Anyone wishing to purloin the pearls would have come prepared to silence her. By the way, rather quick thinking out there with Charlotte. I was not so careful as I ought to have been," he finished with a rueful grimace.

"You are welcome. But as I rescued you, I think I am owed a forfeit. Did you speak to William IV this morning?"

He made a moue of disgust. "I did. The boy doesn't have the intelligence of a sponge. He swears blind he did not leave his post except to follow a ghost."

I sat up quite straight. "A ghost? Did he describe it? Where did he see it?"

"At the far end of the nave, walking toward the vestry."

I tipped my head to the side, considering. "Walking? Ghosts don't walk."

"This one did. Apparently it had a slow, lumbering gait, and the boy, after several minutes of terrified debate with himself, decided to follow it."

"And?"

Brisbane shrugged. "It had disappeared. William searched the vestry, the cloister, even the kitchen passage, but it had vanished."

I could have screamed in exasperation. "The fool! Did he not remember that the vestry has two doors, one from the cloister passage and the other directly beside the chapel?"

"No, not even when he returned to his post and discovered a bottle of brandy, with a tag neatly inscribed for Miss Emma and Miss Lucy."

I groaned. "So close, and he did not have the wit to use the other door. It never occurred to him that the ghost was simply a ruse to lure him from his post?"

Brisbane shook his head. "I think if he had reasoned that out for himself, he might have been prudent enough not to drink from the bottle. He said he took a sizeable swallow or two, then sealed it up again and took it inside to the ladies. He returned to his post, and sitting down in his chair is the last thing he remembers until he awoke this morning in Aquinas' bed. That required a bit of explaining as well," he finished blandly.

I gave a great sigh and slumped back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the arm. "Sir Cedric's room?"

"Nothing of interest. He has appalling taste in books, but other than that, I can find no crimes to lay at his door."

"Pity," I mused. "I think he would make a proper villain."

Brisbane quirked one glossy black brow at me. "Have you not yet learned that villainy is not written on the face, but the heart?"

I said nothing for a long moment, thinking of my husband's murderer, and the sweet, gentle face I had loved. At length I cleared my throat and changed the subject.

"What of your expedition to Charlotte's room? What did you find?"

Brisbane gave me a bland smile. "Nothing."

"Let me amend that. What did you hope to find?"

He paused, then looked at the fire. "I cannot say." He glanced back at me. "You needn't grind your teeth at me. I cannot say."

"So be it. We will simply each of us have our secrets then."

His eyes narrowed sharply. "Do not think of withholding anything from me. I am in deadly earnest, my lady. You were of use in the first investigation, I do not deny it. And I am keenly aware that his lordship has ordered your involvement this time. But do not think I mean to make you an equal partner in this. I work best alone."

I blinked slowly at him, a trick I had learned from Portia. Most men find it devastatingly disarming.

"Have you something in your eye? A cinder perhaps?"

I sighed in disgust. "No. I am perfectly well."

"And what did you discover in the lumber rooms? Did you search all of the bags?"

"Yes, captain," I said, larding my voice with sarcasm. "And I found nothing in the other guests' bags at all. They were empty as the tomb on Easter Sunday." Quite deliberately I did not mention his bag. But then, he did not ask.

Brisbane quirked a brow at me in surprise. "It is not like you to blaspheme. Have you been gambling and keeping low company as well?"

"I have. I am toying with the notion of taking up hard drinking directly. Father has an excellent cellar."

He stared at me a long moment, those astonishing black eyes searching mine. Finally, he shook his head. "You are up to something, but I cannot make out what and I do not have the time at present to compel you to speak."

I snorted. "Compel me indeed! I think you know me better than that. I should like to see the man who could compel me to do anything I did not wish." That little speech surprised even me. I had come far from the quiet little dormouse I had been before my husband's death. Widowhood had been the making of me, I decided.

But before I could admire myself too thoroughly, Brisbane leaned forward in his chair, pinning me once again with his gaze, but softening it somehow, and in the process drawing me in until I could see myself reflected in the inky depths. There was something otherworldly about that gaze, something oblique and unspoken, and yet it held all the sensual promise of a courtesan's smile.

"Do you not think I have other methods to compel you?" he murmured.

My corset felt suddenly too tight. My breath was coming far too quickly as I thought of what methods he might employ. Methods such as those he had used to such effect the previous night, perhaps? I felt dizzy at the prospect, and violet spots danced in front of my eyes. A dozen pictures flashed through my mind: Brisbane dragging me into his room in the low hours of the night, kissing me until I could not speak or think. I thought of my response to him, so unaffected, so impossible. I had always believed myself cold, unbreachable. And yet my defenses always fell to Brisbane, usually when he needed to breach them the most. How convenient for him, I thought bitterly.

My throat felt thick, and when I spoke, my voice was like honeyed whiskey. "Brisbane," I said softly. Holding his gaze, I slid to my knees, coming to rest between his booted feet. I heard his breath catch, and a noise in the back of his throat that might have been a stifled groan.

I held up my own hand teasingly. "A question first, my lord."

I dropped my hand to his boot top. It rested there a moment, my fingers just below the curve of his knee, before I slid it with deliberate, teasing slowness down the supple leather to his foot. He exhaled slowly through flared nostrils, his eyes never leaving mine.

Suddenly and without warning, I grabbed the boot hard and swung it up. He pulled back, swearing fluently in Gaelic, but I had caught him by surprise. I clamped onto the boot with both hands and held it.

"Your boots were wet last night when you dragged me into your room. That is why they were sitting on the hearth. And your greatcoat was draped over the armchair to dry. That is why you kissed me and then pretended to hear a ghost in the corridor. You thought I was coming to see you, and you could not afford for me to know what you had been about. You wanted to distract me so I would not realise you had been abroad in the night."

He stopped cursing and lapsed into furious silence. I dropped the boot and resumed my chair, wiping my hands disdainfully on my skirts. The little skirmish had roused Florence and she sat up in her basket, weaving a little, but watching with interest, her ears pricked at a quizzical angle.

"I note you make no attempt to deny it. Very sensible." I nodded toward his boots. "The watermarks are still present on the leather. You ought to have Aquinas tend to them before they are ruined, you know."

Still he said nothing, the little muscle in his jaw twitching madly. Perhaps he thought to draw me out by his silence, to learn precisely what I knew by refusing to admit or deny anything himself.

Unfortunately, all that I knew I had already revealed. From the boots drying on the hearth and the faint smell of wet wool, I had deduced that he had left the Abbey some time after the snow had begun to fall. For what purpose, I could not imagine.

But as I stared at his lowering brow, his lips thinned with displeasure, I realised I did in fact have one more arrow in my quiver.

"Come, Brisbane, let us not quarrel. We must be friends again. I will tell you what I found in Mr. Snow's room after you left, if you will tell me what you have done with Aunt Dorcas."

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

To do a great right, do a little wrong.

—The Merchant of Venice

If I expected Brisbane to reveal all, I was destined to be thwarted. He shot the cuff of his injured arm, studying his nails with affected nonchalance.

"I can only tell you what I have already told your father—your aunt is perfectly safe."

I puzzled this over for a moment, not knowing quite where to begin. "That is impossible. You left no tracks in the snow."

"I was back before the snow began to fall," he said grudgingly. He did not like to explain the matter, that much was apparent. But perhaps he hoped a little information would throw me from the scent.

"Then how did your boots come to be wet?"

"I was careless. I stepped on a patch of ice. It was not fully frozen yet, and my boots broke through to the puddle beneath. The hem of my greatcoat was fully soaked."

No matter how much I prodded, he told me nothing more, except to reassure me Aunt Dorcas was well. I was surprised at how much I worried for her. I had not thought myself fond of the old toad, but I would have been genuinely sorry if any ill had befallen her.

"Now," he said severely, "what did you find among Snow's things?"

I tipped my head to the side. "You still have not told me what you thought to find in Charlotte's room."

He fixed me with a stare so intent, I felt the room falling away, blackness creeping along the edges of my vision. I swallowed hard, sliding my gaze away from his. "Goodness, Brisbane, if Mesmer had had a stare like that he mightn't have needed a pocket watch. Very well, you do not mean to tell me. I can guess for myself. You hoped to find the Grey Pearls in her room."

His lids dropped and he reached a lazy hand to pet the dog. "And what led you to that conclusion?"

"A clever jewel thief would never have hidden the jewels in his own room. They might easily be discovered by a diligent servant. Now, anyone would realise there is no point to searching the Abbey—it is far too large and there are nooks and crannies and secret passages God Himself does not know of. Any of them might serve as a hiding place, but how much better to put the pearls in Charlotte King's room and throw suspicion on her? If they were discovered among her things, she would have a difficult time explaining how she came by them. Jewels found in the public rooms of the Abbey carry a mystery with them, jewels found in Charlotte's room breed a scapegoat. She might well be arrested and bound over for trial, and no one else would be under the slightest cloud of suspicion."

"An interesting theory," Brisbane said slowly. His fingers twitched, and I wondered if he was longing for his pipe. "Now, back to the matter of Snow's room."

My fingers went then to the small bundle still nestled in my pocket. I debated fiercely with myself about whether or not to disclose it. Finding it had been rather gratifying. I still did not know what it signified, but I did trust Brisbane to do what was best for my family. I did not believe Aunt Hermia had given the trinkets to Snow herself. Indeed, if I believed that I would have kept them and confronted her with the collection myself. But determined as I was to solve these little mysteries myself, there were few things I could refuse Brisbane.

I drew out the bundle and handed it to him. He turned it over, peering at the monogram worked in silk thread, the tiny design of flowers twining through the letters. After he had committed every detail of the handkerchief to memory, he untied it and took out the pieces one by one, turning them over and marking them carefully. When they had all been considered, he handed them back. I wrapped them and knotted the handkerchief, pocketing the little bundle.

"And you actually found these in Snow's room?"

I nodded and said nothing.

"The handkerchief is, I suppose, Lady Hermia's? And the jewels as well?"

"Yes. I asked Portia about them. She said Aunt Hermia kept them in a little pasteboard box on her night table." Brisbane had begun to glower, so I hastened to reassure him. "You needn't look so murderous. I did not tell her where I found them."

His expression was thoughtful. "Snow did not arrive as a houseguest until yesterday, well after Lady Hermia departed the Abbey for London. A box of trinkets on her night table would be easy enough for anyone to pilfer. Snow, or another, had only to make certain the corridor was empty, creep inside and pocket the jewels. It is interesting to note that nothing of real value was taken."

"The important pieces are all locked in Father's safe or in the vault in the bank in London. Aunt Hermia keeps out only the things she wears often, those little baubles, a ruby brooch, a few rings, and her chains of sapphires. I am quite certain she would have taken those with her to London."

"So we have here a crime of opportunity."

"Tied to Snow's murder?" I asked. Brisbane shook his head slowly.

"It would be premature to say. He seemed perpetually short of money, if his sisters' letters are to be believed. Perhaps it was simply too easy for him, a few trinkets that could be pawned in the city. By the time Lady Hermia missed them, it would be far too late to lay the blame at his door. Perhaps one of the maids would be blamed, perhaps even dismissed over it. In the meanwhile, Snow has a little money and no suspicion falls on him."

"That is reprehensible," I told him, "and yet entirely plausible." There was another possibility that was plausible as well: Aunt Dorcas. Father and Plum, as well as Emma, had mentioned her penchant for taking things that did not belong to her, usually of the sparkly variety. What if she had nipped into Aunt Hermia's room and helped herself to a few of the prettier trinkets? But why hide them among Snow's things? From the stories I had heard, she had seldom troubled to hide her crimes in the past. Usually the odd little jewel had actually been found on her person. If nothing else, the jewels would be difficult for her to retrieve from Snow's room. It seemed the little bundle had raised more questions than it had answered.

We were silent a moment, locked in our thoughts. Florence had settled back into her basket and was snoring peacefully. I thought of what Brisbane had suggested, that someone had crept into my room and drugged the poor little thing to keep her quiet while they took my pearls. The very idea made me shatteringly angry. I did not actually like the animal, but she was helpless, a baby really. I made a note to tell Morag to give her more beef tea for her supper.

I turned to find Brisbane regarding me. I had not realised he was staring, and his scrutiny flustered me. I smoothed my skirts again. It was becoming something of a nervous habit.

"I think you had better keep a shorter rein on your fiancée," I said lightly. "She seems overfond of my brother's company. Perhaps you ought to have a word."

Brisbane reached into his coat pocket and withdrew something. He opened his hand to show me a diamond ring sparkling on his palm.

"Charlotte broke our betrothal before breakfast this morning. I have no fiancée."

He held the ring up to the firelight, watching the light bend and shatter into a tiny rainbow as it played over his hand. "Pity. It is a lovely ring."

"Very well done of her to return it since she has no intention of marrying you," I said, my voice husky with pent emotion.

He watched the play of light a moment more, then dropped the ring back into his pocket.

"I am rather relieved to be rid of the charade, truth be told," he said finally. "I tired of playing the intended bridegroom."

"I knew you could not mean to marry her!" I cried, triumphant. "I cannot believe anyone would think you a couple."

"Well, when I embarked upon this sham betrothal, I never expected to have to convince you of my sincerity," he admitted. "But I am glad to be done with it. I have no wish to be betrothed, in pretense or otherwise."

I wagged a finger at him playfully. "Now, Brisbane, you mustn't talk like that. You will lead people to believe you have no mind to marry at all."

"I do not," he said. He turned to the fire, and I had the most curious conviction he was doing so because he could not speak the next words directly to me. "I could never marry a woman like Charlotte."

"You mean a silly woman?" I asked teasingly.

"No, a wealthy one," he returned quietly.

It is astonishing how words can cut one to the quick and yet leave no outward trace. One would have expected a lash like that to leave a mark.

But pride, though deplorable as a vice, can be a worthy ally at such times. It was pride that lifted my chin and lent a note of lightness to my voice.

"Ah, a confirmed bachelor, like the noble Duke of Aberdour," I said.

"I am nothing like my great-uncle," he replied, his voice laced with bitterness. There was no pragmatic reason I could imagine for his opposition to marriage. His business was a profitable one, his lineage—though spotted with less than elevated blood—was illustrious enough for all but the most fastidious of brides, and now his achievements were to be crowned with title and an estate. He could even retire from his work as an inquiry agent if he wished and live a life of leisure. People would whisper about his having been in trade of course, but it had been my experience that with sufficient time and a healthy fortune, such a shortcoming could be deliberately overlooked.

But opposed he was, and from the set of his jaw, I did not imagine his position was one he had taken lightly or would relinquish easily. Pride was an expensive commodity, and his was easily wounded. It was a very great irony that the fortune my husband had left me should prove such an impediment to my happiness.

"Well, you needn't marry," I said finally. I was determined to be reasonable, as coolly logical as he. "You have your work to divert you, the excellent Monk to assist you, and Mrs. Lawson to manage your domestic affairs. What more may a man need?"

"What more indeed?" He looked at me then, a look I knew I should never forget, and a thousand things lay unsaid between us.

"I do not mean to marry again myself," I said suddenly and with conviction.

"Do you not?" he asked softly, and I wondered if he were thinking of Alessandro. Ah, Alessandro. Such a delightful companion, and yet when I thought of him I felt a hundred years old.

"I made a mistake the last time I married. I should not like to do so again."

"Then you and I understand each other perfectly," he said, his demeanour suddenly brisk. "And we cannot sit idly by gossiping like old maids. We have a murder to solve."

It was a testament to his distraction that he included me in that last statement. Or perhaps he was so eager to leave off the subject of marriage he did not mind returning to the safer ground of murder. In either event, it did not matter to me. As we rose and made our way downstairs, I realised that some small, cherished hope within me had gone very still. It was not entirely lost, but I reminded myself sternly Brisbane was a partner in detection and nothing more. If only I could make myself believe it.

* * *

We met Father in his study for a little council of war. I fussed over Grim, smoothing his feathers and feeding him from the box of sugared plums, while Brisbane and Father exchanged information. There was little to say. Brisbane had already informed him Aunt Dorcas was safe, but from the cool touch of frost in Father's manner, I could only deduce he was not pleased with Brisbane's role in the affair, nor in his refusal to send for Father when Emma and Lucy had fallen ill. The pearls were missing, and no clue had been discovered in the murder of Mr. Snow, save my little cache of jewels.

Father turned them over in his hand, his face stony as he touched a finger to the trinkets. Suddenly, he shot Brisbane a piercing glance. "Do you believe these are related to your other matter?"

Brisbane did not look at me, but he shifted in his seat, averting his profile as if to exclude me from the conversation.

"I do not," he said, his voice pitched so low I very nearly did not hear him at all. Instantly I left Grim to his sweets and took the chair next to Brisbane, looking with interest from him to my father.

Brisbane's cheek twitched a little, and I knew he was thoroughly annoyed, but with Father or me, I could not decide.

Father gave the bundle a searching look and placed it on the desk. "In that case, I do not think we need concern ourselves with this. I will see to it that it is returned to Lady Hermia's room."

"My lord, I would rather keep the evidence myself," Brisbane began. Father waved him off with a peremptory hand.

"I see no need. You know what was found and where. Surely keeping it in your possession is not necessary."

Brisbane did not argue, but I could feel the irritation emanating from him. He was a man seldom thwarted, but then so was my father. What had begun as a small territorial skirmish between them was rapidly deteriorating into a formidable battle of wills.

Father exerted his command over the situation by changing the subject. As it would have been a breach of etiquette to return to a topic once he had abandoned it, this was a gambit he used when it suited him. I always found it illogical that a family so willing to throw off society's greater constraints would abide by the lesser, but we were nothing if not inconsistent.

"Where are we then, with this business of Snow? Lucy is resting, claiming she knows nothing of it, and we have no clue save the bruises, which tell us a man must have been involved? And someone wishes to put her and her sister out of the way."

"Succinct, and correct," Brisbane replied. "We have discovered no reason for Miss Lucy to have wished Mr. Snow ill, nor have we discovered a reason for her to have been willing to take an accomplice's guilt on her own shoulders."

Father considered for a moment, running his hands through his silver-white hair. "I think she must have told Julia the truth. She is innocent in every possible way of this atrocity and remembers nothing. Someone is preying on her now, gambling everything on her inability to remember what she has seen."

Brisbane's eyes narrowed. "It does explain the attack on Miss Lucy and her sister. Were I the villain, I should not like to stake my chances on escaping the gallows on the slender hopes that a young and healthy girl will not recover her memory. If I were cold-blooded enough to murder once, I should do so again, very soon and without compunction."

"And the attack on Emma as well?" I asked.

Brisbane shrugged. "They are close as two sisters can be. If Miss Lucy took anyone into her confidence, it would be her elder sister. Whoever poisoned Miss Lucy either did not care if Miss Emma died as well, or hoped that she would."

Father nodded. "We will keep a footman on watch, for their protection."

"Agreed," I said. "But we must consider the possibility that Lucy is in league with the murderer as well. Father, I know you wanted us to find some proof, some shred of evidence to speak in her favour and keep her from the hangman's noose, but I cannot be persuaded she is entirely innocent."

Father reached for the snuffbox on his desk and began to fidget with it. It was a nervous habit of long standing. He flicked the lid open with a thumbnail, then snapped it closed. It was a practice that annoyed Aunt Hermia to no end. If he indulged the habit in front of her, she usually snatched it out of his hand or snapped it closed on his finger.

Now he opened and closed it, rhythmically, like a metronome keeping time. I suspected it helped him to think. He finally snapped it closed and sat up in his chair, rather more energetic than I had seen him since Snow's broken body had been discovered the night before.

"I know you suspect Cedric, Julia. But I wonder, a girl like that, on the verge of marriage to a man so much her elder. She has seen nothing of the world, had no experience. I must wonder if she decided to indulge in a liaison before she married."

"I did wonder," I admitted, "but it seemed so diabolical. Suppose she did decide to take a younger lover. Could it have been Snow? Cedric might have murdered him in revenge," I mused.

"I think his lordship is thinking more abstractly," Brisbane put in. Father regarded him coldly, doubtless resenting Brisbane for speaking on his behalf. I smothered a sigh. There were enough currents and eddies of tension within the household without the two of them at each other's throats. Brisbane continued, oblivious to Father's annoyance. "Cedric is the obvious choice for the murderer if Snow was her lover. But what if Snow discovered her affair with another and demanded a price for his silence? That would make him a blackmailer, and there is already evidence he was."

I blinked at him in wonder. "Aunt Hermia's jewels?"

He nodded. "It seems possible, but not likely to me he would have stolen them himself. It would have been dangerous for a gentleman guest to be discovered in the ladies' wing. Far safer for him to have pilfered something from another gentleman or from the public rooms. But if a lady were to try to lay hands on something small and valuable to meet the demands of a blackmailer, what better place to look than the bedchamber of an absent hostess?"

I sat back, marvelling at the twisted little tangle of ideas he had just presented. "And if Lucy were engaging in an affaire du coeur, she might well cover the crimes of her lover by claiming sanctuary for a murder done by his hand."

"In which case she is in no danger, but still ought to be kept under watch so as to keep her near at hand," Brisbane put in.

"But she has been attacked, with malice prepense," I pointed out.

"Has she? What did the footman see but a sheet-draped figure drifting through the hall? You yourself pointed out the proximity of the vestry to the chapel. What if the footman nodded off and Miss Lucy or Miss Emma played the ghost? The footman went haring off after it, just as the miscreant planned. When he returned to his post, the brandy was there, supposedly by the hand of the phantom. The idiot footman passes it to them and they drink. It does not take much medical knowledge to know how much laudanum is fatal. And they might both have been pretending to be sicker than they were. We must keep them under guard for their possible culpability as well as their safety."

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. It was a fantastic story, and the most fantastic part of all was that it might very possibly be true.

"Surely you do not think they would try to escape? To begin with, it would be impossible. The Abbey is entirely cut off from the outside," I argued.

"Not entirely." His tone was bland, but Father took his meaning at once.

"The passage from the priory vault to the family crypt in the churchyard," Father murmured, shaking his head. "So that is how you got the old fright out of here last night, is it not?"

Brisbane picked an imaginary bit of fluff from his sling. "It is, and though the mechanism was coming over rather thickly with ice by the time I returned, I imagine it would still function with a little persuasion."

I cursed my own stupidity. I had thought enough about hidden passageways in the last few days. I ought to have remembered that one. As children we had never been permitted to play there, but we had heard it spoken of from time to time. Originally built to provide dry, easy passage to the village for the monks, it had been just as useful as a means of egress for mischief-minded Marches for centuries. My grandfather had locked the passage during Father's boyhood, claiming it was unsafe for the children. But Aunt Dorcas would remember it well from her own youth; doubtless she even recalled that the key had been thrown into a great Chinese pot on the mantel of the dining room. It would have been a child's trick to find it. Why she had left the Abbey, and why Brisbane had seen to her passage were puzzles I burned to solve. But the murder of Lucian Snow was more pressing.

I turned to Brisbane.

"If Lucy even knows of that passage," I countered. "I had entirely forgotten it myself. It has not been used in years. Grandfather had it locked ages ago. I can't imagine it has been opened since."

"It has not, insomuch as I could determine," Brisbane confirmed, his handsome upper lip curling in distaste. "A fair bit of it has collapsed, and I saw distinct evidence of rats."

I shuddered. "How in the name of heaven did you persuade Aunt Dorcas through that passage?"

Brisbane gave me a deliciously wicked look. "My dear lady, I did not coax. I was led. Lady Dorcas was thoroughly acquainted with the passage and showed no hesitation in scrambling over broken stones and splashing through puddles."

"The maid said she took no coat. She must have been freezing," I remarked.

"Not at all. She sent me to the lumber rooms for some furs and was warm as toast."

Father and I were silent a moment. I was having a difficult time imagining Aunt Dorcas, wrapped in furs, leading the charge down the rock-strewn, rat-infested passage. I suspected Father was as well.

"And you say she is in good health?" Father asked finally.

Brisbane gave a short nod. "Quite. Now, on to other matters. I discovered nothing of interest in Sir Cedric's room," Brisbane reported. "There was a good deal of correspondence from his agent in London, but nothing unusual. The letters confirm he is what he presents himself to be—a successful man of industry. I took the opportunity of searching Henry Ludlow's room, as well as that of Alessandro Fornacci," he finished smoothly.

"Tell me you did not," I said, levelling my gaze at him.

He returned my stare with a coolly appraising look of his own. "Oh, but I did. Fornacci is the only other gentleman of the party not connected with this family. That fact makes him suspect. Am I to infer you did not search his trunk?"

I opened my mouth to speak, then snapped my teeth together. "Blast," I muttered between them.

"From that delicate expression I will conclude you put sentiment aside and searched it. I will further presume you found nothing to incriminate him. You will be pleased to hear I found nothing in his room pertaining to this investigation."

Father raised a hand. "No sparring, I beg you. Now, what will you be about, Brisbane?"

"I have other matters to attend to at present. When Lady Julia has something relevant to report, I will listen."

He rose, nodded sharply once to Father and once to me. He clicked his fingers at Grim, who responded with a happy quork and a flap of glossy black wings. I waited until the door had closed behind him before turning to Father.

"If the passage to the churchyard is navigable, why can we not remove Mr. Snow now?"

Father flicked the snuffbox open, then snapped it shut again. "You heard Brisbane. It is collapsed in places. Fallen stone, icy puddles, rats. It would be madness to attempt it."

"Surely not. If Aunt Dorcas could manage it, I daresay a few footmen could maneuver Mr. Snow quite handily."

Flick. Snap. It was rather hypnotic, the slow, even movements of his fingers on the snuffbox. Father scorned modern instruments, but played the lute quite beautifully. He had taken it up as part of his homage to Shakespeare. I had not heard him play in years, but there was still a musician's suppleness to his reflexes.

"It is a trifle unseemly, don't you think? One ought to treat the dead with dignity."

Still his hands moved, and as I watched them, it did not seem entirely fanciful to imagine them laced about Snow's throat, closing tighter and tighter, choking the life out of him.

"Julia."

I jumped in my chair. "Yes, Father?"

He laid the snuffbox onto the desk and gave me an apologetic smile. "Your aunt deplores my little habit as well. I shall endeavour not to fidget."

His eyes were warm over his little half-moon spectacles and I felt instantly flooded with shame. How could I have suspected, even for a moment, my beloved parent had had any role in Snow's murder?

But the greatest danger of evil is that it is insidious. It had crept into my home on cloven feet, and would not leave until the murderer was brought to justice. Until then I knew I would be doomed to view every man around me, even my father, my brothers—Plum with his broad palms calloused from chiselling marble, Lysander with hands stronger than a labourer's from spanning a violin and keyboard for hours every day—as potential murderers. I stiffened my resolve to unmask the villain and put an end to this hateful charade. I rose to leave then, but one last thought intruded.

"Father, I understand you do not wish to remove Mr. Snow until it can be done in a dignified fashion," I began, tactfully ignoring the fact that the poor man was laid out in the game larder. One can hardly imagine a more undignified place of repose. "But I wondered if you had sent a note to Uncle Fly yet. He will know how to find Mr. Snow's family. They ought to know."

Father took in a great breath, then expelled it slowly in a soft, sorrowful sigh. "When a member of the family passes we stop the clocks, to show that time itself has stood still. We do not observe this custom for Lucian Snow, but so long as the Abbey remains snowbound, time does stand still. Out there, life carries on its usual pace. No one knows what transpires here, we are an island unto ourselves. For this little time, there is nothing for anyone to know. When the snow melts and the ice runs to water, then we must tell the world what has happened."

This was a mood I recognised well. Whenever he felt particularly gloomy, he was inclined to talk like Prospero. It was an affectation, of course, but a harmless one, and I looked past his words to the sentiment behind them. So long as we were housebound, no one knew of Snow's murder, and no one could speculate about the crime or its author. Once word of the murder spread, nothing would be quite the same. The newspapers, ravenous for scandal, would use this story to slake their appetite. From Dover to Orkney, our names would be bandied in every household. It was enough to make me long for Italy and anonymity. It would be so easy to pack my bags and board the first steamer across the Channel.

But for Father there would be no escape. His name was already well-known for his radical politics, the antics of his scampish youth, his charming eccentricities. And when folks tired of gossiping about him, they would cheerfully savage the rest of us. I shuddered to think what my brother Bellmont would make of this. Elected as a Tory, Bellmont was frightfully conservative, and more mindful of his dignity than the queen. As soon as the merest scrap of this reached the papers, he would descend upon us with all the wrath of a Biblical plague, blaming us for dragging the family name into disgrace once again. When he discovered my husband had been murdered, he had stopped speaking to me for two months. It was actually something of a relief, but I did not like to be at cross purposes with any of my family, no matter how maddening they could be.

"I have made a terrible mistake, I fear," he said softly. "I ought to have left you in Italy. You were happy there."

"You sent for us because Lysander married without permission. It had nothing to do with me," I reminded him.

He waved a hand. "Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than meddle in my children's romantic entanglements? It's a fool's game, and one never wins."

He was pensive, fretting now, talking more to the fire than to me.

"Then why did you send for us if not for Lysander's sake?"

He hesitated, as if weighing his words. "I knew Brisbane would be here. For weeks. I thought if I brought you home, he might declare himself."

"Oh, Father." His expression was apologetic, and a little of the spirit seemed to have gone out of him. "You just said you do not meddle in your children's romantic entanglements."

He beetled his heavy white brows at me. "I also said it was a fool's game and I am nothing if not a fool. A very great fool."

I started to rise, then sat back down, thinking swiftly. "Brisbane was betrothed to Charlotte. Why would you expect him to declare himself to me?"

"Bah. That engagement was a farce. It is you he loves."

My heart lurched a little. "He does not love me," I said flatly, remembering Brisbane's insistence on never taking a wealthy wife.

"He is far enough down the path, my dear," Father returned sharply, "and when he gets there, it will be the devil to pay. I ought to have left you in Italy," he repeated. "If only I had seen him for what he was."

I stared at him, my fingers tight around the arms of the chair. "What is he?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"A buccaneer," Father said harshly, "of the worst sort. He will think nothing of you, only himself and what serves his investigations."

I relaxed my grip on the chair and blew out a sigh of frustration.

"This is not about me. This is about you, resenting the fact that you brought him here and he has acted as lord and master in your home," I told him waspishly. "You thought you could put the bit between his teeth and guide him where you liked, and it nettles you that he cannot be mastered. He is not like your sons, Father. He doesn't give a tuppence for your great house or your lofty titles. He accepts you as an equal, but you will not do the same for him. You are a terrible snob, do you know that?"

Father's lips went very thin. "I am no such thing."

"Yes, you are." I rose, smoothing my skirts. "You always taught us that we should value a man according to his merit, his competence. Do you know a man more competent than Brisbane?"

He said nothing, his mouth set mulishly.

"I thought so. You are behaving very badly, Father. Very badly indeed."

I reached out and took up the little cache of Aunt Hermia's jewels, pocketing the bundle. "That is why you would not let him take these. You simply wanted to prove you could impose your will. He would never do anything to harm this family, Father."

Father lowered his head, peering peevishly at me over his spectacles. "I think I may know better than you what that man is capable of, child. There are depths there you cannot begin to plumb."

I smiled maliciously. "I seem to remember a time when you thought a dalliance with him might be advisable. Have you changed your opinion of him so much then?"

He did not reply to that, and I knew better than to push him further.

"I shall take Grim with me for a bit of exercise," I told him. If he heard me, he gave no sign of it. He simply reached for his snuffbox again and flicked it open as I left him to his thoughts.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

—As You Like It

I found Sir Cedric in the smoking room, alone with his thoughts and a thoroughly vile cigar. He rose when I entered and made to crush it out, but I stopped him.

"You must not on my account. I do love a good cigar," I told him with a smile. It was not entirely a lie. I did love the scent of Brisbane's thin Spanish cigars. The aroma of them clung to his fingers and clothes, cloaking him in mystery and a bit of a glamoury, conjuring thoughts of smoky campfires and the sharp-blooded dances of Andalusia. Sir Cedric's cigar, an enormous fat sausage of a thing, smelled of mould and old dog.

I took the chair opposite and he resumed his, watching me with an appraising glance. Grim had wandered off in the direction of a rather fine bust of Caesar, quorking softly to himself.

"An interesting pet, my lady," Sir Cedric commented.

"He is, rather. Some people find him too morbid, but I am very fond of him." I sat a little forward in my chair, hands clasped on my lap, smiling at him winsomely. "Sir Cedric, I believe you must know by now we are an unconventional family. We observe society's customs when it suits us, and cast them to the winds when it does not."

"I had noticed," he replied acidly. He flicked a bit of ash into a china dish at his elbow, and I noticed his mouth had settled into lines of discontent. As well they might, I thought. His beloved fiancée enmeshed in a terrible crime, his temper worn to the thinnest edge. He had not as yet been told of the attack upon Lucy and her sister, but I thought it would take very little to push him to the brink of violence. I realised, repressing a little shudder, that he might well have already done violence. I thought of poor Mr. Snow, lying broken and bloody on the floor of the chapel, and the memory of it stiffened my resolve. I would use whatever means I held at my disposal to unmask his murderer, even if it was the man before me.

And the strongest weapon in my arsenal was surprise. I pitched my voice low and gentle. "I am worried for Lucy, and it is this cousinly concern that prompts me to speak freely to you. She has confessed to a terrible crime, which I believe she did not commit. I will ask you, sir, if my cousin is proved innocent, as I believe she must be, will you marry her still?"

His teeth ground together as he crushed out the glowing tip of the cigar, with rage or some other emotion I could not decide. He rose, looming over me in a fashion I could not help but find a little threatening.

"I cannot see that it is any business of yours. Your father ought to find you another husband, one who will mend your meddlesome ways." He turned to go, and for what happened next I can only credit instinct. I reached out to him, laying a gentle hand on his sleeve, and when I spoke, it was with a kindliness I feigned.

"She has broken your heart, has she not?"

He paused, his entire body stiffening like a pointer's. Then he collapsed into the chair with a groan, burying his face in his hands. It was some minutes before he dropped them, and when he did, I saw they shook a little.

"Did you hear the story of how we met, Lucy and me?" he began. I shook my head, concealing my surprise at the turn of events. Instead of being rather sternly lectured, it seemed I was to be treated to a story. "It was Ludlow's doing. His side of the family put great stock in education, refinement. My father thought solely of money. We lived in the poorest slums, not because my father could not afford better, but because he would not spend a tuppence more than he must for anything. He was a grim, miserly man who lived by one creed—if it could not put a penny in his pocket, he cared nothing for it. But I was a smart lad, and when Father put me to work as a bootmaker's apprentice, I learned the trade faster than any other boy in East London. I could cut a sole as quick and pretty as you please, and not one of the other lads could touch me for the stitches I used to make, so small you would need a magnifying glass just to see them."

Sir Cedric paused, his tawny eyes glazing slightly out of focus as he looked beyond me into his past. "One day the bootmaker's son was sick abed, and he shouted to me to come and help him fit a gentleman who had called at the shop. I had never seen a person of quality before, not like that. He was straight as a ramrod, a spine of steel and a nose like a whippet's. He looked down at me with that nose, and why not? I was scruffy and ill-fed. I slept with the beetles under the stairs, and I washed only when forced to it. But I forgot myself, my worn clothes and ill-kempt hair. I made so bold as to stare at the gentleman, and when he took a book from his pocket and began to read, it was like he was doing magic in front of my very eyes. I was eight years old and I had never seen anyone read a book, can you imagine that?"

I could not, but I knew to comment at this point might be disastrous. He was lost in his reminiscences, and I dared not call him back.

"The gentleman noticed my interest, my obsession, and as he left, he gave me the book. I have read a thousand books since, but not one of them ever taught me a word to describe the feeling I had in that moment. Joy, euphoria, ecstasy, they are pale and feeble ghosts of the word I want. I thought the feeling would consume me. I might have gone up in a pillar of flame in that moment, and done so happily. The feeling lasted until I opened the book and realised I could not understand a letter of it," he added with a wry smile. "But I did not let that stop me. I begged the bootmaker's daughter to teach me my letters, and she did, a to zed, right the way through, and by the end of that autumn, I could read the first line of the book the gentleman had given me. 'If music be the food of love, play on'."

"Twelfth Night!" I exclaimed, forgetting myself. But Sir Cedric merely smiled indulgently.

"Indeed it was. I thought it was the most magical thing I had ever heard, a shipwreck, false identities, love that could not be satisfied. My contentment never waned, no matter how many times I read it. Until I went home on Christmas Day, and my father threw it into the fireplace and burnt it before my eyes."

I drew in a sharp breath, expelling it slowly. Sir Cedric curled a lip in derision.

"Do not pity me, lady. He burnt it because he thought I had wasted my wages on it instead of handing them over as I ought. But I got my own back, I did," he said, his eyes snapping with a hellish mischief. "I burnt his only suit of clothes. The house stank of charred cloth for weeks—as long as I carried bruises on my back from the beating he gave me—but I did not care. He took ill that winter and was buried by Easter. I came home to live with my mother, and I promised her I would care for her. I did. By the time I was fourteen I had earned enough, coupled with what my father left us, to start my own business, selling cheap shoes out of a cart for four times what they cost to make. They fell apart the first time they got wet, but no matter. By the time I was sixteen I had enough money to buy a pub. My mother signed the papers as I was not old enough, and I hired a rough-looking fellow to water the gin and look the other way when the doxies brought clients upstairs. Ah, you are shocked at that, I think. Not many know I made a tidy profit from the whores in Whitechapel, turning a blind eye to their doings, taking a share of their earnings in exchange for a private room and a bed. And with that profit, I bought my first factory, a textile mill in the Midlands, where I made my first millions on the backs of women and children."

I did not speak. His story had clearly been told to offend me, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. I had thought him capable of real tenderness, but as he related the events of his youth, I began to doubt it.

"Now I owned copper mines and steamships, paper mills and even a small railway in Scotland. But still I lacked something. It was Ludlow who told me what it was. Civility, he said, education, polish. I had not read a book since the one my father burnt. No time for such foolishness, but Ludlow convinced me it was foolish not to. He said no lady of quality would marry a ruffian like me. So I hired a teacher of etiquette to smooth out my edges. I bought the entire library of a country house at auction and read every book in it. I attended plays and operas and exhibitions of the greatest paintings. And I went to lectures, everything from Darwin to the Dolomites, and it was at a lecture I met Lucy. Your father spoke two hours that night, and I heard not a word of it. I could not take my eyes from her."

Sir Cedric seemed to recollect my presence then. He slanted me a look from under his thick brows. "Doubtless you think me a fool, but I tell you I looked at her and I understood every poem I had ever read about love. It was that quick, that irrevocable. One minute, I was myself, as I had ever been. The next, I was consumed with her. I decided then that I must have her, and the rest you know. I wooed and won her in a fortnight. I care not for the particulars of how it happens. I left the planning of the wedding entirely to Lucy." His features, so changeable and so reflective of his mood, altered then. His lips thinned, his brows drew together, and the colour of his complexion rose. "And now she has done this, ruined it all with her foolishness," he said, spitting out the words as if they lay bitter on his tongue.

"Then you do not mean to marry her?" I ventured softly.

He raised his chin, curling his lip in scorn. "I made a promise to wed her and I am a man of my word. But do not think I am unaware of what it will mean. She has made us a laughingstock, figures of fun for all the world to jeer at. I shall be mocked for it, but I will marry her."

And make her pay for it the rest of her life, I imagined. Poor Lucy. Whatever part she had played in the aftermath of the murder, she did not deserve Sir Cedric's resentful affections. He did not appear to be a man who easily relinquished his grudges, and I felt certain Lucy would bear the lash of his grievances the whole of their marriage.

"I am sure there are those who will think it laudable you stood beside her when she most needed your support," I commented. Sir Cedric blasted me with a look.

"Surely you must understand what it means to be ridiculous in the eyes of society," he said. "There is not a month goes by some fresh gossip about the Marches doesn't find its way into the newspapers. I thought Lucy was far enough removed from that. She assured me after that business with your father—"

"My father? What of him?" To my knowledge, Father had been remarkably well-behaved of late. I had credited it to Hortense's influence, but perhaps I had been too generous.

Sir Cedric shifted in his chair. He was the sort of man who liked always to be in the right, I suspected. If he knew something of Father's exploits and had been instructed to keep his counsel, breaking that trust would put him squarely in the wrong. But I had not anticipated the streak of malice running like an ugly flaw through the fabric of his character.

"Your father was very nearly arrested a fortnight ago," he told me, his eyes sharp with spite.

Thoughts spun past and I snatched at one. "The riot in Trafalgar Square?"

"That's right. He went to support his friend, that treacherous Irish bastard."

"You mean William O'Brien." An Irish member of Parliament, he was at present languishing in prison, where his ill-treatment had been cause for the outrage in Trafalgar Square.

"I do indeed," he spat.

"What happened?"

Sir Cedric shrugged. "March very nearly got shot for his troubles. If it had not been for that Brisbane fellow watching his back, your father would be lying next to Snow in the game larder." He chuckled at his own joke and reached into his pocket for another vile cigar. I could not make sense of this. I had suspected Brisbane had been in Trafalgar Square on the fateful day and sustained his injury in the process. But that Father had been there as well was something I could not entirely take in.

"I am sorry, Sir Cedric, but I do not follow you. Do you mean to say that Lord Wargrave went to Trafalgar Square to protect my father?"

He clipped the end of his cigar, lit the tip, and pulled deeply from it, the end glowing like a ruby.

"I do not know how he came to be there. I only know that someone in that square fired a shot at your father, and Wargrave," he said, spreading the title thickly with sarcasm, "stepped in front of the bullet. He and his man hurried your father out of the square before he was recognised, and them with a bullet wound and a broken leg between them." He drew in a great lungful of smoke, then expelled it slowly through his nose. "If it were not for your friend, your father's name would have been all over the newspapers, and he would have likely been accountable to Parliament for his treasonous actions."

I bristled. "Father is no traitor. He merely has unconventional friends."

Sir Cedric waved his cigar. "His friends are traitors, and as far as I am concerned, he is cut from the same cloth."

"Then I must wonder that you are so willing to marry into his family," I retorted.

Sir Cedric paused, puffing away at his cigar, clouding the atmosphere of the room with its poisonous aroma. Grim made a sound in his throat and rose to the top of the bust of Caesar where the air was clearer.

"I want the girl," he said simply. "I want her, and what I want, I have. But she is soiled goods to me now, and I do not think I will ever look on her without thinking I have been got the better of."

I stared at him, scarcely believing he was serious, but his countenance betrayed no sign of levity, and I knew he spoke the truth.

"Lucy is not responsible for the actions of her family," I said, rising from my chair. He did not offer me the courtesy of rising as well, but merely sat, drawing deeply from his cigar and watching me with his tawny predator's eyes. "Any more than we are responsible for her choice of husband," I concluded with a fatuous smile.

I whistled for Grim and took my leave, my raven bobbing along in my wake. I had much to think on.

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

He gave you such a mastery report For art and exercise in your defense, And for your rapier most especially.

—Hamlet

I returned Grim to his cage in Father's study, pleased to find the room deserted. He had likely gone elsewhere to sulk, and he was welcome to it. I took the chance to sit a moment, deeply occupied with the thoughts that were tumbling through my head like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. The difficulty was none of these bits seemed to make any nice, pretty patterns. There were dozens of snippets of conversation, impressions, facts, theories, all whirling madly, none pausing long enough for me to make sense of them. This would never do, I told myself severely. The only way to fit the pieces together was to first make them orderly.

With a brisk step I went to my room, banishing Morag and the dog as I retrieved paper and pen. I arranged them on the blotter, remembering the maxim one of my governesses had always chanted, "A tidy desk is the reflection of a tidy mind." Of course, this particular governess had been discharged when Aunt Hermia discovered her dancing naked on the front lawn in celebration of the summer solstice. Perhaps it was best not to put much confidence in her little philosophies, but I had nothing to lose.

Writing swiftly, I put down everything I could think of pertaining to the murder, the theft of the pearls, and any other curious behaviours I had witnessed—the drugging of Lucy and Emma, the flirtation between Plum and Charlotte, the antipathy Snow held toward the Gypsies, the ghosts—I noted it all. And written down in a neat and orderly fashion, it was as tremendous a mess as it had been in my head.

I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes, thinking hard. Nothing made any sense at all; the pieces were too tenuous, the connections between them too vague and shadowy as yet. I groaned and threw the paper into the fire, deriving a very little satisfaction in watching it burn. "How Brisbane does this every day I shall never know," I grumbled.

But if I were to be entirely honest, I must admit I felt more alive, more necessary, than I had in half a year. My wanderings around Italy had been pleasant beyond description, but pleasant is a very little word. And I realised, as I sat watching my efforts at deduction smoulder to ash, I wanted a larger life than the one I had led. I wanted adventure and passion and romance, and all the other things I had scorned. More than seven hundred years of wild March blood had told at last, I thought with a smile. I had done a mighty job of suppressing it for the first thirty years of my life, but it simply would not do anymore.

* * *

With a newfound vigour, I left my room and made my way downstairs. Just as I reached the bottom of the staircase, Hortense appeared, coaxing a moody Violante along. My sister-in-law was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and Hortense looked at me over the girl's head, her eyes warm with sympathy and perhaps a touch of relief.

"Ah, Julia. Just the friendly face we hoped to find. Violante is a trifle upset, and perhaps you can cheer her better than I. I think she grows weary of me," Hortense said, hugging Violante close to her side and giving her a wink.

Violante hugged her back, watering the silk of her gown with her tears.

I put out my hand. "Come, walk with me, Violante. We will be very naughty and steal cakes from Cook and eat them on the stairs as Portia and I used to do as children."

Violante pulled a face and put a hand to her stomach. "I do not think the cakes I would like very much."

"Perhaps not, but you will like being with me. I am far nicer than Lysander and much prettier than Plum."

She laughed at this and took my hand, giving Hortense a quick kiss in farewell. I was astonished at how quickly they had become intimate, but it ought not to have surprised me. I knew only too well how kind Hortense could be. Compassion was the brightest treasure in her jewel box of virtues.

Violante and I strolled down the corridor, arm in arm. I felt a little ashamed of myself. The poor child was in a foreign country, with an imperfect grasp of the language, struggling to accommodate herself to her new family, and had endured a murder in her home, as well. And one could only imagine how the knowledge of her pregnancy had affected her. Doubtless she was pleased, but she had not had an easy time of it thus far, and I noticed her mouth was drawn down with sadness.

Impulsively I patted her hand, sorry I had not remembered earlier how affectionate she was. She must have missed the easy intimacies of her sisters and cousins in Italy. I brushed the hair back from her brow. "You are a little homesick, I think."

She nodded. "Si. I miss the sunshine, the flowers, the good foods of Napoli." I raised my brows and she hurried on. "England is very nice, of course. But it is not my home. There are no dead people at home."

I blinked at her. "Of course there are dead people in Italy, Violante. Some of them are still lying out in the churches for people to look at. I have seen the guidebooks." They were gruesome too, those decaying old saints, preserved under glass like so many specimens in a museum of natural history. I had made a point of visiting as many as possible during my travels.

"They are not in my house," she corrected, and I had to concede the point. To my understanding, her upbringing had been a conventional one. Her family might be passionately Italian, but at least murder had never broken out at one of their house parties.

"Please believe me when I tell you that they are not usually in this house either. This is a very strange turn of events, my dear, and not at all the welcome we had planned for you," I said consolingly.

She smiled at me, but doubtfully so. I changed the subject.

"What do you think of Father?"

Her smile deepened. "He is very nice." Verra nice. "His Italian, it is not so good as my English, but we understand each other."

"Good," I told her. "It is good when family understand one another."

She leaned toward me conspiratorially. "I am making him a waistcoat—it is a surprise, tell no one."

I blinked at her. "Of course not. What a charming idea. Father will be delighted."

She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. "It was Lysander's idea. He thought if I made something for Papa with my own hands, it would show how much I est—est—"

"Esteem?" I suggested.

"Esteem him," she finished happily. "I want to be the good daughter to him."

I resisted the little dart of annoyance I felt when she said that. Father had five daughters, he scarcely needed another. But I reminded myself that Violante was a stranger in our country, and that we were her family now.

I patted her hand. "That is a noble idea, Violante. I am sure he will be very pleased."

She brightened and tucked her handkerchief into her pocket. "I will go and work on it now. Tell me, does he like best the purples or the oranges?"

I tipped my head, considering carefully. Father's wardrobe was usually an excellent barometer of his mental state. When he was feeling melancholy and sulky, he wore his decaying old tweeds and shirts made for him in Savile Row thirty years ago. When he was in fine fettle, he dressed like a maharajah with just a dash of circus performer, all colour and light. It had not escaped my attention that he had worn his threadbare tweeds with a pair of disgusting old gaiters since our arrival at the Abbey. Perhaps a fine new waistcoat would be just the thing to raise his spirits.

"He loves them both, Violante. He loves them both so much you ought to make him a striped waistcoat, orange and purple together. Perhaps with some nice red taffeta for the back," I told her firmly. "And great buttons all down the front, green ones."

She beamed at me, and I beamed back at her, baring my teeth in a fond smile. I was quite beginning to like the girl.

Violante and I chatted haltingly for some little while as we paced the length of the ground floor. She told me about the baby and I pretended to be surprised, and by the time we finished, she seemed much more cheerful than she had been when I found her with Hortense. At one point she threw her arms around me, kissing me soundly on the cheek.

I patted her shoulder a little awkwardly. "How very sweet you are, Violante. Now, why don't we go and find Lysander? It is almost time for tea."

She nodded enthusiastically. "I like tea. It is very nice." Verra nice.

She looped her arm through mine while we walked like two schoolgirls on holiday, searching for Lysander. The library and music room—his likeliest haunts—were quite empty, but as we quitted the latter I detected a faint roar. I turned to Violante.

"Did you hear that?"

She cocked her head, jetty curls spilling over one shoulder. "The growl? Like the boar?"

"Bear," I corrected. "Yes, that is precisely what I meant."

I led the way down the corridor, and as we moved closer I distinctly heard another muffled growl and an unmistakable metallic clang. I groaned.

"What is it?" Violante demanded, her eyes wide as she clutched at my arm.

"A prime display of male conceit is what it is," I muttered.

We had reached the door of the billiard room. It was closed, but I did not need to see inside to know what mischief was afoot. Carved from the great width of the south transept, the billiard room was a vast open space. Previous earls had found it a useful place to store weapons. The walls were studded with every conceivable variety of blade and bow, axe and arquebus. It was also the room where all of my brothers had received their fencing instruction. Father had shoved a billiard table into a corner and renamed the place, but to us it would always hold fond memories as the armoury.

I threw open the door and crossed my arms over my chest. As I expected, mock combat was under way. Lysander and Plum were engaged, while Ludlow sat at a safe distance, instructing Charlotte in the finer points of swordsmanship. To my shock, I saw another pair of duelists, Alessandro and Brisbane.

"This cannot end well," I said, more to myself than Violante. I motioned for her to follow me and we skirted the fencers, making our way to where Ludlow and Charlotte sat on a bench of polished oak. They greeted us, Charlotte rather more coolly than Ludlow. Violante took no note of the snub, and I welcomed it. It saved me the trouble of being nice to her. Violante and I seated ourselves and I turned my attention eagerly to the bouts already engaged.

The gentlemen combatants sported various states of undress. Plum had removed only his coat, while Alessandro and Ly had discarded their waistcoats as well. Brisbane had retained his waistcoat, but lost his neckcloth at some juncture, and his shirt was open at the throat.

"It is a friendly bout," I told Violante. "Do you see that each of the swords wears a blunt tip? And none of the gentlemen wear a mask. That means they agree to direct their thrusts away from the face."

I had thought to reassure Violante, but in truth I was the one heaving a sigh of relief. For one mad moment when I had spotted Brisbane parrying a thrust of Alessandro's, I had feared the worst.

Violante asked a few questions then, and I answered her as best I could. What facts I forgot, Ludlow was prevailed upon to supply, and he pointed out a particularly nice bit of footwork on Plum's part.

Charlotte gave an ecstatic little sigh and looked at him worshipfully.

"Beh," Violante said. "Lysander, he is faster than Plum, and his sword is much nicer. See how pretty," she said, pointing toward the finely etched hilt of Lysander's weapon.

Charlotte set her mouth in irritation, and Ludlow suppressed a smile.

"I believe the quality of the blade, not the beauty of the hilt, is of primary importance, Mrs. Lysander," he said kindly.

Violante, utterly unconcerned, shrugged and watched the fencers with interest, clapping and cheering for Lysander, booing Plum with enthusiasm. I did not have the heart to tell her such things were not done, and as I watched her face, shining with pleasure, it occurred to me Ly had done rather well in finding a bride to fit into our family.

"You seem to know a great deal about swordsmanship, Mr. Ludlow," I remarked during a lull in the bouts. "Did you have a go with the others?"

Ludlow smiled. "I did. I believe Mr. Lysander thought it an unfair advantage that I wield a sword in my left hand, but Lord Wargrave fought me right-handed and thrashed me soundly. It did not seem to confound him in the least."

Just then Lysander and Plum executed a series of complicated maneuvers, each of them moving smoothly, although Ly seemed a little off his footing. Plum was attacking rather aggressively, and Ly was determined not to let him land a blow. They seemed likely to resort to fisticuffs soon, and as I watched them I realised what Ludlow had just told me. Ludlow was left-handed. He and I had been seated next to one another at the luncheon at Uncle Fly's. We had spent half the interval apologising to one another for our colliding elbows. I had known it, but I had not translated it within the context of our murder. The syllogism was a simple one: the murderer was right-handed. Ludlow was not right-handed, ergo Ludlow was not the murderer.

Lysander rallied then, posting a series of deft attacks that left Plum breathless. After another bold maneuver, Ly had the tip of his sword at Plum's chest. Violante cheered loudly, and Plum stepped forward, slapping Lysander's sword aside to punch him soundly on the jaw.

Lysander staggered back, then dropped his sword and came back at Plum, fists swinging.

"Well, honestly," I muttered. The scuffle was over as quickly as it had begun. Plum was bleeding profusely from his nose, and Lysander's lip was split open cleanly. They circled each other warily as they moved apart, each of them mouthing profanities.

Violante was shaking her head. "Lysander must learn to move his head to the side. He should have ducked and hit Plum in the—what do you call this?" she asked, pointing to the small of her back.

"Kidneys?" I hazarded.

She nodded. "Si, the kidneys. That is how to hurt a man," she concluded sagely.

Charlotte stared at her in horror, then rose to go to Plum, clucking and fussing as she handed him her handkerchief to stem the flow of blood welling from his nose.

"And how do you come to know so much about the finer points of grappling, Mrs. Lysander?" Ludlow inquired politely.

"I have eight brothers."

I gestured toward Lysander. "Should you not go to him?"

She waved a hand. "It is only the lip, he be fine. I only worry if there is enough blood to need the mop."

She called encouragement to her husband who blew her a kiss. Brisbane and Alessandro had halted, swords at their sides, when Plum and Ly had sunk to brawling, but they resumed their bout. Lysander came to sit with Violante, while Plum and Charlotte took chairs on the opposite side of the room, both of them casting dark looks toward Lysander. Lysander made a few jests as he took his seat, but I noticed his eyes strayed more than once to our brother, and when they rested on Plum, his expression was thoughtful.

Like Plum and Ly, Alessandro and Brisbane fought with blunted tips, but one would never have guessed from their expressions that this was a friendly duel. Alessandro's eyes gleamed with ferocity, and Brisbane's face was a study in concentration, his eyes fixed upon the younger man's sword hand.

"He is hurt. Why does he fight?" Violante inquired, pointing at Brisbane.

"Because, like all men, he is proud," I returned.

"And stupid," she added. Lysander bristled, but Violante and I exchanged knowing nods. I could piece together well enough what had transpired. Alessandro, perhaps feeling a trifle neglected and perhaps a little jealous of my friendship with Brisbane, had challenged. Brisbane, proud as an emperor, would sooner have cut his own arm completely off than admit he could not spar with a younger opponent. And Alessandro, who ought to have taken Brisbane's injury into consideration, was instead taking advantage of the situation, attacking with all the ferocity of a lion cub pouncing on his first prey.

"Poor Alessandro," I murmured. "He will regret this."

But if Alessandro had thought the inability to use his left arm would hinder Brisbane, he had underestimated him badly. They had chosen smallswords, and these lighter weapons needed less of a counterbalance than a heavier rapier would require. The technique lay in the footwork and the dexterity of the wrists, both of which Brisbane possessed in abundance. But even I could see that for all his excellent defensive maneuvers, he was holding something in check, refusing to mount an attack. No matter what devilish move Alessandro threw at him, Brisbane countered coolly and withdrew, never engaging further than necessity demanded. It was a deliberate strategy, and one that was rattling Alessandro badly. His face was flushed, his hair curling damply at the temples, and he was breathing quite quickly, tiring himself on his endless assaults but never gaining the advantage. He was quickly growing fatigued while Brisbane looked as though he could carry on for days.

It was not long before Alessandro's mounting fatigue turned to outright frustration. His lunges became more desperate, his footing more uncertain.

Suddenly, he took a deep breath as if to rally himself and thrust deeply, a well-placed stroke that a lesser opponent would have been at great pains to meet. But Brisbane parried and riposted; their swords connected in a great clash of steel, and in a swift glissade, Alessandro's blade rode up the end of Brisbane's weapon. Without warning, Alessandro flicked his wrist, circling the tip of his blade around Brisbane's, aiming directly for Brisbane's face.

One of the ladies—it may have been Charlotte—screamed, and with a roar of pain, in a movement so swift the eye could scarcely follow it, Brisbane thrust his left hand up and out of the sling, gripping Alessandro's blade in his bare palm. Brisbane's face was white with fury as he jerked Alessandro's sword toward him, bringing the younger man's face within inches of his own.

Instantly, Alessandro's face drained of colour as he realised what he had done. "Signore, you must accept my apologies, I am most abjectly sorry."

Brisbane said nothing for a long moment. Then, with infinite slowness and perfect disdain, he pulled Alessandro's sword from his hand and dropped it to the floor. Alessandro winced as it clattered on the stones, and it was still echoing when Brisbane stalked from the room, closing the door softly behind him. I think I would have preferred if he had slammed it.

Violante put a tentative hand to my shoulder. "Giulia, are you all right?"

"Of course. I am perfectly all right. Should I not be?"

She shrugged. "You screamed, very loud."

"I most certainly did not."

Violante gave me a little push. "You did."

I drew myself up to my full height and smoothed my skirts. "I most certainly did not. Now, if you will excuse me, Brisbane seems to have left his coat behind. I will make certain it is returned to him."

As I gathered up Brisbane's coat, I noticed Alessandro, still standing where Brisbane had left him, defeated and a little shocked. I ought to have said something encouraging to him, but Ludlow and Plum had already taken him in hand, and I wondered if perhaps this was one time the company of other men was preferable to a lady's society.

I gave a quick backward glance as I left. Alessandro was staring after me, his expression anguished. It would have been a kindness to offer him a smile of absolution, but I did not. I was not feeling particularly kind, I reflected sourly. And Alessandro had just revealed a little too much of what mettle he was made of.

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

Things without all remedy should be done without regard. What's done is done.

—Macbeth

I made directly for Brisbane's room in the Galilee Tower. It seemed likely he had withdrawn there to attend to his shoulder. I mounted the staircase slowly. It was possible the violent movement of his left arm had opened the wound, and I was no Nightingale to look easily on blood. Better to let him see to that himself in privacy, I decided, and not suffer distraction when I informed him of my revelation regarding Henry Ludlow.

As I rounded the corner into the bachelors' wing, I heard a door close and saw Aquinas coming my way carrying a tray.

I gestured toward the tray. "I presume you have been playing nursemaid to the patient?"

Aquinas gave me a short nod. "I believe his lordship is in considerable pain, but the wound opened only a little. He refused to permit me to put in a stitch, so I packed it with Lady Hermia's green salve and bandaged it."

I glanced down at the tray and saw a pile of cotton strips, streaked with blood.

"Very good of you, I'm sure." I looked up at Aquinas, but his face swam out of focus.

"My lady, are you quite all right? You have gone very pale."

I blinked hard and swallowed. "Quite well, thank you. Brisbane left without his coat. I will return it to him now."

If he thought it unseemly I would visit a bachelor in his rooms, he betrayed no sign of it. He merely inclined his head and went about his business. Portia had told me before that whatever I paid him was undoubtedly not enough, and once again I was forced to believe her. Discretion is an invaluable commodity in a servant.

I tapped at Brisbane's door and waited a moment. When there was no reply I knocked, quite loudly, and he growled for me to enter.

I was not surprised to find he had flung himself into an armchair. He was sucking hard at the mouthpiece of his hookah pipe, drawing in great choking lungfuls of smouldering hashish.

I waved a hand, clearing the atmosphere just a little.

"Good heavens, Brisbane, you are as bad as Sir Cedric. I thought I would choke on the stench of his cigars this afternoon."

Too late I realised I had betrayed myself. In spite of the narcotic fog, Brisbane's wits were undulled. He looked up at me inquiringly.

"Sir Cedric indulges only in the smoking room," he said slowly. "When were you there? And more to the point, why?"

I thrust his coat at him irritably. "I went to ask him about Lucy. I learned nothing of importance, save that he is a thoroughly nasty man. Here is your coat. You left it in the billiard room after that revolting display."

He blew out a great exhalation of smoke. "Am I to deduce you blame me for what happened?"

I took the chair opposite, flopping gracelessly with my elbows on the padded arms. "I do. I do not believe for a moment you challenged Alessandro. It was entirely within your power to avoid such a confrontation by not accepting his challenge. And then to bait him—"

"I did no such thing."

"You most certainly did. You pranced about, refusing to engage him. It was insulting. You patronized him and deliberately frustrated him to the point of rashness."

Brisbane lowered the mouthpiece. "I never prance. I would not know how to begin to prance. And you are quite wrong in any event. I did challenge him."

I sat up, staring in disbelief. "I do not believe it. Even you could not be so willfully stupid. That shoulder is not healed. You have a bullet wound scarcely a fortnight old—"

"I fell off my horse."

"You do not ride! For the love of heaven, can we not have the truth between us?" I cried. "You were in Trafalgar Square during the riot and you were shot!"

Brisbane leaned forward, his pupils indistinguishable from the rest of his piercingly black eyes. "I. Fell. Off. My. Horse."

"Oh, you are the most maddening man I have ever known. If stubbornness were water, I could sail on you to the ends of the earth."

Brisbane resumed his pipe, giving me a sardonic smile. "Well, we have that in common at least."

"Whatever do you mean? I am the most amiable of women." I felt a little insulted. I had never thought of myself as stubborn, and it was hurtful of him to say so.

He laughed. "You might have been, a year or two ago. Now you are unmanageable as any March."

"Then we ought to both be grateful it is not your task to manage me," I retorted hotly.

An uncomfortable silence fell between us. I do not know what thoughts ran through his head in those moments, but I would have given my last farthing to know. He merely sat smoking, inscrutable as a pharaoh, while I hated myself only a little less than I hated him.

"Why did you challenge Alessandro?" I asked finally.

"I wanted to take the measure of him. Your brothers were feeling restless, so Lysander suggested a friendly bit of exercise with swords. And for my purposes, fencing is as useful as chess in learning one's opponent."

"And what did you learn of Alessandro?"

Brisbane shrugged, then winced sharply as he eased his wounded shoulder back into place. He made no sound, but he had gone pale under the deep olive of his complexion.

"I learned he wishes to be taken seriously. He is a man, but not yet respected as such. He feels any slight to his dignity deeply, and when he is frustrated, he is apt to strike without thinking."

I felt my blood running cold in my veins. "You think he murdered Lucian Snow."

Brisbane took another deep draw of the pipe, exhaling slowly through his nose. Sir Cedric had done something similar with his cigar, but from him it was faintly grotesque. On Brisbane, the gesture was suggestive of something altogether more sensual.

"I do not know. What possible motive would he have? He seems to have no ties to Lucy, no reason to bear a grudge against Snow. He may have the temperament to do murder, even a murder of this variety, but whether he did or not, I cannot say. There is simply no motive, though God knows I have looked for one."

I shook my head. "I wonder at you. How can you be so determined to lay this crime at the feet of a young man who has given you no cause to think ill of him, save one impulsive moment that was completely provoked?"

"And I wonder you cannot see it for yourself," he said softly.

I paused. Surely Brisbane could not wish Alessandro to be guilty simply because of his affection for me. That would demonstrate a possessiveness, an attachment to me on Brisbane's behalf that I could scarcely credit. It was astonishing. I felt my breath catch in my throat. My lips trembled as I parted them.

"Brisbane," I murmured.

"It is quite simple," he said, smiling slowly, triumphantly. "If Alessandro is the murderer, then no member of your family is implicated, Lucy will go free, and I can return to London and put this case behind me."

If there had been a vase at hand I would have thrown it at his head. Instead I summoned a smile of my own. "How succinctly you put it. If you will excuse me now, it is time for tea, and I have things to attend to."

I took my leave, remembering only when I reached the gallery I had forgotten to tell him about Henry Ludlow. I shrugged and dismissed the thought. Brisbane was stalking his own game. I would give chase myself and see what the hunt turned up.

* * *

I hurried down to tea, nearly colliding with Portia on the staircase.

"Heavens, Julia, have a care. You nearly upset Puggy," she chided. She was carrying her loathsome pet in her arms. He snuffled wetly at me and I curled a lip at him in return.

"It would be no very great crime to upset Puggy," I remarked peevishly.

Portia gave me a dark look. "Do not think of joking with me. I have had a vile afternoon, and my head is throbbing again."

"I am sorry, dearest. What is the trouble?"

She adjusted Puggy in her arms and we started slowly down the stairs. "Another one of the cats has delivered a litter, this one in the fireplace in the dining room, so we cannot light the fire."

"Which cat?"

"Peter Simple."

I paused on the stairs. "A moment, Portia. You mean to say both of Father's toms have thrown litters this week?"

Her lips thinned in annoyance. "I do. And in the most inconvenient places. None of us has had clean linen on our beds because Christopher Sly scratches anyone who comes near her babies, and now we shall have to dress like Esquimaux at dinner or risk slowly freezing to death over the pheasant."

"Oooh, I do love a nice pheasant. Normandy sauce, I hope?"

"Puggy, darling, do try not to drool on Mama. What? Yes, of course Normandy sauce. You know it is Father's favourite. But when I ordered the pheasant for dinner, Cook nearly had an apoplexy and I had to spend almost an hour soothing her."

"I thought Cook prided herself on her pheasant," I put in. I was trying to pay attention for Portia's sake, but the domestic dramas were all a bit tedious to me. Aquinas had ordered my household in London, and since the fire I had been without a home of my own. I felt a little adrift without a proper home. If nothing else, it would be lovely to have a place to keep Aquinas. I had never enjoyed the home-keeping aspects of marriage, but now I was on my own, I thought I might rather like to set up a little household. Whatever mess I made of it, Aquinas would soon sort out.

Portia, on the other hand, was alarmingly competent at that sort of thing. She had organised her husband's household in a matter of days, overthrowing a century's worth of poor management and turning the country house into something of a showplace. Her house in London was equally fabulous, and she was renowned for her elegant dinners.

"She does an excellent pheasant," Portia said patiently, "but she did not want to cook these birds because they were in the game larder when Lucian Snow was brought in."

My stomach lurched a little. "Oh, dear."

"Indeed. They were cleared out quickly enough, and it isn't as though they touched him, but she still kicked up a tremendous fuss. And then of course she was quite bitter about the laudanum."

We had reached the bottom of the stairs and I knew I had but a moment to extract the rest of the story from Portia. I laid a hand on her arm.

"What laudanum?"

Puggy leaned over and sniffed at my hand, then gave a great sneeze. "Julia, honestly. You haven't been into any lavender, have you? Puggy suffers so from lavender."

I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped at the moistness on my hand, feeling slightly queasy. "No. Now tell me, what laudanum?"

"Cook keeps a bottle in the water closet belowstairs, for medicinal purposes," she said, raising a brow significantly.

"That is ludicrous. Why, any one of the scullery maids or bootboys could have at it. What possible reason could she have for keeping laudanum so near at hand?"

Portia raised the brow even higher and said nothing.

"Oh. You mean she doses herself, and quite often I imagine if she must needs keep it so close."

"Precisely. She claims it helps the rheumatism in her knees, and who am I to contradict her? She said there was but a drop left in the bottle. But the fact remains it is gone, and it took me another quarter of an hour to settle her feathers about that." I thought feverishly. A drop would never have been sufficient to account for the poisoning of the brandy bottle. But it might be just enough to put a small dog entirely unconscious.

I patted Portia's arm. "Poor dear. No wonder you have a headache. Have you had something for it?"

"I would have done, but the laudanum is missing," she replied sourly.

As we started toward the drawing room, my mind was working rapidly. The water closet belowstairs was actually located in a back passage, quite removed from the kitchens and sculleries of the Abbey, and readily accessible from the back stairs. It would have been an easy matter for anyone to have slipped down that way and helped themselves.

Just as we reached the door of the drawing room, I glanced at Puggy and noticed an embellishment.

"Portia, is Puggy wearing a ruff of black crêpe?"

She paused and looked down at Puggy, then up at me, her eyes wide. "Yes. I thought it proper in light of the events of late."

"You put mourning on a dog."

"The fact that Mr. Pugglesworth is a dog is no reason for him to fail to pay his respects, Julia. I saw Morag leading that creature of yours out earlier in an orange taffeta coat. Most inappropriate."

She gave me a severe look and left me standing in the corridor, mouth agape. Just then Henry Ludlow appeared, hurrying a little.

"Ah, Lady Julia. If you are still lingering in the corridor, I must not be as late as I feared," he said, favouring me with a smile.

"Mr. Ludlow, do you think it peculiar to dress a dog in mourning?"

He considered the matter, or at least gave the appearance of considering it. "I do not," he said finally. "The dog would not choose to dress itself in mourning, so we must look to the motives of its master or mistress. And it exhibits a very fine feeling of respect to the deceased."

I smiled at him, suddenly terribly glad that he could not be our murderer. "Well spoken, Mr. Ludlow. But we must not dally here. I have it on very good authority that Cook has sent up violet faery cakes for tea today, and I for one should be very sorry to miss them."

With a gallant inclination of his head, he offered me his arm and we proceeded into the drawing room. The tea things and most of the company had already been assembled. Brisbane remained absent, no doubt choosing to drown his sorrows in hookah smoke rather than a nice cup of tea, and Emma and Lucy were still recuperating in their room. The rest of the party had gathered, and if one had not known of the corpse lying in the game larder, one might have thought it a very pleasant interlude.

A very pleasant interlude on the surface, at least. But underneath dangerous currents swirled, threatening at any moment to drown the lot of us. Sir Cedric sat next to Portia, saying almost nothing but helping himself liberally to the plates of cakes and sandwiches Cook had prepared. Charlotte and Plum were engaged in a tête-à-tête, much to Father's interest. More than once I noted his attention resting on the pair, and from his expression, it was apparent he was not pleased.

Hortense, freed from the constraints of dancing attendance on Aunt Dorcas, exerted herself to charm Sir Cedric, chatting amiably with him in spite of his gruff, monosyllabic replies. Lysander and Violante were speaking in low tones, but I caught a few snatches of their conversation and it was not a happy one. They were carping again, about what I could not determine. Alessandro was seated on Portia's other side, and my sister did a masterful job of diverting him from his sulky mood. Once or twice I heard him laugh aloud, and I was able to savour my tea without fretting over him.

For my part, I nibbled at a scone and dripped butter on my skirts and sipped a scalding cup of tea. Ludlow had taken a chair next to mine and we talked in a desultory fashion, neither of us caring very much about the subjects, but both of us enjoying it thoroughly, I believe. We had just moved from the relative merits of Bach versus Haydn when I happened to look across the tea table. I do not know why the scene should have caught my attention, but it did, and for the merest moment everything froze as if in tableau.

Portia was pouring another cup for Alessandro, giving him an excellent view of her décolletage as she reached for his cup. Hortense was facing Sir Cedric, regaling him with some merry tale as he buttered his scone. And Sir Cedric was deftly wielding a butter knife, in his left hand.

Instantly I turned to Henry Ludlow. "Do you know, something has just struck me. Is your cousin left-handed?"

Ludlow finished chewing his faery cake and swallowed, nodding. "Yes. As am I. It does tend to run in families, you know. The mighty Kerr clan of Scotland boasts a great number of left-handed members. That is why the staircases in their castles are built to spiral counter-clockwise, so that a swordsman who carries his weapon in his left hand may fight unimpeded."

He reached for another faery cake, making the appropriate noises of delight, but I scarcely heard him. I had been so certain of Sir Cedric's villainy. It seemed a pity to discard him now, but it was impossible to reconcile his guilt with the evidence. If there was one thing I had learned under Brisbane's tuition, it was that the evidence, however improbable, does not lie.

Blast, I thought irritably. It seemed a terrible waste to have such a lovely villain right in front of me and not be able to connect him to the murder. I could not think of a man in the Abbey more suited to murderous pursuits than Sir Cedric.

But as I sipped at my tea and made polite faces at Ludlow, I realised it was much more than a pity. If Ludlow and Sir Cedric must be eliminated, then that left only the members of my own family as suspects. Members of my own family, I thought, lifting my gaze to the man at Portia's side, and Alessandro.

Just then he raised his head and returned my stare. I gave him a tentative smile, but he simply looked at me in return with the same detachment one might offer any stranger in the street. It was oddly chilling, and after a moment I dropped my eyes.

"My lady," Ludlow asked suddenly. "Is everything quite all right?"

I rallied and gave him what I hoped was a convincing smile. "Perfectly, thank you. I was merely woolgathering."

Ludlow smiled in return. "I think I have bored you with my talk of music. We must speak of something else, something that interests you."

"Not at all. I am very fond of music. Tell me more of the recital at Covent Garden," I encouraged, grateful I had collected at least that little snippet from his conversation.

He obliged, and with a few artful questions I was able to pass the rest of the tea hour peacefully, my thoughts running away with themselves while Ludlow talked on, his voice a gentle monotone in the background.

When the teapots were emptied at last and all that remained on the plates were buttery crumbs and puddles of cream, the party slowly broke up. We left to follow our own pursuits, some to rest, others to read. I had correspondence to answer, some of it long overdue, but I knew my letters would have to wait another day. I had laid plans for later that night, and a nap was just the thing to ensure I remained wakeful.

As I left the drawing room, Charlotte fell into step beside me, and if it was intentional it was skillfully done. She seemed pleased to have me alone and wasted not a moment in speaking her piece.

"Lady Julia, forgive my presumption, but I must wonder if you are angry with me?"

I kept walking but turned to look at her, taking in her widely innocent eyes, the powdered freshness of her complexion. "Whyever should I be?"

She spread her hands and looked demurely away. "I know you are friends with Lord Wargrave. And I believe you must know by now our betrothal is at an end."

"Oh, that." I waved a hand in dismissal. "Think nothing of it, my dear. I assure you I have not."

"But I would not have you think ill of me for breaking our engagement," she persisted. "Particularly in light of recent developments."

"You mean your flirtation with my brother?"

She gasped. "My lady, such a common term! I would never have thought to phrase it thus. Mr. Eglamour is a good friend, an amiable gentleman whose many kindnesses have been a balm to my wounded spirit in these dark hours."

I snorted and coughed behind my hand to cover it. "Yes, Plum is famous in the family for his balmlike qualities. We have often told him so."

Charlotte lowered her chin, looking at me from beneath a fringe of dark lashes, her lower lip thrust ever so delicately outward. "You mock me, my lady. And I cannot even fault you for it. I know my own conduct has been grossly unladylike. My dearest mama would spin in her grave could she but see what a mockery I have made of the womanly virtues she tried so desperately to instill within me."

I paused and turned to her. "My dear Charlotte, I have very little interest in virtues, particularly those of the womanly variety. Marry Brisbane, do not marry him, it is of no consequence to me. But since you pay me the compliment of your confidence, I will offer you this piece of advice—do not look to my brother to play Galahad to your distressed damsel. He has told a hundred ladies he loved them, and never once did he mean it. Plum is a lovely boy, and I am delighted he is my brother. But do not put your hope in him. He is altogether too fragile a vessel."

With that I left her gaping after me. I was perfectly aware my words would be of no consequence to her if she really harboured a tendresse for him. But the chance that a bit of plain speaking might dampen her ardour was not to be missed. I knew Plum well enough to know when he was merely playing at being a lover. His romantic imagination had been roused by Charlotte's plight, and her chocolate-box prettiness had only heightened the effect. Plum, however, was not the sort of man to be captured for long by a pretty face with a penchant for ruffles and bonbons. He craved exoticism, mystery, the unknown. Charlotte was a departure for him simply because he had travelled so long abroad, sating his appetite for dusky signorinas. He would tire of her as soon as he realised she was uneducated and uninteresting, precisely the sort of bland Englishwoman he had scorned for so long. I only hoped he realised his mistake before they married and I was made an aunt again.

Morag was out when I reached my bedchamber, but Florence was fully awake, inspecting the room and wreaking destruction. She had savaged a cushion and a book, eaten the better part of a candle, and was trotting about with a slipper clamped firmly between her tiny jaws when I found her.

"You are a vile little monster," I told her, wrestling the slipper out of her mouth. She growled and retreated to her basket to sulk. I looked at the ruined slipper in my hand, not entirely surprised to find its mate, damp and missing half its embroidery, already tucked in her basket.

"Go on then," I told her. "Keep them both. But no more or I will give you to the cats for a plaything."

She turned her back to me and settled down with her new slippers. I lay on my bed, fully dressed, and read for a while. At some point I must have slept, for I know I dreamed. I was moving through the hidden passages of the Abbey, up the winding stair to the lumber rooms. But they were not lumber rooms. They were scriptoria again, as they had been so long ago. Robed and sandaled monks sat at their small desks, dipping their quills into bottles of ink, frozen with the cold. They blew clouds of breath at me, breath that smelled of hashish until I fled to the darkened priory vault and down into the stone-strewn passage to the churchyard. I was running as fast as I could, one hand holding a candle aloft. By the inexplicable alchemy of dreams, it did not gutter but shone brightly, lighting the way ahead.

And as I ran I heard the echo of my own footsteps, and those of another. I turned, many times, raising the candle to peer behind me. But I saw nothing and still I ran, the passageways much longer than I remembered, and narrower, twisting and tightening until I became stuck fast and screamed for help. I heard a deep metallic sound, like the striking of the sanctuary bell. Then, horrified, I heard the second set of footsteps approaching and a quick, sharp exhalation of breath as someone blew out my candle.

I woke trembling then, to find my limbs twisted in the bedclothes. I must not have cried out, for Florence still slept peacefully in her basket. I heard the bell strike again, and I realised then it was the signal to dress for dinner. I looked at the clock, surprised to find how long I had slept.

Slowly, I untangled myself from the bedclothes and rose. I rang for Morag, and for once was glad of her idle chatter as she dressed me. I wore black again out of respect for Mr. Snow—if Portia's dog must wear mourning, so must we all, I decided sourly—and left off my jewels, except for the pendant Brisbane had given me. I had not expected to wear it again, but the dream had left me badly shaken. It seemed almost a presentiment of something frightening to come, and though I did not stop to think of it then, the little silver coin struck with the head of Medusa had become something of an amulet. I would admit it to no one, but I believed firmly and unaccountably that so long as I wore it, no harm would befall me.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself for what he is, and steal out of your company.

—Much Ado About Nothing

At dinner I was mightily put out to find Brisbane absent. The pheasant was delicious, but the dish was hotly peppered with my pique. He might have been in a bit of pain from the bout of fencing, but it had been his own notion to engage Alessandro, and he had only himself to blame. He had a responsibility to Father, to this investigation, to me, to follow through with his inquiries. And as I sat at table, glancing surreptitiously at my companions, it occurred to me our time together was drawing to a close. This grim thought was borne out by Father, who rose after dessert and addressed the company.

"I thought it appropriate to take this opportunity to speak to you all. This chance may not come again. A westerly wind has blown in, and the snow is nearly melted. I am assured by tomorrow morning the roads will be muddy and slow, but passable. If that is indeed the case, Lord Wargrave will leave us then to bring a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. If the telegraph is still inoperable, he will travel up to London personally and then the investigation into the death of Mr. Snow will be taken out of my hands, and what has transpired here will be known to all." He paused here for dramatic effect. It was a gesture I had seen often enough when he played Lear in our amateur theatricals, but it was highly effective. He looked slowly from one face to another, giving nothing away. Some squirmed a little under his scrutiny, some dropped their eyes, and some met his gaze squarely with their own.

"I should also make you aware of a murderous attack perpetrated upon my nieces, Emma and Lucy, last night," he said, his voice ringing out in tones a thespian would have envied. Sir Cedric made to rise, but Father waved him back to his chair. I bit back a groan. Brisbane had specifically instructed him to tell no one of the attack. He would take Father apart with his bare hands when he heard what he had done. The rest of the company sat in mute horror as Father continued.

"Thanks to timely intervention, they are both quite well, but I have ordered them kept under watch of my own staff in the ladies' wing. This matter will also be given over to the detective inspector. But as this place has proven dangerous for members of my own family, so it may be so for the rest of us. Therefore, when you rise from table, you will go directly to your rooms and remain there until morning."

He paused again, pitching his voice lower for effect.

"I think tonight would best be spent in contemplation. If you are the sort of person given to prayer, then do so. Pray for us all, pray for the soul of Lucian Snow, and pray for the murderer who walks among us."

Charlotte gave a little sob and buried her face in her hands, but the rest of the company made no reaction. For my part, I thought it a masterful bit of rhetoric on Father's part. I had never heard him speak of prayer before, for he was not a religious man. He believed in the repose of one's mind, of solitude taken in regular doses to quiet the spirit. But in this place, this Abbey once consecrated to the service of God, the very stones still echoed with the chants of holy men.

Perhaps he hoped it would be enough to prick the conscience of the guilty to confession. Or perhaps he simply wanted an evening free of all of us. If the latter, his aim was true. We left the chilly dining room then—dinner had been a frigid affair, marked with the mewling of infant cats and an occasional hiss from their irritated mother—and went our separate ways, bidding one another good-night in subdued voices. Portia and I made our way slowly upstairs, and I noticed anew the marks of fatigue upon her lovely face.

"I am glad Father has banished us to our rooms tonight," I told her. "You look a fright."

"I feel one as well. You cannot imagine how difficult it is to entertain properly when there is a dead man in the game larder."

I patted her shoulder. "I am sorry for it. Rest is what you need now. Take a nice, dull book to bed and you will be asleep before you know it."

"I must look in on Brisbane first. He sent his regrets for dinner by way of Aquinas, but I would like to make certain he is quite all right."

That Brisbane was perfectly fine, I had no doubt. He was simply being mysterious, holed up in his room like a wintering bear, nursing at his hookah pipe and cogitating, instead of actively investigating as he ought to be.

"I am sure he is entirely well," I told her acidly. "I think you need not bother."

She waved an airy hand. "Oh, I do not mind. Besides, I wish to speak with him about another matter we have been discussing. A bit of business between friends," she finished with a maddening air of vagueness.

Portia had the nasty habit common to all elder sisters of sometimes pretending to knowledge I did not have in order to provoke me to irritation. I would not be provoked. Instead I lifted my chin, gave her a sweetly sticky smile, and simply replied, "Then I will leave you here. Good-night, dearest."

She continued on to Brisbane's room, leaving me seething with annoyance. "A bit of business between friends," I muttered. "Bit of business indeed. And what friends? They hardly know one another."

I continued on in this fashion until I reached my room where Morag was dozing over her knitting. I poked her with a finger.

"Get up and go to bed. I shall not want you this evening. And take the dog with you." My plans did not include Florence. Morag yawned and stretched, an elaborate production that took a few minutes. She made a great show of packing up her knitting and collecting the dog whilst I waited.

"You needn't tap your foot at me," she warned. "I am going as fast as I can."

"Feathers. You are slow as treacle because you want to know what I am about. And what I am about is none of your business."

"Oooh, you are in a right nasty mood, you are. Come, Florence. We've no call to be spoken to like that."

Nose in the air, she stuffed the dog under one arm, the knitting under the other, and retreated to her room. I paced the room after she left, working off my impatience. I was anxious about the night to come, worried my plan would work, and terrified it would not. Restless, I picked things up and put them down again, tried to read for a while, and even attempted to answer a few letters with little success.

At last the clock struck midnight, the earliest hour at which I thought my plan might be put into play. I rose from my chair and threw a black dressing gown over my clothes, changing my evening shoes for a pair of slippers with soft felt soles. If I were seen, I could easily claim I was wakeful and in need of a book or some refreshment. But I did not mean to be seen.

I crept from my room, careful to keep to the interior wall. The gallery was flooded with shifting moonlight. The moon had waxed full, shedding soft pearly light through the great windows. The light shifted as ragged bits of clouds, torn by the warm west wind, dragged over the moon's face like bits of veiling. I made no sound as I slipped behind the tapestry and depressed the mechanism. I had brought no candle with me. I could not risk being betrayed by the feeble light, and I knew the passage well enough to traverse it by feel. If I climbed slowly and kept my hands in front of me, I should be quite all right, I reasoned. But I will admit to heaving a great sigh of relief when I gained the lumber rooms. Though the moonlight was even brighter here, it took me some minutes to arrange a place of concealment. Finally, I hauled a small trunk onto a larger one and topped them both with a hat form, tucking myself neatly behind. And then I waited.

It was bitterly cold in the lumber rooms, even with my dressing gown over my clothes, and I wished more than once I had been clever enough to have dragged out a few of the moth-eaten old furs to line my little den. I dozed in spite of the cold, but jerked myself awake, occasionally resorting to little pinches and pokes to keep alert. I waited, thinking of all the things I would rather be doing at that moment. I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I heard a softly muttered curse. Carefully, I stretched my stiffened limbs and dared a peek over the trunk.

A woman was standing with her back to me, scarcely a dozen feet away. She must have been there a few minutes at least for she had nearly finished assuming her costume. Her hair was obscured by the thick white veiling, and she was already dressed in the ghost's attire, completely concealing her identity. She was fumbling at her feet, doubtless attaching the pattens to her shoes.

"Blast," I mouthed silently. She must have entered whilst I was asleep and I had nearly missed her altogether. It was little wonder Brisbane's faith in my abilities as a detective was so feeble.

The woman straightened then, and I had to admit, even at so close a distance, the moonlight lent an eerie effect. I had just watched a mortal woman dress herself in these bits of theatrical garb, and yet I could not suppress a shiver as she glided toward the door, seeming to float above the stone floor like a phantom in a Gothic tale.

I counted slowly to fifty after she left, then eased from my hiding place. Since I had seen her make use of the hidden stair before, it seemed reasonable she would do so again. I followed, straining my eyes for a glimpse of her flowing white draperies, careful to keep myself in the shadows.

There was no trace of her on the hidden stair, but when I emerged into the gallery of the ladies' wing, I saw her at the far end, hovering above the floor, moving slowly toward the staircase. I moved at a pace faster than a walk, but not quite a run, concealing myself behind statues and potted palms. I dashed from one to another, always pausing to make certain she was still within my sights. I followed her from the ladies' wing and onto the landing. I had a great fright then, for just as I reached the landing she turned back and I was forced to dart behind a suit of armour. I counted to fifty again and dared a peek. She had disappeared, and I had a bad moment or two until I realised she must be on the staircase. There was no possible way to descend while she was still on the stairs, so I waited, marking which way she turned at the bottom, then flying down as fast as silence would permit.

She had just reached the end of the transept corridor and turned right toward the drawing room. I followed her progress mentally. If I did not see her when I reached the bottom of the stairs, she must have gone into the great drawing room, in which case the little alcove behind Maurice the bear would make a splendid vantage point to watch for her return. And if she was still gliding down the corridor, Maurice would also be an excellent place from which to monitor her progress.

At least, that was my plan. Over what happened next, I would like very much to draw a veil. It was not my finest moment.

Just as I turned to the left I saw the ghost, stock still, squarely in the middle of the corridor, and not five feet from me. For an instant I forgot the trick of the black veiling and saw only a faceless phantom, floating above the floor. It lifted its featureless head and raised a spectral hand, pointing at my heart. It gave a low, anguished moan of despair, and with that tormented sound, the illusion was complete.

I gave a scream, a very little one, and stumbled backward, stepping hard on the hem of my dressing gown. Just as I fell to the floor, a shadow vaulted over me. It was Brisbane, moving like something out of myth. The moonlight sharpened the angry planes of his face, lending him the aspect of an avenging angel. I sat up just in time to see him rush headlong into the ghost, knocking her soundly to the floor. I struggled to my feet, remembering the candle always kept burning in this corridor at night. The ghost must have blown it out to show herself to best advantage in the gloom. It took but a moment to light it again, and by the time the little flame flared up, illuminating the scene, Brisbane had hauled the ghost to her feet, her black veiling dangling free.

"Charlotte!" I cried.

She made to wrench her arm free, but Brisbane held her fast with his good arm. "Charlotte, do not give me a reason to slap you, I beg you," he said pleasantly.

"Bastard," she spat.

"What the devil is this about? I want the truth, and I think I deserve it," I stated, folding my arms over my chest.

"She does deserve that much at least, Brisbane. Let us go into the study and discuss this like rational creatures," Father said. I whirled to find him standing on the last stair.

"You as well?" I demanded. Father had the grace to look abashed, but he said nothing. He turned to Brisbane in appeal. Brisbane gave him a curt nod and prodded Charlotte toward the study. I hurried after them, and Father followed. We were an unlikely quartet, I thought as Father closed the door carefully behind us and I hurried to light lamps and put a candle to the fire. It blazed up quickly and cheerfully, a counterpoint to our solemn faces. Brisbane was angry, Father was aggrieved, and Charlotte seemed broken, the hot flash of her anger now burnt to resignation. I was frankly bewildered, and after we had taken chairs and accepted the whiskey Father poured out, I settled back to await an explanation.

"Charlotte King is a jewel thief," Brisbane said flatly. "A rather exclusive one, to be sure, but a jewel thief nonetheless. I have been engaged to retrieve something she has stolen."

"I am not a thief," she said quietly.

"Mrs. King, do not speak," Father advised. "We shall all of us remember what you say, and perhaps we may one day be prevailed upon to repeat it, under oath and to your detriment."

Charlotte fell silent and sipped at her whiskey, her eyes downcast.

"I presume that was the reason for the fictitious engagement?" I asked Brisbane.

"It was. I needed to spend time with her, to search her place of residence, to follow her to her boltholes and bribe her confederates."

Charlotte gave a short laugh, nothing like the silly giggle she had affected. Her façade of sweetness cracked, she seemed a dozen years older. "Confederates, my lord? I must remember that."

Brisbane ignored her, as did I. "Why bring her here? To my father's house?"

"I had information, from one of her confederates," he said, drawling the word, "that she was planning to leave the country soon. It seemed logical she would take this particular item with her. I had had no success in recovering the jewel, and time was growing short. It was necessary to isolate her in a place without friends or accomplices and in possession of the stolen property. His lordship volunteered to invite her here."

"Father?" I gave him a stern look and he nodded, a trifle sheepishly.

"I did. I owed Brisbane a rather significant favour," he said shortly. His jaw was set, and I knew he regretted bringing the sordidness of an investigation into his home. I cocked my head, wondering if either of them would admit to Brisbane's daring deed in Trafalgar Square.

"What sort of favour?"

Father's eyes slid from mine. He was suddenly terribly interested in the state of his blotter.

"It does not signify," Brisbane cut in smoothly. "The fact remains, his lordship offered the use of this house party as a suitable setting to apprehend her."

Charlotte gave a harsh laugh. The colour had risen in her cheeks, whether from her predicament or the whiskey, I could not say.

"Apprehend me! And what have you got, my lord? A handful of tatty old rags and a girl out of bed when she oughtn't be," she said to Brisbane, her voice shrill, very near to hysteria, I thought.

"Is that true?" I asked him. "You have no proof of her crimes?"

Brisbane's jaw tightened. "I do not. She has been clever enough to secure the item in question somewhere other than her room or her trunk. I had a strong suspicion she was going to move it tonight. I hid myself in the gallery of the ladies' wing and followed her when she entered the hidden passage. Once I realised she was assuming her disguise, I retraced my steps and resumed my hiding place in the corridor. From there, I knew once she was garbed in her ghostly costume, she would lead me directly to her cache."

I felt a cold chill creep over my limbs that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Brisbane was regarding me with an icy stare, and I understood with a thrill of horror what I had just done.

"You mean I ruined—" I could not bear to finish the thought.

"You did," he put in brutally. I had thought him angry with Charlotte. I should have known better. Brisbane was a professional. He did not permit his emotions to become entangled with the criminals he pursued. My interference, however, could be viewed in a very different light.

"Oh, no," I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

Charlotte laughed again, mirthlessly. "I suppose I ought to thank you, my lady. Brisbane has nothing to charge me with except the wearing of old clothes I found in the lumber room, and there is no crime in that." Old clothes she had likely discovered when Aunt Hermia had led a party of chattering ladies to the lumber rooms to choose Lucy's wedding finery. How simple it must have been for Charlotte to mark those few articles, then return later to fashion them into her ghostly garb. Under different circumstances, I might have admired her ingenuity.

I raised my head. "But clearly you were abroad for some nefarious purpose," I argued, desperate to salvage this calamity I had wrought.

Charlotte smiled at me and took a sip of her whiskey. "Or was I creeping around in this disguise to preserve my reputation? Perhaps I was seeking an assignation?"

There was no malice in her eyes, only the calm certainty of a woman who has taken every precaution in a dangerous game. This was why she had courted Plum's attentions, then. She had earned herself a stalwart defender should she have need of one, and an alibi as well.

She rose and placed her glass on the table, patting her hair to smoothness. "I do hope you will excuse me. I am very tired, and it is quite late. I will of course return these things to the lumber rooms, my lord," she said with an arch smile at Father. "I should not like to have it said I took anything that did not belong to me."

She dropped a deep curtsey and left us then. I sank further into my chair, wishing I could escape as easily as that.

"I am sorry," I murmured. "I had no idea."

"Yes, you did," Brisbane said bitterly. "You knew I would never seriously consider marrying a woman like that. You taunted me with it that day by the river. But you could not reason further to realise I was engaged upon an investigation?"

I spread my hands helplessly, wishing Father would say something, anything at all. "I did realise it, but I never took her for a villainess. You even implied someone else might use her as a scapegoat, if you will remember. You said someone else might cache jewels in her room to throw suspicion upon her. And even if I were inclined to believe the worst of her, two minutes in her company would have cured my doubts. She looks like a Dresden shepherdess and she talks like a milkmaid!"

Brisbane's mouth twisted. "Well, your little Dresden shepherdess managed to steal one of the single most valuable jewels in the entire kingdom, and if I do not recover it…"

His voice dropped off as if he could not bear to give voice to the magnitude of his ruin if he failed. "What did she steal?" I dared to ask in a very tiny voice.

"The Tear of Jaipur," Father said softly. "I have only seen it once, but it was the most magnificent thing I have ever laid eyes upon."

"A diamond?"

"Not a diamond," Brisbane corrected, his voice thick with sarcasm. "The diamond. The largest one in the queen's personal collection. It was a gift from an Indian potentate when she became their Empress."

I nearly laughed aloud. The very idea was preposterous, another one of Brisbane's nursery stories to keep me in the dark. "The queen? Charlotte stole the queen's diamond? How? Did she scale the walls of Buckingham Palace? Or did she overpower the guards like Colonel Blood?"

Father winced and Brisbane looked grimly at the glass in his hands. He rolled it between his palms, the flames on the hearth flickering in the reflected depths of the whiskey. Too late I realised he had told the truth.

"The queen had given the jewel to her daughter-in-law. No, I will not say which," he said sternly as I opened my mouth to ask. "But she gave it as a mark of extreme favour. And the stupid woman gave it away."

I blinked at him. "To whom?"

"A lover," Father said, pulling a face. It might have been a deliciously scandalous story if matters had not turned out so disastrously for Brisbane, I thought.

"How could she possibly expect the absence of such a thing would not be noted?" I demanded.

Brisbane shrugged. He did not grimace, and I wondered if the aftereffects of the hashish were still allaying the pain of his injury. "He spun her a tale. He told her he wanted to keep it, just for one night, a pledge of her faith and devotion."

"And she believed him?" I scoffed, but Father gave me a world-weary shake of the head.

"Never underestimate the stupidity of a woman in love," he said. "Or a man," he hastened to add.

"The lady did believe him," Brisbane continued. "She gave him the jewel for one night and never saw him again. His name was Edwin Campbell. He is Charlotte's husband, or rather, the man she acknowledges as her husband. I have found no evidence they were ever wed. She took the diamond from him and he has not seen her since."

I shook my head. The tale hung together, but loosely, like cobweb lace. "Why would she move openly in society if she were hiding from her husband?"

"He was taken to gaol shortly after the theft for other crimes. He refuses to speak against her. Poor devil still believes she will come back to him, with the diamond."

"But she is leaving the country? You are certain?"

"As certain as one may be of information one has bought. But it seems the only possible course for her. She has the diamond. She cannot hope to sell it here, but on the Continent, in the Americas even, she could make a tidy fortune and live quite comfortably."

I shook my head. I could not quite take it all in. "I cannot believe she is a thief. I thought her so refined, so feminine."

"Make no mistake, she is the daughter of a gentleman, and she has been educated as a lady. Presenting herself as a genteel society widow was no great difficulty for her. And Campbell was a rather talented forger. He wrote letters of introduction for her, and with those she wormed her way into the highest circles. She was invited to parties at the wealthiest houses. She was quick and careful, and if the hostess noticed some time later a valuable trinket was missing, she would never connect the theft with the charming and garrulous Mrs. King."

"Clever," I said, admiring her just a little in spite of myself. She was thoroughly amoral, and her lifestyle was utterly reprehensible, but there was still something, some elusive quality about her that drew one in. Perhaps it was charm, or a vulnerability she thought she had masked with her deceit.

"Clever and vicious. She was nearly apprehended once by a lady's maid. She bashed the woman over the head with a candlestick and nearly killed her."

I caught my breath. The implication was horrifying. "Brisbane, you do not think, I mean, it is not possible. Not Mr. Snow."

"No," he said slowly. "She could not have killed him. Her hands are smaller than yours. If Edwin Campbell were a free man, I would have suspected him instantly, particularly as Snow had jewels in his pocket. But he is a guest of Her Majesty's, enjoying the hospitality of Wandsworth Prison at present. And the jewels Lucian Snow had in his pocket were not of the variety to tempt the lady. The Grey Pearls would have been much more in her line."

"You think she stole my pearls?"

"I know she did, I can feel it in my bones. But without a witness, without the pearls, without a confession, I have nothing. Less than nothing," he said, his mouth thin with bitterness. "I do not even have the Tear of Jaipur."

I said nothing for a long moment. Father remained silent, and the only sounds were the ticking of the mantel clock and the rustling of the fire.

"The princess herself retained you to recover it?" I ventured finally, afraid of his answer.

"Through the prime minister," he said calmly. It was even worse than I had feared.

"And now you will have to go to them and admit you have failed," I said wretchedly.

"The letters patent," Father began. The letters patent, drawn up to bestow Brisbane's viscountcy, a viscountcy that would not be his until the letters had been published.

"Useless," Brisbane cut in, his voice clipped.

I looked from one to the other. "The letters patent? For your title? What do you mean they are useless?"

Brisbane looked into his whiskey glass, studying the amber depths. "The letters were drafted by Lord Salisbury. He approached me about recovering the jewel for Her Royal Highness after some success I had on behalf of the Prince of Wales in the autumn. The letters were to be held until the diamond was recovered. If I fail, he will burn them."

Puzzled, I turned to Father. "But you have already been addressing him by the title of viscount."

Father shrugged. "A ruse to sweeten the honeypot for Charlotte King. Jewel thieves are terrible snobs."

I shook my head, feeling suddenly sick. "Because I interfered, you will lose a title? And an estate?"

Brisbane drank off his whiskey and put the glass carefully onto Father's desk. "It does not matter, my lady. I was not born to it. The loss of it does not grieve me."

The words should have been comforting, but somewhere underneath them was a current of some indefinable emotion in his voice that made me ache. Was it longing? Did he care so much for what he had never had? I thought of the life he might have led, lord of the country manor, perhaps a husband and father, caring for his stock and his tenants, managing them all with fairness and generosity. I could have wept for him. But something in his face, his implacable, unyielding face, warned me not to.

I rose, a trifle unsteady after the shocks I had endured and the whiskey I had drunk. "There is no possible method by which I may apologise as profoundly as you deserve. I can only tell you I will regret my thoughtlessness, my impetuosity, every day of my life."

I left them then. I heard the low rumble of voices as I closed the door. I did not stay to eavesdrop on what they might have said. They had their own differences to sort between them. I had interfered enough for one night.

Or so I thought. There was one last bit of meddling yet to come. It was a silly thing, really, that finally revealed to me the murderer of Lucian Snow. It happened when I tripped on my slipper on the stair. I was tired and stumbled a little, catching the sole. I looked back to find the slipper sitting on the stair, the toe facing backward, and when I went to pick it up, I understood what we ought to have seen before.

When I reached for the slipper, I instinctively turned my hand, thumb facing back, so that when I straightened and brought the slipper up, the toe would face forward. A simple, stupid detail one would never think on in the course of an ordinary day. But this had been no ordinary day. A man lay murdered under my father's roof, strangled by a right-handed man.

Unless the murderer was upside down. No, that was ridiculous. It was Snow who had to be upside down, and once I knew that, the rest of it fell tidily into place. I sank down onto the stair, closing my eyes to better imagine it.

I saw the two men in the chapel, perhaps by arrangement, perhaps by accident. Snow turns his back. Was he caused to do so? He could have been. The little bundle of jewels would have been a pretty lure. He could pocket them and then, his back still turned, he is struck down by a single vicious blow from the candelabrum.

Stunned, perhaps dying already, he slumps unconscious to the floor. His murderer turns him onto his back, and standing at Snow's head, reaches over his face to strangle him. The bruises would speak eloquently of a right-handed man, the perfect alibi for a left-handed murderer.

I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself still on the stair. I had seen it so clearly in my mind's eye. All but the face of the killer, and it did not require much imagination to supply that.

I rose and put on my slipper, determined not to waste a moment. I sped to the gentlemen's wing and knocked softly at one of the doors. It took an agonisingly long time before he replied, but at length he did. I had expected I would rouse him from sleep, but his hair was neatly combed, and his eyes, though shadowed with anguish, were clear and alert.

"My lady," he began, his expression one of naked astonishment. But I gave him no opportunity to say more. I pushed him into the room and closed the door behind us.

He recovered from his surprise and quickly gestured toward the chairs by the fire. I took one, schooling my expression carefully. I must not seem accusatory if I hoped to win his confidence. I must be gentle, sympathetic even.

With that in mind, I reached out when he had seated himself and I took his hand in mine. He started, but did not remove his hand, and after a moment I felt it relax in mine.

"I think you know why I have come. You are burdened. Would it not ease you to speak?"

He sighed then, a great exhalation carrying all the weight of the world with it, but he did not speak. His hand was warm and smooth in mine, and larger than I had expected. I had thought it would feel less substantial somehow, but there was a solid, sinewy strength in his fingers.

"It weighs on you, does it not? You should not carry this burden alone."

He gave a little groan and started to pull his hand away, but I held it fast and courtesy would not permit him to push me away.

"I shall not leave until you talk to me. Believe me when I say I am your friend, and I can help you. My family has a great deal of influence, and if you confide in me, I will do everything in my power to see justice is done. You believe that, do you not?"

He nodded, closing his eyes. His hand was now clasping mine, and I knew he was very nearly there. Just one last push…a shot in the dark, but my only chance to reach him.

"I think that she would want you to tell me."

His eyes flew open. "She said I must never," he whispered hoarsely.

I tightened my grasp on his hand. "She is overwrought. If she were thinking clearly, she would never want you to suffer, I am certain of it. And you are suffering now. It is written plainly on your face."

His expression did not change, but I noticed a sudden brilliance to his eyes, the shimmer of unshed tears. I had found his most vulnerable spot. And like Paris bringing down Achilles, my aim must be true.

"It is not right you should suffer. All you have to do is tell me, and it will be over."

For an instant I thought I had pushed him too far. But then his body sagged and his other hand reached out to cover mine.

"Yes. That is what I want, for it to be over," he murmured.

"Then tell me. I will not abandon you. I swear it."

"I believe you," he said simply.

And I settled in my chair and waited for Henry Ludlow to tell me everything he knew.

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep, And in his simple show he harbours treason.

—II Henry VI

It was not his fault. He was Sir Cedric's employee and cousin, poor relation to a monster who held the purse strings. Whatever crimes Sir Cedric had committed, Ludlow must fear being charged as an accomplice. I could well understand why he had kept silent. But as his kinsman he must know Sir Cedric better than most, witnessed the ferocity of his temper, his obstinance. And he must have drawn his own conclusion about the author of the murder in the chapel. Lucy's claim to sanctuary must have cemented the conviction that Sir Cedric had murdered Lucian. A woman knows the heart of her beloved, and what she does not know, she intuits. Even if Lucy had not been privy to his plans, she had looked at the broken body on the floor of the chapel and known the handiwork of her beloved.

"His arrogance," Henry began softly, "was deplorable. I have rarely ever encountered a man so replete with it, and for so little cause. I would have hated him on his own merit, even if she had not revealed to me exactly what he was."

I felt the niggle of a question, but did not ask. Now that Henry was talking, I was reluctant to interrupt him.

"I have known other men like him—that bluff, hearty sort. Think they own the world, and they very often do. They stand astride the world like Colossus and they never see what they crush beneath their feet. I hated him from the moment I first made his acquaintance."

I had no choice but to break in. "Why did you accept a position in his employ?" I ventured softly.

Henry blinked at me. "Employ? I was not speaking of Sir Cedric. I was talking about Lucian Snow."

"Ah, yes, of course. I do apologise. Go on," I said with an encouraging smile, but inwardly I was thinking feverishly.

"His inhumanity, his impiety, characteristics to be deplored in a clergyman. To listen to him expounding his plan to reform the Gypsies did not improve my opinion of him," he said angrily. "And when I heard how he had left the army and taken a living so blithely, as a means of keeping himself with little effort and no care whatsoever for his parishioners, it made me quite physically ill."

He looked intently at me, his eyes alight with passion. "Do you know what I would have given for a living of my own? My very heart's blood. It was all I ever wanted. A small country parish where I could do some good. That was my entire life's ambition. To shepherd a flock. To guide, to help, to protect, to inspire. That is all I wanted. It was my dearest dream, and it was taken from me. And given to a man like that—no, not a man. A child. He looked at it as if it were a plaything, to be picked up and cast aside when it suited him, with no care for the needs of his parishioners, no interest in them save whether they had pretty daughters," he said, with real bitterness.

His hands were holding mine very tightly, and even if I had wanted to remove them, I doubt I could have done so.

"But I was cordial to him, because it is my job to be cordial to everyone with whom Sir Cedric chooses to associate. I told myself I should not have to bear him long. He would only be here until the wedding was celebrated. After that he would return to his lodgings in the village, and I would see him no more. I would think on him no more."

Henry's eyes slid away from mine then, and I knew he was seeing it all again in his mind's eye.

"And then she came to me, in tears. He was blackmailing her, demanding payment for his silence over some youthful transgression he had discovered through mutual acquaintances. She would not tell me what it was, only that he had misunderstood something quite terribly, had twisted an innocent mistake into something ugly and untrue. She had no money, and she faced utter ruin if he was not silenced."

The room was quite warm, I decided, or perhaps it was just that we were sitting too near the fire. But I dared not move and draw attention to myself. Henry seemed not to notice. A drop of perspiration trickled down his hairline, but he did not dash it away.

"You must not think we are friends. I would not presume such a thing—but we are confidants after a fashion. I told her of my disappointed hopes, and she told me of hers. She trusted me." My mind raced on, piecing the snippets he dropped in my lap. I had never heard any scandal attached to Lucy's name, but she had lived quietly. And if the youthful transgression was an innocent mistake as she claimed, it seemed reasonable we would not have heard talk of it. As for her relationship with Ludlow himself, it was entirely understandable. A young, romantic girl betrothed to a much older man of stern temperament—what other gentleman would serve so well as a confidant than her husband's cousin, her own future kinsman?

I turned my attention back to Ludlow. He picked up the thread of his tale, his voice lower. The perspiration was beading freely on his brow now, but still he did not move.

"She came to me, that first night we were here in the Abbey, when we were introduced to Lucian Snow at dinner. She was in tears. I have never seen her so distraught. It was half an hour before she could speak and tell me what he had done."

Here he broke off and, coming to himself a little, he wiped the sweat off of his brow. His other hand still clutched mine.

"What had he done?" I prompted softly.

"He threatened to reveal all to Cedric and the earl if she did not offer him payment. He said he would see her ruined if she failed."

He leaned a little closer, his expressive eyes dark with anguish. "Can you imagine what that meant to her? To see that monster here? In polite company, received by his lordship as an honoured guest? Sitting at table and making polite conversation with her? She was shattered by it, wholly. I could not believe that a man of God could be so foul. But I heard with my own ears when that man would talk so lightly of worldly things. I realised the picture she painted of him was a true one. And I knew he must be prevented from ever hurting anyone else."

I swallowed hard, sickeningly conscious of the fact that I was holding hands with a murderer. How had I gotten it so profoundly wrong?

"So you determined you must stop him," I said evenly. It would not do to alarm him now. There was nothing else to do but encourage him calmly to tell his tale.

"You must see that I had no choice," he said, a touch of anger sharpening his words.

"Of course," I told him, my tone soothing. "It had to be done."

His expression lightened at once. "Yes, that is it. It had to be done. You do understand. I did what must be done. And I am not repentant of it, save for the burden of guilt upon my immortal soul. It was no different than hunting a fox. He was predatory and destructive and he had to be stopped. So I took the jewels from Lady Hermia's room and while he was turned with his back to me, gloating over them, as trusting as a lamb, I struck him down. It was an easy thing, so much easier than I thought to put my hand to his neck and finish it. He did not even struggle. He simply opened his mouth and gave one great sigh and his eyes rolled over white. I had a bad moment when he would not turn loose of the jewels," he said, almost apologetically. "I thought I would have to force his hand open, but there was one last shudder and his fingers relaxed. I did not know the dead would do such a thing. I put them into my pocket, and later I left them with his things. I thought someone might find them there, and in death know him for what he was."

He bowed his head, raising our clasped hands until they touched his damp brow. We were silent for a long while; he seemed spent, and yet somehow cleansed, as if talking of the deed had washed him free of the stain of it. For my part, I knew I should never be clean of it, but still questions lingered.

"I am curious about something," I said softly. "When we entered the chapel and Lucy was discovered, standing over the body, why did you cry out and ask her what she had done? You as much as accused her of murdering Snow herself."

He flushed painfully. "That grieves me more than taking the life of Lucian Snow. Snow was a devil, and devils must be cast out. But implicating Miss Lucy was a sin I cannot forgive in myself." His expression was rueful. "I was tempted, my lady. I saw in that instant she might be blamed for it, just for a little while, and Cedric might break with her."

"And if he did not marry, you might inherit his millions," I finished.

He nodded, the flush ebbing to leave him white-lipped. "So much money, so much good might be done with it. But it was unworthy of me to covet what is not mine, and I am wholly repentant."

"But why did you attack Miss Lucy and Miss Emma with the brandy?"

His eyes widened. "I would never—that is, I could not. Not a lady. Least of all so good, so deserving a lady, nor her sister. I could never raise my hand against an innocent. I promise you, I have confessed my sins. Do not lay that one at my door as well."

His back drooped a little, and the spirit seemed to go out of him, but I was still wary. He was a changeable creature. His manner might be soft and gentle with me, but he had killed in cold blood, and I was deeply conscious of the fact that we were alone together.

"Lady Julia, you must believe I did what I did because it had to be done. And I have paid for it every moment since. I cannot close my eyes that I do not see his, staring up at me as I pressed the life out of him. I am not accustomed to such dark deeds. I am a clergyman's son from Kent," he said with a small, mirthless laugh. "What do I know of such things?"

Tears gathered in his eyes again. "My father was right, you know. He always told me that of the seven deadly sins, envy was the deadliest. I was envious of Lucian Snow. It was not just that he was a monster. It was that he had everything I had not. And he did not deserve it."

"That was not for you to decide, Henry."

"I wanted to believe I was an instrument of justice. At least that is what I told myself when I thought of taking his life. But when the moment came, there in the chapel, when my hand tightened at his throat, all I felt was that cursed envy. I knew I was taking away from him everything he had that I did not, and I delighted in it. Tell me, Lady Julia," he said, his voice cracking on a sob, "who is the monster?"

He fell into me then, and I shied from him. But he meant me no harm. He was sobbing, the great, racking sobs of a child whose heart has been irreparably broken, and all he looked for in me was comfort. Without thinking, I put a hand on his back and petted him. He slid from the chair to his knees and stayed there, weeping into my lap for some time. Finally he recovered himself and drew back, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

"I am sorry. More than that, I am penitent. I know justice must be served, Lady Julia. I am content you should go and tell his lordship. I give you my word I will not try to escape," he said, straightening his shoulders and looking me squarely in the eye.

I rose and edged my way to the door. I did not truly believe he would harm me, but I had been wrong about such things before. It seemed to me a little caution, even at this late juncture, would be prudent.

"Will you grant me one thing before you go?" he asked. He had command of himself now, but only lightly. His shoulders were trembling and his tone was plaintive.

"If I can," I told him, my fingers wrapped about the doorknob.

He raised his chin, summoning his dignity. "Will you promise not to think too badly of me? I would not like to think that I was entirely friendless in this world, although God knows I do not deserve your regard."

I paused a moment, my instincts warring. Then I released the doorknob, and with cool deliberation walked to where he stood. I put out my hand.

"You are not friendless, Henry. It is not in my power to forgive you, but neither is it in my power to condemn you."

Solemnly as a judge, he shook my hand and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

"Thank you for that. Your kindness means more to me than you can possibly comprehend."

I nodded and hurried out, stopping only when there was a stout door between us. I took a few deep breaths, not surprised to find my legs could barely hold me up. I was shaking, and cursing myself for a fool. But there was no time for recrimination. I hastened to Father's room and banged upon the door. He must have returned to his room whilst I had been hearing Henry Ludlow's confession, for he had already retired to bed; he was half-buried in a pile of mastiff pups, dear Crab snuffling in her sleep on the floor.

"What the devil is it now?" he growled, sitting up and straightening his nightcap.

"Father, you must come. Ludlow has just confessed to the murder of Lucian Snow."

It took several minutes before I could make him understand what I had just learned, his expression growing more ominous by the minute.

"You mean to say you went to this man's room alone to accuse him of murder?"

"Not precisely, no," I temporised. "But he has confessed it, and you must come."

It took three more tries to coax him out of bed, and by that time he was scolding me bitterly.

"For an intelligent woman, Julia, you are by far the most headstrong, reckless, thoughtless, feckless of my children. And that is quite saying something," he grumbled, tumbling the puppies as he threw aside his bedclothes.

I retreated hastily to the corridor and paced, waiting for him to appear. He had dressed himself quickly, not bothering with collar and cuffs.

"You might want to remove, er—" I pointed to his nightcap. "It lacks a certain gravitas."

He gave me a filthy look, then yanked off the offending garment and stuffed it into his pocket. "Get Brisbane," he ordered. "I will take Aquinas to Ludlow's room and we shall take him into custody. God only knows where we will put him. I suppose we must lock him in the wine cellar," he trailed off, more to himself than to me.

"Father, let me find Aquinas. Brisbane's room is quite near Ludlow's. You could fetch him on the way," I suggested.

Father regarded me coldly. "I have no wish to speak to him at present. Words were exchanged this evening. No, you go and tell him what you were about, and I will deal with the matter of Henry Ludlow."

I whirled and left the room, thoroughly put out with his peremptory attitude. I stalked to the Galilee Tower and rapped sharply, my temper rising. Brisbane answered the door on the first knock, still dressed in trousers and shirt, his dressing gown thrown over his shoulders. "What has happened?" he demanded without preliminaries.

"Henry Ludlow has confessed to murdering Mr. Snow. Father has gone to fetch Aquinas to lock Ludlow in the wine cellar," I said. His eyes narrowed in suspicion and I retreated a step.

"And how exactly do you come to know all of this?" he asked, his jaw tight.

I could sense his anger simmering and I thought of Father, ordering me about as if I were still a child. I thought of Brisbane, beckoning me toward him with one hand and shoving me back with the other. And I decided I had had enough of overbearing men.

I stepped forward, drawing myself to my full height and lifting my chin. "I know because I went to his room to continue this investigation, the investigation I was charged by my father to undertake. And because of my actions, a murderer has confessed and justice will be satisfied." I put my hands on my hips, not caring if I sounded like a Billingsgate fishwife. "Yes, it was a dangerous thing to do, but as it seems to have escaped your attention, I will remind you I am above thirty years of age, of sound body and mind, and in control of my own fortune. That means," I said, moving closer still, poking his chest for emphasis, "I am mistress of myself and I answer to no one. Not you, not even Father. I am fed up to the back teeth with being wrapped in cotton wool and treated like an invalid."

He opened his mouth to speak, but I shouted him down. The floodgates were opened now, and nothing would stem the flow of my indignation. "I spent more than five years in a marriage that smothered me. I was buried alive in that house, dying slowly, and I did not even know it. And just when I thought I might learn to really live, I nearly lost my life." His expression changed; something flickered in the depths of his eyes. "I know you blame yourself for that, and so long as you do, there will never be anything between us except regret. Well, I do not mean to live my life haunted by the ghosts of what might have been. I intend to live every day just as I please, and right now it pleases me to do this."

Before he could utter a word I reached up, took his head between my hands and pulled him to me. He had kissed me twice before, both times at his behest, and I had been merely a willing participant. But this embrace was mine, and from the moment I touched him I made certain he knew it. I pushed him back against his door, using him as I liked. I was insistent, demanding, taking more than I gave. But when he made to circle me with his good arm, I broke away, holding him at bay.

I straightened my dressing gown and looked at him coolly, lofty as a duchess. "There. Now you have been used at my whim."

He put out a hand to me, but I stepped sharply out of his reach. "No. I want you to think on what I have said. And if we meet again, it must be on equal ground, or I will have none of it."

I gestured toward the carpet at his feet. "You will want to leave that shirt for the maid to mend. I am sure the sleeve can be put back on."

He said nothing, did not even incline his head. He merely stood, staring after me as I left, his expression inscrutable. I could not imagine what he was thinking, and for the first time, I did not care. I was determined, well and truly, to be my own woman, to stand on my own two feet and to employ whatever talents and abilities I possessed in some useful occupation.

And I would be treated as an equal, or not at all, I told myself fiercely as I made my way back to my bedchamber. I threw myself onto the bed, astonished at my own ferocious will and my resolve to be mistress of myself. But even this new determination was not enough to stop the slow slide of tears onto my pillow.

* * *

I woke early the next morning, having slept a scant few hours, and badly, as well. A dull headache lurked behind my eyes and I snapped at Morag more than once as she performed my toilette. She got her own back by yanking at my hair with the brushes and muttering under her breath about what a trial her life was.

"Not a word of appreciation," she grumbled, jerking the brush through a snarl of hair. She twisted and pinned ruthlessly, jabbing pins into my head. "And does not even look behind herself to see what a mess she's made, leaving her dressing table a right disaster and her pockets full of rubbish."

I twisted round in the chair to look at her. "What rubbish?"

She pulled my head back around and shoved in another pin. "There. You still look a horror, but at least you're a tidy horror." She reached into her pocket and pulled out Aunt Hermia's bundle of jewels. "I found these in your pocket yesterday. Would have served you proper if I'd kept them, it would."

I took them from her and made a note to return the jewels to Aunt Hermia's room before breakfast. There would be little enough else to do, I thought ruefully. Before dawn I had risen to push aside the draperies and watched Father and Brisbane depart in a closed carriage, Henry Ludlow positioned firmly between them. With the murderer confessed, Father had decided to present the matter to Scotland Yard as a fait accompli. He meant to call at the vicarage en route to the station to break the news to Uncle Fly himself. It would be an unpleasant task, but no worse than Uncle Fly's. He must write Snow's sisters and tell them of their loss. I hoped they would grieve for him. I did not like to think of him unmourned.

The body of Lucian Snow followed the carriage on a farm wagon, stowed in a makeshift coffin draped with a length of blue fabric. Someone, perhaps Aquinas, had fashioned a wreath to pin to the fabric. With a shudder, I realised it was the white heather intended for Lucy's wedding flowers. I had turned away then, desperately sad, my heart feeling too full to sit within my chest.

The rest of the household felt the same, if the faces at the breakfast table were anything to judge. Charlotte was absent, doubtless sulking in her rooms, but the rest of the party had assembled, a sad, dwindled little group after the events of the past few days. Hortense attempted to make conversation, but no one was terribly interested and eventually she lapsed into silence, probably relieved. Emma and Lucy, looking a good deal stronger than the previous day, were quietly picking at their eggs, while Cedric looked utterly bewildered. I felt rather sorry for him. All this time, harbouring a cousin in his employ who was capable of such viciousness. Lucy rose to the occasion, bringing a plate of eggs and kidneys from the sideboard and coaxing him to eat. I had wondered how their betrothal would stand after Ludlow's revelations, but as I watched them, noting her gentle ministrations, I wondered if Ludlow had not told the whole truth to my father and Brisbane.

I pulled a piece of toast to bits, thinking quickly. Without me present to question him, he might well have omitted any reference to Lucy at all in his motive for killing Snow. His envy would have provided motive enough, and with a confessed murderer in custody, no one would question him too closely. The authorities, and Father as well, would be grateful enough to have the matter closed before it was even officially investigated. I would not be asked to provide any sort of statement under oath so long as he confessed before other witnesses, an eventuality I was certain Father would ensure. Considering Ludlow's fondness for Lucy and his chivalrous nature, it made sense he would hold his tongue. He had deplored Snow's blackmailing of her. By going to the gallows without disclosing her role in the affair, he ensured she would live out her life unmarred by scandal, her prosperity and happiness providing an expiation for his guilt. I still wondered about the poisoned brandy, but no one spoke of it. I heard from Aquinas that Father had decided Ludlow must be responsible, and since the fellow had refused to speak further, that crime would likely be attributed to him as well, and all but forgot in the greater horror of a clergyman's murder.

Sir Cedric interrupted my musings then, rousing himself to demand coffee. It was Aquinas' duty, but he was absent, retrieving another rack of toast from the kitchens. In his place, Lucy sprang to her feet, fetching the coffeepot and pouring out. She was smiling, but there was a new anxiety I had not seen in her eyes before, and I knew in that moment I had just had a glimpse into what the rest of her life would be: catering to the demands of a capricious, temperamental man who would always keep her firmly in his debt because he had married her in spite of the scandal that was sure to break over our heads like a thunderstorm.

Lucy's hand shook a little and a drop spilled on the saucer. She darted a quick glance at Cedric, who sighed deeply.

"You are clumsy this morning, my dear," he commented. He smiled a little, but there was no blunting the barb. She flinched and apologised, using her own napkin to wipe the saucer clean. No one else at the table seemed concerned with their little drama, but as I glanced about I noticed Emma's eyes were too firmly fixed on her plate, two harsh spots of colour high on her cheeks, a clear sign she was angry. She must have heard every word, and she must see as clearly as I did what the future held for her sister.

Perhaps she felt my gaze upon her, for she looked across the table at me then; our eyes met and held a moment. I gave her a small, sympathetic smile. She pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes immediately. I returned to my breakfast, chatting quietly with Hortense as she sampled her hot fruit compote. And every time I glanced back at Emma, she was staring at her plate, cutting her ham into tiny shreds.

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.

—I Henry VI

After breakfast I returned to my room to look in on Florence. She was busy savaging my favourite set of hairbrushes while Morag knitted by the fire. I left them to it and decided to take a turn about the Abbey, walking slowly from wing to wing. Everyone had scattered to their own pursuits and I was glad of it. I was dreadful enough company for myself; I should have been worse if I had been forced to make polite conversation. Just as I passed the lesser drawing room Plum came barrelling through the doors, his complexion high. He brushed past me, so closely that he dropped his sketchbook.

"Plum, you will want this," I called after him, but he did not turn. He simply strode off in the direction of his room, and when I glanced into the chamber he had just quitted, I understood why.

Charlotte was sitting alone by the fire, pensive. I stooped to retrieve the sketchbook, then rapped lightly at the open door. Charlotte nodded at me to enter and I took the chair next to her.

"You have an animal's instincts for survival," I commented archly. "This room is the warmest in the Abbey. The monks piped hot water under the stones. Astonishing that the system still works, isn't it?"

Charlotte gave me a sideways smile. "I meant what I told you in the inner ward, about how wonderful it is here. It makes it a little harder to hate you."

I stretched my feet toward the fire. "Heavens, why should you hate me? I have troubles enough of my own."

She laughed, a short, sharp bark of laughter. "I should like to have your troubles. Which dress to choose, which noble lord to marry, which country to spend the winter? Yes, those are troubles indeed."

There was mockery in her voice, but it was not malicious, and I knew we understood one another after a fashion. Under other circumstances, I might have been friends with this woman. The silly, prattling widow she had pretended to held no interest for me at all.

"I never meant to turn to thieving," she said, leaning her head back against the chair. "Oh, yes, I will tell you of it now. It does not matter. And I think I would like to tell someone."

I settled more comfortably into my chair and awaited her tale.

"My mother was an actress. You would not have heard of her. She toured provincial theatres, giving second-rate performances to third-rate audiences. My father was a gentleman, and I think I need not tell you my birth was not blessed by the church. My father paid for my education. He thought to put me into service, as a lady's maid or companion, but I am my mother's child. I left school and took to the stage, a conjurer's assistant, smiling prettily and showing my legs."

She turned her head to look at me. "Did Brisbane tell you about Edwin?"

"Your husband?"

Charlotte smiled a tired, hollow smile. "My life. Edwin cannot marry me, and I do not care. He was the conjurer who took me onto the stage and into his bed when I was fifteen. He is, quite simply, the most beautiful man I have ever seen. White-gold hair, and eyes bluer than the sea. His skin is so pale, you could almost see the wine move down his throat as he drinks."

"So Brisbane was not the sort of man to attract you in any event," I hazarded.

She laughed again. "Absolutely not. Who would want the dark of the moon when you have been dazzled by the sun? But for all his beauty, Edwin is not a gifted magician. You cannot imagine how many birds he has smothered in his pockets or rabbits he has let wander off because he forgot to shut the cage. But he is glorious, and I am not the only lady to think so. There have always been others, others willing to pay for the privilege of what he gives freely to me."

I said nothing, but the room had gone suddenly chill and I shuddered a little. Charlotte's watchful eyes missed nothing.

"I have shocked you, my lady. You cannot imagine sharing a man you loved."

"Indeed not," I agreed. "I should sooner cut out his heart and serve it to him on toast."

Her pretty mouth curved into a sneer. "You think you would. But you have the luxury of food in your belly and a roof above your head. What if all you had was that man? Would he be feast enough for you? Could you not simply gorge yourself on him and let other women have the crumbs? Oh, I think you ought not to judge, my lady, until you have lain awake at night, the hunger pains in your belly so sharp you cannot sleep, the rain soaking your thin bed as the wind shrieks into the room, chilling you to sickness. Then you will have trod a mile or two in my shoes, and then you would understand."

She turned away again and resumed the thread of her tale. "Edwin sometimes took things, little trinkets usually, something grander upon occasion. We lived on what he earned on his back and what he stole from the women who used him. It was his idea to take the Tear of Jaipur, and a grand idea it was. The princess used to come, incognita, to see friends of Edwin's perform. Acrobats, they were, and she would clap and smile like a child as she watched them. But Edwin was often seated in a box near the stage, and it was not long before her eyes strayed to him and lingered. He can read the need in a woman like some men can read a newspaper. He knew what she wanted of him, and he knew she owned the Tear. It was simple enough to arrange. He took the jewel, pledging to return it the next day. She was nervous, but she trusted him. That's the trouble with women," she said wonderingly. "We know what we oughtn't do, and yet we do it anyway. Nature has given us instincts, but when a man comes along, we hear only his voice, and not our own."

She shook herself out of her reverie. "We would have left England that very night, but I had fallen ill and Edwin would not go without me. It was dangerous to keep the Tear in our lodgings, so Edward hid it in a piece of furniture and gave it to a friend for safekeeping. He was taken the next day for some jewels he had sold the week before. It wasn't like him to be careless. I think he was so taken with the idea of the Tear and all it promised that he made a mistake. He sold the jewels to a pawnbroker he had used before, and the man marked him well. Edwin was taken, and I had no money, no means of living. It was too dangerous to sell the Tear, but I was desperate. Edwin penned letters of introduction, and within a week, I was the houseguest of Lady Hester Millar. From there, I moved in only the most exclusive circles. I took what I needed, discreetly."

"There is a lady's maid with a cracked skull who might disagree," I commented dryly.

Charlotte shrugged. "A cornered animal fights, and as you observed, my lady, I have an animal's instinct for survival. It was not long before Brisbane appeared, trailing me like a hound. I visited Edwin in prison. I told him I was frightened, but he only laughed. He told me to be bold, that I must throw myself into Brisbane's path to divert suspicion. In the meanwhile, I would plot my escape from England, and establish myself abroad when it was safe to move. I would sell the diamond and buy land, acres and acres of it where we would be our own lords of the manor. The charges against Edwin will be difficult to prove. He will be released in a matter of months and we will be together."

"But without the Tear," I reminded her. "Your things have been searched." Even as I said it, I realised she might well have hidden the jewel anywhere in the Abbey, along with my pearls. But she could not hope to recover them.

She gave me a lazy smile. "Then I will go without it. I will make a future for myself and for Edwin." There was something I did not like in her manner, some smugness that she was unable to conceal.

"And my pearls?"

"Have not left the Abbey. I leave you to find them since you love a good mystery," she said, slanting me a challenging look.

My tolerance for her was moving rapidly into hatred. "And my dog? I suppose you were the one who poisoned her?"

Charlotte's eyes widened in mock horror. "My lady, you shock me. I would never poison a dog. I merely drugged her with a tasty bit of venison soaked in a drop of Cook's laudanum. I discovered it when I was stirring up the Christmas puddings, and I thought it might be useful."

There seemed nothing else to say. She had admitted to her crimes, but without either the jewels or the authority to hold her, I was powerless. She gave me a fond smile.

"I have actually quite enjoyed myself, you know," she told me. She stretched, lissome as a cat. "I shall be sorry to leave Bellmont Abbey."

"Do forgive me if I say that we shall not be sorry to see you go," I returned.

I left her then, her laughter echoing in my ears.

* * *

When I moved into the nave, I was astonished to find Sir Cedric there with Emma and Lucy, dressed in travelling clothes and surrounded by their baggage. Sir Cedric was quite purple in the face and yelling at Aquinas.

"Sir Cedric, contain yourself," I said crisply. "There is no call for that sort of behaviour. Now, what is the trouble?"

Sir Cedric was sputtering too much to speak, so Aquinas stepped in. "Sir Cedric and his party wish to leave and have requested a carriage and baggage wagon to take them to the station in Blessingstoke. I have had no instructions from his lordship on the matter, and I am uncertain of his wishes."

I looked at the little trio of travellers. Sir Cedric had lapsed into furious muttering under his breath. Lucy and Emma stood a little apart, Lucy biting at her lip while Emma stood so straight I thought her back would snap from the strain of it. Their faces were white and nervous, and I pitied them thoroughly.

"Aquinas, order the conveyances." Father had taken the coachman to London, but Whittle, the gardener, was a fair hand at the whip when necessary, and one of the footmen could manage a baggage wagon as far as Blessingstoke.

Aquinas bowed and withdrew to make arrangements. Sir Cedric pulled his greatcoat tighter about his girth, his expression almost, but not quite, mollified. Lucy shot me a look of pure gratitude before sinking down to sit on one of Cedric's trunks. Emma laid a hand on her shoulder, and it occurred to me then she would also have to tread on eggshells if she hoped to stay in her future brother-in-law's good graces.

"Sir Cedric, I presume you are returning to town? Father must give your direction to Scotland Yard. They will want to speak with you about this business with Mr. Ludlow."

"Do not speak his name to me," he thundered, his face purpling again. "No, I do not mean to return to town. We leave for Southampton. I mean to be aboard ship tonight."

It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. "You are leaving the country? Tonight? But Mr. Ludlow will need you. He must present a defence to the charges of willful murder, as well as the attack against Emma and Lucy. Statements must be given, and references to his character. I grant they will not weigh heavily as he has confessed, but you must help him."

"Must I?" His tawny lion's eyes narrowed to something small and mean. "He has disgraced himself, and me by association. I do not mean to stay here whilst I am made sport of by the newspapers. He will be tried for the murder. To have the attack upon Lucy and Emma made public would be unacceptable. We leave for India tonight. Lucy and I will be married on board the ship, and we will remain in India until this is all quite finished."

"You mean until Henry hangs for what he did?" I asked brutally.

Sir Cedric looked at me appraisingly. "I was quite right about you. You need a husband. Someone with a firm hand to keep you in line. You are far too forward and mannish."

I inclined my head graciously. "How kind of you to notice. In that case, permit me to wish you as pleasant a journey as you deserve."

I exchanged pecks on the cheek with Emma and Lucy. Emma was in complete command of herself, although her manner seemed brittle, as if her nerves were stretched taut as a bowstring. I did not envy her future in Sir Cedric's employ.

"Thank you, dearest Julia," she murmured into my ear. "You helped to save my darling girl, and I cannot ever repay such a debt."

She squeezed my hand and turned away, blinking furiously. Lucy was inclined to cling. Her lips were bleeding a little where she had chewed them, and her nails were bitten to the quick. Eventually, I detached her from my neck and patted her arm. I took my leave then, but as I mounted the stairs I took one last look over my shoulder. Sir Cedric was fussing over some imaginary scuff Lucy had left on his bag. Lucy was on her knees, buffing at it. And behind them stood Emma, her expression blank as a marionette's as she watched them both.

I met Portia at the top of the stairs and quickly related the news that Cedric was leaving his cousin to the mercy of the law, without recourse to money or influence to help his defence.

"I never liked him," Portia said stoutly. "I wonder if Lucy knows what she is doing?"

I tipped my head thoughtfully. "I think she begins to see it, and to worry. But it is too late. If she puts a foot on the deck of that ship, she has as good as married him. What is that you are carrying?"

Portia unrolled the bundle of white linen. "A ghost," she told me, pointing to the two charred spots where the holes for eyes had been burnt. "The maid found it in the linen cupboard this morning. Christopher Sly has decided at last to admit people to her nursery."

I held it up, touching the blackened holes lightly. "But I thought Charlotte was our only ghost," I murmured.

Portia shrugged. "I could not care less, my heart. I only know I have to explain to Aunt Hermia why one of Grandmama's prized sheets from France is ruined." She put a finger through the hole and waggled it at me. "I do not suppose you would like to break the news?"

I took the sheet and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I would be happy to do it."

Portia peered at me. "Are you starting a fever? You are unnaturally decent this morning."

I smiled at her, thinking of Lucy and Emma and the lives they would lead. "I am merely exceedingly grateful that we are ladies of independent fortune," I told her. And I left her, staring after me in puzzlement.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.

—A Midsummer Night's Dream

After I left Charlotte, I had no desire for company. But I still carried Plum's sketchbook, and I knew he would want it back. A page had come askew when it fell, its corner poking out from between the thin morocco covers. I opened the book to put it to rights, and suddenly realised the page was not part of the sketchbook at all. In fact, it was not even a page. It was the corner of an envelope, a thick, creamy envelope stamped several times over with Italian postmarks. There was a letter inside, written in formal Italian and penned in a thin, ornately spidery script. The paper bore the cipher of the Palazzo Fornacci in Florence.

For what I did next, I do not apologise. Too many secrets had been kept in our house already. I went straight to Father's study, closing the door softly behind me. Grim quorked at me from his cage and I let him out. With a whirr of black wings, he came to settle himself on Father's desk, watching me with great interest. I took the letter from Plum's book and retrieved Father's Italian dictionary. It was slow going. My command of the written language was poor, and for all the purity of the Florentine dialect, the letter was liberally sprinkled with colloquialisms I could only guess at.

When I had at last deciphered it, I sat back in Father's chair, musing.

"Sweeties," Grim demanded, bobbing his glossy dark head at me. I gave him a pat and tossed him a sweetmeat. He devoured it happily, then toddled across the desk, looking for more.

"No, you shall get fat," I scolded him, pushing the box out of reach. He cocked his head at me, then lowered his beak and began to peck at Plum's sketchbook.

"Don't do that, Grim." But ravens are somewhat less obedient than dogs, and he did not listen. He worried at the cover until he managed to open it.

"That is quite enough," I told him, pulling the book onto my lap. He gave me an irritable quork and withdrew to his cage, turning his back to me.

"You needn't sulk," I began, but then my eyes fell to the open book. Something about the image Plum had sketched there caught my attention. I ruffled through the rest of the book. There were a few sketches of me, one of Charlotte, an assortment of Italian signorinas, and one form in particular, rendered in a variety of poses. He had caught her unawares, it seems, for most of the sketches were of her profile, sometimes laughing, once in tears. But for one sketch, she must have sat for him. She looked out from the page, her expression at once both apologetic and triumphant.

I snapped the book closed, sorry I had seen it. But now that I had, those few lines of charcoal had changed everything.

I went directly to Plum's room. He called irritably for me to enter when I knocked. He was sitting in the window embrasure, looking out at the melting snows, scratching at the glass with a fingernail. He glanced up when I entered, then turned back to the window.

"If you've come to call me a fool, be content. I've done it a hundred times. I understand she stole your pearls?"

I crossed the room and levered myself up into the embrasure to sit next to him. It was cool there, and I wrapped my skirts about my legs as I gathered them under me.

"Apparently, she did. But she will not say where she has them hid, and the Abbey is simply too massive to search. She cannot leave with them, and I am sure they will turn up one day."

He rested his head on the stone wall behind him, one hand draped over his knee, the fingertips smudged softly black with charcoal. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have behaved better. It was bad form to dally with Brisbane's fiancée, even if the engagement was a sham."

I shrugged. "We are all of us stupid at times. Perfection is dull, my love." I brandished the sketchbook. "You dropped this outside the drawing room. I thought you might go looking for it."

I laid it on the bit of window seat between us. He made no move to touch it but simply looked at me, his eyes half-lidded in pain.

"I suppose you looked through it."

I nodded slowly. "I did. And I'm sorry. Perhaps that is why you behaved so badly with Charlotte. Because you cannot have her."

He made a little sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "No. And now that she carries my brother's child, I never will."

He thumped a fist against the windowpane, the glass shuddering lightly under his hand.

"Plum, you would never have had her in any case. She loves Lysander. She married him," I said, my voice low and soothing.

He looked at me with something like pity. "You still do not understand. I saw her first, I loved her first."

I blinked at him. "But how? Lysander came back to Florence already married to her."

Plum stared out at the winter landscape, but I knew he was seeing another place and another time. "It was last summer. Lysander and I were in Rome, awaiting your arrival. We went to a church, something about a new organ Lysander wished to hear. She was there, just across the aisle, her head draped in a veil of Venetian lace. I saw only her profile, but it was enough. I sat and listened to the music and worshipped her for an hour. And when it was done, Lysander simply rose and left, complaining about the organist's sense of timing. He never sensed her, never realised that she was there, like a goddess stepped from Olympus to grace mere mortals with a glance."

I suppressed a sigh. It was very like Plum to romanticise his feelings for Violante, and I knew it would be fatal to remind him that she was simply a pretty girl with lovely eyes and indigestion.

He went on, dreamily. "You cannot imagine what a shock it was to me when Lysander brought her into the room that first night and made his announcement. I have taken a wife, Plum. Come and kiss your sister. And I had to press my lips for the first and only time to that alabaster cheek, knowing she would never be mine." He roused then, smiling from faraway. "Lysander has always been generous with me. Anything I admired, he gave me freely. But she is the only thing of his I have ever envied, and the only thing I cannot have."

"And that is why you have been beastly to him? And cold to Violante? This is what was behind that ludicrous display in the billiard room when you punched him on the nose, is it not?"

"Julia, you do not know. You cannot imagine the torment—"

"Eglamour Tarquin Deiphobus March, don't you dare tell me what I do not know," I began, rising from my perch. "I know a very great deal about eating your own heart out over someone you cannot have. And do you know what I have learned? It is pathetic and sad. You are a strong, healthy, passably handsome man with a reasonably good intellect, if you would care to use it, and a talent for drawing that Michelangelo himself would have approved. And what do you do with all those virtues? You flirt with betrothed women and moon about over your own sister-in-law. You are maudlin and sentimental, and it is high time you took a rather hard look at yourself and realised you are in danger of becoming ridiculous."

He gaped at me, open-mouthed. He did not even attempt to speak.

"Now, I am about to go and bruise the heart of your friend. If you can have a care for anyone other than yourself, you should make preparations to take him back to Italy. It would be the best thing for the both of you. Alessandro can get on with the business of his life, and you can do something with yourself."

He slumped against the window, his brows drawn together. "Like what?"

I spread my hands. "Restore a church. Learn to quarry marble in Carrara. Go to Greece and build boats. Only for heaven's sake, do not let this destroy you. You love her now, but in a year or two, when she has had a child and grown fat and content, you will not. You will have replaced the memory of her with a hundred more precious. But you must try."

For a long moment he did not move. Then, by way of reply, he held the sketchbook out to me. "Burn it."

I took it from him, noting how his fingers trailed over the cover as if to memorise the pages that lay beneath.

"Are you quite certain?"

He nodded. "You are right, of course. I must cut her out, painful as that may be. And who knows, perhaps something else may grow there."

"And what of Alessandro's letter?" I ventured.

He gave a tiny smile. "You were thorough. I ought to give that back to him. He wanted me to read it, to advise him how best to handle his father. A moot point now, if you mean to send him away."

I shrugged. "It is better this way. For everyone." I handed him the letter and took the book away with me. He had been brave enough to ask me to burn it. I was not cruel enough to make him watch.

* * *

After I had burned the sketchbook, waiting until it fell to thin, grey ash, I retrieved a Kashmir shawl from my room and went in search of Alessandro. I finally ran him to ground in the library, gamely working his way through Pride and Prejudice. He sprang to his feet when I entered, smiling broadly.

I nodded to the book. "How are you enjoying Jane Austen?"

He waggled his hand from side to side. "She is a little silly, I think."

Now I was more certain than ever of my decision. I could not love a man who did not love Jane Austen. "The great Duke of Wellington thought her the greatest literary talent in all of England."

He smiled politely. "Perhaps she improves upon second reading."

"Hmm. Perhaps. I wanted to speak with you."

His smile froze, his lips suddenly quite stiff. He swallowed hard and laid down the book. "You are refusing me."

I put out my hand to him and he took it. His was warm and firm in mine. "I am. Walk with me in the courtyard and I will try to explain."

It was characteristic of his youth that he did so. An older man would have armoured himself in his pride and refused an explanation. Only the young have such a gift for self-torture.

We moved out into the courtyard arm in arm. The sunshine, after days of mournful grey, was a revelation. The warmer air had melted off most of the snow and what remained was slowly dripping away against the stone. It was cold to be sure, but nothing like what it had been, and I stopped to raise my face to the sun.

"You are sure you do not wish to come to Italy?" he joked bravely. "We have the sun almost the whole of the year. You do not have to search for it as you do in England."

I opened my eyes and smiled at him, taking a moment to memorise the soft black hair touched with bronze, the noble profile, the gentle eyes staring into mine with such sadness, and perhaps the merest touch of relief.

The wind rose a little just then, scudding a cloud over the face of the sun and throwing the courtyard into shadow.

"You are shivering. Take my coat," he insisted, draping the garment over my shoulders. I murmured my thanks and took his arm, leading him toward the iron gate that led to the gardens.

"You see, Alessandro," I began slowly, "you come from an old and proud and very dignified family. I too come from an old and proud family, but I am afraid we are a little short on dignity."

He opened his mouth to make a polite protest, but I held up a hand. "Oh, do not, I beg you. I know my family for what we are. From the manner of our dress, our speech, our small eccentricities and our grand follies, we are odd. We do not fit the pattern of society, and as a result we are often talked of."

He said nothing and I pressed on, gently.

"I should not suit you, Alessandro, not truly. I keep a pet raven and I speak my mind and I associate with those who are beyond the pale of society, and yet I am very nearly the most conventional member of my family. People are still talking about my cousin Charles' appearance at a house party last month. He wore his wife's gown and demanded to be addressed as Carlotta."

Alessandro choked back a laugh and I squeezed his arm. "You may think it amusing, but to us, he is family. We will not hide him in the cellars and pretend he does not exist. We will welcome him with open arms, and very likely give him the names of our dressmakers," I finished, smiling at my own little jest.

Alessandro's brow puckered. "But surely such things are better left unknown. I too have the curious cousins, but we do not speak of them."

"That is the difficulty, my dear. In your family you do not speak of them. In my family, we celebrate them. In Italy, one must always be conscious of la bella figura, of presenting one's best self. Among the Marches, we please ourselves and the devil take the rest."

His brows lifted slightly and I patted his hand. "You see? I even shock you with my language. We would be very badly suited indeed. Besides," I said carefully, "I believe your father has plans for you. Exalted ones."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "How did you know that?"

I smiled, not looking into his eyes. His father's letter had been idiomatic and excessively difficult to translate. I had deciphered perhaps one word in five. But those words were enough. "It is not difficult to guess," I temporised. "Your father is a judge, is he not?" I hoped I had gotten the translation correct from the letter. Father's dictionary had been printed two centuries back and mice had nibbled a fair number of holes through the most useful words.

Alessandro nodded, his lovely mouth turning sulky. "Si. He is an important man in Firenze, with much influence and power."

"And he wishes you to be the same, in your time. A very natural ambition for a father, I think."

Alessandro scuffed his shoe against a paving stone. "But should a man not be ambitious for himself?"

"Of course. What is it you would like to do?"

He dropped my arm then to spread his hands. Like most Italians he was incapable of speaking for any length of time without gesturing.

"I also want to be a judge, to give justice, to have the power to influence people. But I want to want such things for myself. Why are you smiling at me?"

"My dear Alessandro, what difference does it make if your father wants these things for you as well? If you want them, take them, and be happy. Life is either far too short or far too long to make yourself miserable."

He said nothing as he considered this. I looked through the garden gate, marking the withered vines, the blind stone eyes of the statues, the sharp angles of the hedge maze. It was not grand or even particularly beautiful, but it was my home and I felt a rush of love for the old place so acute, so complete, I nearly wept.

"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly.

I turned back to him and assumed a brisk, governessy tone. It was time for the coup de grâce. "Of course I am. And I will tell you something else I am quite right about—you will need a wife who will understand you, who will present la bella figura and make you proud. I would imagine your father already has someone in mind," I said, widening my eyes innocently.

"You are a witch," he grumbled. "How could you know this?"

I gave a modest shrug, remembering how his father had described the girl in question. Una belleza perfetta. I wished Alessandro a lifetime of happiness with her. "It is only logical."

He rallied, and attempted once more to change my mind. He seized my hands, drawing them to his heart. "I would give up everything for you, Giulia."

I smiled at him gently. "But you must understand. I should never want a man to give up anything for me. I should want him to feel in winning me he has won the whole world. Now, go back to Italy, marry your lovely signorina, and have a good life. And when you are quite old and sitting on the terrace of your palazzo, sipping a fine chianti you have grown in your very own vineyards, I want you to think of me sometimes and smile mysteriously so that your grandchildren will demand to know what you are thinking of."

He laughed then and reached out, as if to embrace me, then thought better of it and took my hand. "It was a beautiful dream," he said, his voice laced with resignation.

"It was a beautiful dream indeed," I agreed.

He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, and when he had done, I pressed it to his cheek. Then, slowly, we made our way into the Abbey and went our separate ways.

* * *

It was destined to be a day of partings. I left Alessandro in the library, meaning to retire to my room to repair my toilette before luncheon. The wind had risen at the last minute, loosening hairpins and whipping colour into my cheeks. A few moments with my hairbrush and a pot of face cream were all I needed, but just as I set foot on the staircase I noticed Charlotte descending. She was dressed for travel and carrying her small portmanteau. She saw me and lifted her pointed little chin.

"I mean to go," she warned. I blinked at her and she skirted around me, never slowing her pace. I followed her through the cloister and out to the inner ward, arriving just in time to see Aquinas appear.

"The carriage is ready, Mrs. King," he informed her.

"Good. The sooner I am quit of this bloody place the better," she muttered.

Aquinas caught sight of me then and hurried to my side. "My lady, Mrs. King requested transportation to Blessingstoke. You were not to be found, and since the carriage was placed at Sir Cedric's disposal earlier, I thought it acceptable to extend the same courtesy to Mrs. King. His lordship left no instructions."

I sighed. It was bad enough Cedric had left with Lucy and Emma. What would Father say when he learned I had let Charlotte go as well? Still, I was rather inclined to view the situation as one of his own making. "If Father wanted anyone detained, he ought to have said so. Besides, we have no right to hold anyone against their will. We are not the law."

I had spoken softly, but Charlotte overheard this last part. She gave me a broad smile and extended her hand.

I shook it, not quite willingly. Charlotte could be a likeable rogue, but she was insubstantial. She had recreated herself so many times I was not certain where her fictions left off and the woman began.

Her smile deepened to one of genuine warmth. "Do not be like that. We got on well enough, didn't we? I am fond of you, my lady, for all your money and fancy ways," she said pertly.

I returned her smile and inclined my head. "Mrs. King, I will wish you a pleasant journey."

She gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "I am sure. But go I must. I would rather not meet your lover again."

Her expression was bland, but her eyes were sharp with malice and anticipation. She was waiting for me to sputter in outrage, to deny, to throw her out of the house in my fury.

And in a flash of blessed inspiration, I realised why. The Tear of Jaipur.

I turned to Aquinas. "Fetch Morag. Tell her to come at once." He withdrew and I smiled sweetly at Charlotte. "I shall be only too happy to permit you to leave, as soon as your bag and your person have been searched."

The following minutes were not wholly pleasant. In spite of her ladylike demeanour and her delicate looks, she raged, she spluttered and cursed us all. She scratched and kicked and Aquinas sustained a rather nasty bite on his thumb. But at last we managed to lock her in the boot room with Morag. There were ominous sounds, bumps and thumps and all manner of swearing. After a very long interlude, Charlotte emerged, hair straggling down her back, clothes askew, clutching her portmanteau.

"Nothing, my lady," Morag advised me, rolling down her cuffs and pinning them neatly into place. It was a testament to her efficiency and her brutality that she had not a hair out of place.

"In that case, you are free to leave, Mrs. King. Farewell," I told her pleasantly.

By way of reply she turned on her heel and fairly ran from the Abbey. Aquinas slammed the door behind her and the three of us stared at one another in bemusement.

I glanced at the tall case clock. "Lord, I must fly. I shall be late for luncheon as it is. Thank you both. I know Mrs. King was a trial, but she is gone now and we need not think on her again. She is a thief and a liar and we are well rid of her."

"And she didn't even leave a tip," Morag put in bitterly.

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale.

—As You Like It

If that day was one of partings, the following was one of homecomings. Father and Brisbane returned just after tea, exhausted and in identically vile moods, although they seemed to have made up their quarrel after a fashion. They made straight for Father's study and the whiskey bottle in spite of the hour. Father poured out a large measure for them both, a daintier portion for me.

"Aquinas informs me we have lost four guests," Father said mildly.

I bristled a little at the implied criticism. "They were determined to go, Father. I had no authority to hold them." Brisbane's mouth opened and I held up a hand. "And I took the precaution of having Charlotte searched. The Tear of Jaipur was nowhere to be found, and I am certain Morag was painfully thorough. She must have cached the stone somewhere before she came to the Abbey."

"And now I have missed the opportunity to follow her whilst she retrieves it," he said sourly.

"Then you ought to have stayed with her," I returned. He raised a brow at the tartness of my tone, but said nothing.

Father wagged a finger. "Enough. The fault is indeed ours, Brisbane. If we meant to keep everyone here, we ought to have seen to it before we went haring off to London."

Brisbane's only reply was to take another deep draught of his whiskey. I turned to Father.

"Where is the inspector? I thought he would return with you."

Father smiled thinly. "He is warming his bottom by his own hearthside, my dear. He was pleased enough to take the body and the villain into custody and to take our word for which was which."

"That cannot possibly be right. He ought to have come here, investigated properly, taken statements, asked questions," I trailed off, too indignant to finish.

"Yes, he ought," Father agreed, draining the last of his whiskey. "But he did not. He is content to accept what Brisbane and I told him and leave matters at that. Ludlow confessed again, this time to the inspector. Our involvement is not required. The boy will swing for it at his own request."

I said nothing. Father was pleased because it meant there would be little in the way of repercussion as far as the family were concerned. But it seemed deeply unsatisfying to me that it should all end thus. Ludlow was a murderer and deserved to be punished to be sure, but to be dispatched with so much haste and so little concern for his motives struck me as unjust. I could not like that Lucy had escaped so easily from bearing the consequences of her role in this tragedy. Then I thought of her life with Cedric and realised the consequences to her could hardly be worse.

I left them then with their black moods and whiskey. They would be drunk as lords by dinner, I thought, and appropriately so. I turned the corner toward the staircase and nearly collided with Aquinas. He was coming from the direction of the kitchens, holding a festively wrapped box in his hands.

"What have you there?" I teased. "My Christmas present?"

He smiled. "No, my lady. It is a Christmas pudding. When Mrs. King stirred up the puddings for the family, she made one for each member of the house party, including herself. Before she left she asked Cook to send hers on."

I felt a prickle along the back of my neck. It could not be so simple. "Why did she not take it with her?"

"Mrs. King took only her portmanteau. She asked that her trunk be sent directly to her hotel and told Cook to tuck the pudding into her trunk before it was sent on. I have her direction. The maid has nearly finished packing her trunk. I meant to dispatch it today."

I took the parcel from him, pricking my finger on the little sprig of holly Cook had tied neatly to the top. I ripped through ribbons and brown paper until I reached the pudding itself, firm and glistening, a masterpiece of the confectionary arts. The smell of fruit and spices rose from it, perfuming the air with Christmas.

I took a deep breath and plunged my hand into the pudding. Nothing. I pushed further. My heart gave a great lurch when I pulled out a trinket, but it was only a coin, stirred in for luck and prosperity in the coming year. I pushed my fingers into the sticky mess one more time, willing it to be there.

Aquinas said nothing through all of this. He merely stood, serenely, behaving as though it were the most natural thing in the world for his mistress to destroy Christmas puddings.

I pulled out my hand.

"My lady?" he asked. "Did you find what you sought?"

I turned my hand over and opened my fingers. There on my palm lay the largest diamond I had ever seen, winking up at me through spiced crumbs and bits of currant.

"I have indeed, Aquinas. May I introduce the Tear of Jaipur?"

* * *

Had I a better sense of the theatrical, I would have cleaned the jewel carefully and presented it to Brisbane with a flourish and a fanfare. But I knew time was of the essence. No sooner had I shown it to Aquinas than I gathered my skirts in my sticky free hand and dashed down the hall, cursing my corset as I ran, Aquinas hard on my heels. I flung open the door to the study.

"I have it!" I cried. "And her direction as well."

Father stared owlishly at me over his spectacles, but Brisbane surged from his chair, at my side in a heartbeat. He took the diamond, rubbing at the traces of pudding with his thumb. He sniffed at it, then poked a tentative tongue at the mess.

"Pudding? She had it cooked in a Christmas pudding?" he asked. Emotions warred on his face, disbelief, elation, and a deeply felt satisfaction, I think. Father rose and came to look at the stone, clucking under his tongue.

"It is a very fine thing, when it isn't covered in muck," he observed.

I looked at Brisbane. "She told Cook to make certain it was packed in her trunk and sent on to her. Aquinas has the direction. She will not move without the Tear."

"Unless she feels cornered," Brisbane said, taking out a handkerchief and carefully pocketing the diamond. "Aquinas?"

Aquinas retrieved a slip of paper from the pocket of his coat. "A hotel in Southampton, my lord."

"Southampton!" I exclaimed. "She has taken a page from Sir Cedric's book. She must mean to quit the country as soon as she has the jewel."

"She will not have the chance," Brisbane said grimly.

"I will summon the carriage, although I believe the last train to Southampton has already left Blessingstoke station, my lord," Aquinas put in.

"I need a train to London," Brisbane corrected. "I must return the jewel for safekeeping before I pursue her."

I shuddered at his tone. There was a grim determination there I had not seen in him before, and I felt suddenly rather sorry for Charlotte King.

"Ah, in that case, if we make haste, it should just be possible," Aquinas said, withdrawing quickly to make the arrangements.

"I shall go with you as far as the station," Father offered. "I must pay a call upon Fly in any event. He will want to know what Scotland Yard has said about the murder of Mr. Snow." His expression was doleful as he left us.

When we were alone, Brisbane turned to me, his eyes bright with anticipation. "Well done," he said softly.

The words were simple enough, but in that moment I was acutely aware of his physical presence.

"Yes, well, if I hadn't happened to fairly run Aquinas down in the hall, I might never have discovered the jewel," I told him.

He said nothing for a long moment. He merely stared at me, his dark gaze roving restlessly over my face as if memorising every feature. Time stretched out between us, and everything else, the sounds of the Abbey, the urgent knowledge that he must hurry to leave, all of it fell away. I felt stripped somehow. The moment was far more intimate than any of the kisses we had yet shared. I dropped my eyes, breaking the spell.

He stepped closer. "I must go," he murmured. "I do not know when I will return."

He was mere inches from me, so close I caught the scent of his skin.

"Of course," I replied. With every word we moved closer to one another, not quite touching, but with only a breath between us. I stared at the buttons on his waistcoat.

"Thank you," I said faintly.

He bent his head toward mine, brushing his cheek against my hair. I heard him inhale deeply. "For what?"

"Saving Father in Trafalgar Square."

I knew in this moment he would not deny it. After a moment I felt him nod. I ran a finger along the silk of his sling. "I promise I shall not ask it again if you tell me the truth. Will you be quite all right?"

"The shot was a clean one," he replied, his voice muffled by my hair. "Another month and I will be right as rain."

"Thank God for that," I murmured.

The noises in the hall grew more frantic and I heard a footman announce to Aquinas that the carriage was drawing around to the door. Brisbane stepped back sharply. Once again he had assumed the unfathomable mask I knew so well. The moment between us, whatever it might have been, whatever might have been said, was lost.

I sighed and moved aside to let him pass. "Godspeed, Brisbane. I hope you find her."

He nodded and moved to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. "You are wrong, you know."

I raised a brow. "About what?"

That fathomless black gaze held mine. "I think you are more my equal than any woman I have ever known."

And before I could reply he was gone.

* * *

I dressed for dinner that night with the deepest apathy. With Brisbane gone I felt oddly flat and out of sorts. I did not like to think I cared more for him than he did for me. I did not like to think I cared for him at all, truth be told. He was enigmatic and difficult, tricky as a cat and twice as sly. But care I did, I admitted, slipping his pendant into the décolletage of my gown. And I did not know when, if ever, I would see him again.

But if I was sulky at dinner, I was in better spirits than half the company. Father was preoccupied, grieved after his visit with Uncle Fly, who had been badly shaken by Snow's murder. Alessandro was quiet for reasons I did not like to think about. Ly and Violante had quarrelled again and were locked in silence, both of them pushing food around their plates and shooting each other nasty looks. And Plum looked pensive. He forgot to eat for long stretches, and more than once I glanced up to see him looking at a bit of food on his fork in bewilderment, as if wondering how it came to be there. Only Hortense and Portia made any pretense at normal conversation, and I was not entirely surprised when the subject turned to Charlotte.

"She was really a jewel thief?" Hortense asked. "I cannot believe it. She seemed so gauche, so unsophisticated, with her chattering and her silly mannerisms."

Plum flicked an irritated glance at her, but she did not notice. Portia shrugged. "She was thief enough to take Julia's pearls. They still have not been recovered, although how she would have gotten them past Morag, I do not like to imagine. Brisbane has gone after her, but she may have sold them by the time he reaches her. And that lot could get her halfway round the world and keep her in style for quite a long time," Portia finished.

I laid down my fork. The joint of pork that had been so delectable only a moment before sat like ashes in my mouth. Had Brisbane gone after her for my sake? He had been engaged to recover the Tear of Jaipur. He had the jewel; the princess and the prime minister would be happy. The letters patent would be published and he would have his title and his estate. Why then pursue Charlotte except for the pearls? I had seen him at work often enough to know he did not go beyond the terms set upon his employment. If he was asked to retrieve incriminating letters from a blackmailer, he did so. He did not destroy them, nor did he turn the evidence over to Scotland Yard. His clients invariably came from the cream of society, those who were desperate to avoid scandal. He investigated future husbands, restored runaway children, retrieved stolen property. But I had never once known him to embark on a chase once his objectives were satisfied. When his obligation to the client was fulfilled, the case was closed, whether the villain had been locked away or not. His business was justice, not retribution, and I nearly wept into my napkin to think of him, hounding Charlotte until she turned over my pearls. And I had not even asked him to do it.

Just then, a commotion arose from the hall. Servants yelling, dogs barking and, above it all, the high, penetrating voice of Aunt Dorcas. Before we could rise, the door was thrown back and Aunt Dorcas entered, flanked by two men. All three of them were garbed in Gypsy clothes, from the gold coins glittering at their belts to the scarves tied around their heads. Aunt Dorcas, who had stated loudly and with vigour her hatred of the race, linked her arms with those of her companions and raised her chin, her Roma finery clinking as she tossed her head and addressed Father.

"March! Bring food for my friends and wine as well. I am come home!"

* * *

In fact, the Gypsies did not sit down to table with us. In spite of Aunt Dorcas' insistence and Father's courteous invitation, they demurred, but agreed to take with them a hamper of hastily packed delicacies. Portia herded Aunt Dorcas upstairs for a bath and a change of clothes while the rest of us finished our meal in stunned silence. As soon as dessert was cleared I excused myself and made my way to Aunt Dorcas' room. I knocked and waited until she called for me to enter.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "Good. I rather thought it was that fool Portia again. Can you believe she's put me to bed? I am no invalid, but she was most resolute and unnaturally strong for so slight a woman."

I smiled and closed the door behind me. The room was a comfortable one, small, so the heat from the fireplace warmed it through. It was done in pinks and reds, with a cheerful view past the gardens to the village of Blessingstoke in the distance. The raspberry taffeta draperies were drawn now, but had they been open, she might have been just able to make out the campfires of her new friends.

But she had shed her Gypsy glamoury and was once more the quarrelsome old lady of my youth. Her nightdress, snugly buttoned at the throat, was edged in tasteful ruffles of lace to match the cap set tidily on her head. She looked up to see me eyeing it and snorted.

"I look like a muffin, do not deny it." I motioned for her to sit forward and I plumped a few of her pillows, smoothing the bedclothes when I was done.

"Do not fuss, Julia. Sit there and talk with me, but do not fuss."

I sat obediently, taking the chair she had indicated. It was a pretty thing, but the seat was hard and slippery.

"And do not fidget," she scolded. "I do not trust a fidgeter."

We sat for some minutes in silence. I looked about the room, memorising the paintings and mentally moving the shepherdess from the landscape into the still life of apples and cheese.

"Julia, do not furrow your brow like that. It will give wrinkles and it makes you look simple."

I widened my eyes. "I am sorry, Aunt Dorcas. Would you like for me to read to you?"

I reached for a book on the night table, but she flapped an irritable hand at me, shooing me away.

"I am in no mood for reading," she said.

"Then why don't you tell me about your adventures?" I coaxed. "I think you enjoyed yourself whilst you were away."

She fixed me with a cold stare, her bosom quivering with indignation. "I was in fear for my life, and you think I enjoyed myself?"

I blinked at her. "In fear of your life? From whom?"

Aunt Dorcas clamped her lips shut and shook her head. "I must say no more," she murmured, her lips still tightly closed.

I shrugged. "Very well. I will leave you then. Good night," I said, rising.

"It was that boy, Ludlow," she said, and I turned back, assuming my chair once more.

"The murderer? Yes, it was. He confessed, more than once, in fact."

She took the edge of the sheet in her fingers, worrying the lace like prayer beads. "He did not work alone," she said, more to herself than to me. "It was her."

I froze in my chair, uncertain of how to proceed. She was entirely correct, a woman had been involved. But Ludlow had not chosen to expose Lucy, and the girl was on her way to be married to a man who would make her life agony. Most would say justice had already been satisfied.

"You need not confirm it," she said, nodding. "Your face is an eloquent one, Julia. It was always thus, even as a child."

"Very well," I admitted. "He did say he murdered Snow because of a woman. Snow was blackmailing her for some wrongdoing she had committed in her youth."

Aunt Dorcas gave a little groan and covered her mouth.

I half-rose from my chair. "Aunt Dorcas, are you quite all right? Shall I ring for a maid?"

She shook her head, almost violently. "No, sit. And what we speak of in this room tonight must never be repeated," she told me, fixing me with those dark toadlike eyes. "Swear it."

"I swear."

She relaxed a little then, but resumed her twisting of the lace. I heard a tiny rip and made a note to tell Portia to have it mended. Poor Aunt Hermia. Yet another sheet damaged during this house party. Between the guests and the cats there would be nothing left to put on the beds.

"Did he tell you why she was being blackmailed?"

"No. He simply said it was a youthful peccadillo."

To my astonishment, she laughed. Not the tiny giggles she often affected, but great, heaving, gulping sobs of laughter that frightened me. After a moment the laughter turned to coughing and I was forced to intervene.

"Thank you," she said finally, recovering herself. "But it was not necessary to hit me so forcefully. I think you have bruised my back."

She gave me a reproachful look as I resumed my chair again. I said nothing and she paused, her expression faraway and touched with sorrow.

"This was no youthful peccadillo," she said finally. "Emma was being blackmailed because she murdered my sister."

I stared at her, gripping the arms of the chair so tightly I could not feel my hands. "No, it was Lucy he killed for, Lucy who was being blackmailed by Mr. Snow."

Aunt Dorcas looked at me pityingly. "Are you so certain?"

I rose and paced the room, putting the pieces together again. I went over every word of the conversation with Ludlow and realised with a cold shudder that he had not spoken Lucy's name. I had assumed it, but what if he had meant Emma? And then she came to me in tears…those had been his words, but he had never said a name. And when I asked him about the discovery of Lucy with the bloody candelabrum in her hand, he had referred to her quite clearly as Miss Lucy.

"Sit down, you make me quite dizzy," Aunt Dorcas ordered. I did, marvelling at the wickedness. Snow was blackmailing Emma, and out of his chivalry and his envy, Ludlow had killed the man for her. Then, when her sister had happened on the scene, he had succumbed to the temptation to blame Lucy, if only for a little while, in hopes of breaking her engagement to Sir Cedric. And all the while, Emma had stood silently by, letting Lucy twist in the wind for her villainy.

And yet, I realised with a shudder, Lucy must have known. Perhaps she had not been able to look squarely at the truth, but somewhere, deep within, she must have known. Whether she saw her sister steal out of the chapel when the deed was done, or whether she merely feared Emma's involvement, her first instinct had been to call blame down upon herself, to shield the sister who had been a mother to her during their long years of poverty and despair. No one would ever know what they spoke of during those dreary, cold hours in the chapel, or huddled in the bed behind locked doors after the attack upon them. Or whether they spoke of it now. But the murder of Lucian Snow would lie between them for the rest of their days, I was certain of it.

I felt suddenly queasy. "If you mean to be sick, do it elsewhere," Aunt Dorcas said sternly. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

"I will not be sick. But I am forced to believe you. Ludlow said there was a lady involved, but he never spoke her name. I assumed it was Lucy."

Aunt Dorcas gave a little snort. "Lucy would not say boo to a goose. Emma would fatten the goose, invite it to tea and slice out its liver for pâté."

The image was not a pretty one. "What did you mean about your sister?"

Her lips worked furiously for a moment, and I realised she was fighting back tears. When she spoke, the words came fast and harsh. "India. Gertrude took Emma out to find a husband." Her thin lips curled into a sneer. "She found something else. A native man she wanted to marry, far above her station in India. His family were connected to the nazim. Gertie tried to tell her the man would never marry her, but she would not hear anything against him. Finally, it came out that Emma was pregnant by him. He offered her money, but nothing more. Can you imagine that? Offering her money like a common whore? And that's all she was, giving herself away like that."

I maintained a tactful silence. Emma might have chosen her lover unwisely, but taking a solitary lover hardly made her a whore.

"Gertie told her they were leaving India. Emma cried and screamed and threw such a fit she miscarried, thank God. Gertie tried to explain the child was malformed, she had seen it herself, but Emma never believed her. She thought Gertie had caused it somehow. She blamed her for the loss of her lover and her child. Gertie hushed it all up the best she could, but there were still many who knew. It was impossible to hide it, the tantrums, the dead baby. Your Mr. Snow was one of them. He served in India. And Emma recognised him, I saw it in her face the first night she met him here in the Abbey. I watched him watching her. It took him the better part of the evening to place her, but he finally did. There was an air of triumph about him, and Emma looked sick as a cat. She knew he remembered her from India and that he knew about the baby. Poor Gertie. She tried so hard to keep it all quiet, to protect Emma. In the end, she did the only thing she could. She packed Emma up and boarded the next ship home."

Aunt Dorcas looked away then, her lips working even faster now. "Gertie never saw England again. She died on board that ship and they buried her at sea. Word got back to her friends in India, and there was talk. Not openly, no one would dare. But there was speculation. It was whispered Emma had exacted her revenge."

I nodded slowly. "I remember now. Not about Emma, but about Aunt Gertie dying during a sea voyage. I had just come out into society and someone asked me at a ball if the lady buried at sea was a relation of mine. The newspapers mentioned it."

"Emma told the captain and the ship's doctor it was her heart," Aunt Dorcas said bitterly, "but Gertie was never sick a day in her life. She was the strongest of us all. No, that girl poisoned her, I know it, though it can never be proved. She saw to that. A body buried at sea cannot be examined. She got right away with murder. And when there was murder done in this house, I knew her handiwork for what it was. And I knew I should be next."

For the first time I saw her for the frightened old woman she was. "And you left that night? With Brisbane?"

She nodded. "The maid who brought my hot milk that night told me what had happened. I knew it was Emma, and that I had to get right away. We had never spoken of what happened to Gertie, but once or twice in the years since I have seen her eyes on me, thinking, as if she wondered what I knew. If she thought I believed her guilty of Gertie's death, she would not have hesitated to put me out of the way, I know it."

I thought of Emma, so solicitous of Aunt Dorcas, wanting to know if there was any news of her whereabouts. My stomach ached to think of it.

"What did you tell Brisbane?"

She shrugged. "Nothing of substance. I told him I would not stay in a house where murder had been done, and that I must speak with the Gypsies, for the spirits would reveal all to them. I told him I knew of a passageway that would lead to the churchyard."

I shook my head. "I cannot believe he would take you there on so flimsy a pretext."

"It was not flimsy," she said stoutly. "It was the truth, at least part of it. I could not tell him more. He is not family. I have spent the better part of a dozen years crushing that scandal. Do you think I was going to resurrect it with my own hands? I had no proof, only my suspicions, and you know as well as I, my dear, the ramblings of an old lady carry little weight. What would have happened if I had pointed the finger at her? Eh? The lot of you would have dismissed me—mad old Aunt Dorcas is at her tricks again."

I remembered Emma then, slyly insinuating about Aunt Dorcas and her "odd turns", all the while watering her villainy with crocodile tears. It was diabolical.

"I prefer to think we would have listened," I told Aunt Dorcas.

"And you might have. But I was not about to gamble my life on it."

We fell silent then, both of us stubbornly certain we were right. But as I thought on it, I realised how brave she was. She had taken matters into her own hands when she felt threatened, and had gone to live among the Gypsies, an intrepid thing indeed at her age.

I smiled at her. "How did you like the Gypsy camp?"

She pulled a face. "No proper sanitation, and do not even ask me about the food," she complained. But even as she spoke I saw the corners of her mouth turn up a little. It had been the adventure of a lifetime, I would wager, and the memories would warm her for a long time to come.

I rose then and dropped a kiss to her cap. She scrubbed at her cheek and scowled at me. "I do not like displays of emotion, Julia. It comes from having all these Italians in the house. I feel a headache coming on. Go and fetch me my lavender salts."

She gestured toward her travelling case, a kidskin affair, fitted with a dozen bottles, all stoppered tightly and labelled with her spindly script. I reached for the lavender, surprised to find it empty. I turned it over and read the label. And as soon as I saw the word lettered there, I knew what she had done. I slipped the bottle into my pocket, then reached for the one slotted in the next compartment.

"Here are your salts," I told her evenly. She took them and began to sniff, waving a handkerchief in front of her face to waft the fumes to her nose.

I drew the other bottle out of my pocket. "And you will want to restore your supply of laudanum. The bottle is quite empty. You ought to be careful with such things, you know. That much laudanum could kill a person."

I held the bottle out to her and she averted her face, her mouth working furiously. "You were in too much of a hurry after you poisoned the bottle of brandy. You put the lavender and the laudanum in each other's place. It was careless of you, and worse still to ask me to go to your dispensary. I would never have thought it of you otherwise."

She raised her chin, staring me down with her great toad's eyes. "Emma had already done murder twice, once by her own hand and once by another's. If she died, God himself would call it justice."

"And Lucy?"

She clutched her handkerchief to her lips. "I have already told you, they are of a kind. Lucy would not harm another, but to save Emma, she would commit every sin and smile as she did it."

I shook my head, wonderingly. "I cannot quite believe it. How did you lure the footman from his post?"

She waved a hand at me. "I took the sheet from my bed. I burnt two holes for my eyes, and I was a phantom. A childish trick, but effective. I have forgotten more about this Abbey than you will ever know. How simple it was to show myself and let him follow me. It was the work of a moment to leave the brandy at his chair and remove the sheet. I was wearing a black gown. Even if he saw me leaving, I would have been but a shadow to him. I left the sheet in the linen cupboard when I sent Brisbane to the lumber rooms to fetch me a fur." Her eyes were gleaming now, and it occurred to me that she was rather proud of what she had done.

"It was not your decision," I told her. "You had no right to mete justice. You realise I must tell Father."

She scrabbled up against the cushions, her eyes wide with fear. "You dare not! He is grieved enough that a stranger has committed murder in this place. What would it do to him to learn of this? Think of the scandal. It is a different world now than the world of his youth, Julia. The story would make its way round the world, and everyone would know the shame of it. He would never recover from that."

I itched to slap her, elderly aunt or not. She was still staring fearfully over the edge of her handkerchief, but there was a touch of triumph in her. She had given me the one argument I could not fight.

I slid the bottle back into my pocket. "Very well. For Father, I will keep silent. But mind this—I am keeping this bottle. And if I ever hear that you have harmed anyone, in any fashion, I will produce it."

I spoke sharply, my voice ringing with conviction, but we both knew the threat was a hollow one. It would be my word against hers if ever I decided to tell my tale.

She gave a dry laugh. "I am old and I am tired, girl. My fangs are well and truly drawn. When I go back to Norfolk, it will be to die, and with me, so dies this story."

"That it will," I said. "Go tomorrow. I will not say farewell."

I left her then and went to my own room. In a very few minutes I was tucked into bed, warm and safe and so tired I thought I could sleep a month. But it was a long time before I slept, and every time I closed my eyes I saw Emma's face, watching from the shadows.

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

Some say that ever 'gainst the season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated This bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.

—Hamlet

The days running up to Christmas were busy ones, and I kept myself too occupied to think much. Whenever I found my thoughts lingering on Brisbane or Emma or Henry Ludlow, I ruthlessly wrenched them away, turning instead to hanging mistletoe or poking cloves into oranges to make pomanders. I went for long walks in the gardens and attempted to train Florence to sit nicely. And I said goodbyes; some of them rose more easily to my lips than others. Aunt Dorcas left us the day after her return from the Gypsy camp, and in spite of my parting words to her the previous night, I did my duty and stood with my family to bid her farewell. She passed down the line of assorted relations, pausing when she reached me. She flicked me a cool glance, which I returned. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, proffering me a crumb of respect. I did not move, and she passed on. I was not sorry to see her go.

The following day, Plum and Alessandro, both of them nursing bruised hearts—and pride—took their leave as well. I regretted their leaving, but I was relieved, I realised with a guilty little pang. Alessandro had been a charming companion in Italy, but I had been mad to think even for a moment we might have been more than friends. And Plum was no companion at all at present. He was still sulking over his affairs, and Father had not been kind to him on the subject of Mrs. King, scolding him for taking up with such a creature. They were barely speaking by the time Plum and Alessandro departed, but I knew they would make it up eventually. Marches always did.

Still another parting made me quite nostalgic. My husband Edward's distant cousin, the nearest neighbour to the Abbey, had been forced to quit the manor house at Greymoor. The snowfall that had locked us in with a murderer had caused the weakened roof of the house to finally collapse. Thankfully none of his family or staff were injured, but the damage was too extensive. It was the perfect excuse for him to tear it down, and when he came to the Abbey to bid his farewells, he was full of building schemes for a property he had in Kent, near his wife's relations. So the last of the Greys moved out of Sussex, and the house was left to fall to ruin. It would not be long before the village children began to dare each other to run up and touch its sagging doors and peer into its broken windows, I fancied. Ghosts walked abroad at Greymoor, and I shuddered when I wondered if Edward might be one of them.

But the weeks before Christmas were happy ones, too. Aunt Hermia and Portia's beloved Jane came down from London, as well as a plentiful assortment of my brothers, sisters, spouses, nieces, and nephews. We were a full and merry party, and as the season ripened, I felt myself growing more relaxed. There had been no word from Brisbane, but I had not really expected one. I wore the pendant, as a charm for his safety, I suppose, and went about the business of Christmas. I wrapped presents and strung holly and ivy on the mantelpieces and played endless games of hunt-the-slipper with my nieces and nephews.

Christmas itself was Bedlam. The children were up at cockcrow, tearing into stockings and making a sweet nuisance of themselves. But in spite of the noise and frantic activity, the day was surprisingly pleasant. After breakfast we all bundled up and walked into the village for church. I had dreaded this, fearing that we would be met with stares and hostility. The shadow of murder still hung over our house, however normal we had tried to make things for the children. But I had underestimated either the power of the March name, or the affection with which the villagers regarded us. They were a trifle distant when we arrived, but after Uncle Fly's eloquent sermon on the subject of brotherly love, we were greeted much more kindly. We chatted politely, and Aunt Hermia even extended invitations to several families to come and take mince pies and wine with us. No one stammered or fled in fright, which I took as rather a heartening sign.

Once back at the Abbey, we feasted on a delectable Christmas lunch and then the children opened presents, a noisy and lengthy affair. Father, who could never bear to see anyone left out, gave each of his grown children a present as well. I presented Puggy with his finished cushion cover, which he received with an indelicate noise deep in his throat. I took that as an expression of gratitude. Florence looked exceedingly pretty in a collar fashioned of Venetian lace, and Grim bobbed his head in thanks for a tin of glacéed fruits from Paris. Then the children sang carols, and when they concluded—to tumultuous applause from their indulgent family—the tea things were brought in and we all gathered around as Father, preening in his garishly striped waistcoat from Violante, read out the Christmas letters from my absent brothers and sisters. There were few dry eyes when he was done, for we were all quite fond of each other and missed one another more than we would admit.

When he was finished, Father wiped his eyes and shooed us all to our rooms to prepare for the party that evening. Naturally it was to be a quieter affair than in years past. He had decided that dancing would be inappropriate, but Lysander had promised to play suitable music for our enjoyment. Everyone hurried to their rooms, the adults to change, the children to an early supper. Only Father remained behind, standing at the darkened window, and as I made to leave, he called me back.

I quirked a brow at him, and he waved toward the door.

"Close that, if you would. I do not mean to keep you long, but I should like to speak to you. Privately."

I obeyed, and then joined him at the window. It had long since fallen dark, but the landscape was dotted with lights—lanterns and bonfires and torches as folks moved from house to house in merry parties. Father nodded toward a light not far away, just at the edge of a small wood on the other side of the moat.

"There is the Rookery. Can you see it?"

"Of course." The Rookery was a tiny, quite mad-looking house. The Rookery had passed through several inhabitants since it was built in the eighteenth century. Each had left their mark, adding odd little staircases or pulling down façades and putting up new ones. What remained was a bizarrely charming confection with a pair of reception rooms and a few bedrooms, nothing more.

Father nodded again. "It is a sound little house. It was overgrown with ivy, and a few roof tiles were loose. Nothing that could not be mended. I had Benedick oversee the repairs before the snow fell. It is quite snug now, and perfectly in order, freshly painted, and not a bit of damp."

I was a bit mystified as to why he was telling me this, but I nodded encouragingly. "Oh, excellent. I have always thought it a darling house."

"I am glad to hear you say it," he said mildly. "It is yours now."

I blinked at him. "I did not hear you correctly, I am afraid."

"It is yours, Julia. I know I gave you a present with your brothers and sisters, but this is something else. Just for you."

I stammered a little in my confusion. "B-but, Father, surely there are others in the family who need a house."

"It is not a house," he corrected. "It is a home. Of your own, for so long as you shall live. I cannot give it to you outright. It is entailed with the estate, and when I am gone, it will belong to your brother, Bellmont. But I have arranged with the solicitor that it shall be yours to live in for the duration of your life, so long as you wish it. You may go and come back, as you like, but it will always be here for you to return to."

I shook my head. I could not quite take it in. "But why me, Father? Portia is a widow as well," I reminded him.

"Portia has a home, and Portia has Jane." He put out a hand and touched my shoulder. "I will not always be here, child. I do not know what the future holds for you, but I would have you cared for. You are my favourite."

I put a hand over his. "You have ten children, and five of them are under your roof right now. How many times have you said that today?"

"Five," he admitted ruefully. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "But I only meant it once."

He left me then and I was glad of it. I did not want him to see me weep.

* * *

Boxing Day was, in a word, noisy. The tradesmen called for their boxes and were quite civilly invited in for mince pies. We had a tremendous luncheon of the Christmas remains with far too much drink. By the afternoon, the children were rampant with sugar and excitement and the adults were sore-headed as bears. Father organised the children into a game of pirates, which entailed plundering the lumber room costume boxes and much shrieking and running about the Abbey. Raids were conducted and booty secured, and at one point I was even taken prisoner by my niece Perdita, and tied to my chair with a petticoat. She ran off as soon as she had secured me, waving a wooden sword and screaming threats in an alarming Irish accent. Portia had a great laugh at my expense. She had only been tied with a cravat and worked her way free very quickly. I quirked a brow at her loftily.

"You may well laugh, but I have just been captured by Grace O'Malley, the greatest pirate queen ever to sail the Seven Seas," I told her.

Portia snickered as I tried unsuccessfully to free myself. Eventually she was prevailed upon to untie my bonds. At that moment our niece returned and fixed me with a stern look.

"You were not supposed to free yourself. I must give you to Tarquin. He has ransomed you," she told me.

"Thank you, but I think not. I would rather be your prisoner than your brother's. He put spiders in my bed the last time I slept at the farmhouse."

Perdita's expression turned mulish. "But you must, Auntie Julia. He has paid the ransom," she insisted. "See?" She dug into her pocket and extracted a handful of plunder. There, on her grubby palm, lay a necklace of perfect grey pearls I had never thought to see again.

Portia and I gasped and lunged for them at the same time. Startled, Perdita shrieked and threw them into the air. Portia caught them neatly, while I took our niece by the shoulders.

"Perdita, dearest, where precisely did you get this necklace?"

She looked inclined to pout, but if Benedick's children were high-spirited, they were also well brought up.

"Tarquin gave it to me." Her expression darkened. "He would not agree to the bracelets as well, but I thought you were worth them."

"Indeed. And where is Tarquin now?"

"Mounting an attack on the kitchens. He means to take the larder. He wants cake."

I released her and patted her on the head. "Thank you, dearest. Play with Auntie Portia now. She will be your prisoner. I must have a word with your brother."

Portia shot me an evil look, and the last I saw, Perdita was lashing her ankles to a chair while Puggy danced around, snarling.

Tarquin was easy enough to find. I ran him to ground in the kitchens precisely where his sister said he would be. He must have been successful, for he was busily stuffing his pockets with ginger nuts and Cook was nowhere to be seen.

"Tarquin, my boy, may I have a word?" I asked him. He blinked at me, owlish in a pair of very smart spectacles. He was the cleverest of Benedick's children, and I suspected he would be the handsomest.

"You're my prisoner now," he informed me. "Did Perdita tell you? I paid an enormous ransom for you," he said, wrapping a striped scarf about my head. "I will release you and make you one of my crew if you promise to fight for me."

"Very tempting offer, I am sure," I said, removing the scarf. "But I wanted to ask you about that ransom. Where did you find the necklace?"

He pulled a disgusted face. "That bit of rubbish? You needn't worry, Auntie Julia. It is only a bit of glass. I found it stuffed in the bear."

I stared at him. "The bear? You mean Maurice?"

He nodded and tucked another ginger cake into his pocket. "There is a hole under his arm where the stuffing is coming out. I saw it when we were playing hide-and-go-seek earlier. I put my hand in, and I felt something I thought might be pebbles or some choice marbles. It was only those bits of trumpery. I found these as well—you can have them if you like."

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out my bracelets. I felt a little weak as I looked at them. Thousands of pounds' worth of perfectly matched pearls with diamond clasps, an empress' treasure, lying serenely on a boy's palm.

"Did you find earrings as well? And a great long rope of pearls?"

He shook his head. "But I did not have long to look. Grandfather was coming, and I had to hide."

I nodded knowledgeably. "Of course you did."

His face brightened. "Would you like for me to have a look round for you now? I know just where I found these bits. I daresay the others are there as well."

I nodded and he led the way, careful to take a circuitous route to avoid the scalawag ways of his uncle Ly, who was laying plans to board his ship and overthrow him, Tarquin told me solemnly.

At length we reached Maurice the bear, and Tarquin made a careful search. He retrieved every last piece of the Grey Pearls, presenting them to me with as much ceremony as the chancellor handing the crown jewels to the queen.

As my hands closed over them, he turned to me, his young face quizzical. "Aunt Julia, they aren't real, are they?"

I smiled at him. "Yes, they are, my dear boy. And I thought I would never see them again. Thank you."

He goggled at me, and in return for his aid I promised to return to serve as his crew once I had secured the pearls in my room. I put them away, nestling them onto their bed of black satin, and paused. I thought of Charlotte, the last person to touch them. Poor greedy Charlotte, clever and avaricious and dishonest. For all her sins, there was something almost likeable about her. I wondered where she was, and if she had eluded Brisbane, if he would believe her if she claimed not to have the pearls. Hiding them in the hole in Maurice's pelt had been a stroke of genius. It had been the merest accident they had been recovered. Perhaps she had thought to come back for them some day, or perhaps she had been happy enough to escape. It did not matter now.

I closed the lid with a snap. I was done with them.

* * *

The next day I left the Abbey directly after breakfast. It was a crisp, cold morning and I took care to wrap myself in my warmest clothes before setting out. I walked slowly, taking in deep draughts of fresh air and puffing them out in little clouds. The road was still muddy and my hems were deeply soiled by the time I reached my destination at the Gypsy camp. I lifted my nose, sniffing appreciatively at the little cooking fires kindled in the river meadow. Magda's brother, Jasper, raised a hand in greeting and disappeared into one of the caravans. A moment later Magda appeared, her unruly hair plaited with scarlet ribbons. The cold must have driven her into her caravan, for I did not see her tent and the tiny chimney of her caravan was smoking heavily. She smiled broadly as she approached, wrapping a heavy woollen shawl about her shoulders.

"Come to cross my palm with silver?" she asked, giving me a throaty laugh.

"I wanted to thank you for your hospitality to my father's aunt. She is not a very nice person. I am sure she did not express her appreciation for your kindness."

Magda tipped her head, her bright black eyes snapping as she looked me over from head to toe. "There is more. You want answers, do you not? Perhaps it is time you got them."

She turned and made for her caravan, never looking round to see if I followed. She led the way inside, and I paused on the threshold to admire her little home. It was compact and more orderly than I would have expected, all her possessions neatly stowed on pegs or in little cupboards fitted into the walls. There was a stove for warmth and a narrow bed snugged under the curved roof. A tiny table laid with a sprigged cloth and two chairs completed the furnishings, and yet there was no sense of meagreness about the place. The bed was spread with a yellow taffeta coverlet and curtains fashioned of flowered chintz covered the windows. The trim had been painted a bright blue, and the effect was one of exuberant high spirits.

She waved me to a chair and fussed a moment with the kettle and brightly patterned teacups. She arranged them on the table, careful to avoid the small crystal ball resting on its pedestal in the middle. When she had poured out and we had warmed our hands, she reached for mine, turning it over and stripping off the glove to read my palm. She peered closely at it, clucking once or twice, then released it. I pressed my hand against my teacup, but even through the warmth of the porcelain I could still feel the light stroke of her fingertips as she traced the lines.

"You want to know about him," she said finally. "Very well. Ask."

I did not stop to wonder why she was willing to speak now when she had never done so in the past. Perhaps she was in a generous mood, perhaps she felt badly for things that had been between us in the past. Or perhaps it was another means of making mischief for her. With Magda, there was simply no way to know.

"You spoke of a woman called Mariah Young," I began. "You told me about her months ago. You said she had died. Who was she?"

Magda took a deep swallow of her tea and settled back in her chair. She eased her feet out of her shoes, scratching one calf with the toes of the other foot. There was a hole in her stocking and it was badly worn at the heel. She scratched for a long moment. I knew better than to prod her. She had her own rhythms, and she would speak in her own time.

Finally, she put her shoes back on and put down her teacup. "Mariah Young was a Gypsy girl, known among the travellers of this isle for her gift. She had the second sight, and a powerful gift it was. But she had other gifts too. She was beautiful and lively, with a cloud of black hair down to her waist and the tiniest feet you ever saw. She danced for money and told fortunes and collected hearts. She broke them all too, all but one."

Magda's voice, accented by her native Romany tongue, was peculiarly suited to storytelling. It was low for a woman's, and she had a way of speaking that held the listener in thrall. I glanced down at the crystal ball on the table between us, and for an instant I could almost see a tiny figure with high-arched feet, dancing and snapping her fingers.

"The one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married, and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother's witchcraft and his father's wildness."

Magda's eyes sharpened. "But blood will out, and the noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers. But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind, and for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart."

I took a sip of my tea and averted my eyes. The tea was bitter now, and I put it down again.

"Ah, the taste of regret," Magda said softly. "You wish you had not come. But you did, and you must let me finish the tale I have begun. After her son left her, Mariah Young would not dance, could not tell fortunes. Her gift failed her, and in its place came headaches, blinding ones. She took laudanum to ease them, and one day, when her little green bottle was as empty as her pockets, she stole a bottle from the chemist. She was discovered and put into gaol. Do you know what it means to a Gypsy to be locked up, lady? It means death to us. If we cannot breathe freely, we cannot breathe at all. And Mariah Young had no wish to live. She turned her face to the wall and died, but before she did, she cursed her gaolers. She cursed the chemist and the judge and anyone who could hear the sound of her voice. And before she died, she cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within."

Magda's voice trailed off, a menacing, unearthly whisper. There was a scream of laughter from outside the caravan—one of the children, I think—and I jumped. I picked up my glove and yanked it on.

"That is a faery story for children. I wanted the truth."

Magda shrugged. "What is the truth? Mariah Young was Brisbane's mother. He ran away and she died in gaol for stealing a bottle of laudanum. Those are facts. Are they the truth? No, for they do not tell you of the heart, and that is where truth lives, lady."

"And I suppose it is the truth when you moan on about death in his shadow?" I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.

"Did someone not die at the Abbey?" Her tone was even, but I saw the twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "Come, lady, let us be friends. We have known each other too long to keep bad feelings between us. Give me your cup and I will tell you what I see."

Reluctantly I swallowed the rest of the tea and handed her the cup, the same Jubilee cup she always used for tasseomancy. She upended it on the saucer and turned it thrice, then picked it up and peered inside. After a moment she gave it to me. "There is an eye. You must be watchful."

I looked into the cup. Near the bottom was an oval shape, pointed at the ends with the sinister suggestion of a pupil. I thrust the cup back at her.

"Is that all? I must be watchful? Watchful of what?"

Magda shrugged again. "Sometimes the tea leaves do not have much to say. But I will tell you this—he fights with himself, he struggles, and to be with such a man, you will struggle as well."

"Did the tea leaves say that too? They've grown chatty."

She smiled, but this time there was no hint of the theatrics of the fortune-teller. It was a genuine smile, warm and sincere. "No, I say it as a woman who has lived a hundred lifetimes. He is a man beset by devils, and to be with him is to fight them too. But, oh, what a battle!" she finished with a wink.

"You have always warned me off of him. Why do you encourage me now?"

"Because I am growing old and sentimental." She waved a hand, imperious as a queen. "I see only a little, lady, but I know that your fortune is as twined with his as the ivy to the oak. Be happy. And do not forget to cross my palm," she admonished with a chuckle. She opened her hand for a coin.

I rose and reached into my pocket. "I have no silver, but I hope these will do."

I laid the Grey Pearls across her palm, spilling them into her lap.

"Lady," she began, her eyes round with wonder. I shook my head.

"They are real, and they are yours. Father can help you sell them for a fair price, if you like. Have Jasper arrange it."

I left her then, and we did not exchange another word. She did not thank me; I did not expect it. I had little doubt our paths would cross again some day.

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?

—Antony and Cleopatra

Twelfth Night marked the beginning of the end of that fateful house party. My brothers and sisters collected their children and returned to their homes, most of them on speaking terms for once. Plum had written to say he had been invited to stay in Florence for Alessandro's betrothal celebrations and would be leaving for Ireland as soon as the nuptials were concluded in the summer. Portia looked closely at me when she related the news, but I merely smiled and went on feeding Grim his sugared plums. Much to Father's delight, Lysander and Violante had decided to remain in England for the birth of their child, and Hortense—by now fast friends with Violante—had agreed to play companion to her. And in a small piece in the Times I learned that Scotland Yard was very pleased to report the apprehension of a jewel thief of some notoriety. Brisbane's name was not mentioned, nor was the Tear of Jaipur, though I knew they meant Charlotte King. But as closely as I read the columns, there was no word of letters patent or the viscountcy of Wargrave. There was, however, the smallest mention of an estate in Yorkshire changing hands into the possession of Nicholas Brisbane. It was no great estate, and no lofty title, but I was happy for him.

As for me, I went to London with Portia and Jane, accompanied by Florence and Grim, and of course Morag, grumbling as usual about the extra work. I had much shopping to do to outfit the Rookery, and I felt the need for the diversions of city life and the comforts of steam heat. Portia's house, a vast, modern place, was impossibly warm even in the dreariest months. We settled in companionably, and the dark days of January passed quickly away.

One wet afternoon late in January, Jane and I lolled by the fire, talking desultorily of things we might do once the weather improved. The butler entered with the tea things, and Portia followed him, flipping through the post. She had already opened one letter, and I caught the quickest glimpse of a bold black scrawl before she shoved it to the bottom of the stack.

"Jane, dearest, won't you pour? And Julia, you can hand round the cakes. Mind you take some of that sponge. Cook is quite proud of it."

Jane poured as Portia handed out the letters. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw her slip the opened one behind the cushion of her chair as she sorted through the rest. She lit on one from Aunt Hermia, and exclaimed, reading it out to us as we sipped our tea and nibbled at sandwiches.

"Aunt Hermia says Hortense is well, and Violante is feeling quite strong now. She has put Father on a diet," she said with a smothered laugh. "Apparently he was a bit bilious, and she has decided he must not eat butter, gravy, or pastry. Poor Father!" We exchanged smiles. Father was the most powerful man of our acquaintance, but he was also the most susceptible to being fussed over. They might have begun rockily, but Violante was very likely in a fair way to becoming his favourite daughter-in-law.

Portia's expression sobered. "Father has received a letter from India. Oh, dear."

I took a bite of the slice of sponge. "What is it, dearest?"

Portia shook her head sadly. "It is Sir Cedric. He suffered a fatal attack on the voyage to India. He is dead."

The cake tasted dusty suddenly, and I put down the plate.

"How awful," Jane murmured. She refilled my cup, sweetening it heavily. "Drink this, Julia. You have gone quite pale."

I obeyed and felt marginally better. "What sort of attack?"

Portia shook her head. "She does not say. One imagines it must have been his heart. He was a rather florid sort of man."

"Perhaps an apoplexy," Jane suggested. She shook her head. "Poor Lucy Phipps."

I said nothing. I was thinking of Emma. Emma and her blind devotion to her sister, her jealous love. I thought of the slippery precipice of murder, and how much easier it must be to do the act again after you have raised your hand to it once.

"Not Lucy Phipps anymore," Portia corrected. "Aunt Hermia says that Sir Cedric died after they were wed. She is Lady Eastley now. She has inherited his entire fortune."

"How tragic," Jane went on. "To be so newly married, and to lose one's husband. I cannot imagine that the money is any great comfort to her. She must be utterly shattered."

"Oh, I don't know," I said faintly. "I think the money may be a very great comfort. She was always quite poor, you know."

"And now she and Emma will never want for a thing so long as she lives," Portia finished.

As we sipped our tea in silence, I was conscious of a deep unease, a vague dissatisfaction that something had gone quite gravely wrong and could never be mended.

* * *

When Jane had retired and Portia had left to bathe the repulsive Puggy, I poured myself another cup of tea and went to the chair where Portia had been sitting. The letter was still there, a little the worse for having been sat on. Doubtless she expected to retrieve it later. I sipped at my tea, holding the letter and debating with myself. It was a very short argument.

I slipped the letter from its envelope and read it quickly. There was no salutation, no endearment, and I felt a great deal more at ease when I read the brisk tone of the letter itself. I had not forgotten Portia's smug air when she informed me she had business with Brisbane.

By all means, come in April. The worst of the weather will be past, and I am told the spring is rather lovely here. I shall be vastly interested to see what you can do with the place. Do not think I am being modest when I say it is a ruin. It lacks every modern convenience, and I hope you are prepared for every possible discomfort. I can offer you only cold rooms, bad food, and lumpy beds.

As for your sister, I will not mention her again, except to say this: do not entertain the idea of bringing her. The estate is not fit for company. And since I flatter myself that I know you a little better than you might believe, I will repeat, DO NOT BRING YOUR SISTER TO YORKSHIRE.

The rest of the letter was a tangle of information about trains and schedules and domestic arrangements. I only skimmed it. I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope and tucked the envelope behind the cushion. Portia would know soon enough I had read it, but there was no purpose to starting that quarrel just yet.

Instead, I busied myself making a list of everything I would need to pack for my trip to Yorkshire. I was keenly interested in seeing this ruin of an estate, and if Portia meant to put his household in order for him, she might well be glad of an extra pair of hands. Besides, April was three long, dreary, grey months away. After a winter in the city, I would be gasping for country air, and Yorkshire was reputed to be tremendously scenic. I had never been, but I had heard the moors were staggeringly lovely. Of course, I never expected Brisbane and I would find a body there. But that is a tale for another time.

Silent on the Moor

By Deanna Raybourn

CONTENTS

THE FIRST CHAPTER

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRD CHAPTER

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE NINTH CHAPTER

THE TENTH CHAPTER

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE FIRST CHAPTER

London, 1888

For now sits expectation in the air.

—William Shakespeare

Henry V

"Julia Grey, I would rather see you hanged than watch any sister of mine go haring off after a man who will not have her," my brother Bellmont raged. "And Portia, I am thoroughly appalled that you would not only condone such behaviour, but abet it by accompanying Julia. You are her elder sister. You ought to set an example."

I sighed and stared longingly at the whisky decanter. Portia and I had known that the summons to our father's London townhouse was a thinly-veiled ambush, but I do not think either of us had expected the attack to be so quick, nor so brutal. We had scarcely taken our seats in Father's comfortable library before our eldest brother launched into a tirade against our proposed visit to Yorkshire. Father, ensconced behind his vast mahogany desk, said nothing. His expression was inscrutable behind his half-moon spectacles.

Catching my wistful glance, Portia rose and poured us both glasses of whisky. "Take this, dearest," she urged. "Bellmont is in rare form. He will surely rail at us until supper unless he has an apoplexy first," she finished cheerfully.

Bellmont's already high colour deepened alarmingly. "You may well jest about this, but it is unacceptable for Julia to accept an invitation to stay with Brisbane at his country house. He is an unmarried man, and she is a widow of thirty. Even if you are there to chaperone, Portia, you must admit, it would be a complete violation of propriety."

"Oh, Julia hasn't been invited," Portia responded helpfully. "I was. Julia rather invited herself."

Bellmont clicked his teeth together and drew in a deep breath, his nostrils going white at the edges. "If that is supposed to offer me comfort, it is a cold one, I assure you."

Portia shrugged and sipped at her whisky. Bellmont turned to me, deliberately softening his tone. At more than forty years of age and heir to our father's earldom, he had long since grown accustomed to having his own way. It was only with his eccentric family that his success was mixed. With a cunning blend of sternness, cajolery, and logic, he was sometimes able to bend us to his will, but just as often he found himself not speaking to more than one of his nine siblings. Now he attempted an appeal to my reason.

"Julia, I understand you were quite bereft when Edward died. You were very young to be a widow, and I am sympathetic to the fact that you felt compelled to search out your husband's murderer." I raised my brows. He had not been so sympathetic at the time. When I had unmasked my husband's killer in a dramatic scene during which my townhouse was burned down and I nearly lost my life, Bellmont had actually stopped speaking to me for two months. Apparently, murder is a failing of the middle classes only. Aristocrats are supposed to be above such unpleasantness.

He went on. "I realise your connection with Mr. Brisbane was a necessary evil at the time. He has proved himself a thoroughly capable inquiry agent and, mercifully, a discreet one. But your association with this man cannot continue. I do not know what Father was thinking to invite him to Bellmont Abbey at Christmas, but it was badly done, and it has given you ideas."

"And God knows women mustn't have ideas," Portia murmured into her glass. Bellmont did not even bother to look at her. We were well-accustomed to Portia's pointed asides.

I looked helplessly at Father, who merely shrugged and poured himself a glass of whisky. If Bellmont continued on we should become a family of inebriates.

"Monty," I began, deliberately sweetening my tone, "I do appreciate your concern. But Father has already explained to you Brisbane was there to pursue an investigation. He left before the family arrived for Christmas. You did not even see him. I have never invited him to accompany me to your home, nor have I ever foisted him upon you in any social situation, although he would not be entirely out of place. His great-uncle is the Duke of Aberdour, you know."

Bellmont rubbed a hand over his face, smoothing the furrows that marked his handsome brow. "My dear, his antecedents are quite immaterial. He is in trade. He is a half-Gypsy vagabond who makes his living by dealing in the sordid miseries of others. His exploits are fodder for the newspapers, and we have been dragged through those rather enough at present," he finished, shooting Father a look that was ripe with bitterness.

Father waved an indolent hand. "Do not blame me, boy. I did my best to sweep the entire matter under the carpet, as did Brisbane." That much was true. The newspapers, through Father's influence and Brisbane's connections, had taken little enough notice of the events at Bellmont Abbey, although a few rather distasteful morsels had found their way into print.

Bellmont swung round to face Father while Portia and I huddled closer to one another on the sofa and drank our whisky.

"I am not unaware of your efforts, Father. But the press have always been interested in our little peccadilloes, and you have simply not done enough to keep them at bay, particularly when you were so indiscreet as to entertain your mistress at the same Christmas party as your children and grandchildren."

"A hit, a palpable hit," Portia whispered. I stifled a giggle. Bellmont was being rather unfair to Father. He had exercised as much authority over the press in the matter as he could. Considering what had actually transpired at the Abbey, we were lucky it had not become the scandal of the century.

"Madame de Bellefleur is not my mistress," Father said, puffing his cheeks indignantly. "She is my friend, and I shall thank you to speak of her respectfully."

"It does not matter what she is," Bellmont pointed out acidly. "It only matters what they say she is. Do you have any notion how damaging such stories could be to me, to my children? Orlando is considering a run for Parliament when he is established, and Virgilia is to be presented this season. Her chances for a good match could be completely overthrown by your conduct, and it will not improve matters for her aunts to be seen chasing off to Yorkshire to stay with a bachelor of questionable reputation."

Portia stirred. "I should think the fact that I live openly with a woman would be far more damaging to her chances for a society marriage," she remarked coolly.

Bellmont flinched. "Your relationship with Jane is something to which I have become reconciled over these past ten years. It is a credit to Jane that she lives quietly and does not care to move in society."

Portia's eyes glinted ominously, and I laid a warning hand on her wrist. "Jane is the love of my life, Bellmont, not a pet to be trained."

Father held up a hand. "Enough. I will not have you quarrelling like dogs over an old bone. I thought we buried that particular issue long ago. Bellmont, you forget yourself. I have permitted you to abuse your sisters and me quite long enough."

Bellmont opened his mouth to protest, but Father waved him off. "You have a care for your sisters' reputations, and that does you credit, but I must observe for a man so often hailed as one of the greatest brains of his generation, you are remarkably obtuse about women. You've been married going on twenty years, boy. Have you not yet learned that it is easier to pull a star down from the heavens than to bend a woman to your will? The most tractable of women will kick over the traces if you insist upon obedience and, in case it has escaped your notice, your sisters are not the most tractable of women. No, if they are intent upon going to Yorkshire, go they will."

Portia flicked a triumphant gaze at Bellmont who had gone quite pale under the angry wash of red over his fair complexion. I took another sip of my whisky and wondered not for the first time why my parents had found it necessary to have so many children.

"Father," Bellmont began, but Father rose, straightening his poppy-coloured waistcoat and raising a hand.

"I know. You are worried for your children, as you should be, and I will see that their chances are not damaged by the actions of their aunts." He paused, for dramatic effect no doubt, then pronounced in ringing tones, "Your sisters will travel under the protection of their brother, Valerius."

Portia and I gaped at him, stunned to silence. Bellmont was quicker off the mark. Mollified, he nodded at Father. "Very well. Valerius is thoroughly incapable of controlling them, but at least his presence will lend the appearance of respectability. Thank you, Father." He turned to leave, giving us a piercing look. "I suppose it would be too much to ask that you conduct yourselves like ladies, but do try," he offered as a parting shot.

Portia was still sputtering when the footman shut the door behind him. "Honestly, Father, I do not see why you didn't have him drowned as a child. You've four other sons, what's one at the bottom of the pond?"

Father shrugged. "I would have drowned him myself had I known he would turn out Tory. I know you want to remonstrate with me over the suggestion of travelling with Valerius, but I want to talk to your sister. Leave us to chat a moment, will you, my dear?" he said to Portia.

She rose gracefully and turned, pulling a face at me as she went. I tried not to fidget, but I felt suddenly shy and uncertain. I smiled up at Father winsomely and attempted to divert the conversation.

"Valerius will be simply furious with you, Father. You know he hates to leave London, and he is devoted to his work with Dr. Bent. He's just bought a new microscope."

It might have been a good diversion under other circumstances. Father could rant easily for an hour on the subject of Valerius and his unsuitable interest in medicine. But he had other game afoot.

He turned to me, folding his arms across his chest. "Do not look to distract me," he said sternly. "What the devil do you mean by hunting Brisbane like a fox? Monty is right, though I would not give him the satisfaction of saying so in front of him. It is damned unseemly and shows a distinct lack of pride. I reared you for better."

I smoothed my skirts under nervous fingers. "I am not hunting Brisbane. He asked Portia to come and help him sort out the estate. Apparently the former owner left it in a frightful state and Brisbane hasn't any lady to act as chatelaine and put things in order." I opened my eyes very wide to show I was telling the truth.

"Nicholas Brisbane is entirely capable of ordering his own bedsheets and hiring his own cook," he commented, narrowing his gaze.

"There is nothing sinister afoot," I assured him. "Brisbane wrote in January to accept Portia's offer to help arrange his household. He told her to wait until April when the weather would be more hospitable. That is the whole of it."

"And how did you become involved?" Father demanded.

"I saw the letter and thought springtime on the moors sounded very pleasant."

Father shook his head slowly. "Not likely. You mean to settle this thing between you, whatever it is."

I twisted a bit of silken cushion fringe in my fingers and looked away. "It is complicated," I began.

"Then let us have it simply," he cut in brutally. "Has he offered you marriage?"

"No." My voice was nearly inaudible, even to my own ears.

"Has he given you a betrothal ring?"

"No."

"Has he ever spoken of marrying you?"

"No."

"Has he written to you since he left for Yorkshire?"

"No."

My replies dropped like stones, heavy with importance. He waited a long moment and the only sounds were the soft rustling of the fire on the hearth and the quiet ticking of the mantel clock.

"He has offered you nothing, made no plans for the future, has not even written. And still you mean to go to him?" His voice was soft now, free of judgment or recrimination, and yet it stung like salt on a wound.

I raised my gaze to his. "I must. I will know when I see him again. If there is nothing there, I will return to London by the first train and never speak of him again, never wonder what might have been. But if there is a chance that he feels for me—" I broke off. The rest of it need not be spoken aloud.

"And you are quite determined?"

"Quite," I said, biting off the word sharply. He said nothing for a moment, but searched my face, doubtless looking for any sign that I was less than resolute and might be persuaded to abandon my plans.

At length he sighed, then drained the last of his whisky. "Go then. Go under Valerius' protection, however feeble that may be, and find out if Brisbane loves you. But I tell you this," he said, folding me into his embrace and pressing a kiss into my hair, "I may be above seventy years of age, but I still fence every day and if the blackguard hurts you I will hunt him down and leave a stiletto in his heart."

"Thank you, Father. That is very comforting."

Dinner that evening was a peculiarly quiet affair. Portia was a charming hostess and kept an admirable table. She was renowned for the quality of her food and wines as well as the excellence of the company. She knew the most interesting people and often invited them to little suppers arranged to show them to perfection, like gems in a thoughtful setting. But that night there were only ourselves—Portia, her beloved Jane, and me. We were all of us occupied with our own thoughts and said little, our silences punctuated with phlegmy snorts from Portia's vile pet, Mr. Pugglesworth, asleep under the table.

After one particularly nasty interlude, I laid down my knife. "Portia, must you have that dog in the dining room? He is putting me quite off my food."

She waved a fork at me. "Do not be peevish just because Bellmont took you to task today."

"Puggy is rather foul," Jane put in quietly. "I will remove him to the pantry."

She rose and collected the animal, coaxing him out with a bit of stewed prune. Portia watched her, saying nothing. They were a study in contrasts, each lovely in her own way, but different as chalk and cheese. Portia had a fine-boned elegance, coupled with the classic March family colouring of dark hair faintly touched with red and wide green eyes. She dressed flamboyantly, in colours suited to the pale alabaster of her skin, always in a single hue from head to toe.

Jane, on the other hand, seemed determined to wear all the colours of the rainbow at once. She was an artist and scholar, and her face was modelled along those lines, with handsome bones that would serve her well into old age. Hers was a face of character, with a determined chin and a forthright gaze that never judged, never challenged. People frequently offered her the most extraordinary confidences on the basis of those eyes. Deep brown, touched with amber and warm with intelligence, they were her greatest beauty. Her hair, always untidy, was not. Dark red and coarse as a horse's mane, it curled wildly until she grew tired of it and thrust it into a snood. It resisted all other confinement. More than once I had seen Portia, laughing, attempting to dress it, breaking combs in its heaviness.

But she was not laughing as she watched Jane remove Puggy to the pantry. She merely took another sip of her wine and motioned for the butler to fill her glass again.

"When do you think we ought to leave—" I began.

"Tomorrow. I have already consulted the timetable. If we leave very early, we ought to make Grimsgrave by nightfall. I have sent word to Valerius to meet us at the station."

I blinked at her. "Portia, my things are not yet packed. I have made no arrangements."

She looked down at the pale slices of pork on her plate. She poked at them listlessly with her fork, then signed for the butler. He removed the plate, but she kept hold of her wine.

"There are no arrangements for you to make. I have taken care of everything. Tell Morag to pack your trunk, and be ready at dawn tomorrow. That is all that is required of you."

I signalled to the butler as well, surrendering my wine, and wishing Portia had done the same. She did not often drink to excess, and the extra glass had made her withdrawn, icy even.

"Portia, if you do not wish to go to Yorkshire, I can go alone with Valerius. I am offending propriety well enough as it is. I cannot think that travelling without you will make much of a difference."

She stared into her wineglass, turning it slowly in her palms, edging the dark, blood-red liquid closer to the crystal rim.

"No, it is better that I should go. You will need someone to look after you, and who better than your elder sister?" she asked, her tone tinged with mockery.

I stared at her. Portia and I had had our share of quarrels, but we were extremely close. She had offered me the use of her townhouse when I was in London, and my stay had been a pleasant one. Jane had welcomed me warmly, and we had passed many cosy evenings by the fireside, reading poetry or abusing our friends with gossip. But every once in a while, like a flash of lightning, brief and sharp and hot, a flicker of something dangerous had struck between us. I was not certain why or how, but a new prickliness had arisen, and more than once I had been scratched on the thorns of it. A word too sharp, a glance too cold—so subtle I had almost thought I had imagined it. But there was no imagining the atmosphere in the dining room. I glanced at the door, but Jane did not return.

"Dearest," I began patiently, "if you want to remain here with Jane, you ought to. I know Brisbane invited you, but he will understand if you decide to stay in London."

Portia circled the glass again, the wine lapping at the edge. "To what purpose?"

I shrugged. "The season will be starting soon. You might organise a ball for Virgilia. Or give a dinner for young Orlando, introduce him to some of the gentlemen of influence you have cultivated. If he means to run for a seat in Parliament, he cannot begin too soon."

Portia snorted and her hand jerked, nearly spilling the wine.

"Our niece's mother would never permit me to throw a ball for her, as you well know. And the gentlemen of influence would have little interest in meeting our nephew at the dinner table, and I have little interest in meeting our nephew. He is a dull boy with no conversation."

She was being far too hard on Orlando, but I knew that recrimination would only provoke her. "And you hope to find good conversation in Yorkshire?" I teased, hoping to jolly her out of her foul mood.

She stared into the glass, and for just a moment her expression softened, as though she were prey to some strong emotion. But she mastered it as swiftly as it had come, and her face hardened.

"Perhaps there is nothing to find," she said softly. She tilted her hand and a single crimson drop splashed onto the tablecloth, staining the linen with the finality of blood.

"Portia, leave off. You will ruin that cloth," I scolded. The butler moved forward to scatter salt over the spill.

Portia put her glass down carefully. "I think perhaps I have had too much to drink." She rose slowly. "Julia, do enjoy dessert. I will retire now. I must supervise Minna whilst she packs. If I leave her to it, she will hurl everything into a bedsheet and knot it up and call it packed."

I bade her a quiet good-night and told the butler I wanted nothing more except a strong cup of tea. He brought it scalding and sweet, and I sipped it slowly, wondering why the trip to Yorkshire, which had filled me with elation, should now cause me such apprehension. It was not just Portia's antics that alarmed me. I knew very well that Brisbane had not invited me to Yorkshire. Moreover, I knew his uncertain temper and how scathing his anger could be. He was entirely capable of packing me onto the next train to London, my purpose unresolved. I knew also his stubbornness, his pride, his stupid, dogged persistence in blaming himself for my brush with death during our first investigation together. I had told him in the plainest terms that the idea was nonsense. If anything, Brisbane had saved my life and I had told him so.

Whether he had listened was another matter entirely. The whole of our acquaintance had been an intricate, twisting dance, two steps toward each other, three steps apart. I was tired of the uncertainty. Too many times I had abandoned myself to the exhilaration of his company, only to be thwarted by circumstance or his own stubborn pride. It seemed a very great folly to attempt to force a declaration from him, but it seemed a greater folly to let him go. If there was a single chance at happiness with him, I was determined to seize it.

But determination was not enough to silence my jangling nerves, and as I put the cup onto the saucer, I noticed my hand shook ever so slightly.

Just then, Jane returned. She resumed her place, giving me a gentle smile. "I do apologise about Puggy. He is not a very nice dinner companion. I have often told Portia so."

"Think nothing of it. With five brothers I have seen far worse at table," I jested. Her smile faded slightly and she reached for her glass as I fiddled with my teacup.

"I wish you were coming with us," I said suddenly. "Are you quite certain your sister cannot spare you?"

Jane shook her head. "I am afraid not. Anna is nervous about her confinement. She says it will give her much comfort to have me in Portsmouth when she is brought to bed, although I cannot imagine why. I have little experience with such matters."

I gave her hand a reassuring pat. "I should think having one's elder sister at such a time would always be a comfort. It is her first child, is it not?"

"It is," Jane said, her expression wistful. "She is newly married, just on a year."

Jane fell silent then, and I could have kicked myself for introducing the subject in the first place. Anna had always been a thorn-prick to Jane, ever since their father died and they had been cast upon the mercy of Portia's husband. Younger than Jane by some half-dozen years, Anna had made her disapproval of Jane's relationship with Portia quite apparent, yet she had happily reaped the benefit when Portia had insisted upon paying the school fees to have her properly educated. Portia had offered her a place in her home, an offer that was refused with the barest attempt at civility. Instead Anna had taken a post as a governess upon leaving school, and within two years she had found a husband, a naval officer whom she liked well enough to enjoy when he was at home and little enough to be glad when he was abroad. She had settled into a life of smug domesticity in Portsmouth, but I was not surprised that she had sent for Jane. Few people were as calm and self-possessed, and I hoped that this olive branch on Anna's part would herald a new chapter in their relationship.

I almost said as much to Jane, but she changed the subject before I could.

"Are you looking forward to your trip into Yorkshire?" she inquired. "I have never been there, but I am told it is very beautiful and unspoilt."

"I am not," I confessed. "I should like to see Yorkshire, but I am rather terrified to tell you the truth."

"Brisbane?"

I nodded. "I just wish I knew. It's all so maddening, the way he drops me entirely for months on end, then when we are brought together, he behaves as though I were the very air he breathes. Most infuriating."

Jane put a hand over mine. Hers was warm, the fingers calloused from the heavy tools of her art. "My dear Julia, you must follow your heart, even if you do not know where it will lead you. To do otherwise is to court misery." There was a fleeting shadow in her eyes, and I thought of how much she and Portia had risked to be together. Jane had been the poor relation of Portia's husband, Lord Bettiscombe, and society had been cruel when they had set up house together after Bettiscombe's death. They had a circle of broad-minded and cultured friends, but many people cut them directly, and Portia had been banned from the most illustrious houses in London. Theirs had been a leap of faith together, into a world that was frequently cruel. And yet they had done it together, and they had survived. They were an example to me.

I covered her hand with mine. "You are right, of course. One must be brave in love, like the troubadours of old. And one must seize happiness before it escapes entirely."

"I will wish you all good fortune," she said, lifting her glass. We toasted then, she with her wine, I with my tea, but as we sipped, we lapsed into a heavy silence. My thoughts were of Brisbane, and of the very great risk I was about to take. I did not wonder what hers were. It was only much later that I wished I had spared a care for them. How much might have been different.

THE SECOND CHAPTER

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?

—William Shakespeare

Twelfth Night

True to Portia's intention, we left early the next morning, but we did not achieve Grimsgrave Hall by nightfall. The journey, in a word, was disastrous. Jane did not accompany us to the station, preferring instead to bid us farewell at Bettiscombe House. It was just as well, I thought. Between Portia and myself, there were two maids, three pets, and a mountain of baggage to be considered. Valerius met us on the platform, arriving just before the doors were shut and lapsing into his seat with a muttered oath and bad grace.

"Good morning, Valerius," I said pleasantly. "How nice to see you. It's been ages."

The corners of his mouth were drawn down sullenly. "It was a fortnight ago at Aunt Hermia's Haydn evening."

"Nevertheless, it is good to see you. I know you must be mightily put out with Father for asking you to come—"

He sat bolt upright, clearly enraged. "Asking me to come? He didn't ask me to come. He threatened to cut off my allowance entirely. No money, ever again, if I didn't hold your hand on the way to Yorkshire. And worst of all, I am not permitted to return to London until you do. I am banished," he finished bitterly.

Portia gave a snort and rummaged in her reticule for the timetable. I suppressed a sigh and gazed out the window. It was going to be a very long journey indeed if Val meant to catalogue his wrongs. The refrain was one I had heard often enough from all of Father's younger sons. Although the bulk of the March estate was kept intact for Bellmont and his heirs, Father was extremely generous with his younger children.

Unfortunately, his generosity seldom extended to letting them make their own choices. They were expected to be dilettantes, nothing less than gentlemen. They might write sonatas or publish verse or daub canvases with paints, but it was always understood that they were strictly barred from engaging in trade. Valerius had not only struggled against this cage, he had smashed the bars open. He had at one time established himself, quite illegally, as physician to an expensive brothel. His dabbling in medicine had violated every social more that Father had been brought up to respect, and Father had very nearly disowned him altogether. It was only grudgingly and after a series of violent arguments that he had consented to permit Valerius to study medicine in theory, so long as he did not actually engage in treating patients. This compromise had made Val sulky, yet unsatisfactory as his work had become, leaving it was worse.

He lapsed into a prickly silence, dozing against the window as the train picked up speed and we began our journey in earnest.

Not surprisingly, Portia and I bickered genteelly the entire morning, pausing only to nibble at the contents of the hamper Portia's cook had packed for us. But even the most delectable ham pie is no cure for peevishness, and Portia was in rare form. By the time the train halted to take on passengers at Bletchley, I had had my fill of her.

"Portia, if you are so determined not to enjoy yourself, why don't you leave now? It can easily be arranged and you can take the next train back. A few hours at most and you can be in London, smoothing over your quarrel with Jane. Perhaps you could go with her to Portsmouth."

She raised a brow at me. "I have no interest in seeing Portsmouth. Besides, what quarrel? We have not quarrelled."

Val perked up considerably at this bit of news, and Portia threw him a vicious glance. "Go back to sleep, dearest. The grown-ups are talking."

"Do not attempt to put me off," I put in hurriedly, eager to avoid another squabble between them. "I know matters have not been right between you, and I know why. She is not easy about this trip. Perhaps she will simply miss your company or perhaps she fears you will get up to some mischief while you are away, but I know she does not like it. It does her much credit that she has been so kind to me when I am the cause of it."

Portia wrapped the rest of her pie in a bit of brown paper and replaced it in the hamper. Val retrieved it instantly and began to wolf it down. Portia ignored him. "You are not the cause, Julia. I would have gone to Brisbane in any event. I am worried for him."

My heart thudded dully in my chest. "What do you mean? Have you heard from him?"

She hesitated, then fished in her reticule. "I had this letter from him last week. I did not think to visit Grimsgrave so early. When he first invited me, I thought perhaps the middle of April, even May, might be more pleasant. But when I read that…" Her voice trailed off and I reached for the letter.

The handwriting was as familiar to me as my own, bold and black, thickly scrawled by a pen with a broad nib. The heading was Grimsgrave Hall, Yorkshire, and it was dated the previous week. I read it quickly, then again more slowly, aloud this time, as if by hearing the words aloud I could make better sense of them. One passage in particular stood out.

And so I must rescind my invitation to come to Grimsgrave. Matters have deteriorated since I last wrote to you, and I am in no humour for company, even such pleasant company as yours. You would hardly know me, I have grown so uncivilized, and I should hate to shock you.

I could well imagine the sardonic little twist of the lips as he wrote those words. I read on, each word chilling me a little more.

As for your sister, tell her nothing. She must forget me, and she will. Whatever my hopes may once have been, I realise now I was a fool or a madman, or perhaps I am grown mad now. The days are very alike here, the hours of darkness long and bleak, and I am a stranger to myself.

The letter dropped to my lap through nerveless fingers. "Portia," I murmured. "How could you have kept this from me?"

"Because I was afraid you would not go if you read it."

"Then you are a greater fool than I thought," I replied crisply. I returned the letter to its envelope and handed it back to her. "He has need of me, that much is quite clear."

"He sounds as if he wants to be left alone," Val offered, blowing crumbs onto his lap. He brushed them off, and I rounded on him.

"He needs me," I said, biting off each word sharply.

"It was one thing to arrive as my guest when I was invited," Portia reminded me. "Does it not trouble you for both of us to arrive, unannounced and unwelcome? And Valerius besides?"

"No," I said boldly. "Friends have a duty to care for one another, even when it is unwelcome. Brisbane needs me, Portia. Whether he wishes to own it or not."

Portia's gaze searched my face. At length she nodded, giving me a little smile. "I hope you are correct. And I hope he agrees. You realise he may well shut the door upon us. What will you tell him if he bids us go to the devil?"

I smoothed my hair, neatly pinned under a rather fetching hat I had just purchased the week before. It was violet velvet, with cunning little clusters of silk violets sewn to the crown and spilling over one side of the brim to frame my face.

"I shall tell him to lead the way."

Portia laughed then, and we finished our picnic lunch more amiably than we had begun it. It was the last truly enjoyable moment of the entire journey. Delays, bad weather, an aimless cow wandering onto the railway tracks—all conspired against us and we were forced to spend an uncomfortable night in a hotel of questionable quality in Birmingham, having secured three rooms by a detestable combination of bribery and high-handed arrogance. Portia and I shared, as did the maids, and as penance for securing the only room to himself, Valerius was forced to spend the night with the pets.

After an unspeakable breakfast the next morning, we resumed our journey with its endless changing of trains to smaller and smaller lines in bleaker and bleaker towns until at last we stumbled off of a train hardly bigger than a child's toy.

"Where are we?" I demanded. Portia drew a map from her reticule and unfolded it as I peered over her shoulder. Behind us, Morag and Minna were counting bags and preparing to take the dogs for a short walk to attend to nature.

Portia pointed on the map to an infinitesimally small dot. "Howlett Magna. We must find transport to the village of Lesser Howlett and from thence to Grimsgrave."

Val and I looked about the tiny clutch of grey stone buildings. "There is something smaller than this?" he asked, incredulous.

"There is," Portia said crisply, "and that is where we are bound."

Portia was in a brisk, managing mood, and the arrangements for transportation were swiftly made. Valerius and I stood on the kerb surveying the village while Portia settled matters.

"It looks like something out of a guidebook of prospective spots to catch cholera," Val said, curling his lip.

"Don't pull that face, dearest," I told him. "You look like a donkey."

"Look at the gutters," he hissed. "There is sewage running openly in the streets."

I felt my stomach give a little lurch. "Val, I beg you—" I broke off, diverted.

"What is it?" Val demanded. "Someone bringing out their plague dead?"

I shook my head slowly. "No, there was a man walking this way, but he saw us and ducked rather quickly into the linen draper's. I have never seen such a set of whiskers. He looks like Uncle Balthazar's sheepdog. They are certainly shy of strangers, these Northerners." I nodded to the doorway of the shop opposite. The fellow had been nondescript and rather elderly, wearing rusty black with a slight limp and a tendency to embonpoint. A set of luxuriant whiskers hid most of his face from view.

"Probably frightened away by how clean we are," Val put in acidly.

I turned to him, lifting my brows in remonstrance. "You have become a thorough snob, do you know that? If you are so appalled by conditions here, perhaps you ought to do something to make them better."

"I might at that," he said. "God knows I shall have little enough to do in any case."

There was an edge of real bitterness to his voice, and I suppressed a sigh. Val could be difficult enough when he was in a good mood. A peevish Val was altogether insufferable.

Portia signed to us then, her expression triumphant. The blacksmith at Howlett Magna had business where we were bound and agreed, for a sum that seemed usurious, to carry us, with maids, pets, and baggage, to the village of Lesser Howlett. From there we must make other arrangements, he warned, but Portia cheerfully accepted. She called it a very good sign that we had engaged transport so quickly, but I could not help thinking otherwise when I laid eyes upon the blacksmith's wagon. It was an enormous, rocking thing, although surprisingly comfortable and cleaner than I had expected. In a very short time, we were settled, maids and bags and pets in tow, and I began to feel marginally better about the journey.

The countryside soon put an end to that. Each mile that wound out behind us along the road to Lesser Howlett took us further up into the great wide moors. The wind rose here, as plangent as a human voice crying out. Portia seemed undisturbed by it, but I noticed the stillness of Valerius' expression, as though he were listening intently to a voice just out of range. The blacksmith himself was a taciturn sort and said little, keeping his attention fixed upon the pair of great draught horses that were harnessed to the wagon. They were just as stolid, never lifting their heads from side to side, but keeping a steady pace, toiling upward all the while until at last we came to Lesser Howlett.

The village itself looked grim and unhygienic, with a cluster of bleak houses propped against each other and a narrow cobbled road between them. A grey mist hung over the edge of the village, obscuring the view and making it look as though the world simply stopped at the end of the village road. We alighted slowly, as if reluctant to break the heavy silence of the village.

"Good God, what is this place?" breathed Valerius at last.

"The far edge of nowhere, I'd say," came a sour voice from behind us. Morag. She was laden with her own enormous carpetbag as well as a basket for my dog, Florence, and the cage containing my pet raven, Grim. Her hat was squashed down over one eye, but the other managed a malevolent glare.

In contrast, Portia's young maid, Minna, was fairly bouncing with excitement. "Have we arrived then? What a quaint little place this is. Will we be met? The journey was ever so long. I'm quite hungry. Aren't you hungry, Morag?"

Portia, deep in conversation with the blacksmith, called for Minna just then and the girl bounded off, ribbons trailing gaily from her bonnet.

Morag fixed me with an evil look. "All the way, I've listened to that one, chattering like a monkey. I'll tell you something for free, I shall not share a room with her at Grimsgrave, I won't. I shall sooner lie down on this street and wait for death to take me."

"Do not let me stop you," I said graciously. I pinched her arm. "Be nice to the child. She has seen nothing of the world, and she is young enough to be your granddaughter. It will not hurt you to show a little kindness."

Minna was a new addition to Portia's staff. Her mother, Mrs. Birch, was a woman of very reduced circumstances, endeavouring to rear a large family on the tiny income she cobbled together from various sources, including washing the dead of our parish in London and laying them out for burial. Minna had always shown a keenness, a bright inquisitiveness that I believe would stand her in good stead as she made her way in the world. It had taken little persuasion to convince Portia to take her on to train as a lady's maid. Our maids, Morag included, were usually taken from the reformatory our aunt Hermia had established for penitent prostitutes. It seemed a luxury akin to sinfulness to have a maid who was not old, foul-mouthed, or riddled with disease. I envied her bitterly, although I had grown rather fond of Morag in spite of her rough edges.

Portia at last concluded her business with the blacksmith and returned, smiling in satisfaction.

"The inn, just there," she said, nodding across the street toward the largest building in the vicinity. "The innkeeper has a wagon. The blacksmith has gone to bid him to attend us to Grimsgrave."

I turned to look at the inn and gave a little shudder. The windows were clean, but the harsh grey stone gave the place a sinister air, and the weathered signpost bore a painting of a twisted thorn and the ominous legend "The Hanging Tree." I fancied I saw a curtain twitch, and just behind it, a narrow, white face with suspicious eyes.

Behind me, Valerius muttered an oath, but Portia was already striding purposefully across the street. We hurried to catch her up, Morag hard upon my heels, and arrived just as she was being greeted by the innkeeper himself, a dark young man with the somewhat wiry good looks one occasionally finds in the Gaels.

He nodded solemnly. "Halloo, leddies, sir. Welcome to tha village. Is i' transport thee needs?"

Portia quickly extracted a book from her reticule and buried her nose in it, rifling quickly through the pages. I poked her sharply.

"Portia, the innkeeper has asked us a question. What on earth are you doing?"

She held up the book so I could read the title. It was an English phrasebook for foreigners. "I am trying to decipher what he just said."

The innkeeper was staring at us with a patient air. There was something decidedly otherworldly about him. I noticed then the tips of his ears where his dark curls parted. They were ever so slightly pointed, giving him an elfin look. I smiled at him and poked my sister again.

"Portia, put that away. He is speaking English."

She shoved the book into her reticule, muttering under her breath, "It is no English I have ever heard."

"Good afternoon," I said. "We do need transportation. We have been told you have a wagon—perhaps you have a carriage as well, that would be far more comfortable, I think. There are five in our party, with baggage and a few pets. We are guests of Mr. Brisbane."

"Not precisely guests," Portia said, sotto voce.

But her voce was not sotto enough. The innkeeper's eyes brightened as he sniffed a bit of scandal brewing. "Brisbane? Does thou mean tha new gennelman up Grimsgrave way? No, no carriage will coom, and no carriage will go. Tha way is too rough. It must be a farm cart."

Portia blanched and Morag gave a great guffaw. I ignored them both.

"Then a farm cart it will be," I said firmly. "And do you think you could arrange such a conveyance for us? We are very tired and should like to get to Grimsgrave as quickly as possible."

"Aye. 'Twill take a moment. If tha'll step this way to a private room. Deborah will bring thee some tea, and thee can rest awhile."

Valerius excused himself to take a turn about the village and stretch his legs, but I thanked the innkeeper and led my dispirited little band after him upstairs to private accommodation. The inn itself was like something out of a children's picture book. Nothing inside the little building seemed to have changed from the days when highwaymen stalked the great coaching byways, claiming gold and virtue as their right. Still, for all its old-fashioned furnishings, the inn was comfortable enough, furnished with heavy oak pieces and thick velvet draperies to shut out the mists.

The innkeeper introduced himself as Amos and presented a plump young woman with blond hair, Deborah, who bobbed a swift curtsey and bustled off to bring the tea things. We did not speak until she returned, laden with a tray of sandwiches and cake and bread and butter. A maid followed behind her with another tray for Minna and Morag, who perked up considerably at the sight of food. They were given a little table in the corner some distance from the fire, but Portia and I were settled next to it, our outer garments whisked away to have the dirt of travel brushed from them.

When the tea things had been handed round, Deborah seemed loath to go, and at a meaningful glance from Portia, I encouraged her to linger. We had not spoken of it, but it occurred to me—and doubtless to her as well—that it might be a good idea to glean what information we could from the locals about the state of affairs at Grimsgrave Hall.

For her part, Deborah appeared gratified at the invitation to stay. Her blue eyes were round in her pale face, and she refused Portia's suggestion that she send for another cup and share our tea.

"I could not do tha," she murmured, but she patted her little mob cap, and a small smile of satisfaction played about her mouth.

"But you must sit a moment," I persuaded. "You must be quite run off your feet." That was a bit of a reach. The inn was clearly empty, and although it was kept clean enough and the food was fresh and ample and well-prepared, there was an air of desolation about the place, like a spinster who was once the belle of the ball but has long since put away her dancing slippers and resigned herself to the dignity of a quiet old age.

Deborah took a small, straight-backed chair and smoothed her apron over her knees. She stared from me to Portia and back again.

"You seem terribly young to run such an establishment," Portia commented. "Have you been married long?"

Deborah giggled. "I am not married, my lady. Amos is my brother. Will thou have another sandwich? I cut them myself."

Portia took one and Deborah's face suffused with pleasure. "I help him run the inn when we've guests." She looked at us wistfully. "But thee'll not stay here. Amos will take thee to Grimsgrave Hall."

"Is the Hall a very old place?" I asked, pointedly helping myself to another slice of cake. The girl did have a very light touch. I had seldom had one so airy.

"Oh, yes, m'lady. 'Twas built in the time of the Stuarts, but there was a manor at Grimsgrave since before the Conqueror came."

"Really? How interesting," Portia remarked. "And did it often change hands?"

"Oh, no, m'lady. The Allenby family did own that land in Saxon times. They kept it until last year, when Sir Redwall died and it were discovered there were no money. 'Twas sold, to a newcomer, Mr. Brisbane. He is a friend to thee?"

"He is," I put in smoothly. "We thought to surprise him by paying a visit. Spring on the Yorkshire moors is reckoned to be a very lovely thing."

"Aye, it is," she agreed. "The daffodils are out, and all across the moors you can hear the sounds of the little lambs bleating out their first cries." She hesitated, and I flicked a glance at Portia. This was the time to press the girl.

"Is the Hall a very large establishment? Are there many places in the household for villagers?"

Deborah drew back. "No, m'lady. They've a half-wit girl to do the rough, and a few lads from the farms will help Mr. Godwin with the lambing and shearing when he has need of them. And, of course, Mrs. Butters is cook-housekeeper, but there be no household there like the old days."

"Mr. Godwin?" Portia asked, pouring herself another cup of tea.

Deborah dropped her eyes to the work-roughened fingers in her lap. "Mr. Godwin was a sort of cousin to the late Sir Redwall. His part of the family was never so exalted. They were honest farmers, managers and stewards to the Allenby gentlemen. Mr. Godwin is the last of the Allenby men left. He still has a care for the sheep."

I darted a glance at Portia. This was a curious development. Perhaps this last scion of the Allenbys was the source of Brisbane's difficulties in his new home.

As if intuiting my thoughts, Portia asked, "What sort of man is Mr. Godwin?"

To my surprise, Deborah blushed deeply, not a pretty rose colour, but a harsh mottled red. "He is a fine man, m'lady. He is tall and accounted handsome by the village lasses."

I hid a smile behind my teacup. There was no mystery about Mr. Godwin. He was simply the village Lothario. I wondered if he had ever misbehaved with Deborah, or if she had merely wanted him to. Making a mental note to observe him carefully when we arrived at Grimsgrave, I turned the conversation again.

"And is Mr. Brisbane often seen in the village?"

Deborah shook her head. "Never, m'lady. He keeps up the Hall, and if he has need of something, Mr. Godwin comes. We have not seen him since January past."

This I did not like. Brisbane was an energetic, dynamic man. If he had holed up at Grimsgrave like an animal in its den, it meant he was either brooding or had fallen prey to the vicious migraine headaches he had battled most of his life. I was not certain which was the greater evil.

"Well, we will soon change that," Portia said with forced jollity. "It is such a charming village. We must make certain he enjoys all its natural beauties." I stared at her. What little we had seen of the village had been depressing in the extreme. Dark stone houses clinging together against moor mists and the bleak winds that howled down from the barren heights above, pale folk with pinched faces and suspicious eyes peering out from peeling doorways. True, Amos and Deborah had been courteous enough, but how much of that had been genuine, and how much had been in anticipation of the coin they might earn?

But Portia's remark had the desired effect. Deborah smiled deeply, revealing a few dimples in her plump cheeks, and she hurried out to see how her brother was coming along with his preparations with the farm cart.

Portia and I each poured another cup and regarded one other. "I do not like this, Julia. Did you see the curtains twitch in the windows as we made our way to the inn?"

"Perhaps they get so few visitors," I began, but gave up when I looked at Portia's cynical face. "No, you are right. I do not like this either. It does not even feel like England anymore, does it? We are strangers in a strange land here."

"If you think this is strange, you havena been to Scotland," Morag snorted.

We drank our tea and said nothing more.

* * *

Some little while later, Amos collected us while Deborah fussed over our things and helped us into our freshly-brushed garments. We thanked her for the tea and paid her handsomely, and as we ventured out into the dying sunlight, I wished we might linger just a bit longer by the friendly little fire in her sitting room. Now that I had nearly reached Grimsgrave Hall—and Brisbane—my courage ebbed a bit, and I wondered what I had been thinking to come so far on a fool's errand.

Portia, sensing my mood, pushed me along, manoeuvring me into the cart and sitting heavily on the edge of my skirts, pinning me in place. "No running back to London, pet," she murmured. "Time to pay the piper now."

If she had shown me any sympathy, I might well have run. But her cool common sense was just the prop for my failing nerve. Valerius joined us then, settling himself before the maids were handed in, the pets coming last in their assorted baskets and cages. I turned my face toward the windy moors and bade Amos drive on.

The drive itself was interminable, and with every turn of the wheels, my stomach gave a little lurch of protest. Amos said little, but did manage to point out the lay of the land. He explained that the village lay at the edge of Grimsgrave Moor and that the Hall itself was on the other side. The road skirted the moor, but he nodded toward a footpath that led over the moor from the churchyard in Lesser Howlett.

"Tha's the quickest way to the Hall. By foot it's more'n an hour. The road goes the long way round, and horses can never make more than a slow walk on account of the steepness and the stones. Two hour, maybe a bit more, and we'll be there."

I shook my head, astonished. I had never imagined that anywhere within our tiny, crowded island, such isolation could still exist. The nearest railway was half a day's journey, and even that was the smallest possible branch line. I had been reared in the South, where all roads led inexorably, and quickly, to London.

I marvelled in silence at the landscape, in contrast to Minna, who chattered about anything and everything. Mercifully, the wind drowned her out, and though I could see her lips moving, I heard very little of what she said. Morag shot her a few filthy looks and attempted to sleep. The bench was unpadded wood and there was little support, but she managed, doubtless a skill she had learned in her days as a Whitechapel prostitute, paying a fraction of a penny to sleep upright lashed to a bench in a doss house.

The dying daylight softened to thick grey shadows over the landscape. Val looked straight ahead, his face set to the wind, while Portia and I gazed out over the moors, watching the grasses move and shift over them like restless waves on a vast inland sea. A lopsided waning moon rose to shed a pale, unreal light over the scene as we continued on, winding our way ever higher, leaving the village far behind.

At length we saw a tiny, ghostly light flicker in the distance. Amos pulled the reins and we stopped a minute. He raised his whip and pointed to the little light.

"Tha's Grimsgrave Hall." The words sent a little chill into my heart. It crouched at the end of a long drive, straight over the moors, unmarked by tree or bush, save a few small, twisted thorns. We passed through a gate, and I could just make out the contours of the house itself, looming low and dark, like some beast crouching in the shadows. Just in front lay a flat, glassy spot—a reed-fringed pond—its black waters barely ruffled by the moor winds. Behind the pond, a wall of black stone rose against the night sky, three pointed arches fitted with windows. As I stared, I saw the moon rise through these windows, as if the moon itself dwelt in the house. And then I realised the wall stood alone, remnant of a ruined wing.

"My God," I murmured. There was no time to point out my discovery to Portia. Amos had drawn the cart to a stop at the front door of the house and had alighted to hammer upon the great oaken door. I alighted as well, grateful to be out of the cart, but the twist in my stomach did not leave me. All of the nerves I had suppressed in the bustle of the journey rose up with a vengeance, and I found it difficult to swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as tinder.

Chiding myself for a coward, I brushed the dust from my skirts and went to stand behind Amos, feigning a courage I did not feel. I glanced about Brisbane's new home as we waited, wondering why it was impossible to reconcile the urbane gentleman with this dark and forbidding place. The tiny, welcoming light seemed too small, too feeble now. It glowed from a single window leaving the rest of the house shrouded in darkness. Behind me I could hear Minna's little voice reciting the Lord's Prayer, and I very nearly bade her say one on my behalf as well.

After an eternity, the door swung back on its hinges, and the tiniest woman I have ever seen, withered as a winter apple, stood in the doorway.

"Aye, Amos?"

"Ladies and a gennelman to stay wit' Mr. Brisbane," he called over his shoulder as he stalked to the cart and began flinging out baggage. There were a few protesting barks from the dogs and Grim, the raven, made an ominous noise in the back of his throat, but the pets were the least of my worries. I moved forward, inclining my head.

"Good evening. I am terribly sorry to descend upon you without warning. I am Lady Julia Grey. This is my sister, Lady Bettiscombe. Our brother, Mr. Valerius March." Val and Portia both nodded to the little winter apple who instantly stepped back into the hall.

"Oh, ye must come in out of the wind," she said, her expression one of profound bemusement. "Visitors indeed! We've not had so much excitement since the day the new schoolmaster came to Howlett Magna. Of course we must offer you shelter. Ye might be angels unaware, as the Bible does tell us! Come in, come in!"

We did, and I noticed she wore a mob cap on her fluffy little white curls and a wide pinafore over her striped gown. The entrance hall itself was as old-fashioned as its inhabitant—all heavy oak panelling and great paving stones. A dark carved staircase stood at the back of the hall, its shadows pierced by a single candle on the landing.

"I am Mrs. Butters, the cook-housekeeper," she began, but before she could finish her introduction, I was aware of a presence on the staircase. Mrs. Butters must have seen my glance over her shoulder, for she paused and turned as the vision descended the stairs.

And a vision she was. In spite of the severity of her hairstyle and the plainness of her clothes, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was graceful, with a light, dignified step as she descended the staircase slowly. She moved into the light of the hall and I realised she was both older and poorer than I had first thought. She was well over thirty, with a gown that was twenty years out of fashion, its full skirts sweeping the stones of the hall as she walked. Even in the fitful light I could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, and at the seams of her dress where it had been turned more than once. But her gaze was calm and level and she looked at us as equals do, her chin high and her expression one of gentle reproof, perhaps at the lateness of the hour.

Mrs. Butters drew back another step. "Guests at Grimsgrave, Miss Ailith. Lady Julia Grey and Lady Bettiscombe and Mr. Valerius March. They are friends of the master's."

The cool, appraising look rested briefly on me, then my sister, lastly Valerius. She stared a long moment, as inscrutable as the Mona Lisa and just as arresting. Her features were beautifully sculpted; no Renaissance master could have fashioned her better. The skin was luminous as alabaster; the eyes wide and impossibly blue. Her brow was high and unmarked, and her corn-gold hair was parted severely in the centre, plaited, and wound round her head like a coronet. Upon a lesser woman, it might have seemed fussy, silly even. On her, it was a Madonna crown, light enough for that lily-neck to bear. Only her hands were unpleasant, red and rough as any laundress', the nails bitten to the quick.

"Welcome to Grimsgrave Hall," she said at last. Her voice was beautifully modulated, with none of the Yorkshire brogue that marked the local folk. "I am sorry we have not prepared a proper welcome for you. We did not expect you," she commented.

"I am certain accommodation can be arranged quickly enough," I returned with a smile. "If you would be so good to tell Mr. Brisbane we've come. And you are?"

Her expression remained sweetly serene as she dipped a suggestion of a curtsey. "I am Ailith Allenby, my lady. Welcome to my home."

I stared at her in confusion. The innkeeper's daughter had told us that Mr. Godwin was the last of the Allenbys, had she not? Then I recalled her words, the last of the Allenby men, she had said. No mention of a daughter of the house, I thought with a touch of exasperation.

Portia moved forward, extending her hand as coolly as a duchess. "Miss Allenby," she said, extending a hand. Miss Allenby shook hers gravely, and mine as well. She nodded demurely to Valerius, then motioned for us to follow her. "Amos, leave the baggage in the hall and mind your way back to the village."

Before I could think better of it, I spoke. "It is so late, and it is so far across the moor to the village. Surely a bed could be found for Amos here." I finished with a winsome smile, but I knew at once I had overstepped myself. There was a sudden stillness in the room, and I heard the sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Butters.

Miss Allenby regarded me steadily for a moment, as if she had not quite understood my words, and I half wondered if I ought to offer her Portia's phrasebook.

"There be no proper barn here," Amos put in quietly. "And 'twould not be fit for me to sleep in the house." His tone was edged with harshness, but as he turned away, he gave me a quick nod and I knew he would not forget.

For her part, Miss Allenby seemed determined to pretend I had not spoken. She turned to the rest of us. "If you would care to step into the kitchen, there is a fire kindled. Mrs. Butters, something warming for our guests. Then we must see to their rooms."

Amos took his leave and shut the door behind him as Portia raised a brow at me. We had seldom been entertained in kitchens. But before we could move, the door opened again, flung hard on its hinges. The moor wind gusted inside, flaring the candles as a man strode over the threshold.

"Brisbane," I said, my voice catching. He saw me then, and I think his expression could not have been more surprised if he had seen a ghost. In fact, he stopped a moment and put out his hand, as if to prove to himself I was no wraith.

"You cannot be here," he said finally. His hair was the longest I had ever seen it, witch-black and tumbled to his shoulders. His eyes, black as his hair, were fixed on mine, and he had gone pale under the olive of his skin. His black greatcoat hung carelessly from his shoulders, and as we stood, staring at one another, it slid unheeded to the floor. He wore neither neckcloth nor waistcoat. His white shirt was open at the neck and tucked loosely into his trousers, but it was not the unseemliness of his attire that made me gasp. His shirt and his bare forearms were streaked with blood.

"Brisbane!" I darted forward. "You are hurt."

He shied, stepping aside sharply. I did not touch him. "It is not mine." His voice was hoarse and strange, and for the space of a heartbeat he seemed utterly unknown to me, a stranger in a familiar person. We were inches apart, yet we did not touch, did not speak for a long moment. He was struggling to say something, or perhaps not to say it. His lips parted, but he held his silence. He snapped his mouth closed again, grinding his teeth hard against each other. Unlike the Brisbane of old, whose emotions had been so carefully in check, this man's face wore a thousand of them, warring with each other until I could not tell if he wished to kiss me or throttle me.

"Will you not bid me welcome?" I asked quietly, lightly, forcing a smile. I put out my hand.

He looked down at it, then at my face, and I saw that the mask had settled into place again. The emotions I had seen, or thought I had seen, were mastered once more.

"Welcome," he said coolly, shaking my hand as a stranger might, barely touching my fingertips. "I hope you enjoy your stay at Grimsgrave."

He nodded formally at Portia and Valerius, but said nothing. He brushed past me, stalking toward the staircase. He did not ascend. There was a door underneath it I had not seen in the dim light. He slammed it behind him as he left me standing in the hall, unwanted as a discarded toy.

I smoothed my skirts and turned to follow Portia, averting my eyes from Valerius'. They had heard, of course, as had Miss Allenby. Our hostess did not look at me as we moved into the kitchen, but I knew from the pained expression of her lovely features she pitied me, and in spite of her elegant manner and her beauty, I decided then, quite deliberately, to dislike her.

THE THIRD CHAPTER

Two women placed together makes cold weather.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VIII

To her credit, Miss Allenby said nothing and schooled her expression to serenity by the time we were seated round the fire. She helped Mrs. Butters in cutting and buttering bread and pouring tea, never hurrying, never moving with anything less than perfect composure. It was oddly soothing to watch her, every gesture carefully chosen. I could not imagine her untidy or rushed. And thinking of Miss Allenby prevented me from thinking of Brisbane. My thoughts were so disordered I could not even manage polite conversation. I signed to Portia behind Miss Allenby's back, and nibbled at my lip.

"You must forgive my confusion, Miss Allenby," Portia said with forced politeness. "I thought there were no more Allenbys at Grimsgrave."

Miss Allenby smiled serenely. "The Allenbys built Grimsgrave. We have lived on this land since the days of the Saxon kings. Now, only my mother and sister and I are left. And Cousin Godwin, although he is not of the family proper."

A thousand questions tumbled in my mind, and doubtless Portia's as well, but she kept her queries courteous.

"Ah, a mother, too?" Portia remarked. "And a sister? When will we have the pleasure of making their acquaintance?"

Miss Allenby laid the slices of bread and butter onto a thick brown plate and placed it on the table. There was no cloth, only smooth, scrubbed wood. "My sister, Hilda, is not yet returned from a walk on the moor."

Portia blinked at her. "She must be a very singular sort of person to walk the moors at night."

Miss Allenby's smile deepened. "We were reared on Grimsgrave Moor. It holds few terrors for us, even in darkness. She is often wakeful, my sister. Walking helps to order her thoughts."

A slight shadow passed over the lovely features, and she hurried to leave off the subject of her sister. "My mother is upstairs, abed with a rheumatism. She will be sorry to have missed your arrival, but we did not expect guests. I am afraid Mr. Brisbane did not mention you." She smiled to take the sting out of her words. It worked—almost. "I am quite certain my mother will be better tomorrow. Perhaps you will meet her then." I heard the hesitation in her voice, and I knew precisely what it meant. She had her doubts whether Portia and I would even last the night under a roof where we were so clearly unwelcome. This last thorn-prick was too much.

I rose and yanked at the strings of my cloak, jerked off my hat and tossed them both at Morag. "See to these."

"But your tea, Lady Julia," Miss Allenby began.

"Tea would be very nice, Miss Allenby, but I have a bit of unfinished business to which I must attend first. Do excuse me."

Valerius rose as if to remonstrate with me, but I gave him a silencing look. He lapsed back into his chair and shrugged. His role had been to offer his sisters protection during the journey. What we did once we arrived in Yorkshire was our affair, and he knew he was powerless to interfere.

I made my way to the door Brisbane had used and knocked soundly, not even pausing to gather my courage. There was no reply, and after a moment, I tried the knob, rather surprised to find that it turned easily in my hand. I had half-expected a barricade.

I pushed through and found myself in a large chamber, crowded with indistinct shapes. The light was poor, and it took a moment for me to realise everything in the room was covered in dustsheets. Packed nearly to the ceiling, the shapes left only a narrow path leading to a door in the wall opposite. This door was slightly ajar, flickering light spilling over the threshold. I threaded my way through the dustsheets, careful to disturb nothing. I hesitated at the door, then pushed it open. I had not troubled to disguise my footsteps; he would have known I was coming.

The door gave onto a smaller room furnished simply with a bed, a small writing table, and a single chair. A second table, tucked into a corner, had been carefully draped with a piece of linen to cover something, but I did not stop then to wonder what. A little fire burned in the hearth, scarcely large enough to drive the chill from the room.

Brisbane was busy at a basin set upon the deep windowsill. He had stripped off his blood-streaked shirt and was naked to the waist, scrubbing at his hands and forearms until the water went quite red. I had first seen him partially undraped in a boxing match on Hampstead Heath. The effect was still rather striking, and I cleared my throat.

"I am glad you are not hurt," I said, motioning to the impressive breadth of his chest. He was muscular as any statue I had seen in my travels in Italy, and yet there was a sleekness to his flesh that no cold marble could hope to match. Black hair spread from his collarbones to his hips, and I put my hands behind my back lest I be tempted to touch it. High on one shoulder there was a round scar, still fresh, from a bullet he had taken quite deliberately to save another. A different man might have worn the scar as a badge of honour. To Brisbane it was simply a mark of his travels, a souvenir of his buccaneer ways.

He reached for a thin linen towel and wiped at his face. "I might have known it would take more than a closed door to keep you out."

"Yes, you might have." I closed the door behind me and moved to the chair. I did not sit, but the back of it was sturdy and gave me something solid to hold.

I waved at him. "Do carry on. Nothing I have not seen before," I said brightly.

"Do not remind me," he returned with a touch of asperity. "My conduct toward you has been ungentlemanly in every possible respect," he added, turning away.

I blinked rapidly. "Surely you do not reproach yourself? Brisbane, whatever has happened between us has been as much my doing as yours."

"Has it?" he asked, curling his thin upper lip. He moved to the travelling trunk that sat at the foot of his narrow bed. He threw back the lid and reached for a clean shirt. It was a mark of his fastidious ways that he knew precisely where to find one.

I tipped my head to one side and began to enumerate on my fingers. "You did partially disrobe me to question me about the circumstances at Grey House, although I should add that you asked permission first. You kissed me on Hampstead Heath, but as I kissed you back, you can hardly count that amongst your crimes. You gave me a piece of jewellery, highly inappropriate, but I kept it, which is equally inappropriate. We have been together unchaperoned, both at your lodgings and mine, upon numerous occasions. I have seen you in a state of dishabille more than once, but on none of those occasions was I specifically invited to view your nakedness. If anything, my misbehaviours quite outnumber yours. I would say we have compromised each other thoroughly. Steady, Brisbane," I finished. "You are about to tear that shirt."

He muttered under his breath as he pulled on his shirt, and I looked away to afford him a chance to settle his temper. When I looked back, he was as tidily dressed as any valet could have managed, his cuffs and collar perfectly smooth, a black silk neckcloth tied neatly at his throat.

"You astonish me, Brisbane. I should not have thought you bothered by the conventions of gentlemanly behaviour."

He turned to face me, his expression betraying nothing but deep fatigue. "Every man should have something impossible to which he aspires."

"You look tired, Brisbane. What takes you abroad on windy nights and leaves you covered in blood that is not your own?"

He canted his head, his eyes searching my face.

"Sheep. I was assisting a ewe at a difficult lambing. Quite a comedown, isn't it? I am a sheep farmer now."

He crossed his arms over his chest, immobile as any sculpture of antiquity.

I shrugged. "Any man of property who owns livestock could say the same. It is a very great change from your investigations in London, but I do not see why you think it objectionable."

He gave a short, mirthless laugh, sharp and unpleasant. "You do not see. No, you do not. You will see a great deal more when the sun comes up. Folk in the village say this place is accursed, and I am beginning to wonder if they are right."

"Nonsense," I said briskly. "Of course, it is a little remote—"

He laughed again. "Remote? Julia, I do not want you here, and I cannot even compel you to leave because I have no means of sending you back to the village. No carriage can manage these heights, and there isn't even a farm cart left here. The entire property is in shambles. Only the façade of the east wing remains; the rest of it has crumbled to dust. The gardens are overgrown to wildness. Everything of value has been stripped from the house and sold. There is nothing left here except ruin."

"And you," I said, emboldened by his excuses. Brisbane was more determined and more capable than any man I had ever known. Had he really wanted me to leave, he would have carried me to Lesser Howlett on his back and put me on the first train back to London. His pretexts told me everything I ought to know: Brisbane needed me.

His expression was bitter. "I? I am the most ruined thing of all." He turned to face the fire, and for a long moment I watched the play of light over the sharp planes of his face. There was something new in his expression, something careworn and bedevilled that I did not like.

"How did you come to be here?" I asked at length. "I thought you were to receive the viscountcy of Wargrave from the Prime Minister."

I trembled to hear the answer. I had interfered with Brisbane's investigation at Bellmont—interfered so badly it had taken tremendous work on his part to salvage the situation. He had been engaged in business for the government, and the title had been offered as incentive for his involvement. When the promised viscountcy had not materialised, I had blamed myself.

He rubbed at the dark shadow at his jaw. From the look of it, he had not shaved in some days. "Prime Minister was perfectly willing to give me the viscountcy. Then I discovered this property was available. When the previous owner, Sir Redwall Allenby, died, his mother and sisters were forced to sell. Lord Salisbury pointed out that the income from this estate was not sufficient to support the style of a viscount, but when I offered to take the estate in lieu of the viscountcy, he made the arrangements to purchase the property on my behalf."

"But why would you want this place at the expense of the Wargrave title?"

He gave me a long, level stare. "Because it suited me."

That he was concealing something, I had no doubt. But Brisbane could be solitary as an oyster when it pleased him.

"And the Allenby ladies? I presume you have extended your hospitality to them because they have nowhere else to go?"

"Something like that," he said, his eyes flickering away from mine.

Silence stretched between us and I glanced around, noticing for the first time the delicate frieze painted upon the walls. Stylised palms and lilies reached toward the ceiling, and here and there a bird took flight, its wings gilded with a touch of gold paint.

"It is an interesting room," I offered. "The decoration is most unusual."

"Sir Redwall was an Egyptological scholar. His rooms were decorated to suit his tastes."

"Very pretty," I remarked. I drew in a deep breath and moved closer to him. The firelight flickered over his face, casting shadows and lifting them again, making his expression impossible to read. I could see the lines etched at the corners of his mouth, lines I knew too well. I put out a fingertip to trace one.

"You have been in pain. The migraines?" He did not brush my finger away. He closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head.

"I have kept them at bay, but not for much longer I think. I can feel one circling on wings. There is a blackness at the edge of my vision."

"All the time?"

"Most." This time he did brush my finger away, but gently.

"What do you take? Do you still smoke the hashish?"

He shook his head. "Too much trouble to procure it here. Nothing but a glass of whisky before bed."

I clucked at him. "That will never serve. You require something far stronger than that."

"Don't fuss, Julia," he said, but his tone was soft.

I put out my hand again, cupping his cheek. He exhaled sharply, but did not move.

"Brisbane," I murmured. "If you really want me to leave you, tell me now and I will go and you will never see me again. Just one word, that's all, and I will remove myself. Forever."

I stepped closer still. He closed his eyes again and covered my hand with his own. "You smell of violets. You always smell of violets," he said. "You've no idea how many times I have walked these moors and smelled them and thought you were near. On and on I walked, following the scent of you, and you were never there. When I saw you in the hall tonight, I thought I had finally gone mad."

He opened his eyes, and I saw a world of heartbreak there I had never expected. My own eyes filled with tears, and his image shimmered before me.

"You should leave," he said finally, his voice thick. "It would be so much the better for you if you did." His hand tightened over mine.

"But do you want me to go? Will you send me away?"

"No."

I sagged against him in relief, and his arm came around to catch me close to him. I could feel the beat of his heart under my ear and it was the pulse of all the world to me.

Suddenly, he drew back and slid a finger under the chain at my neck. He tugged gently, and a pendant slid out from under my gown, a coin struck with the head of Medusa and incised with a code Brisbane had chosen at the end of our first investigation. Those few strokes of the engraver's steel told me everything about Brisbane's regard for me that the man himself could not. He turned the pendant over in his hand, then slid it back under the neckline of my gown, his finger warm against my flesh.

"You will regret it," he said finally. "You will be sorry you stayed, and you will come to blame me."

I stepped back and shook my head. "You said the last time we met I was more your equal than any woman you had ever known. Whatever is amiss here, I am equal to it as well. Good night, Brisbane."

He did not bid me good-night, but as he turned to the fire, I heard him murmur, "Forgive me."

And I wondered to which of us he was speaking.

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

She speaks, yet she says nothing.

—William Shakespeare

Romeo and Juliet

"I am afraid there is no other suitable chamber," Miss Allenby apologised when she showed us up. "I have given you my sister Hilda's room. She can share with me, and there is a little closet where Mr. Valerius can be accommodated."

She meant closet in the medieval sense of the word, a small, panelled room with a narrow bed fitted into the wall and a tiny tiled stove for warmth. Valerius gave me an evil look and slammed the door behind him. He had already shown little grace in carrying up the bags, and I decided to leave him be. Perhaps a good night's sleep would smooth his ruffled temper.

Portia and I demurred politely at Miss Allenby giving up her sister's room to us, but she shook her head. "Oh, but you must have Hilda's room. It has a pretty view over the moor, and the bed is bigger than mine. We have so little, but we must make you as comfortable as possible." There was a gentle dignity about her, even as she admitted that the family had fallen on hard times. She showed us to the room, and I was relieved to see it was passable—more heavy, dark oak panelling with furniture to match, what little of it there was. The room appeared to have been stripped of its furnishings save the bed, an enormous monstrosity far too large to fit through either the door or casement. Some long-ago estate carpenter had doubtless assembled it in situ, never dreaming anyone would wish to remove it. There was a small chest beneath the window, and a handful of books stood propped upon the sill, leaning haphazardly against one another. I brushed a fingertip over the first, a heavy volume of green kid.

It was a compendium of Egyptian hieroglyphics, and rather an advanced one from the look of it. Miss Allenby smiled. "My sister is a devotee of Egyptian history," she explained. "It is not a very ladylike pastime, but so long as she does not read her books in front of Mama, no one troubles her."

"Indeed," Portia remarked kindly, "Julia's literary tastes are far more shocking, I assure you."

I pulled a face at her, but Miss Allenby said nothing. She was already moving to the fireplace where a fire had been laid in the cold hearth. A warming pan was procured, and Morag heaped it with coals from the kitchen fire and thrust it between the sheets. Within minutes clouds of steam were billowing from the bed, and Miss Allenby had the grace to look abashed.

"It is difficult to air things properly. It can be rather damp on the moor," she murmured. She left us then, and it was just as well. I would have hated a stranger to hear the imprecations uttered by Morag when she inspected the tiny adjoining room and realised she would have to share with Minna.

"Do be quiet, Morag," I instructed. "I am far too tired to listen to you tonight. Finish the unpacking and I promise you may abuse me as long as you like in the morning."

She yanked a gown from my trunk and spun slowly on her heel, surveying the near-empty room. "And where do you suggest I unpack to, my lady?"

I sighed. "Very well, I take your point. Not so much as a peg to hang a hat upon. Just fling me my nightdress and go to bed. We will sort it out in the morning."

She snorted and did as she was bid, banging the connecting door to register her displeasure. Minna had already retired, having done twice the work in half the time, and Portia and I were left alone. We made our preparations hastily and scrambled into bed.

"It reminds me of the Great Bed of Ware," Portia observed in ominous tones.

"Not quite so large, but certainly as forbidding," I agreed. "At least the bed curtains are still in evidence. We should freeze otherwise."

She looked around the room, shaking her head slowly. "Steaming beds, no paraffin lamps, and I do not like to look under the bed to make certain, but I believe that is a chamber pot."

"Do not speak of it, I beg you," I said faintly.

We stared at each other a long moment. "It is like something out of the Middle Ages. I had no idea people actually lived like this anymore."

"Hush," I warned. "I should not like Miss Allenby to hear you. She has been most hospitable. Clearly, their means are reduced. I am certain it is not their fault."

She pressed her lips together. "Just because they are in res angusta doesn't mean the rest of us have to endure it."

There was no possible reply to that, so I did not attempt one. Portia blew out the candle and I drew the bed curtains, shutting out the pale, tattered remnants of moonlight. We huddled together for warmth, careful to keep our toes well clear of the steaming bed warmer.

"Are you going to tell me what he said?" my sister whispered into the darkness.

"No. But we are staying."

"For how long?"

"I cannot say. As long as he needs me, I suppose. Or until I grow tired of bashing my head against the wall."

She reached out and took my hand, saying nothing. We had not slept in the same bed since we were children, and I had forgot what a comfort it could be to have a hand to hold in the dark. Just as I was dropping off to sleep I heard a door close nearby, and female voices—one raised in impatience, the other low and soothing. Ailith was telling her sister of the new arrivals, I surmised. At length they quieted, and I heard nothing more.

The next morning I rose early, feeling better than I had since I had left London. True, Brisbane was bedevilled, and the accommodations were far from comfortable, but the sun was shining, Brisbane had not sent me away, and I had slept surprisingly well. I woke feeling rested and a little stiff from the chill of the room. Portia slept on and I slipped through the curtains, careful not to rouse her. The fire had died, but sunlight was streaming through the window. I pushed it open, breathing in great gusts of fresh moorland air. The moor stretched as far as the eye could see, green and brown, and purpled with heather in a few brave patches. There were dark shadows where the bogs lurked, but the moor had lost the sinister feeling of the previous night. Tufts of grasses spotted with tiny flowers rippled like waves, beckoning me out of doors, and I longed to explore. But first there was breakfast, and I was happily anticipating a hearty meal—my first proper sustenance since we had left London.

The hygienic arrangements were primitive at best. I daubed a bit of cold water about my person and dressed in a warm costume of soft tweeds edged in crimson braid. The skirt was full enough to make walking easy, and there was a divine little pair of low-heeled kid boots—just the thing for scrambling over the moor, I thought. I felt very smart as I descended to breakfast, following the delectable smells to the kitchen. Mrs. Butters was bustling from stove to table, bearing bowls of porridge and hot stewed fruits, racks of toast, and plates of hot, crispy sausages. Behind her scuttled a fey little creature, barely as tall as Mrs. Butters, with an untidy nest of black hair and wide, childlike black eyes. She took one look at me and scurried to the corner where she sat on a tiny stool, peeping over the corner of her apron.

Mrs. Butters leaned close, pitching her voice low. "Pay her no mind, my lady. Tha's Jetty, tha is. She's a halfwit, but a harder worker or a quicker hand you'll never find. Her father is a farmer over Lesser Howlett way. She comes to do the rough. She'll not speak to you, not at first. I pray you'll not take offence, for she means none. She's tha afraid of strangers, she is. But she is blessed in her own way, for the Lord does tell us that the meek shall inherit the earth," she finished firmly.

"Certainly, Mrs. Butters." I glanced at the quivering girl, still staring over the edge of her apron. I gave her a small smile, but she merely threw the apron over her head entirely. I surrendered my efforts to encourage Jetty and turned my attention to breakfast.

"How delicious it all smells, Mrs. Butters," I offered.

She smiled at me, wiping her hands on her apron. Dressed in a striped skirt and an old-fashioned cap, she looked like something out of a picture book. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the heat of the stove, and her little curls were tight from the steam.

"I would offer thee coffee or tea, but we've only tea, so tha must do."

"Tea is perfect, Mrs. Butters. Thank you."

She motioned me to take a chair and I obeyed, charmed by the contrast between this humble kitchen breakfast and the elaborate morning meals I customarily took in London. The kitchen itself was tidy and well-organised, with a neat larder tucked to the side. Through the open door I could see row upon row of bottles, jewel-bright with fruits and vegetables put away against the winter. Although it was nearly spring, there was still a good supply of the previous year's harvest which spoke of good housewifery, in spite of the condition of the rest of the estate. It was a place to be proud of, and I wondered idly what the pantry in my London house had looked like before the place was burned down. It had never occurred to me to inspect it, and I made a mental note to be more diligent with my next home.

Mrs. Butters brought a tray with pots of jam and little plates of butter, and a few other delights. "Thee'll be thinking this is very different from London."

I reached for a piece of toast. "I begin to think you must have a touch of the witch about you, Mrs. Butters. I was indeed pondering that very thing."

She gave a little start. "Say no such thing, my lady! Witches indeed, such a thing is not to be borne. Has tha not read the Bible?"

I hastened to make amends. "It was simply a jest, Mrs. Butters," I soothed. "This jam is quite delicious. Did you make it yourself?"

Her ruffled feathers settled themselves quickly. "No, bless you. Her ladyship always saw to her own stillroom. Comfits and preserves, a great one she was for those. Bottling fruits and mushrooms and brewing wines. Miss Ailith helps her with it, now she has grown frail. Ah, here is my lady."

She nodded toward the door where Ailith Allenby was following an elderly lady into the room. But Lady Allenby was unlike any elderly lady I had seen before. She was every inch as tall as her daughter, and even in old age her face bore traces of great beauty. She carried herself with the bearing of a queen, and I rose to my feet to greet her.

"Lady Allenby, I am Lady Julia Grey."

She smiled gravely as she approached the table. A single glance at her hands revealed why she had not offered one in greeting. They were gnarled like old vines with odd lumps and swellings, the marks of lingering rheumatism. There were lines etched by pain at her eyes, but those eyes were warm with welcome. "My dear, I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. Please sit. Do not allow your breakfast to get cold."

Miss Allenby and I exchanged nods and innocuous remarks about the weather. She looked a little embarrassed as she accounted for her sister's absence.

"Hilda is tending the chickens, and Godwin is out near Thorn Crag this morning. One of the rams has gone missing," she told me. She did not speak of Brisbane and I did not ask. I should see him soon enough, and I was buoyed by the thought that now I had ensconced myself at Grimsgrave Hall, I should have all the time in the world to settle matters between us. As far as Hilda was concerned, a girl who was more interested in her chickens than in visitors from London was not likely to offer much in the way of conversation, I mused. There would be plenty of opportunities yet to make her acquaintance.

Lady Allenby settled herself into a chair as Ailith plumped a cushion behind her. "You must forgive us for clinging to the old customs here, my lady. We are not so fashionable as you southerners. Here we eat in the kitchen, and do our needlework and reading by the fire. We must have our economies," she added with a solemn sort of dignity. A lesser woman would have apologised for her poverty, but not Lady Allenby.

I hastened to reassure her. "I am not fashionable in the least, I promise you, Lady Allenby. I do not dine with the Marlborough House set, and it is years since I went to Court."

She shook her head at the mention of the Prince of Wales' companions. "Disgraceful. A pack of German upstart prince-lings. They are not of the old blood. Not like your family," she said approvingly. "I had a peek in Debrett's before you awoke. A fine old English family, yours is."

I tried not to think of all the French and Irish scapegraces who had married into the Marches. "Yes, well, I suppose we have been here rather longer than some folk."

Lady Allenby smiled benevolently. "And not as long as others. There have been Allenbys here since the time of Edward the Confessor."

"Indeed? I shall be very interested to hear the history of this place."

She gave me a gracious nod. "Whatever you should like to know, you have only to ask. Of course, it is not my place to show you the house. You are Mr. Brisbane's guest, and the honour will fall to him."

It seemed an awkward patch in the conversation, and I hastened to smooth it over. "I am certain Mr. Brisbane cannot possibly do justice to its history compared to yourself, Lady Allenby."

She inclined her head again, putting me greatly in mind of a queen granting a boon to a serf.

"It is very nice for Mr. Brisbane to have visitors. One worries about the bachelors of the species, they are too often solitary creatures," Lady Allenby said with an effort at delicacy, I thought. Clearly she wondered about our presence, and I felt compelled to at least try to be forthright with her.

"I am afraid the situation is not quite as we thought," I began cautiously. I was not entirely certain how much to reveal. I was deeply conscious of Ailith Allenby hovering nearby as she prepared her mother's plate. I had no desire to make my private affairs fodder for Allenby family gossip, but we were living cheek-by-jowl with them as it were, and it seemed silly to ignore the situation altogether.

"My sister and I were rather precipitous. We thought that, as a bachelor, Brisbane was in need of some feminine assistance in ordering his household. We did not realise you and the Misses Allenby were in residence."

Lady Allenby spread her hands. The joints were thick and swollen, but still elegant, and on her left hand she wore a thick band of gold, braided with baroque pearls and old-fashioned, lumpy rubies.

"My dear lady, you must not think Ailith and I will be in your way, and Hilda is positively useless at domestic matters. We are simply guests of Mr. Brisbane's while he kindly oversees the refurbishment of one of the outbuildings for our use. He has been exceedingly generous to us. There was no provision under the terms of the sale of Grimsgrave Hall for my daughters or myself. What he does for us is solely out of his own sense of charity."

As there seemed no possible response to this, I did not attempt one.

While I finished my toast, I darted glances at Ailith, attempting to make out her character. I realised that in spite of her remarkable beauty, Ailith Allenby's life had likely not been an easy one. I felt ashamed of my first impulse to dislike her, and determined to make an effort to befriend her.

I smiled at her briefly, then turned to her mother. "I do hope you are quite recovered, Lady Allenby. Miss Allenby told us last night you were suffering from a rheumatism."

"The last year has been a trial," she said softly. "My rheumatism is grown much worse now. My hands, my hips. Some days I can scarcely rise from my bed. Still," she said forcefully, "we are given no trials over which we cannot triumph with the aid of the Divine." She touched the chain at her belt, and I realised it was a rosary. I suppressed a sigh. Between Lady Allenby's devoutness and Mrs. Butters' fondness for Holy Scripture, I feared I would find their company a trifle tedious. My father had once famously stated in Parliament that religion was as intimate as lovemaking and ought to be as private. The thought was not original to him, but it reflected his views quite accurately. While we had attended church, it was seldom with any true regularity, and God was seldom discussed in our family except in a very distant sort of way, rather like our cousins in Canada.

Lady Allenby lifted a crooked hand to her daughter. "Ailith, dearest, I find I am in need of St. Hildegarde's ointment." Lady Allenby turned to me. "We are fortunate at Grimsgrave to have a Gypsy woman who lives in a cottage out on the moor. She is a skilful healer and a most interesting woman. Perhaps you would care to make her acquaintance?"

"I will go this morning and fetch more ointment," Ailith said. "If Lady Julia would care to accompany me, she would be most welcome." She darted a quick, birdlike glance at me from under her dark gold lashes. She spooned out some fruit for her mother and broke a piece of toast into manageable bits. "You must keep up your strength, Mama," she murmured.

Lady Allenby gave her daughter a fond look. "Thank you, child. Yes, I will eat it all, I promise."

They made a game of it, with Ailith filling her plate slowly with tempting morsels, and Lady Allenby finishing it a bit at a time until she had at last eaten a full breakfast. She managed quite well so long as she used both hands to steady her utensils. Ailith herself had merely nibbled a piece of dry toast, and I wondered if she cared for her mother at the expense of herself.

After I finished the last of the rather excellent fruit compote, we excused ourselves, and I went to look in on Portia. She was still slumbering peacefully, one arm thrown over her face as she slept. I did not bother to pause at Val's door; I could hear the snores reverberating through it well enough. The maids were making their way down to breakfast, Morag muttering all the while about the laxness of some establishments that did not even provide morning tea. I might have pointed out the laxness of maids who did not rise in time to attend their mistresses, but it was far simpler to ignore her and gather my things to meet Ailith in the hall as we had arranged.

Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, Brisbane emerged from his rooms, impeccably dressed and carrying a small portmanteau, his greatcoat draped over his arm. He caught sight of me just as he pulled the door closed.

"Good morning," he said smoothly. He nodded toward the shawl in my hand. "You will want something warmer than that if you mean to venture out on the moor. The sun is out, but it is deceptively chilly."

I swallowed hard, my fine breakfast suddenly sitting like a stone in my stomach. "Don't let's talk about the weather when you are clearly leaving. Did you even mean to say goodbye?"

He shrugged. "I am bound for Scotland for a few days upon business."

"Business! I thought you had given up your inquiries."

"Never. I have merely closed my rooms in Half Moon Street for the present. I am conducting my investigations from Grimsgrave unless circumstances demand my presence. Such is the case I have undertaken in Edinburgh."

"Why cannot Monk look to this investigation?" Monk was the most capable of his associates, acting as confidant, valet, and majordomo for Brisbane as circumstances demanded. He was also a skilled investigator in his own right, and I had wondered at his absence from Grimsgrave. As a former military man, he ought to have had the place wholly organised and functioning smoothly in a fortnight.

"Monk is already engaged upon a case, and I cannot spare him," he replied, tidying his already immaculate cuffs. "I must see to this myself."

"And you thought to creep away whilst I was upstairs," I observed coolly.

His nostrils flared slightly with impatience. "I thought it would be rather easier if I left without a formal leave-taking."

"Easier upon whom?" I asked, wincing at the touch of acid in my voice.

Brisbane noted it as well. "You're playing it quite wrong," he advised. "You ought to be disdainful and remote and tell me that you plan to go back to London and if I wish to see you, I will have to follow you there."

"I never manage to keep to a proper script," I admitted. "I've too little pride in this instance. Oh, you are a devil, Brisbane. You knew last night you were leaving, didn't you? That is why you did not pack me back to London by the first train. You thought you would slip out this morning and I would be so outraged at your behaviour I would leave of my own accord."

"Well, it was worth the attempt," he conceded. "You do have a rather spectacular temper when you are roused."

"I do not," I countered hotly. "I am the calmest, most collected—" I noted the gleam in his eye then and gave him a shove. He caught my hand and pressed it against his shirtfront. The linen was soft under my fingers, and just beneath it I could feel the slow, steady beating of his heart. I felt the heat rising in my face and pulled my hand away.

"Do not think to distract me. You have business here as well, Brisbane. There are things that must be settled between us," I said, sounding much more decisive than I felt.

He opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly, his gaze shifted to a point just over my head and he dropped my hand. "Ailith is coming," he murmured.

I turned to greet her. She had donned a warm cloak of fine blue wool and draped a shawl of the same over her head. She looked like a Madonna fit to grace any master's canvas.

"You are dressed better than I for the moor wind, I think," I told her. "Brisbane was just saying—" I turned, but the hall was empty, the door swinging wide upon its hinges. "Where the devil did he go?" I demanded.

Ailith dropped her eyes at my language, and I made a mental note to exercise a bit more decorum.

"I saw no one," she said. I did not doubt it. Brisbane had certainly heard her step upon the stair and seen the distinctive blue hem of her gown. All it had taken was a moment's misdirection on his part, skilful as any conjurer, and my attention was diverted long enough for him to make his escape.

"Blast him," I muttered. But I had no intention of discussing the matter with Ailith Allenby, and it occurred to me that Brisbane's absence might be a perfect opportunity for me to take the lay of the land. Brisbane had been terribly mysterious about his doings at Grimsgrave, and I was very keen to know the full extent of his troubles.

I looked at Ailith and realised I was still grumbling to myself, for she was looking at me with the gentle, quizzical glance that nurses reserve for mentally defective patients.

"Never mind," I said, forcing my voice to cheerfulness. "I believe I am poorly dressed for an excursion on the moor."

She looked at the tiny feathered hat perched atop my head and frowned. "I am afraid that will never do, my lady. The moor wind will whip it away, and your ears would be quite chilled. And that thin shawl will not keep out a bit of the wind. Let me find you a proper shawl."

She hastened off, returning a moment later with another heavy length of blue wool and a pair of alarmingly ugly rubber boots. I stood very still as she wrapped my head with the scarf, trying not to think about how trying blue was against my complexion and trying not to breathe too deeply. The shawl still smelled of the sheep it had been shorn from. She wrapped it tightly, unlike her own elegant drape, and tucked the ends firmly into my skirt, plumping my waist unbecomingly.

She clucked over my boots, insisting I remove them on the grounds they would be instantly ruined in the mud. Flat boots or pattens, she advised me, although rubber boots were by far the best. She fitted me with a pair that pinched a little—in spite of her height, Miss Allenby had tiny feet—and declared us ready. She looped a basket over her arm and we left the house by the kitchen door, and as we walked it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why Brisbane had referred to Ailith Allenby by her Christian name.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, My rams speed not, all is amiss.

—William Shakespeare

"The Passionate Pilgrim XVII"

We passed into a garden, or rather, what had once been a garden. Sheltered by high stone walls, it was a peaceful place that had clearly once been a productive one as well. Gnarled old fruit trees sprawled against the walls, but it was easy to see the bones of where they had once been espaliered. Beds, edged in crumbling brick, were thick with weeds and overgrown bushes, and just at the edge, sheltered in the recess of a wall, a set of beehives stood quiet and empty. A small plot was still in cultivation, but it had been planted with an eye to industry rather than beauty. It bore none of the traces of elegance that lingered yet in the rest of the garden.

Miss Allenby saw my interest and the faintest of blushes tinged her cheeks. "The gardens of Grimsgrave were once renowned for their beauty. Even the kitchen garden was lovely. It has been many years since we have had gardeners to tend them. Godwin does what little he can with this plot, and Mama still has a tiny garden for her flowers." She gestured toward a sunny spot where a listless bunch of daffodils struggled limply out of the dark, peaty soil. "Most of our vegetables are delivered by folk who used to be our tenant farmers," she added, her tone edged with emotion—nostalgia perhaps?

She motioned toward the far end of the garden where a rotting wooden door sagged in the stone wall. I turned back, eager to see Grimsgrave Hall in the clear light of day. It was almost as forbidding as it had been by moonlight. The native gritstone, once handsome no doubt, had weathered to blackness, giving the entire façade a gloomy cast. The ruined wing put me in mind of a skeleton, its flesh rotted away from the bones. But the structure itself, Jacobean in design, was elegant if old-fashioned. Properly rebuilt and with thoughtful landscaping, it might still be redeemed.

"It would take a miracle from God and more money than I will ever see in my lifetime to rebuild it," Miss Allenby commented, intuiting my thoughts.

"It is a handsome place," I offered, following slowly as she led the way to the wooden door.

"Handsome, but rotten through and through. I have a model of the house, as it used to be. It is a doll's house really, but it was built by an architect who came to make a study of the house. He presented it to my grandmama when she was still in the nursery, and eventually it was given to me to play with. It is a lovely thing, but it makes me quite sad sometimes to see how it used to be. Mind your step here, my lady. A bit of stone has come loose," she warned.

I followed her into a pleasure garden, this one derelict as well. It had been well-planned and probably well-executed, but little that was recognisable remained. Woody old vines choked a statue of an ancient king, and here and there a few scattered bits of stone spoke of ornaments long since destroyed.

"That is King Alfred," Miss Allenby informed me, gesturing toward the decrepit old king. "He is an ancestor of the Allenbys. We are of ancient Anglo-Saxon stock," she said proudly. Her chin was tipped high, and I could well see the resemblance to old royalty in her profile. I had read long before that the athelings, the children of Saxon royalty, had been reckoned by the conquering Normans to be the handsomest people they had ever seen. It was not so difficult to believe Miss Allenby was of this tribe. I said as much to her and she laughed, clearly pleased.

"There is an old tale that Pope Gregory once saw a group of Angle children for sale in the Roman slave market at Deira. He was so struck with their beauty, he asked who they were. He was told they were Angles, and he replied, 'Non Angli, sed angeli.'"

"'Not Angles, but angels,'" I translated.

"Precisely."

We passed through the pleasure garden and beyond another crumbling door. As soon as we crossed the threshold, I gasped, for stretching before me was the moor, vast and rolling, empty and endless as the sea. It was beautiful, and yet inhospitable as well.

Miss Allenby stood next to me. "When I was a little girl, I was frightened of the moor. The way the wind always rises, keening like a human voice. The local folk call it a speaking wind. One is never entirely alone on the moor. That wind always blows, and that voice is always there."

"I can well imagine it," I murmured.

"But it can be a great comfort as well," she said, turning aside. Her expression had not changed, but I noted the black of her gown and remembered the brother whose death had necessitated the loss of her home. Did she mourn him still?

A narrow path wound its way through the moor grasses, here quite straight, there bending a little to skirt a bit of rock or a boggy patch. There was just enough room to walk abreast and we did so. I had thought the moor empty, but as we moved farther from the Hall, I noticed the occasional bird, beating its wings to rise above the grasses, or heard the bleating of sheep carried on the wind.

She pointed out the dark, peaty waters that swirled and sucked in boggy places, ready to close over the unsuspecting. She warned me sternly against straying from the path, and lifted her arm to point out a shimmering expanse of black water in the distance.

"Grimswater. It is an ancient place, that lake—full of magic. They say the god who lives there gave this moor its name."

"Really? I should have thought the name Grimsgrave quite appropriate in any event."

Miss Allenby gave a quick, light laugh. "The moor is not so sinister as that. Grim was a Saxon god, and grave merely means pit or shaft. This moor was mined in ancient times, even through the Roman occupation. Silver and lead run deep under these lands."

She nodded toward the surging waters of Grimswater. "They say there was once a town there, where the waters now stand. It was a rich place, with fine houses and proud people. One day a poor man searched the town for shelter and food, but none would offer him succour. Only the poorest farmer would give him a crust and a bed. When he had taken the farmer's hospitality, the poor man, who was a god in disguise, raised his hand and cursed the town."

Miss Allenby paused a moment, her eyes closed. Then she opened them, spread her arms and intoned,

"Grimswater

rise, Grimswater sink,

And

swallow all the town save this little house

Where

they gave me food and drink."

Her voice was commanding as a priestess' and I shuddered a little. It was too easy to imagine her, clad in the robes of a pagan witch, conjuring spirits to do her bidding.

She smiled then, and the effect was lost. "It is atmospheric, isn't it? They say the waters rose at once and covered the town, drowning everyone. The Saxons used to throw sacrifices into the lake to keep the gods happy. Even now, when the wind is coming off the waters, you can hear a bell tolling under the lake. It is said to presage a death in my family," she finished softly.

"The moor is full of old legends, isn't it?" I asked faintly. There was something quite otherworldly and a little unsettling about Ailith Allenby. Talking to her was rather like conversing with a faery or a unicorn.

"Oh, yes. There are soft places where the souls of those who have been sucked into the bogs cry for help."

"Is that all?" I demanded. "They don't drag folk down into the bog with them or carry off one's children?"

"No," she said, her tone edged with peevishness. "I think you are making sport."

"Not a bit," I told her truthfully. "We have the most useless ghosts at my father's house. I always think if one is going to be haunted, it's rather nicer to be haunted by something useful, don't you think? Your tolling bell, for example. Quite helpful indeed. An Allenby would hear that and know he ought to change his ways or at the very least make a proper confession if he is to die soon."

She turned wordlessly and led the way across the moor. I realised my tongue had run away with me and thought to make amends, but the wind rose and rendered conversation impossible. We trudged along, here and there helping each other over the muddiest bits, until we reached a crossroads in the path. A direction board pointed out the proper way to the village, but Miss Allenby struck out toward the left, taking a smaller path that wound higher up on the moor. I followed now, struggling to catch my breath as Miss Allenby led the way, unruffled as ever. If my flippancy had offended her, she had decided to overlook it, and I relaxed a bit, enjoying the glorious fresh air and the spectacular views.

After a few minutes, we came over a rise and I saw, sheltered just below us, a cottage sitting beside another crossroads. It was a tumbledown little place of faery-tale proportions, with a high-peaked roof that sagged in the middle and a profusion of roses twining about the doorway, although the flowers themselves would not bloom for another two months. The cottage was set apart from the path by a low stone wall, and within its shelter lay the most enchanting garden I had ever seen.

In spite of the cold and the mud there was a profusion of green, a whole world yearning toward the sunlight and spring. Set into the stone wall was a little wicket gate, and Miss Allenby pushed through, scattering a few fat, speckled chickens as she walked. They clucked at her but continued to scratch at the ground contentedly. A fragrant plume of smoke issued from the chimney, and welcoming lights glowed at the leaded windows.

Before Miss Allenby even raised her hand to knock, the door was thrown back.

"Miss Ailith!" cried the woman on the threshold in welcome. "You have brought me a visitor," she said, stepping forward and taking my hand in her own. She was an extraordinary creature. Her colouring, like most Gypsies of my acquaintance, was dark, all olive skin and striking black eyes. Her black hair was loose, curling to her waist and threaded thickly with silver. Gold coins hung at her wrists and ears, and long chains of them were wrapped around her neck. A single thin band of gold circled her marriage finger. She wore several skirts, each more colourful than the last, and a becoming blouse with a deep ruffle at the elbow. Her hand was warm over mine, and her smile was genuine.

"You are Lady Julia," she pronounced in tones of great import.

I gave her a cool, deliberate smile. "It is no great feat of clairvoyance to listen to neighbourhood gossip," I said blandly.

She laughed at this, displaying beautiful white teeth. "Come in, lady. I am Rosalie Smith. Come along, Miss Ailith."

She ushered us into the cottage. It was as charming within as without. A single room, it was comfortably furnished for any possible use. A cheerful fire burned on a wide brick hearth, an assortment of pots and pans ranged around it on iron hooks. Bundles of herbs and flowers hung from the rafters well away from the fire, their fragrances mingling to something spicy and delicious in the warm room. There was a scrubbed table, large enough to seat four, and comfortable chairs with freshly-woven rush seats and gaily patterned cushions. A snug bed had been pushed under the window and tucked neatly with a spread of patchworked cottons and velvets edged in bright taffeta. A black cupboard, beautifully painted with pastoral scenes, stood in the corner, and next to it stood a small table with a violin and a sheaf of music.

The Gypsy woman held out her hands for my wraps. "Come and warm yourself by the fire. I will make a tisane for you. Something to warm the blood."

I struggled out of the blue shawl and various other bits and pieces and took a chair, grateful to be out of the wind. Miss Allenby rested her basket on the stone-flagged floor at her feet while our hostess busied herself with cups and saucers and little pots.

At length she joined us at the table. "Miss Ailith, black tea with a bit of raspberry leaf," she said, passing her a tiny teapot. "Lady Julia, a tisane of borage." I peeked into the pot and was enchanted to find a pale green decoction, spotted with just a few tiny, starry blue flowers.

"How lovely," I said. Rosalie Smith gave me an enigmatic smile.

"All herbs have their purpose, lady. They can heal or kill, but one must know their secrets."

The conversation seemed mildly sinister to me, and I glanced sharply at my harmless-looking tisane before changing the subject.

"I confess, Mrs. Smith, I am surprised to find a Romany living so settled a life. You are far removed from the road up here, are you not?"

Another might have taken offence at the question, but not Mrs. Smith. She merely gave me one of her inscrutable smiles and poured out her own cup of tea. Very strong and black, she took it with no sugar, straining the leaves through her teeth as I had so often seen the women of her people do.

"I am here because it suits me, lady," she said, her tone friendly. "I have a purpose here. When it is served, I will rejoin my own folk."

"A purpose?" I sipped at the borage tisane. It was delicious. The flavour was light and reminded me of tea, but greener somehow, with a thread of something I could not quite place.

"Cucumber?" Mrs. Smith hazarded, watching me.

"Yes! It is quite refreshing," I told her. She smiled again, clearly gratified.

"I make many tisanes, for many ailments. The villagers and farmers have learned to come to me for their troubles."

"Are there no doctors? Not even in the village?"

Mrs. Smith shrugged, and Miss Allenby put down her cup. "There is one, but he is quite elderly. His hands tremble, and he is very often the worse for drink."

"Besides," put in Mrs. Smith, "the old ways are often the best, do you not agree, Lady Julia?"

I shrugged, thinking of Val's enthusiasm for the latest advances. "They can be. I think there is much to be said for modern medicine as well."

Mrs. Smith laughed. "You are a complicated woman, I think. You look with one eye to the past and another to a future you cannot yet see."

"Doesn't everyone?" I asked coolly. I was well-accustomed to the Gypsy tendency to make mystical pronouncements.

Mrs. Smith turned to Ailith Allenby. "How does your lady mother?"

"Better, thank you. She asked me to fetch more of the ointment for her joints and more of the meadowsweet and liquorice tea. Her hands have been troubling her of late."

Mrs. Smith nodded. "I will send along some quince jelly as well. Tell her to take a spoonful every day. And you will take her some fresh peppermint from the garden. Steep a handful in hot water and tell her to sip it slowly. It will stimulate the appetite." She cast an eye over Ailith's slender figure. "Drink a cup yourself. You will not last out another winter if you do not put meat upon those bones."

To my surprise, Miss Allenby did not seem to resent the observation. She merely smiled and sipped at her tea. Just then there was a scratching at the door and a low, pitiful moan. I started, but Mrs. Smith waved me to my chair with a laugh.

"'Tis only Rook," she said, opening the door to admit a white lurcher. He was thin, with sorrowful eyes and a clutch of long, pretty feathers in his mouth.

"What have you brought me, little one? A fat pheasant for the pot?"

He dropped it and gave her a worshipful stare. She patted him and waved him toward the fire. He stretched out before the hearth, giving a contented sigh as he settled onto the warm stones.

Mrs. Smith put her prise into a basin and laid it aside.

"I will clean it later. Perhaps your ladyship would like the feathers for a hat?" she added hopefully.

They were lovely feathers, and I knew she would haggle tirelessly over the price.

"That's quite illegal, you know," Miss Allenby commented, nodding toward the basin. "That dog is a poacher."

Mrs. Smith roared with laughter, holding a hand to her side. "Bless you, lady, of course he is! All Gypsy dogs know the value of a fat bird. He was of no use to my husband because he is white, but he suits me well enough."

I had heard before that the Roma never kept white dogs as they were too easily detected when they were thieving, but I was more interested in the other little titbit Mrs. Smith had revealed.

"Your husband? Does he travel then?"

"Aye, lady. He travels with our family, but I keep a place for him here when the caravans come this way. That is his violin," she said, nodding toward the instrument on the little table. "And the bed is wide enough for two."

She roared with laughter again while Miss Allenby and I looked politely away. Had it not been for Miss Allenby's company, I might have joined in her laughter. I had always had an affinity for such women—comfortable and at ease in their own skin—and I had known a few of them. My father's particular friend, Madame de Bellefleur, and Minna's own mother, Mrs. Birch, came to mind. But Miss Allenby was cool to the point of primness and I did not like to shock her.

She reached for her basket then and presented it to Mrs. Smith. "Godwin slaughtered a lamb, and Mama has sent along a small joint. I hope that will be sufficient?" It was a question, but only just. It was apparent from her tone that she considered the haunch a fair trade for the medicinals she had come to fetch.

Mrs. Smith peered into the basket, inspecting the lamb carefully. She put it aside and handed the basket back to Miss Allenby. "It will do," she said at length. "The dew will be dry now. Go and cut an armful of mint. I will fetch the ointment of St. Hildegarde and the quince jelly."

Miss Allenby rose and took up her wraps and basket. Rook the lurcher raised his head lazily when she opened the door, then laid it back down.

"He is a lazy one," Mrs. Smith commented with a fond look at the dog. "But his company suits me."

"It must get lonely for you," I ventured, "alone up here, with only the odd villager for company."

Mrs. Smith shrugged. "I told you, lady, I have a purpose. If one has a purpose, life is bearable enough, do you not think so?"

I did think so, in fact. I had spent the better part of my widowhood searching for one.

"But I think you will be lonely here," she said suddenly, leaning toward me and pitching her voice low. "And when you are, you must come to Rosalie. You will have no greater friend on the moor. Do you understand?"

I did not, but I smiled at her, wondering if she had perhaps become a bit unhinged living in such isolation.

"How very kind of you," I began, but she waved me off.

"I am not kind," she said firmly. "My family is known for its gifts, but I do not have the sight. I do not see the future, although I do feel when danger is about. I feel it now, and it hovers over you, like a creature with great black wings."

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes in annoyance. I had heard such things before, always from a Gypsy fortune-teller who wanted her palm crossed with silver.

"I do not wish to have my fortune told, Mrs. Smith, and I am afraid I have no coin on me at present."

To my astonishment, she grabbed my hand and held it firmly in both of hers. Her hands were warm and smooth and I could catch the scent of herbs on her skin. "Lady, I do not want your money. I speak honestly of friendship. You must call me Rosalie, and you must come to me whenever you have need of me. Promise me this."

I promised, albeit reluctantly. She rose then and rummaged in the black-painted cupboard. She returned with a tiny pouch of brightly-patterned red cotton. She pressed it upon me.

"Carry this with you always. It is a charm of protection."

I must have looked startled, for she smiled then, a beautiful, beneficent smile. "I am a shuvani, lady. A witch of my people. And I want you to know I will do everything I can to protect you."

I took the little pouch. It had been knotted tightly with a silken thread and it held several small items, nothing I could recognise from the shape. "I do not know what to say, Mrs. Smith—"

"Rosalie," she corrected. "Now keep that with you and show it to no one."

Obediently, I slipped it into my pocket, and only then did she resume her lazy, good-natured smile.

"I think Miss Ailith is ready to leave," she commented, nodding toward the window. "Have you finished your tisane?"

"Yes, thank you." I collected my wraps and bent to pet the lurcher. He gave a little growl of contentment and thumped his tail happily on the floor.

"Tell me, Rosalie," I said, twisting the unbecoming shawl over my hair, "if all herbs have a purpose, what was the point of giving me borage?"

Rosalie smiled her mysterious smile. "Have you never heard the old saying, lady? Borage for courage."

* * *

I collected Miss Allenby from the front garden and we bade Rosalie farewell. She pressed the jar of quince jelly and a tin of ointment upon Miss Allenby who thanked her graciously. As we passed through the wicket gate, I fell deeply into thought, pondering what Rosalie had told me. Perhaps she belonged to a more subtle variety of Gypsy than those I had yet encountered. Perhaps, rather than overt offers to tell fortunes or lift curses, Rosalie's methods were more insidious. I had not paid her for the little charm, but who was to say that on my next visit she might not insist the danger was growing nearer and that only a costly amulet might hold it at bay? It was a cynical thought, but one that bore consideration, I decided as I tripped over a stone.

Miss Allenby put out a hand to steady me, aghast. "My apologies, Lady Julia. I would have warned you about that stone, but I did not imagine you could have missed it."

She was right about that. It was nearly a yard across, a marker of sorts at the little crossroads in front of the cottage, and though it stood only a few inches proud of the earth, it was enough to catch an unwary foot.

"I was woolgathering," I said apologetically.

She nodded. "I can well understand, although I have never found the moor a good place to think—the wind seems to drown out my very thoughts. But my brother used to walk the moor quite often when he was puzzling out a problem, and my sister still does. Perhaps you will find it a restful place as well, should you stay for some time."

As a conversational gambit, it was blunt and inelegant. I rose to it anyway and replied with perfect truth. "I do not know how long I shall be at Grimsgrave. Some weeks at least, I should expect." Heaven only knew precisely when Brisbane would return, and it could take some time after that to settle matters between us.

She nodded, as if I had confirmed some private conviction of hers. "It is a great distance to travel for a shorter visit," she observed.

"That it is," I agreed.

We moved down the path toward the turning for Grimsgrave Hall. The wind had died a little, and I seized the opportunity to take a better measure of Miss Allenby's situation.

"Your brother was Sir Redwall Allenby?"

She nodded, her face averted.

"I understand he was an Egyptologist, a scholar," I ventured.

She paused, but still did not turn to me. "He was. He made quite a name for himself in certain circles."

The lovely mouth was thin now, the lips pressed together as though to hold back some strong emotion. Impulsively, I put out a hand.

"I believe his death was fairly recent, and I can see that it grieves you still. Please accept my condolences on your loss."

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it, sudden tears shimmering in her eyes. After a moment she composed herself and turned to me.

"You are very kind, Lady Julia. It was sudden and you are quite correct. It does grieve me still."

She started slowly down the path and I hurried to keep up with her longer stride. "Everything changed when Redwall died. I had no idea the house had been mortgaged. His death left us paupers, Lady Julia, beggars in our own home. My mother and sister and I are dependent upon Mr. Brisbane for every crust of bread." She stopped to take a breath, her hands fisted at her sides. "We are to remain at Grimsgrave until a home can be fitted out for us."

I felt a rush of pity for her then. I could only imagine how difficult the past months had been for her. To lose a beloved sibling, a home, and a fortune was too much to be borne. I could only hope Brisbane was not making the situation more difficult in his present bad humour.

"I do hope Mr. Brisbane is proving a hospitable landlord," I offered.

She shot me a questioning look over her shoulder, and I quickened my pace. "I simply mean that he can be terribly short-tempered. But his bark is much worse than his bite. If there is anything you need, you have only to ask him. He really is quite generous. To a fault at times."

She turned abruptly, fixing me with an appraising look. "How well do you know Nicholas Brisbane?" she asked without preamble. I nearly stumbled again, this time into a rabbit hole.

"As well as anyone could," I told her. "He is a singular sort of person. I would imagine it would take a lifetime to know him completely."

She paused again, raising delicate gold eyebrows. "Really? I have not found him much changed."

I stared at her, and for some unaccountable reason, I felt the chill of the moor wind as I had not felt it before. "You knew him? Before he came to Grimsgrave?"

Miss Allenby nodded slowly. "We were children together. Didn't he tell you? He was a boy in this place."

She turned and led the way back to Grimsgrave Hall. The wind had risen again, and conversation was impossible. It was just as well. Ailith Allenby had given me much to think about.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

Crabbèd age and youth cannot live together.

—William Shakespeare

"The Passionate Pilgrim XII"

When we reached Grimsgrave, Miss Allenby and I went our separate ways. She left her basket in the hall, inclining her head graciously toward Valerius who passed her upon the stairs.

"Are you just now rising?" I asked him. He yawned broadly.

"I am. I have not slept so well in years. Something about the air up here, I think," he commented, smiling.

"I am suspicious of you, Valerius. You look entirely too cheerful for a person whose presence here has been secured by means of extortion."

He shrugged. "I am of a gentle and pleasant disposition," he said mildly.

I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "I am in no mood to quarrel, Julia. I have a mind to walk out over the moor, perhaps to the village. I am rather curious about how they manage for a doctor in Lesser Howlett."

"Not very well," I told him. I quickly related what Rosalie had revealed about the village doctor.

He rolled his eyes. "I am not surprised. Any medical professional with the slightest bit of acumen would have had something done about the drains in Howlett Magna. I mean to see if they fare any better in Lesser Howlett. Good drains are fundamental for public health," he added. I hastened to divert him before he warmed to his theme and we spent the better part of the morning discussing public hygiene.

"And you might like to stop for a chat with Rosalie Smith whilst you're out," I advised. "She seems quite knowledgeable about folk remedies." We parted then, Val full of schemes for his entertainment, and I felt a little deflated. With Brisbane gone there was nothing pressing, and I looked about the hall for something to do. Ailith had taken herself upstairs. Portia and Lady Allenby and the mysterious Hilda were nowhere to be seen, and I was seized with a sudden, childlike urge to explore Grimsgrave on my own.

I crept to the nearest set of doors, enormous, panelled things, and pushed one open, holding my breath as it creaked in protest upon its hinges. I moved into a handsome hall of excellent proportions, the walls panelled, the plaster ceiling worked in a repeating pattern of lozenges and crowns. The room was impressive, not the least because it was entirely empty. Not a stick of furniture nor vase nor picture warmed the room. It was a cold, austere place, and I shivered in spite of myself.

I turned to leave, surprised to see that I had been quite wrong in thinking the room was bereft of decoration. Hung just next to the great double doors was a length of tapestry, bordered in flame stitch, and fashioned as a sort of genealogical chart. The names and dates had been worked in thick scarlet wools, and far back, just near the top of the tapestry, several of the names were surmounted by crowns heavily stitched in tarnished gold thread.

I moved closer to read the names. Those at the top were Saxon royalty, the kings of England before the Conqueror came from across the sea. From them descended an unbroken line, all the way down to Lady Allenby herself, married to Sir Alfred Allenby, I noticed. Peering intently, I could just make out that they had been first cousins, and that Lady Allenby had been orphaned quite young.

"I wonder if that was arranged," I murmured. It seemed too neat otherwise, the orphaned heiress of the old blood royal married off to the sole heir. Rather like royal marriages of old, I thought irreverently, keeping the bloodlines and the family fortunes secure. Still, the notion of an arranged marriage left me cold, and I hoped it had been one of affection instead.

I traced the line between them, and down to where Sir Redwall's name had been stitched, the year of his death still bright and untarnished. Some distance apart was Ailith, and between them a place where another name had been recorded but had clearly been unpicked by a careful needle. After Ailith was Hilda, the letters quite narrow and cramped, looking rather like an afterthought. My eyes returned to the empty spot between Redwall and Ailith.

I passed then to a smaller room, the dining room I suspected, a similar chamber with panelling and plaster ceiling, its furniture also missing. In these panels I noticed the crowned initial A carved over and over again, endless reminders of the once-royal blood that still flowed in the Allenby veins.

I clucked my tongue at the carvings. There were royals within my own family, but most of them were not the sort worth remembering, I reflected wryly. For all our exalted history, the Marches were very much country gentry, deeply connected to the land and its people. We had a gallery of painted ancestors, but as their exploits were always of the wildly eccentric and deeply embarrassing sort, I had learned to ignore them. I was much more attached to the modern, American idea of finding merit in one's efforts rather than one's birth. But I had little doubt the Allenbys would find such a notion heresy.

I crossed the hall again, feeling very intrepid indeed as I made my way into the dust-sheeted room next to Brisbane's bedchamber. I crept through, scarcely heeding the ominous, ghostly shapes in the half-light. I was bound for Brisbane's inner sanctum, for reasons that did me no credit.

"Curiosity is a dangerous pastime," I reminded myself as I edged into his room. But then so is love. I sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment, breathing in the scent of him. It was an easy thing to imagine him there, lying with his black hair tumbled across the soft white linen of the pillow. I put out a hand to touch it, then drew it back in haste.

He had made his bed, skilfully as any housemaid would have done, and I was suddenly glad of it. I had been seized with such a tremendous sense of longing I might well have lain down.

I surged up from the bed, realising I had strayed into rather dangerous territory. I had not come to build castles in Spain, I told myself firmly. I had come to find some clue as to Brisbane's state of mind as master of Grimsgrave.

His trunk yielded nothing unexpected, save a copy of Socrates in Greek, the endpapers heavily marked in Brisbane's distinctive hand. I had known he had a facility for languages, but I had not realised Greek was among them.

I tucked it neatly back into his travelling trunk, along with a small leather purse full of what seemed to be Chinese coins, and a set of false white whiskers so realistic I started back in fright at the sight of them. I had seen Brisbane in them once before and had not known him, I reflected with a smile. We had come quite far since then, and yet not far at all.

I rose and moved to the covered table in the corner, lifting the linen cloth carefully. A set of scientific instruments reposed there, some chemists' glass, a scale, and most impressively of all, a microscope even finer than Valerius'. "No wonder Brisbane keeps that under cover," I mused. "He would never know a moment's peace if Valerius suspected this was here."

"Talking to oneself is the first sign of a disordered mind." I whirled to find Lady Allenby standing in the doorway, leaning upon her rosewood walking stick, her expression gently reproving.

I dropped the cloth and straightened. "I was just—"

Her expression softened and she held up a hand. "There is no need to explain, my dear. I was once your age. And I was in love."

I took a deep breath. "Is it so obvious?"

"Only to someone who has also suffered."

I dropped my head. "It isn't always dreadful, you know. In fact, it is rather wonderful most of the time."

She gave me a moment to compose myself. I took a deep breath and forced a smile.

"I was looking over the other rooms as well. The dining room and the great hall. They must have been magnificent."

"There were Jacobean suites of furniture in each of them, the finest English oak, carved by a master's hands. They were sold along the way, with the Flemish tapestries and the French porcelains," she added with a sigh. "So much of this place lost. It will be a mercy, I think, to leave it behind."

I marvelled at her courage, twisted and wracked with pain, forced to leave the only home she had ever known.

"I hope you will be happy in your new home," I said impulsively. It seemed a stupid sentiment. Who could be happy in such circumstances, torn up by the very roots?

"God will provide. As will Mr. Brisbane. He might have turned us out into the streets to starve, you know. We must be grateful that he is a generous man."

"Or perhaps he feels kindly toward old friends," I ventured, watching her closely. She blinked a little, but her expression of gentle kindliness did not falter.

"Ah, I suppose Ailith has told you they knew each other as children? Well, do not be misled by that. Their acquaintance was of short duration. Mr. Brisbane was, er, travelling, with his mother's family at the time," she said, neatly glossing over the fact that the gentleman who now owned her house had once been a wild half-Gypsy boy. She went on smoothly. "They passed through, every spring. And you know what children are, always swearing eternal friendship, then quite forgetting one another when the season has passed. Ailith did not even know him when he first arrived here in January, he is so changed."

I remained silent, wondering whether Ailith's attachment to Brisbane had been deeper than her mother knew.

Lady Allenby looked around her for the first time, taking in the small room and its tidy complement of furnishings. "This was my son's room," she said suddenly.

She turned away then, and I knew she was thinking of the son she had lost so precipitously. "I wonder if you would like to see Redwall's things," she said, almost hopefully.

Nothing could have appealed to me less than sorting through the possessions of a dead man, but Lady Allenby had been very gracious, and I did not like to offend her.

"Of course."

We entered the long room I had passed through the previous night. She busied herself lighting a few lamps to throw off the chill and the shadows. Without the gloom, the room seemed more inviting, the shrouds less sinister. The tops of the walls were decorated with the same frieze as the small bedchamber—a riverbank, edged with marsh grasses and flights of birds taking wing. Here and there a lily bloomed, pale and fragile against the delicate green grasses, and near the corner a graceful gazelle stopped to drink from the river. It was beautifully done, and I remarked upon it to Lady Allenby.

"Oh, yes. Ailith painted that. She's rather clever at such things, and it was a present for Redwall after he returned from his travels in Egypt. He was quite taken with the decorations of the tombs, and brought back many drawings, and even a few plates taken by the expedition's photographer."

"Egypt—how exciting! I should love to travel. I have only been to the Continent, but Africa seems another world entirely."

She smiled, her expression nostalgic. "It was to Redwall. He was never happier than when he was reading his books about the pharaohs or working on his models of the tombs and temples. I am afraid it was rather difficult for him to leave Egypt behind. I believe Ailith thought he would pine less if he had something of the place here in his private rooms. Let me show you something."

She moved toward the nearest dustsheet and tossed it aside with a theatrical flair. I swallowed a gasp. There was a long, low couch, fashioned of thin strips of woven leather and held aloft by a pair of golden leopards.

"Astonishing," I breathed, moving closer. I dared not touch it. The gilt of the cats' spots was alternated with blue enamel, the eyes set with great pieces of amber that glowed in the lamplight.

"It is a fake, of course," she told me, regretfully, I fancied. "Redwall purchased many treasures in Egypt. He wanted to furnish all of Grimsgrave in the Egyptian style. Much of what he purchased is of no value—modern reproductions of the furniture of the pharaoh's tombs, although I believe some of the smaller pieces and the papyri may be worth something. And there is some jewellery as well. I seem to recall a few pretty things amongst these bits." She gestured toward the other shrouds in the room, and I turned slowly on my heel, thinking rapidly.

"All of these dustsheets are covering his antiquities?" I asked her.

"Most of them. The others are covering boxes of smaller statues and amulets, boxes of jewellery, his collection of scholarly works and publications. My son travelled for many years, you understand. He often sent things back and we stored them as best we could. This was his workroom, then beyond, in the room Mr. Brisbane uses as a bedchamber, was Redwall's private study. When Mr. Brisbane came, Redwall's things were moved into this room to give him a bedchamber on the ground floor. One must observe the proprieties, even here," she finished with a wan smile.

I took a deep breath and plunged into what I was afraid might be a colossal piece of impudence.

"Lady Allenby, I do hope you will forgive me for speaking so frankly. You have given me to understand that your son's death has left you and your daughters in rather straitened circumstances."

She opened her mouth to speak, but I hurried on, afraid both that she would accept my proposal and that she would reject it. I had suddenly seen how the Allenbys might be made solvent again, and I was certain that in some fashion I was conspiring against some larger scheme of Brisbane's. I had no notion how, precisely, only that I was very sure he would not have cause to thank me for what I was about to do.

"It is entirely possible that within this room may lay your salvation. Have you a catalogue of what pieces Sir Redwall brought from Egypt?"

She shook her head. "No. I have his letters, and in those he talks about a few of the larger items, but if he kept an inventory, I do not know of it."

"Then one must be made," I said boldly. "You told me that Mr. Brisbane was preparing a home for you. Surely you will have no room for this collection there."

"No, of course not," she said slowly. "I confess I hoped not to. The Egyptian things have never been to my taste. I find them rather gruesome. It was something of a relief to be able to put them all in here and close the door."

I felt a glimmer of hope. If she had been relieved not to see the things, she might well have no objections to my plan.

"This room will have to be cleared for Mr. Brisbane's use eventually, and you will not be able to keep the things. Why not let me prepare a catalogue and make some inquiries for you? My brother, Lord Bellmont, is rather good friends with the director of the British Museum. Perhaps he can arrange for the museum to purchase some of the items. Or, failing that, we could no doubt interest one of the antiquities dealers in London in mounting an exhibition with an eye to selling the entire collection. Scholars will certainly be interested in his papers and books and the papyri, and collectors will be terribly keen for the rest of it. Even society ladies will go mad for the reproductions. Egyptian décor is rather in vogue just now, you know."

I paused, and for a long, terrible moment Lady Allenby said nothing. Then she swallowed hard and looked down at the dustsheet still clutched in her knobby fingers.

"You are very practical, my dear. And as I suspected, very clever. It might well be an end to all of our money troubles. But I do not think—"

She broke off and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Just as quickly as she had broken down, she composed herself, her posture once more erect, her eyes dry.

"I do not think I could bear to touch his things, nor could Ailith. Hilda might, if you could ever run her to ground, but I fear we would be of little help to you."

I felt a surge of relief. "I do not care about that, I assure you. If I have need of assistance, I am quite certain I can persuade my brother, Valerius, to lend a hand. I would be happy to take this on, and if you will permit me, I will write to Bellmont tonight to set things in motion."

Lady Allenby paused another long moment, then nodded. "In that case, I accept your generous offer with one caveat. Do you think it would be possible to arrange the sale without bringing the Allenby name into it?"

I started to protest, but she held up a hand. "I realise the interest would be much greater if Redwall's name was attached, but it has been so difficult already, with the sale of the house, and being dependent upon Mr. Brisbane's good graces. The sale of our furnishings has been discreet. We have so few visitors. Very few know how dire our situation has become. I should not like it to be known that we were forced to sell Redwall's things."

I laid a hand on her arm. "Of course. I shall make certain the entire affair is handled with discretion."

She smiled then, and for an instant I saw the staggering beauty she must once have been.

"Thank you, my dear." She glanced about the room, her expression unfathomable. "I only hope you do not come to regret your generous offer."

I laughed at the time, but much later I realised that had I never offered to arrange for the sale of Redwall Allenby's possessions, nothing that followed would have happened, and one of the few inhabitants of Grimsgrave Hall would still be alive.

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

Youth is hot and bold; age is weak and cold.

—William Shakespeare

"The Passionate Pilgrim XII"

I passed the rest of the morning attending to the various grievances and demands of the maids and the pets. Morag complained bitterly about sharing her room with Minna, and the dogs, my own Florence and Portia's Puggy, demanded to be walked. Minna cheerfully offered to attend to the animals, even to the extent of feeding my raven, Grim, when she was finished with the dogs.

"Thank you, Minna," I told her. "Mind you wrap up well when you take them out, and keep to the moor path. They needn't go far, and Florence will want her little coat."

She bobbed a curtsey. "And what about Puggy, my lady?"

"God himself could not kill that dog. I doubt a little cold air will do him any harm. Take a shawl for yourself as well, my dear. We don't want you taking a chill."

Minna smiled her dimpled little smile and hurried off to her charges. I turned to Morag who was busy plumping the bedpillows.

"You might take a leaf out of her book," I advised her. "Minna is always ready to lend a hand, no matter if it is her job or not."

Morag gave a deep sniff. "I am making the bed, am I not? Not that I've a choice." Her voice dropped to a mutter. "No chambermaids. What sort of household is this, I ask you?"

"A poor one," I told her severely. "Now mind your tongue. The Allenbys cannot help their reduced circumstances."

Morag tipped her head, a sudden malicious light in her eyes. "But the Allenbys dinna actually own Grimsgrave, now do they? It's Mr. Brisbane who ought to be hiring the maids, isn't it?"

I flicked a glance at the bed. "You've made a mess of those sheets. The bed will have to be completely made over."

She was still complaining under her breath when I left her, but as that was Morag's customary state, I paid her scant attention.

I found Portia at length on the staircase. She had paused on the landing and was sitting in the panelled window embrasure, looking out over the vast stretch of moorland.

"Brisbane has gone," I said, settling in next to her.

She blinked at me. "You must be jesting—no, it cannot possibly be a jest. It isn't funny in the least."

"He has gone to Edinburgh on business, and said he will return in a few days, which may well be a fortnight or longer for all I know."

"Oh, isn't that just like a man to ruin a thrilling romantic gesture by leaving as soon as you've come rushing up here to sweep him into your arms and declare your love for him?"

"What a revolting image. You must stop reading novels, Portia. They are ruining you."

Portia snorted. "Do not ask me to believe you weren't thinking precisely the same thing. You expected him to take one look at you and fall to one knee and propose instantly."

I smoothed my skirts primly. "Yes, well. Brisbane has never done what was expected of him. I did, however, make it quite clear to him before he left that I intended we should settle the question of our connection once and for all upon his return."

"And you think he will hurry back for that, do you?"

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother to confide in you," I told her irritably.

I fell to nibbling my lip in silence, and Portia stared out at the ceaseless, restless moor.

"This is the most desolate place I have ever seen," she said tonelessly.

"Oh, it isn't as bad as all that," I replied. "Miss Allenby took me for a walk this morning, and I thought the moor quite pretty. Desperately cold, of course, but pretty. You ought to come out with me after luncheon."

Portia rolled her eyes. "There is no luncheon. It is called dinner here, or hadn't you heard? And they sit in the kitchen, and they take every meal there, like savages."

I pinched her arm. "Hush. The Allenbys keep country ways. They cannot afford to heat the dining room."

"Ah, but Brisbane is now responsible for the cost of heating this place," she corrected, echoing Morag's sentiments.

"It makes no difference," I told her repressively. "They sold the furniture. There is nothing to sit upon and no table to set, so it is the kitchen for you, my girl. Pretend you are at Wuthering Heights. Everyone there ate in the kitchen."

Portia affected a faraway look and shivered, calling in a high voice, "Heathcliff, where are you? I'm so cooooooold."

I shoved her. "Don't be such an ass."

She rose with a sigh. "I fear lunch, er, dinner will be something quite provincial. Game pie and boiled cabbage, unless I am very much mistaken."

I linked my arm through hers and drew her down the stairs. "You are a terrible snob, Portia. Have I ever told you that?"

"Frequently."

The rest of the household had already assembled in the kitchen by the time we arrived. Mrs. Butters was scurrying between oven and table, and although Portia raised her eyes significantly at the sight of the game pie and the bowls of boiled cabbage, I thought the table looked extremely inviting. A clean cloth had been laid, and although it had been mended, it was done with great skill and care, the stitches tiny and precise. A cheap glass vase had been filled with an armful of nodding daffodils, lending an air of gaiety to the room. The serving dishes were pewter rather than silver, but the mellow glow served the room, I decided, and the food itself smelled wonderfully appetising.

Besides the pie and the cabbage, there were dishes of pickles and a large fresh cheese, a great cottage loaf of new bread, and a clutch of boiled eggs. There was even a bowl of newly-picked salad greens, lightly dressed, and a tiny dish of mushrooms fried to crispness.

Lady Allenby was already seated, her walking stick braced against her chair. She motioned to me and I took the chair next to her, while Portia seated herself opposite. Ailith Allenby was helping Mrs. Butters, moving smoothly to carry the last few dishes and to pour a pitcher of beer for the table. In the corner, Jetty was scraping scraps into a basket by the sink, her mouth slack as she looked Portia over carefully from head to foot. I could not blame her. Portia was dressed in a particularly luscious shade of cherry that became her exceedingly well. I had no doubt Jetty had ever seen such a garment in this grey and gloomy corner of England.

Just then the kitchen door opened and a tall man entered, shrugging off a worn tweed coat and doffing his flat cap. He paused a moment to hang his things on a peg by the door, and I took the opportunity to study the newcomer. He was Brisbane's opposite in almost every way. Though they were both tall men and muscular, this man was blond, with startling blue eyes and lines on his face that marked where he smiled, deeply and often. They were of an age, but it was clear to see from their faces that they had lived very different lives. This was an outdoorsman, a simple man, with simple tastes, I decided; one who would be happy with merely a roof over his head and a fire in his hearth.

He glanced up then, and caught my eye, smiling. I looked away, but he strode to the table, offering his hand.

"You must be one of the ladies from London. Lady Julia or Lady Bettiscombe?"

Before I could reply, Lady Allenby thrust his hand away from mine. "Godwin, manners! You must wait to be presented to a lady, and you have not yet washed."

His smile did not falter. He withdrew his hand and contented himself with a wink. "I will go and make myself presentable then," he said, casting his glance wider to include my sister. Portia raised her brows at him as he moved to the sink, dropping a kiss upon Mrs. Butters' cap as he reached for the cake of soap. "Hello, Jetty, my love," he said to the bashful hired girl. "Have you had a pleasant morning?" To my astonishment, the mockery had dropped from his tone, and there was only gentle affection.

The little maid flushed with pleasure and smiled, a great wide smile that showed a mouthful of crooked teeth as she giggled.

Mrs. Butters laughed and scolded him for being in the way, but Lady Allenby was not so forgiving.

"I do hope you will excuse him, Lady Julia," she murmured. "We have despaired of teaching him how to conduct himself. I am afraid we are so isolated here, it is difficult to maintain the proper distance. And he is family, I suppose," she trailed off, and I thought about the tapestry in the great hall. I had not seen his name stitched there, but then I had not looked for it. I made a mental note to investigate after the meal and hurried to reassure Lady Allenby.

"Think nothing of it, Lady Allenby. I completely understand."

Godwin finished washing himself and hurried to take a seat at the table. He had his pick of either the chair by Portia or the one next to me, but he chose to partner Portia, offering her his handshake, which she accepted with lazy grace. He complimented her costume and was just moving on to how well it suited her complexion when Ailith sat between her mother and Portia, leaving two empty chairs for Valerius and the mysterious Hilda.

As if thinking had conjured him, Valerius entered then, nodding graciously toward Lady Allenby, and casting a hasty glance over the rest of the table.

"My apologies. Miss Hilda was showing me her chickens," he explained hastily.

I stared at him in astonishment. I had not even seen her, but Valerius had already befriended the mysterious Hilda in the poultry yard. I ought not to have been surprised. Val, like all the March men, was singularly personable, with both charm and good looks to recommend him. I longed to ask him how he had met her, but before I had a chance to speak, a young woman hurried in, throwing herself down breathlessly in the remaining empty chair.

"Sorry, Mama," she said shortly. The woman, who I took to be Miss Hilda, filled her plate and began to eat with as much vigour as a farmhand.

"Hilda," her mother said sharply. "You have not made the acquaintance of Mr. Brisbane's guests. You will kindly greet Lady Bettiscombe and Lady Julia Grey, and pray they will forgive your churlishness."

Hilda laid down her fork and gave two short nods, one in my direction, one in Portia's, and shot a quick smile at Val, then took up her fork and began to eat again with astonishing rapidity.

"Lady Bettiscombe, Lady Julia, I hope you will overlook my daughter's poor manners. I assure you she is more gently bred than she has given you cause to believe."

If Hilda was annoyed at her mother's criticism, she gave no sign of it. She merely continued to eat, working her way rapidly through a second piece of pie before the rest of us had finished the first. She did not look up from her plate, but there was an awareness, an energy that fairly vibrated from her that made me wonder if she were not as curious about us as we were about her.

I scrutinised her closely as she ate, observing that she was nothing so pretty as her sister. Where in Ailith long limbs and a slender neck had given an appearance of elegance and delicacy, in Hilda they were coltish and awkward. Her elbows flapped as she ate, giving her the demeanour of a restless grasshopper. Her eyes were fixed upon her food, but I had seen a glimpse of their muddy grey hue when she had glanced in my direction, and I did not think I was mistaken in believing I had detected a keen intelligence there. Her clothes were appalling. One might expect that of an impoverished woman, but hers were particularly nasty, of masculine cut and carrying with them the distinct odour of the poultry yard. I thought I saw Val's nostrils twitch ever so slightly, but he was too well-bred to offer less than perfect courtesy to a lady. He made some low remark to her and she replied with a grunt and a shrug of her shoulders while her mother and sister attempted to make polite conversation.

Lady Allenby nodded toward the enormous pie. "Have you enough there, Mr. Valerius? There is plenty, and you have only to let Ailith know if you would like something more. I am afraid we must serve ourselves," she finished. As we had settled into our meal, Mrs. Butters had filled plates for herself and the maids, then retired to her room to entertain them.

I remarked upon it, and Lady Allenby smiled apologetically. "An unconventional arrangement, but it was the most suitable we could devise under the circumstances. When we dine alone, we do not trouble if Mrs. Butters joins us at table, but of course it would not do to have the maids. One doesn't like to dine with staff," she finished on a deliberately cheerful note.

"No, one doesn't," Hilda echoed, throwing a meaningful look at Godwin.

He put his head back and roared with laughter. "Shall I take my plate and eat in the sheepfold then?"

Lady Allenby's face had gone quite white and pinched. "Hilda! Godwin! That is enough. What will our guests think of you—" She broke off then, doubtless remembering that she was no longer mistress of Grimsgrave. I felt a surge of pity for her. The pattern of her life would have been settled and predictable before her family's fortunes had fallen so dramatically. The question of where to put the servants for meals would never have arisen during the simpler times of her youth.

I turned to Ailith. "Tell me, Miss Allenby, what do you do for amusement?"

She patted her lips with a napkin and replied, but I was not listening. For some unaccountable reason I felt a desperate urge to keep the conversation civil, and I asked dozens of questions, most of Ailith and Godwin, determined to keep attention away from the prickly Hilda.

Ailith Allenby, I noticed, ate little, and what she did eat was consumed in tiny, delicate bites, and chewed very slowly. In contrast, Godwin filled his plate three times, eating heartily and laughing loudly. He was no gentleman, but he was merry and friendly, and if he was overly-familiar, it was an easy fault to forgive. The pale atheling looks that were so striking in the elder Allenby ladies had darkened to a gilded sort of masculinity in him. His hands, broad and thickly callused, were surprisingly graceful, and his features, although not as finely-limned as Ailith's, were every bit as arresting.

More than once I found my eyes drifting to his over the meal, and more than once he shot me a mischievous wink when he thought no one else was paying attention. He put me a little in mind of Lucian Snow, the curate at the parish church at my father's country estate at Bellmont Abbey in Blessingstoke. I could only hope Godwin Allenby made a better end than Mr. Snow, I thought with a shudder.

After the midday meal, the gentlemen left again—Godwin to attend to his sheep while Valerius struck out to explore the moor. Hilda scurried away as soon as the last spoonful of pudding had been swallowed, and the other Allenby ladies retired to their rooms. "A little repose just after dinner is the best thing for digestion," Lady Allenby said, although I suspected she needed the rest more for her twisted joints than as an aid to digestion. She had eaten almost as much as Godwin, and I marvelled at her still-slender figure. Perhaps Rosalie's mint tonic had been just the thing to spur her appetite.

Mrs. Butters bustled in to clear the dinner things, and Portia and I left to take a turn in the garden. I warned her to bundle up, but the sun had come out, and the afternoon was warmer, if not exactly pleasant. We strolled aimlessly, exploring the various gardens, arguing mildly over what each of the ruins had been. We finally settled on a water garden to the east of the house, fed by the reedy pond that lay just in front of the main façade, and an orchard farther on, the trees now badly overgrown and desperately in need of attention.

Portia brushed a litter of dead leaves from a crumbling stone bench and sat heavily. "The entire place is a wreck. I wonder that Brisbane even took it on. He could not have known what he was letting himself in for. It will take a fortune to make it right again, and the passion of someone who wants to reclaim it."

"Oh, I don't know," I said thoughtfully, turning slowly on my heel to survey the entire orchard. "Really, it wants a lot of pruning and perhaps some repairs to the walls. The paths need to be marked out freshly, of course, and it could do with a new ornament or two. That cupid is quite nasty," I finished, nodding toward a derelict statue that looked more like a small devil than the embodiment of Love.

Portia sighed. "I meant the estate, dearest, not the orchard. There is hardly a room fit to live in, and the entire east wing has fallen into disuse. Lady Allenby gave me a tour of the place whilst you were about with Ailith."

"I poked about the public rooms earlier," I confessed, coming to sit beside her. "Did you see the tapestry? All those little stitched crowns?"

Portia nodded, her expression faraway. "They are a bit ancestor-mad, I think."

"But why? I mean, we've kings and queens perched in the family tree, and we do not go about putting it on the walls for everyone to see."

"Because we have never lost it," Portia pointed out patiently. "The Allenbys haven't been royal since the time of Canute. Do I mean Canute? Was he Saxon?"

"Danish, I think." It was difficult to remember. We had had several governesses, none with a very firm grasp of history.

Portia shook her head. "In any event, the Allenbys probably lost everything except their royal blood when the Normans came in and upset the apple cart. They've no grand titles. They are marooned out here like Robinson Crusoe and Friday, with no proper company and a house that is threatening to fall down over their heads at any moment. Is it any wonder they cling to what little prestige they once had? If nothing else it gives them something to lord over the neighbours."

"Speaking of neighbours…" I began. I told Portia about Rosalie Smith, describing her little cottage in great detail, and finishing with our mysterious conversation.

When I had done, I pulled the little charm from my pocket and dropped it into Portia's palm. "What do you think she meant? What protection should I require? And why should she be a friend to me?"

Portia pressed it back into my hand. "Julia, you have seen enough Gypsies to know their tricks. She means to frighten you. I'd wager a fiver the next time you go, she will speak of death stalking your shadow and promise to banish him for a pound, and ensure your good health if you buy a candle for another shilling."

I replaced the charm carefully in my pocket. "You've grown cynical in your old age."

"And you are still foolish in yours," she returned, though not as harshly as she might have. "That Hilda is rather beastly, don't you think? She smells of the poultry yard. Dreadful clothes."

"I suspect they are suitable for her purposes," I said slowly. "But she seems highly put out that we have come. I wonder if we are somehow upsetting her apple cart?"

Portia shrugged. "I cannot imagine how. Lady Allenby told me all she does is keep chickens and walk on the moor. God knows I shan't interfere with either of those occupations. Perhaps she's just peevish. Like Nerissa."

The mention of our crabby elder sister set both our mouths twitching.

"What do you think of Godwin?" Portia asked.

I tipped my head, thinking of his handsome face and warm smile. "A rogue, but not a serious one. He seems a merry sort, doubtless wanting for company here," I said, casting a look about the deserted ruin of the orchard.

"But Deborah, the innkeeper's sister, said he was popular with women. He must go into the village. I wonder," she trailed off.

"Yes?" I prodded her.

She shook her head, casting off her reverie. "I wonder if he is entirely trustworthy about women. I am worried for Minna."

I laughed aloud. "Minna? Our little Cockney cabbage? Why on earth should you worry for her?"

"Because she has never been out of London. Because all the men she knows are pale and thin and weedy. Because Godwin Allenby is a big strapping man who radiates health and animal good looks and would be very attractive to a girl of Minna's class."

I considered. "I suppose you are right. I hadn't thought of it, but he is very different from the London lads. The accent alone would make him seem exotic to her."

Portia snorted. "I can scarcely make out one word in three. What the devil was he talking about at luncheon?"

"Dinner," I corrected. "He was talking about the view from Thorn Crag, and telling us we ought to make our way up there on a fine day. He claims we could see all the way to Scotland, which I highly doubt, but it is enticing."

Portia goggled at me. "You learned all of that from the gibberish he was talking? How on earth did you make him out?"

I shrugged. "After Morag, I imagine I could understand anyone. In any event, you needn't worry about Minna. I shall tell Morag to keep an eye open, and we will all have a care for her. I am very fond of Minna, as I know you are. Besides," I finished with a shiver, "I should hate to be the one to explain to Mrs. Birch how we let her eldest daughter stray from the path of virtue. I am rather frightened of Mrs. Birch."

Portia nodded solemnly. "As are we all." She was silent a long moment, then she seemed to gather herself and rose from the bench. "I suppose we had better make some plans to put the house in order," she said. "We must tread carefully. I know Brisbane owns the house, but I cannot help but feel the Allenbys are still very much mistresses here."

I thought of Ailith and her corn-gold hair and wide blue eyes, her exquisite grace and her easy self-assurance. And I thought of Brisbane, immured here for the long cold months of winter with nothing to do but sit opposite that beautiful face and marvel at its perfection.

And I felt a surge of determination.

I rose and shook out my skirts, brushing the odd leaf from their folds. "Do not worry, Portia. They may have held sway here in the past, but this is a new day."

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

He that dies pays all debts.

—William Shakespeare

The Tempest

After our conversation in the orchard, Portia retired to rest whilst I made excuses to remain downstairs. She shrugged and went on her way, and I scurried to make certain no one was lingering in the hall as I slipped into Sir Redwall's study. I had little doubt Brisbane would not appreciate my efforts to help the Allenbys, and until I knew why, I had no intention of letting him discover it.

I could hear Mrs. Butters humming a hymn tunelessly to herself and the occasional giggle from Jetty as they scrubbed the kitchen, but once I closed the door behind me there was only the cool silence of the deserted room.

Deserted, and yet populated with treasures I could only imagine. I scarcely breathed as I moved between the dust-sheeted heaps, wondering which held riches from a pharaoh's tomb, and which the crude trinkets fashioned for picking a tourist's pocket. And I wondered if I should be able to tell the difference. I had no experience with Egyptology beyond attending a few lectures in London and the unrolling of a mummy that a certain duchess had arranged as an entertainment. It had been a gruesome evening, but thrilling nonetheless, and as I picked my way through Sir Redwall's possessions, I wondered what I would do if a mummy lay amongst them.

I twitched aside a dozen dustsheets, tantalised by the glimpses of polished stone and gilded wood, the flashes of gold—or perhaps something baser. I itched to fling them all aside, but I knew there was no method to that, and if I was not a properly-trained Egyptologist, at least I knew enough to have a care with the items. Since I did not know which was truly valuable and which was worthless rubbish, I decided to handle them all as though they were priceless, a sensible precaution under the circumstances, I thought. And I would catalogue the items as I found them. I would have preferred to group them like with like, but the conditions of the room made that impossible. There simply was not sufficient space to alter the current arrangements, and as it was, moving the furniture and statuary would require a great deal of muscle—muscle I had no inclination to find at present. In spite of my assurances to Lady Allenby, I did not wish to involve Valerius before it was absolutely necessary. I had little doubt Godwin would be happy to help, but it seemed prudent to keep a bit of distance until I knew him better, and as for Brisbane, the less he knew of my plans for the present, the happier I would be, I was convinced.

After a lengthy search I found the desk, an enormous thing with dozens of drawers and a handsome bit of carved detail. There was nothing of Egypt about this piece. It was of good English oak and more than a hundred years old, judging by the patina. I ran a hand over its surface, smooth as satin from years of careful polishing. The pigeonholes still held paper, and I found a few sheets of foolscap to begin my notes.

As I opened the drawers, searching for a pen or bit of pencil, I realised the desk had not been cleared out after Sir Redwall's death. His diary lay open to a date from the previous summer, the page annotated in a spidery masculine scrawl. It took a bit to decipher it, but it was a note to himself: Unwell today. Dosed twice with q. I flipped to the previous page and there was the note: Felt poorly. Single dose. I continued to flip back and each page had a note about his health and sometimes estate business, each item marked with a little tick, presumably after he had concluded the matter. Speak to Godwin about gardener's cottage. Arrange sale of little pasture. Letter from SB. Some of the days were noted with tiny drawings, hieroglyphs from the look of them. His handwriting had grown progressively more feeble over the weeks before his death, a sign of his deteriorating health, no doubt. But had he realised he was dying? He had, by his own hand, arranged for the sale of one of his pastures. Surely he had known the failing state of his fortunes. Had he planned some retrenchment before his death and been unable to carry it out?

I closed the diary and moved on through the pigeonholes and little drawers, finding nothing of value but everything of interest. There were no letters from SB, nothing to indicate if this had been an inamorata or a business associate or even another scholar of Egyptology. I would have expected letters from creditors, but there were none. I found a tiny scarab, its enamel long since lost, and a small ball of bits of twine, carefully saved and wrapped neatly. There was a penknife, a handsome thing marked with the initials AA. I took it to be his father's, Sir Alfred's, saved for sentimental reasons, or perhaps simply because it was an item of good quality. The dockets for correspondence were neatly labelled, To be answered, To be read, To be filed, but empty save for a few mouldering issues of periodicals pertaining to Egyptology. I scanned them for articles penned by Sir Redwall, but found none. This was not entirely unexpected. Many gentlemen preferred to use a nom de plume when writing professionally. I laughed at the obviously false soubriquet St. John Malachy-LaPlante, and those I laid aside. It was not entirely impossible that Sir Redwall had written them himself.

The rest of the desk revealed nothing of note. If Sir Redwall had left debts, someone had removed the bills, perhaps with an eye to satisfying the creditors. I assembled a few items I should need—paper, ink, pen, blotting paper, gluepot, even a clever little notebook that had never been used—and tidied the rest away, thinking to put them in the largest bottom drawer. I opened it, and realised I had missed something. There was an album of sorts wedged into the bottom, and I prised it loose with the aid of the paperknife. It was an old-fashioned leather album covered in black kidskin. I opened it and read the inscription: The property of Redwall Allenby 1858. I did the subtraction quickly. The album was a child's then, begun when he was still a schoolboy.

I glanced through the first few pages, past the reports of his tutors, pasted carefully in with little notes from his father and clippings from newspapers. They were yellowed and crumbling and I smiled at the thought of the boy carefully cutting the columns and pasting them into his album. Most were pieces about Sir Alfred, lauding his career and praising the Allenby family. Clearly the boy had shared his mother's pride in their name and accomplishments.

And then, sadly, a death notice, heavily bordered in black, mourning the passing of Sir Alfred. I worked the dates again and realised Redwall would not have been more than twelve, so young to have lost his father. I knew what it meant to lose a parent in childhood, but as I had been only six when my mother passed, I felt Redwall's loss must have been keener. I hardly remembered my mother—only a rustle of taffeta, the scent of her perfume. At least Redwall had had his album to comfort him.

I turned faster now, skimming quickly. There were letters from Lady Allenby, addressed to Redwall at university, then in care of postes restantes abroad, as well as various hotels. Then came notices in the newspapers announcing his appointment to the Egyptological expedition mounted by Lord Evandale and seconded by St. John Malachy-LaPlante, the Comte de Roselende. So the silly name was authentic after all, I mused, and not a pseudonym of Redwall's. I wondered how Redwall had felt at being selected for the excavation party. Had he been thrilled to finally see the ruins he had studied for so long? Or had he been apprehensive, a stranger in a strange land, uncertain of himself so far away from his native heath? Perhaps his years of travel had inured him to the exoticism of Egypt. The differences between the windy Yorkshire moors and the burning desert sands of Egypt did not bear thinking about.

The rest of the book was blank. If Redwall had kept a journal of his adventures in Egypt, it was elsewhere, and I hoped I would discover something of the sort as I cleared out his things. He was an interesting character, I decided, and I would like to know more about him.

There was another volume, this one slender and bound in scarlet kid, a collection of love poems of the Egyptians in translation. The paper was thin and soft, perhaps with much handling, for the cover was worn so badly that the gilt of the title was almost completely obscured. I thumbed a few of the pages, struck by the passionate language.

"This will be further reading," I murmured, and tucked the volume into my pocket.

Suddenly mindful of the time, I tidied away a stray curl and bundled my supplies into the drawer, stuffing the scrapbook into its place on the bottom. It would make excellent reading for some rainy day, I had no doubt, but the room had suddenly grown much darker and I realised how long I had been about my task.

After supper that night, the household sat by the kitchen fireside. Godwin was apparently not expected to tarry with the family, for he left directly supper was finished and did not return. Ailith Allenby said little, her golden head bent over her needlework. Portia had taken a book of poetry from her pocket, but it sat on her lap, unread, the pages unturned. Valerius chatted to Hilda about his discoveries regarding the drains in Lesser Howlett, and she listened with little grace, nodding once or twice and deigning to speak a syllable or two when she thought no one else was listening. It was left to Lady Allenby and me to carry the conversation, and we did so by discussing the garden. She described it as it had been in her youth, lush and bountiful, providing more than enough food for the family and the staff.

"Of course, we had more than just Mrs. Butters then," she said with a little laugh, "although she was with us. That was long before she married Butters. She was just little Martha the kitchenmaid then, with hair in two great plaits down to her waist and clumsy hands. Cook used to curse her for breaking plates, if I remember. But she grew quite skilled in time, and eventually she married Mr. Butters, a tradesman in the village. I always thought it a great pity they had no children. She would have been a wonderful mother. But they were not blessed, and then Mr. Butters took ill and died. So much has changed since then." She broke off, her eyes misty with reminiscence.

"Little of it for the better," Hilda put in suddenly. She ignored the reproving glance of her mother.

"How long has Mrs. Butters been a widow?" I queried.

"Oh, it must be thirty years past. She and Mr. Butters had the cottage on the moor as their own. They kept it so nicely. Butters dearly loved to putter in the garden when he was not wanted in his shop. But when he died, it seemed better for Mrs. Butters to stay here in the main house rather than out on the moor by herself."

"The cottage on the moor? Do you mean the one where Rosalie Smith lives?"

Lady Allenby nodded. "Yes. She has been there a very long time," she added dismissively.

A long time indeed, I thought rapidly. If Rosalie had moved in directly Mrs. Butters had left, she had lived in the little cottage for thirty years, and yet she looked scarcely more than forty.

"Gypsies age better than we," Hilda put in, correctly interpreting my thoughts. "Perhaps they have some pact with the devil."

"Hilda!" her mother said sharply. She crossed herself and kissed the rosary at her belt. Hilda looked down at her work-roughened hands, but I saw that a tiny smile played over her lips. Portia and Ailith had heard the remark and let their own conversation lapse. Lady Allenby looked from Portia to me.

"Sometimes my daughter confuses pertness with wit," Lady Allenby observed coldly.

If Hilda was disturbed by her mother's cutting remark, she masked it well. She merely turned to stare into the fire, her conversation with Valerius clearly at an end. My brother busied himself with a newspaper a fortnight out of date, but I fancied he heard everything.

"Think nothing of it." Portia waved a lazy hand. "We are an irreligious family."

Lady Allenby's expression stiffened. "I am sorry to hear it. I think there can be no true satisfaction in a life that is not virtuous."

Portia flashed her a winsome smile. "Oh, I manage. If you will excuse me," she said, rising, "I am feeling a trifle unwell. I think I would like to retire early this evening."

It was the grossest discourtesy to excuse herself early, but Lady Allenby's disapproval melted instantly, and she was solicitous, determined to send for Minna to tend to Portia.

"Not necessary, I assure you. It is only a headache. A good night's sleep will put me to rights, and I am certain the moorland air is cure enough."

Lady Allenby smiled warmly at this observation, and I marvelled at Portia's ability to offend on one hand and ingratiate on the other.

Ever attentive, Ailith rose and lit a candle for Portia, leading her into the darkened hall and bidding her good-night.

Lady Allenby leaned near to me whilst she was away. "I do hope you and Ailith will become friends. I know it is presumptuous of me to say it, but she has so little opportunity for good company here. She suffers so from loneliness."

If I was taken aback by the words, the sincere warmth beneath them won my sympathy. I glanced to where Ailith's natural companion, her own sister, sat sullenly staring into the fire. "I would like that, too, Lady Allenby."

She smiled and I introduced the topic of chickens then, and when Ailith returned we were peaceably debating the merits of brown eggs versus white. Almost against her will, Hilda was drawn into the conversation, chickens being her one passion. She warmed a little, but she was nothing as hospitable as her sister, and when she had had enough of the talk, she merely rose and left without preamble or farewell, even to Valerius.

Lady Allenby shook her head. "I do not know what will become of that child."

"She is no child," Ailith put in sharply. "She is thirty years old, and can mind her tongue well enough if she chooses. She simply has no sense of duty."

Lady Allenby made a fretful noise. "I blame myself. She was a babe when Sir Alfred died, and I was left to raise my poor fatherless children alone. I was too soft with her. I ought to have remembered the Scriptures. I ought not to have spared the rod."

I shuddered at the thought. Father had had the raising of ten children without benefit of a wife, and yet never once had he raised a hand to any of us in anger.

"Perhaps not, Lady Allenby," Val ventured quietly. "They say the most spirited horses are the most easily broken in temperament. You would not like to have your daughter's spirit broken, I am sure."

Lady Allenby's eyes were stern as they fixed on my brother. "It is a mother's duty to perfect her children," she said coldly. "And I have failed all of mine."

Her eyes went to Ailith, who paled visibly. But nothing else in her demeanour changed and when she put out her hand, it was perfectly steady.

"Come, Lady Julia. I will light you to bed."

THE NINTH CHAPTER

I'll to thy closet and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

—William Shakespeare

Titus Andronicus

The next few days were passably diverting, although there was little enough in the way of either company or amusement to hold my interest at Grimsgrave in Brisbane's absence. I thought of him often, and when no one was about, I sometimes crept to his deserted room simply to be near his things, as if proximity to his possessions meant some sort of connection to the man himself. I longed for and dreaded his return. As difficult as uncertainty was to bear, at least it offered the consolation of hope. So long as Brisbane stayed away, there was a chance of happiness. Once he returned, matters would be decided once and for all.

My mood was not a sociable one, but I did my duty by the household. Supper was taken early each evening, and we sat by the kitchen fire for an hour only before we were lighted up to bed. Ailith and Portia and I sometimes attempted three-handed whist, although Lady Allenby never played. I wondered if it was because of her swollen hands or if she simply disapproved of cards on principle. I had noticed a few more signs of piety about her, and she was punctual with her prayers, pausing several times each day at times that corresponded to the old hours marked by the religious houses.

Valerius had fallen into the habit of reading of an evening, as had Hilda. They sometimes talked a little, perhaps of drains or chickens, I thought nastily. But they spoke only in low tones I could not overhear, and once or twice I saw her unbend so far as to smile at him, as if their conversation had strayed to warmer matters. If her glance happened to catch mine, she instantly dropped her eyes and flushed in irritation. Clearly, she had decided not to befriend me.

Ailith was a little more companionable. She was never demonstrative, but we had taken to walking together over the moors each morning, and it was a pleasant diversion. The more time I passed in her company, the better I liked her in spite of her reserve. I spent a great deal of time with her as Portia had become increasingly preoccupied and snappish. She had formed the habit of striking out on her own across the moors, usually taking a protesting, wheezing Puggy with her as an excuse for walking, and ignoring her plans to refurbish the house entirely.

Valerius busied himself each day in the village, sitting in the public room of The Hanged Man and attempting to win the villagers' confidence. When I asked him why, he would only say, "I have thoughts I wish to share with them regarding public hygiene." I could not bring myself to pry further, and left him to his own devices, although I could not fail to notice he spent much of his time sketching what appeared to be a very elaborate poultry house.

As for the maids, Minna—sadly neglected by her mistress—was left to her own devices much of the time, and I set her to helping Mrs. Butters. I reasoned if she were properly trained she might aspire to the post of housekeeper herself in time. It would lend her less glamour than a lady's maid but more authority, and as I explained to her, a skill once learned is never wasted. She agreed with alacrity and spent most of her mornings in the kitchen, learning how to roll pastry and prepare simple sauces and roasted meats under Mrs. Butters' tuition. She even persuaded Jetty, by sheer dint of her own good humour, to clean her fingernails and put on a clean apron after she had done the rough.

The most pleasant aspect of this arrangement was that it stopped Morag from continually complaining about Minna. Mrs. Butters did not seem to mind the girl's chatter, and Morag was free to get about her business without distraction, although there was precious little for her to do. My hems were invariably crusted with peat mud, but I seldom changed, and often wore the same costume from morning to night, quite a difference from London where I might wear six ensembles in a single day. After Morag had tightened every button in my wardrobe and polished my boots over and again until she seemed in danger of wearing through the leather, I gave her leave to read the books I had brought with me. She was not a proficient reader, having come late to her letters, but she was an enthusiastic one, and had a taste for low romances. I had tucked a few into my trunk for just this sort of occurrence, and it was not uncommon to find her holed up in her tiny room, feet stretched to the fire, happily tossing titbits to Florence as she devoured the further adventures of Miss Melanie Lovelady and her lover, the Count of Rompollion.

My afternoons were spent in Sir Redwall's study, with Grim the raven for company, carefully compiling the detailed catalogue of his collection. I had written to my brother Bellmont straightaway, encouraging him to use his influence with the museum to explore the possibility of purchasing the items Sir Redwall had brought home from Egypt. Even to my untrained eye there were a number of quite fine pieces, and I managed to tidy things enough to begin setting these aside. The obvious tourist tat went into another pile, and I was very pleased to find an excellent assortment of books, some scholarly, some written for the more casual traveller, but all in better shape than I might have expected given the haphazard method used to store them. A few mice nibbles here and there, a bit of wear on the covers, but all in all a very comprehensive collection. There was even a first edition of the Description de l'Égypte, commissioned by Napoléon after his conquest of Egypt and running to several volumes—twenty-three to be precise. It had been a massive undertaking, written by more than one hundred and sixty scholars, all presenting the most comprehensive knowledge of Egypt at the time of the Napoleonic conquest. Father had the second edition in his library at Bellmont Abbey, and it had been one of my favourite pastimes as a child to while away long afternoons tucked in the window embrasures, studying the plates of illustrations.

This edition was, if possible, even more exquisite, and I toyed with the idea of making Lady Allenby an offer for the set myself before I decided such a gesture might be too fraught. One would not wish to insult Lady Allenby by offering too little, but neither would one wish to spend too much above the value. Better to let them go, I decided. I put them carefully aside and moved on to the lesser volumes, including one or two extremely distasteful tomes on mummification with very nasty illustrations. They were disgusting enough to fetch a very high price, I had little doubt.

In all, the work was very interesting, but it could only divert me so long from the question of Brisbane. More than one moonlit night had found me perched in my window embrasure, reading breathless verses of quite stimulating Egyptian love poetry from the little red volume. And several times I collected myself, pen poised halfway through a word, staring out of the window and across the moor as if I expected him to come striding toward me through the heather.

Finally, one afternoon when I had stared at a collection of shawabtis so long their features had blurred, I threw down my pen and fled the house on my own. I had learned to dress for the moor. My fetching hat with the violets had been torn to pieces by the wind, and I knew better now than to leave the house without a thick shawl. I borrowed one of Morag's, a warm black affair knitted of the best wool, and wrapped it over my head, tucking the ends carefully into the waist of my skirt. On an impulse I asked Minna for one of the little cakes she had baked that morning and she presented it to me proudly, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pretty ribbon. I tucked it into a basket and set off on the moorland path from the kitchen garden, raising my face to the sun.

"Thee'll get wrinkles on tha' pretty face," came a good-humoured voice from behind me. I whirled to see Godwin emerging from the kitchen garden. He was smiling at me and carrying a canvas sack. I waited for him.

"Hello, Mr. Allenby. Running off to join the circus?" I asked, nodding toward the sack.

He laughed, his face crinkling into a mass of weathered lines. His eyes were lit with amusement, and I fancied for just a moment if he were properly dressed and groomed, he would give any of the finest gentlemen in society a fair bit of competition. But even as he was, grimy and unkempt and shaggy as a moorland pony, he was arrestingly attractive. He raised the sack.

"Tha's a bit of dinner for myself. Minna is a fair hand with the cakes now," he told me. We walked together slowly, and when we came to a boggy bit, he took my elbow, letting his hand linger perhaps a moment too long on my arm.

"Thank you, Mr. Allenby."

"Thee must not be so formal. I am Godwin. 'Mr. Allenby' is too grand for the likes of me."

"Very well, Godwin. Where will you be taking your dinner?"

He paused and stepped behind me, raising his arm just over my shoulder to point out a steep rocky outcropping rising high over the moor. "The heights up there on yon crag. Thorn Crag, it's called. 'Tis a good enough place to survey the whole of the moor. I must collect the sheep. 'Tis nearly time to dip."

I was acutely aware of his arm still stretched out beside me, his rough sleeve brushing my cheek. I stepped neatly aside.

"Surely you alone cannot dip the entire flock."

He smiled at me again, holding no grudge though I had evaded him.

"I'll have a few of the boys from the next farm over to help. But mind you stay away. A nasty business tha' is, the dipping of sheep."

Of that I was only too aware. When I was twelve, I had pestered my brother Benedick to let me help him dip Father's flocks at the Home Farm. Finally he agreed, without bothering to tell me the dip was mixed up of a few extremely nasty things, including arsenic. It took me the better part of a month to wash the smell away.

"And where are you off to, my lady?" Godwin asked, raising his brows at the cake in my basket.

"I thought I would pay a call upon Mrs. Smith," I told him, slanting a quick glance to gauge his response.

"She'll not tell a fortune, but she has a potion for anything that ails you," he advised me. We did not speak for several minutes as we climbed higher on the moor. Godwin was a comfortable sort of person, surprisingly respectful given the impropriety of our situation. When we had nearly reached the crossroads of the moor paths, he turned to me.

"Lady Allenby says tha' you are clearing out Redwall's things," he said. I noted the lack of Sir Redwall's honorific, and the omission intrigued me. I remembered then the note in Sir Redwall's diary about his plan to speak to Godwin regarding the gardener's cottage, and I wondered if the interview had ever taken place.

"Yes, I think he had some rather fine pieces, and Lady Allenby gave me to understand the funds from their sale would not be unwelcome."

Godwin nodded. "Tha's true enough. They've not two pennies to rub together, save a few sticks of furniture and that old rag in the hall."

"Oh, you mean the tapestry. I did not notice, is your name stitched there?"

He threw back his tawny head, his laughter ringing out. "Bless you, no. They've no use for the lesser mortals in the family. I am but a younger son of a younger son of a younger son. We've been farm managers for the Allenbys for two centuries, and every last one of them has hated tha' we bear the same name as they. Sir Alfred even offered my old da' a thousand pounds to change it."

I nearly stumbled over a tussock. He put out a strong hand to steady me. "Careful there, lady."

"Sir Alfred? You mean Sir Redwall's father? He actually offered your father money to change his name?"

"Aye. But he would have none of it. Sir Alfred had an apoplexy and died soon after, and all the better for us. He would have chucked out the lot of us, tha's for certain, and left us to starve. If the Allenbys have any gift, 'tis for dying when you want them to."

I opened my mouth to question him further, but we had reached the crossroads by then and he raised his hand to point up the path. "Tha's the way to Rosalie's. You mind you know it well enough? And back again? I can come and collect you if you don't. 'Twould not serve you to get lost on the moor."

"No, thank you, Godwin. I know my way."

"Then I'll be off. Good day to thee, my lady."

He sketched a little parody of a courtier's bow and left me, whistling a merry tune. I walked slowly, turning over what he had said in my mind. So many interesting little titbits, and so many questions unanswered. I was so preoccupied that I tripped over the rock just in front of Rosalie Smith's cottage for the second time, cursing roundly as I did so. There was a laugh from just over the stone wall of the garden.

"Lady in looks, but not in speech," Rosalie said, smiling as she opened the gate.

I waved a hand at the stone. "You might have that thing removed. That is the second time I have tripped over that stone. It could be dangerous in the dark."

She shrugged. "Everyone knows it is there. And if you ever come to me at night, I will know it is you by the swearing."

I proffered the cake and she took it with thanks.

"Come in and we will slice it for tea."

I accepted, and in a very short time we were settled at her comfortable hearthside, sipping our tea and nibbling at heavy slices of fruitcake. It was moist and rich and thick with fruit that Mrs. Butters had set to steep in tea and whisky many weeks before. She had guided Minna through the mixing of the batter and the girl had outdone herself.

Rosalie and I talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular, then fell silent. As with Godwin, it was a comfortable silence, and I realised, not for the first time, that my most companionable moments were often found in the company of those whom society would have me shun. Other ladies of my station would simply never have considered walking with the farm manager or taking tea with a Gypsy witch. Nor would they have considered any possibility of a romantic entanglement with a man of questionable parentage who made a living in trade, I reflected ruefully.

"Penny for your thoughts," Rosalie murmured.

"If you were gifted with the sight, you would already know them," I teased her.

She shook her head, her expression darkening. "I have seen those with the sight, lady. It is a cruel gift, one that takes as much as it bestows."

I thought of Brisbane with a shiver. He resisted his flashes of insight, his inexplicable ability to see things he should not, and to know things he could not. This refusal to accept himself for what he was sat at the root of his migraines, vicious and torturous. He held them at bay with all manner of evil things, and I suspected his current regimen of a whisky at bedtime would not serve him for long. It had occurred to me that his music was some solace, but I knew that it would never be able to stem the tide of pain forever. Sooner or later, the pain or his visions would win out, if only they did not destroy him in the meantime. Shortly after our last investigation at my father's home in Sussex, I had visited a Gypsy woman of my acquaintance, Magda, who had known Brisbane's family, and his ill-fated mother, Mariah Young.

The one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother's witchcraft and his father's wildness. But blood will out, and the noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers.

But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind and, for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart. She cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within.

It was a horrible tale, tragic and violent, and it had gone down as legend amongst their people. I wondered if Rosalie had heard of her as well, if perhaps she knew Brisbane for what he was. I very nearly asked her, but she offered me another slice of cake then and the moment passed.

The lurcher, Rook, came and sat with his head on my knee as we talked, and I petted him absently.

"He does not like many folk, and none who are not Romany," Rosalie told me. "You must have some Gypsy blood, lady."

I smiled and gave the dog a good scratching behind the ears. "I think dogs know those who like them. He is a handsome fellow. Why do you call him after a black bird, though? His coat is white as new snow."

"'Rook' means tree in our language. Rook was cast off by his mother and my husband, John-the-Baptist, found him curled up under the roots of an oak tree, shivering with cold. He put him into his waistcoat and kept him there, although we do not keep white dogs."

Poaching, of course. That was the primary function of Gypsy dogs, and as she had indicated before, a white animal would be of no use in the dark.

"John-the-Baptist thought I would like some company here when he is away. So he kept him alive by giving him to suckle at a goat. And when the pup was strong enough, he came here to live. He is a good watchdog, although little enough stirs on the moors."

"Except perhaps ghosts," I joked, thinking of the bleak grimness of the place when the sky was iron grey and the clouds seemed to lower just overhead.

"Oh, yes. The ghosts," she said soberly. "But the dead do not always lie quietly, do they, lady?"

I thought of the people I had known who had died. I had never seen a ghost, but I had known the unquiet dead.

"No, they do not," I agreed. I hurried to change the subject. "John-the-Baptist is an unusual name."

"He is an unusual man. Perhaps you will meet him. He will come this way again soon. Always in the springtime," she said, and for an instant I fancied I caught a note of wistfulness in her tone. I could not imagine her living so long removed from her people, seeing her husband for a few weeks of each year.

I thought again of Magda. She had been banished from her Gypsy family and had spent some time as my laundress in London before rejoining her people. It was not impossible that Rosalie had been banished as well. I knew the Gypsies had many taboos for which the punishment was always banishment.

"You said you are a—what was the word?" I asked her.

"Shuvari. The English call me a witch, but among my own kind I am a healer."

"And the villagers here, the English, they do not bother you? I would have thought them inclined to be superstitious about such things."

She shrugged. "They remember the old ways here, when there was always a village wise woman to help babies into the world, and ease the passing of the dead. They trust me because I soften their sorrows and because I have the gift of potions. There is not a condition I cannot remedy, if a person wants my help."

"A gift indeed," I observed. "You are lucky, Rosalie. Not many people have the good fortune of knowing their purpose so clearly."

She tipped her head to one side, as I had often seen my raven, Grim, do. Her eyes were dark and bright with interest. "You speak as though you wander, lady. But you should not. Your path is one you put your feet on some time ago. And even though you cannot see the way for the shadows, you must know these shadows will not always cloud your vision."

I toyed with the Medusa pendant at my throat, turning the coin over in my fingers. Rosalie looked at it curiously, but said nothing. I tucked it away lest she ask about it. My relationship with Brisbane was complicated enough without trying to explain it to a virtual stranger. "You speak like a fortune-teller now. I thought you did not have the sight."

"I may not read tea leaves or palms, my lady, but it is easy enough to read faces. Yours is a questioning face, always looking for answers, always seeking the truth, for yourself and for others."

I smiled at her. "I think that is a very polite way of saying I am curious as a cat. And we all know what happened to the cat—curiosity killed her."

Rosalie took the last slice of cake onto her plate. "Yes, but you forget the most important thing about the little cat," she said, giving me a wise nod. "She had eight lives left to live."

* * *

I hurried my steps as I returned to Grimsgrave Hall. Dark clouds had gathered, and though it had not begun to rain, the wind was freshening, whipping my skirts and shawl about me and dragging my hair free from its pins. I cursed it as I struggled down the moor path, so intent upon my unruly hair that I did not see Brisbane approaching until he was nearly upon me.

"You've come back," I said stupidly, so stunned was I to see him there, conjured like something out of a dream. He was dressed for travelling, his suit perfectly neat, his cuffs crisp and white. How he managed to keep himself so fastidious was one of the mysteries I had yet to solve.

He fixed me with a humourless look. "You ought to be inside," he scolded. "There is a storm coming." He was scant feet away, but I could scarcely hear him for the wind.

"I know," I told him, exasperated. "Where do you think I am going?"

He took my arm just above the elbow, his fingers warm even through the wool of my clothes. He nudged me along the path, guiding me toward the house.

"Well, considering you are the most contrary woman of my acquaintance, you might just as well have been headed for the crag."

I pulled a face, but when I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, I thought better of it. There were lines of fatigue at his eyes and mouth, and for this brief moment, it was enough simply to be near him.

After a moment, he turned sharply to me. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes, perfectly. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have just called you contrary and you did not bother to contradict me. I thought you might be ill."

He was watching me intently, and in that moment, every feeling I had ever nurtured for him rose up within me.

"Do shut up, Brisbane," I told him. I raised myself on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. I meant it to be a trifle, a little thing to tease him with. I ought to have known better. One cannot taunt a lion and walk away unscathed.

In the space of a pulsebeat his arms were around me and we forgot the wind, the coming storm, the sad ruin of a house before us. We forgot everything except this electric thing that bound us, sparking a reaction whenever our flesh touched. He smelled of leather and wool and tasted of apples and I could have died in that moment and counted myself happy. He groaned my name when I put my lips to his neck, and then he kissed me again, wrenching the shawl from my head completely to bury his hands in my hair, scattering pins to the ground.

It might have been only a minute, it might have been a hundred years we stood there. It was not until the thunder rumbled directly overhead that we broke apart. Brisbane was breathing heavily, his broad chest rising and falling like a man who has just run a great distance. He stepped back sharply, then gathered up my shawl, fairly flinging it at me.

"For God's sake, Julia. You were a fool to come and a greater fool to stay," he shouted over the wind. "Why do you not go back to London?"

As calmly as I could manage with shaking fingers, I laid the shawl over my head and tied it securely. "Because you need me. You said so yourself."

He thrust his hands into his hair, tearing at it. "I was wrong. I did not mean it. I do not need you. Do you hear me? I do not need you. Go away, Julia. Go back to London and take your silly romance with you. I want none of it."

He turned then and left me standing in the middle of the moor, the vast empty moor that tore his words to pieces on the wind. It was a long time before I followed him, but when I did, I saw Hilda's pale, watchful face peering from the window on the stairs.

THE TENTH CHAPTER

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VI, Part 3

I slept poorly that night, my dreams full of misty moors and storms breaking over Thorn Crag. I wandered, lost and sodden, crying out to Brisbane. He stood at the top of Thorn Crag, laughing, his black greatcoat tossing on the wind as he circled an arm about Ailith Allenby. I woke and buried my head under the pillow in disgust. I could not imagine a more pathetic scene. It was something straight out of melodrama, and it occurred to me that the setting of Grimsgrave Hall was bringing out all of my worst tendencies to sentimentality.

"I loathe myself," I muttered.

"Do not talk to yourself, Julia. It makes me fear for your sanity," Portia said dryly.

I peeked out from under the pillow, surprised to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in head-to-toe velvet the colour of pale seawater, and holding a packet of envelopes.

"The post!" I cried. We had had no correspondence since we arrived at Grimsgrave. There was no delivery arrangement for the Hall, and Godwin's trips into the village to collect from the postmistress were few and far between. Valerius had offered to fetch it himself, but the postmistress had declined to give it to him as he was a stranger. He had sulked the better part of a day over the insult, but I had little doubt it would be forgot once he had had the pleasure of his letters.

Portia handed me mine and I thumbed through them eagerly, delighted to see that Father had written, as well as a number of my siblings and my dear friend, Hortense de Bellefleur. There was also a letter from Bellmont, and I put it carefully aside to read later. I could not stand to open it yet lest he disappoint me by not agreeing to help the Allenby ladies.

Portia had opened her first letter and was staring at it, her complexion quite pale.

"Dearest? Is something wrong?"

She shook her head and pocketed the envelope. "No, just those damned Riche brothers. I told them I needed a proper riding costume before I left London and they've sent me nothing but apologies. Difficulties with the woolen mill in Scotland, or some such nonsense."

She fell to reading her letters again, and I sank into reverie. Memories of the crushing scene between Brisbane and me on the moor rolled over me and I thrust them back. This was not the time to let a trifling setback discourage me. He had told me the first night that he needed me, and after seeing how shattered he was by one kiss, I believed his actions rather than his words. He had not appeared for supper the previous night, nor to sit with the rest of the household. He had kept to his room instead, carefully locking the door behind him as he went. I would have been affronted at this precaution had I not realised that he knew me very well indeed.

Resolutely, I rose and began my toilette. I chattered to Portia about my plans for the day, scarcely noting her quiet answers.

"I only hope Bellmont won't be completely horrid about helping the Allenby ladies," I went on, dithering between my violet tweed ensemble and a smart black velvet suit more appropriate for town. "You know how stubborn he can be. I must say, I did not expect to like Ailith. One cannot like a woman so perfect, even if her clothes look like something out of a primer on modesty, but she has proved to be quite amiable, although that Hilda is quite foul. But I do quite like Lady Allenby and I mean to do all that I can for them. How is the organising going, by the way? They do not seem to mind you taking a hand in things, and you really ought to get on, you know."

Portia shook herself, as though she had been a thousand miles away. "Oh, they are cordial enough. As yet I have only made lists. Linen to be bought, furniture, plate. The builders will have to be brought in to see about the collapsed wing. It may not be feasible to repair it. Brisbane will have to decide."

I caught sight of her then in the looking-glass. She had taken the letter from her pocket again, and she looked as I had never seen her look before. She was pale to the lips and her expression was one of utter loss. I turned and went to her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Portia."

Her brave façade crumbled then. She turned her face up to me, tears sparkling on her lashes. Even in grief she was beautiful. "She's left me, Julia. Jane has left me."

"Of course she hasn't left you. She has gone to Portsmouth for her sister's confinement. She will return when Anna is recovered from the birth."

"No, Julia," she corrected fiercely. "She will not return to London. She is gone."

I collapsed onto the bed next to her, unbelieving. "Jane? She cannot have left you. She loves you."

"She did once. Perhaps she still does. I like to think so. But she is gone," she repeated.

Portia's fingers were knotted over the letter, creasing it.

"When?"

"I knew she had been troubled by Anna's condition. Jane wanted children so desperately, you see. She was so deeply envious of Anna's happiness. She had begun to wonder if she had done right in living with me. I told her she ought not to go to Portsmouth, but she said she must, it was her duty to help her sister. I offered to come with her, but she refused. She made me come—wanted time to think, she said. We quarrelled that last morning."

I remembered the sharp silences, the tense, wordless moments that had flashed between them, and I realised how utterly stupid I had been. "I thought she was upset at you leaving her," I ventured.

Portia's lovely mouth twisted bitterly. "No. She was upset because she was leaving me. She did not want to, you know. Not really. But she is tired of it all. She is tired of being sneered at by polite society. She is tired of being a laughingstock. She thinks we are a joke, Julia. And she wants babies of her own."

"Where has she gone?"

Portia gave a little laugh that ended on a sob. "She is going to India as soon as it can be arranged."

"India? Good God, why? She has no money. What possible reason can she have for wanting to go there?"

She swallowed hard, then forced the words out through stiff lips. "She is to be married. That is the real reason she's left me, you know. She met him in Portsmouth, some connection of Anna's husband. He is going to India to make his fortune, and she will go with him. She wants children, you see. And she will not have them with me."

I put my arm around her, gathering her close. "Oh, my dearest. I am so sorry."

"We had prospects, I told her. I even offered her Valerius for a stud if she really wanted a child. It did not seem such a terrible notion. He is handsome enough, and we would have been raising my own niece or nephew. She told me not to be vulgar," Portia said. There was no emotion to her words now, just a flat recitation, as though she wanted to get all of the horror of it out and away. "We quarrelled over that. We quarrelled over taking a child from an orphanage or workhouse. I thought it was a noble idea. She told me it was no substitute for having a child of her own. I accused her of being selfish, reminded her that we had enough money to take a hundred orphans to raise if we liked. I think I may have made reference to Oliver Twist."

"Oh, Portia, you didn't."

"Of course I did. I was angry and sarcastic and stupid. I said things she will never forgive, and even if she could, I cannot take away the fact that although I love her more than my own life, I cannot give her the one thing she wants most of all."

I held her as she cried, aching for her as her shoulders shook with violent sobs. She wept noiselessly, stifling her sorrow against the neck of my nightdress. I rocked her as if she were a child, and when she was spent, I dried her tears with my own handkerchief and told her to blow her nose and attend to her face.

"Tell me, how much do you love her?" I asked when she had repaired the worst of the damage with a damp sponge and a powderpuff.

"Enough to follow her to the ends of the earth in a white petticoat," Portia said sadly.

"Careful, dearest. That's what Mary, Queen of Scots, said about Lord Bothwell and look what a nasty end she made."

There was not a flicker of a smile on my sister's face.

"What do you mean to do?" I asked.

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She seemed calmer now, resolute. "I must go to Portsmouth. Immediately. Today in fact."

She rose and began to gather her possessions. I stared after her, mouth agape. "Portia, you cannot be serious. You cannot leave, not now."

She collected her books from the little writing desk, tossing them into an untidy heap next to me. "Sort those, will you? I shall want the Scott for the train ride. No Brontë. I've had quite enough of moors to last me a lifetime."

I shoved the books aside and rose. "Portia, listen to me. You cannot just rush to Portsmouth this instant. You don't even know when the train is leaving."

She shrugged and tossed a pair of stockings at me. "Bundle those. It doesn't matter when the train is leaving. There is bound to be one today sometime. Wherever it goes, I will go. Any station is bigger than the one in Lesser Howlett. There will be connections elsewhere. I do not care where I am bound, so long as I am moving. I will take Valerius with me. I will send him back directly I've arrived, I promise."

I knotted the stockings together and dropped them onto her books. "Portia, you promised Brisbane you would organise his household. You've hardly begun."

She flapped a hand at me. "That was just a stratagem to bring the two of you together. Now you're here, the rest is up to you."

"Stratagem? You never intended to put the house to rights?"

"God, no. I loathe doing that sort of thing."

"But—but you are brilliant at it!"

She shrugged and yanked two shawls from the bedpost where she had flung them earlier. "I am rather good at speaking German. That does not mean I enjoy it. I offered because I knew you would never be able to resist the chance to play the coquette and thrust yourself at Brisbane."

I folded my arms over my chest. "That is quite possibly the most hurtful thing you have ever said to me. I am not thrusting myself at Brisbane."

She tucked the shawls under her chin and began to fold them haphazardly. "Yes, you are, and you would be no sister of mine if you didn't."

She took my hands in hers and I could not tell whose were the colder.

"Julia, you do not need me. You have come here because you know in your heart he loves you. This is your chance to have what you always wanted. Seize it, and do not let him go. He is confused and wounded and I think he has more secrets than the Sphinx itself, but he is a good man. And I believe he loves you in ways you cannot possibly fathom. Stay, and make him see you. I cannot give up Jane without a fight, and you must not give up Brisbane." She lifted her chin. "We are Marches, and our motto is Audeo. I dare. Dare to take the life you want in your own two hands and do not let it go, do you hear me?"

She was weeping now, and my own eyes filled as she clasped me to her. "Go," I told her, drying my eyes on her sleeve. "Go and give Jane my love. Oh," I said, suddenly thinking of Portia's little maid. "You must tell Minna. She'll not be packed."

Portia shook her head. "She is quite happy here, and I've no time to wait. I mean to fill a portmanteau, and she can send my trunk along when she has had time to pack it. You can bring Minna with you when you return to London. I will take Morag instead."

I agreed and we hastily packed Portia's things, enlisting Minna to bring a few odds and ends while Morag complained bitterly about the high-handedness of some people, ordering her back to town just when she was happily settled in the country.

"Do shut up," I hissed at her. "You do not fool me. I see that gleam in your eye. You would rather cut off your left arm than stay here another minute. Mind you take better care of Lady Bettiscombe than you do me," I finished, thrusting Portia's muddied boots at her. "Scrape these down and wrap them in brown paper." She stalked off to do as she was bid while Minna scurried about, trembling but excited at the news she was to stay behind.

There was a spirited discussion over the custody of Mr. Pugglesworth, but as I refused to keep the revolting animal, Portia had no choice but to tuck him under her arm as she left. She had sent Minna to ask Godwin to arrange for transportation, and by the time she and Morag and Valerius were ready to leave, packed and swathed in a travelling veil, a farm cart borrowed from a neighbour was standing at the end of the drive. Valerius appeared, pale and unshaven, yawning broadly as he collected Portia's portmanteau along with his own. He raised a hand to me in farewell, and I blew him a kiss. His expression was sober, and I knew he would feel as wretched as I. Jane had been a sort of sister to him as well. Portia did not turn, but I leaned from the casement and watched until she was out of sight.

She had left it to me to make her excuses to the rest of the household, and I did not relish the task. I met with Brisbane first. He had just emerged from his room when I descended.

"Portia is gone," I told him without preamble.

"Without sorting my linen cupboard?" he asked with a touch of asperity.

"Don't, I beg you. I am quite miserable enough."

Instantly, he moved to me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "What is the trouble?"

"Jane has left her. She means to marry and go out to India."

Brisbane said nothing, then gave a low sigh, his hand tightening upon my shoulder. "Odd, really. I would have counted them the happiest couple of my acquaintance."

I gave a little sound, half sob and half laugh. I covered his hand with my own. "That is the difficulty. They were happy. They are so well-suited to one another, and yet Jane wanted something more. She has left Portia in order to have a family."

His gaze was hard upon mine. "Can you blame her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Only that Jane has never known a proper family of her own."

"She has known Portia!" I countered hotly. "Portia has been everything to her, has given her all that she has to give."

"And perhaps it was not enough," he said quietly. His expression was so grave, I felt my heart thump painfully in my chest.

"I wonder, Brisbane, are you talking about Jane and Portia, or do you speak of something else entirely?"

The little muscle in his jaw that twitched whenever he was impatient jumped. "I am simply endeavouring to point out that no matter how much one wishes for something, no matter how desperately one might love someone, there are no guarantees."

I stared at him, taking in the coiled tension of his stand, the shadows under his eyes. "What happened in Edinburgh?"

He dropped his hand from my shoulder. "Julia, this is not the time—"

"I think it is. You were reconciled to my presence here before you left. I think you were even happy to see me, in spite of the circumstances. But you came back changed and I would know why. What happened in Edinburgh?"

"I was shot at," he told me flatly. "A ring of counterfeiters, passing false notes on the Bank of Scotland. Their leader was a son of a bosom friend of the Prince of Wales. I was asked to retrieve him and return him to his family so they can deal with him privately. He did not come quietly."

I felt cold, from my head to my feet, a sweeping cold that almost stilled my breath. "You are unharmed?" I could scarcely force the words through stiffened lips.

"I am. The bullet grazed my coat," he said, pointing to a tidy little scar at the collar that had been neatly mended. My eyes filled with hot tears.

"If that bullet had been a hairsbreadth to the left," I said, unable to finish the thought. The bullet had passed within a shadow of his throat.

"I know," he told me. "Believe me, when the tailor was stitching my coat, all I could think of was how lucky I had been. How many times I have been lucky," he said, his voice trailing off.

I thought of the bullet that had torn through his shoulder when he had saved the life of one dear to me in Trafalgar Square, and I shuddered.

He reached for my hands and held them fast in his own. "Julia, I have spent the better part of my life seeking adventure and having very little care if I woke the next day or not. I have lived freely and with no one to whom I must be beholden or accountable, no one to consider if I died." I thought of his devoted manservant Monk, and knew that Brisbane was wrong. Monk loved him like a son, and had anything befallen Brisbane, Monk would have mourned him like a lost child.

Brisbane continued. "I have led a selfish life, and I have enjoyed it. I cannot imagine a life without my work, and I cannot imagine a life without you, and yet I cannot reconcile the two." My heart, which had given a joyous leap in the middle of his speech, faltered now as I realised what he was trying to say.

"I never thought to ask you to give up your work," I began.

"But how can I ask you to sit idly by and wait for me to return when every time I kiss you goodbye might be the last?"

"Oh, don't!" I told him, fully enraged. "How dare you blame your cowardice upon me?"

His lips went white, as did the tiny crescent moon scar high upon his cheekbone. "I beg your pardon?"

"Cowardice," I said distinctly. "You hide behind this pretence of fine feeling because you will not declare yourself directly and this gives you a perfect excuse, does it not? Spare poor Julia the horror of being widowed a second time. Put her up on the shelf and keep her out of harm's way whilst you amuse yourself with your dashing adventures."

He opened his mouth to speak, but I stepped forward, tipping my head up to rail at him. "I am quite disappointed that you have revealed yourself to be so thoroughly conventional in your philosophy. Have I not proven myself a capable partner?" I demanded. "Have I not stood, side by side, with you, facing peril with equal courage? If you thought for a moment that I would be the meek, quiet, obedient sort of woman who would sit quietly at home mending your socks while you get to venture out into the world on your daring escapades, you have sorely mistaken me."

I turned on my heel and left him then, gaping after me like a landed carp. It was a very small consolation.

* * *

I made an effort to settle my temper and made my way to the kitchen. Lady Allenby was still at table, finishing the remains of her breakfast, when I appeared. To my surprise, Hilda was with her, absently cutting a piece of ham for her mother.

"My hands are rather worse today," Lady Allenby said by way of explanation.

I expressed my sympathy and gave her the broadest sketch of why Portia had fled without so much as a farewell, telling her only that there was a family difficulty and she was wanted and that Valerius would return after he accompanied her safely to Portsmouth.

"But if the difficulty is a family one, should you not be there as well?" Hilda asked, her tone cool. She thickly buttered a piece of toast, oblivious to her mother's reproving frown.

"Not at all," I said smoothly. "The business concerns a cousin of her late husband, Lord Bettiscombe." That much was true at least.

Lady Allenby redirected the conversation quickly. "How lovely that you were able to stay behind. The moorland is quite beautiful in spring, you know. It is a shame to miss a single day of it."

"I have heard, and I am happy to be staying as well," I replied. Mrs. Butters laid a plate before me, steaming eggs and sausages and a clever little savoury pudding full of cheese and herbs. I lifted my fork just as Hilda shot me a smiling look. Doubtless she was remembering the scene she had overlooked the previous afternoon, Brisbane embracing me, then shouting at me to go home. She would not have heard his words, but how many of his gestures would she have interpreted correctly? I returned the smile and stabbed viciously at the pudding.

The rest of breakfast was consumed in silence, the only sound the click of cutlery on the plain china plates and the gentle hiss of the pan simmering on the hob.

I rose when Lady Allenby did and left by the kitchen door, intending to take a walk on the moor. Just as I reached the gate, I heard Hilda's voice behind me.

"Is it not enough that you have designs on Brisbane? Must you drive Mr. Valerius away as well?" she demanded.

I turned on my heel to find her staring at me, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her pale complexion splotched unbecomingly with red.

"I do beg your pardon?" I said with icy calm.

She moved nearer, but I stood my ground. "You should have gone with them. No one wants you here. You should have gone with your sister and left Mr. Valerius. He is the only one of you worth speaking to."

"I assure you, Miss Hilda, the arrangements were not of my making. I am terribly sorry you have been inconvenienced."

The tips of her nostrils had gone white with anger. "Do not patronise me. I will not be talked down to, as though I were an imbecile like Jetty. My blood is quite as good as yours, my lady," she said, larding the last word with sarcasm. "My ancestors were kings in this land when yours were still wiping the boots of a bastard in Normandy."

I sighed and folded my arms over my chest. "Hilda, this is tiresome. You are far too old for childish insults, insults I don't even think you believe. And you are far too sensible to put any credence in that Saxon royalty nonsense."

She gaped at me, clearly torn. In the end, her sound common sense won out. "Oh, very well, it is ludicrous. I would burn that stupid tapestry if I could. No one cares about such things anymore. I've tried to tell Mama that. She won't listen, and neither will Ailith. But I had to say something," she added, giving me a defiant glare. "I've nothing else to fight you with."

"Good heavens, why should you want to fight me at all? I should think you would far rather prefer a little civil conversation."

"With you?" She made no attempt to disguise the scorn in her voice. "I can assure you we have no point of commonality."

"Nonsense. We are both ladies, gently born. We are both in this remote place. We might talk of anything, the people here, the landscape, or the books," I said, feeling a sudden surge of inspiration.

She eyed me warily, as a whipped dog will do to a hand raised to it, even in friendship. "What books?"

"The ones you had in your room. The Egyptology books. You would be quite mad for the ones in your brother's study, I'm sure. Did you know he has the entire set of the Description de l'Égypte? It is in remarkably good condition."

If I had thought her angry before, it was nothing compared to her rage now. She could scarcely speak, and when she did, her voice was rough.

"You have been in Redwall's room? Going through his things?"

"Yes, I had your mother's permission, of course. If you would like to see them, I would be happy—"

"You would be happy?" She stepped forward, and for one terrible moment, I truly believed she would strike me. I balled my fist behind my skirts and set my shoulders. If she did strike me, I would not be unprepared. "You would give me permission to look at what by rights belongs to me?"

Relieved, I put out a hand to placate her. "Miss Hilda, really, there is no need—"

"There is every need," she said, biting off each word sharply. "You are a meddlesome bitch, and the sooner you go back to London, the better."

She turned on her heel then and left me standing in the mud.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

A great reckoning in a little room.

—William Shakespeare

As You Like It

After the high drama of my encounters with both Brisbane and Hilda, I lost my enthusiasm for a walk on the moor. I returned to Sir Redwall's study, determined to make some headway. I had forgot Bellmont's letter in the confusion of Portia's departure, but I retrieved it, wishing fervently that he had pledged his help. The news was not encouraging. I skimmed hastily through his lectures on my wilfulness, my stubbornness, my lack of femininity, until my eyes glazed and the words ran together on the page. It was not until the third page that he came to the point.

As to countenancing any sort of exhibition regarding Sir Redwall Allenby, I can only think that you are attempting to make a poor jest. His name is anathema in Egyptological circles, for reasons that do no credit to any scholar or gentleman. Of course, in the interests of scholarship and patrimony, the collection should be turned over at once to the British Museum, although this could well ignite a heated and insoluble round of debate regarding the provenance and current rights of ownership. The absolutely wrong thing to do would be to remove the collection in its entirety to London for appraisal and private sale before anyone can get wind of what you are about. I, naturally, would counsel against such action, particularly as any more scandal would not reflect well upon our family at this time. My eldest, Orlando, is proposing marriage to the daughter of the Duke of Driffield, and anything that could puncture his happiness is of course of the greatest concern to me.

I tossed the letter aside, vastly irritated. Bellmont had always been a pompous prig, but he usually managed to be helpful in the end. If he was busy helping Orlando court the Duke of Driffield's daughter, however, there would be no help from that quarter whatsoever. The Driffield title was an insignificant but old one, and Monty would be positively swooning at the idea of marrying his heir to Driffield's daughter. Any escapades on the part of any of the Marches at this point would be severely frowned upon. There were political hopes as well for Orlando, and I had no doubt Bellmont was keeping an eagle eye on all his wayward siblings at present.

There was nothing for it then, I decided. I would have to arrange the evaluation and sale myself, although I was vastly pleased Bellmont had dropped that little nugget of information about Redwall Allenby's disgrace in the Egyptological community. I would have to tread carefully to dispose of his collection without alerting the circles in which he had once travelled. As to what Redwall had done that was so ungentlemanly and unscholarly, I would simply have to add that question to the others tumbling in my mind.

I had just turned my hand to noting the condition of a pretty little chest painted with ibises when the door opened. I started, nearly dropping the chest. I knew Brisbane would find out soon enough what I was about, but I had been reluctant to tell him of my scheme to help the Allenby ladies. I needn't have feared. It was not Brisbane approaching softly through the gloom. It was Ailith, her slippered feet silent on the stone floor. Her expression was serene, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.

"Lady Julia. My mother told me I might find you here."

I cleared my throat and set down the little chest with infinite care. "Yes. I am cataloguing Sir Redwall's collection. Your mother is interested in placing it for sale." It seemed the most tactful way to phrase the matter.

She said nothing for a long moment, but looked around, taking in the dusty shrouds of furniture, the painted ceiling, the little notebook on my lap. She smiled then, a sad, vacant thing.

"You have one of Redwall's notebooks. He was never without one, always jotting notes, drawing little sketches in them." I said nothing and she hurried on, almost as though the words were being forced from her. "I have the others, you know."

"The others?"

"The notebooks. The ones he kept in Egypt. They might prove useful to you when you are cataloguing. He wrote about his acquisitions sometimes. Where he found them, the name of the dealer, that sort of thing."

"That would be a tremendous help. There is no provenance for many of these articles. If he kept a diary of sorts, it would at least give me a place to start."

"Come with me then, to my room. I will give them to you."

I laid aside my pencil and notebook and followed her upstairs. I had not yet seen her room, but as soon as I crossed the threshold, I realised I would have known it for hers out of any bedchamber in the house. The walls were painted a soft greyed blue, and the colour was repeated throughout the room. She had a four-poster bed hung with the same striking shade, the silk brittle and shredding. The walls were peeling in spots where the damp had seeped in, and the furniture, save a few small painted wooden pieces, was missing. It was a room that, like the lady herself, had once been extremely elegant and feminine. But time had taken its toll. I saw the fatigue here of watching the family fortunes dwindle, of isolation and loneliness. Only one object livened the room—a doll's house, large and imposing, and I realised it was the one she had told me about. Her description had been thoroughly accurate. It was a perfectly rendered replica of Grimsgrave itself.

"How lovely," I breathed, bending to see into the little rooms. It was beautifully furnished, down to the last detail, and I saw for the first time how stately the public rooms had once been with their oaken panelling and heavy carved furniture. There was even a tiny replica of the tapestry from the hall, and I squinted to make out the stitches.

"There are only flowers on the branches of the tree," Ailith explained. "The names would not fit." I noticed, though, that a crown of gold thread had been stitched at the top. Even in miniature, the royal lineage must not be forgot. I traced the branch where Ailith and her sibling had been commemorated. Three blossoms hung there and I thought at once of the unpicked place in the tapestry downstairs.

"You are clever, Lady Julia," Ailith told me. "That was my sister, Wilfreda. We do not speak of her, and I beg you not to ask Mama about her."

I stepped back, embarrassed to have caused her distress. "I am sorry. I did not mean to pry."

Ailith smiled her serene smile. "All families have skeletons in the cupboard. Some of them are bound to come tumbling out. I do not mind talking about her. The doll's house was hers, a gift from our father. When she left, I begged Mama for it. It is the only thing of hers that was not destroyed."

She paused and went to the writing table, opening the drawer. She extracted a few notebooks, identical to the one I had found in Redwall's study. "Here. I should like them back when you have done with them."

"Of course. I shall take excellent care of them, I promise."

She smiled again, this time indulgently, as an adult will to a precocious child. "I know you will. There is something else I should like you to see."

She reached into the drawer again and withdrew a photograph in a small leather frame, the sort of thing a traveller might carry. She put it into my hands and I stared at the photograph. It was of a man, dressed in travelling clothes, an exotic background behind him. It was Cairo, the minarets just visible through the latticed window. There were a few potted palms at his elbow, and a great stuffed crocodile at his feet. But it was not the props that had captured my attention. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. There was an elegance, a perfection to his features that was unrivalled. The lips, beautifully moulded, were slightly curved into a smile of invitation to the viewer. The bones, carved with a master's hand, spoke of centuries of good breeding. His was the sort of face that would have been beautiful even in extreme old age. Even in death.

I turned to Ailith and she was not looking at the photograph. She was studying my reaction to it.

"A very handsome man. Your brother, I presume?" The question was unnecessary. The resemblance was profound. They might have been twins, the similarity was so great.

"That was taken in Egypt," she told me. "He had been gone from home almost thirteen years by then. He wanted us to see how he had changed. He ought to have cut his hair." I turned back to the photograph. True, his hair was overlong, curling at his collar and temples, but I understood why he had not cut it. It would have been heresy to spoil those silky locks.

"Was his colouring the same as yours?" I ventured.

"Oh, yes. The same gold hair and blue eyes. All Allenbys are the same, save for Hilda. Her colouring is so dull. You might have seen Redwall's portrait, had Mama not burned it. An excellent likeness, although I think this one is better."

I blinked at her. "Lady Allenby burned his portrait?"

Ailith retreated a little, stepping back and smoothing her cuffs. "It was an unhappy reminder to her. The artist who painted it is the man who ran away with my sister."

She had resumed her cool façade, and I knew the time for confidences was at an end. I rose and gathered up the notebooks.

To my surprise, she handed me the photograph. "You might like to keep this while you work on his things. Perhaps it will help you to remember that although he was not always a gentleman, he was always a great man."

If I was startled, I tried not to show it. The mysteries around Redwall Allenby continued to deepen, I thought as I slipped the photograph into my pocket. I moved to leave the room, then paused, my hand on the knob.

"I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss Allenby. I know what it is to love a brother, and I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you." As much thought as I had given to drowning my brothers when we were children, I would have been bereft at the loss of any of them. Even Bellmont.

She inclined her head, and did not reply.

* * *

Perhaps it was all the talk of loss and regret, but I felt the atmosphere of the house was thick with ghosts that afternoon, and I hurried from Grimsgrave and across the moor to the one place I knew could soothe my restlessness.

Rosalie opened the door as I smoothed my windblown skirts. She had tied a bright patchwork apron about her waist and was holding a spoon.

"I hope I have not disturbed you," I began.

She waved me inside. "I was working in my stillroom. Come, lady."

She beckoned me to follow her through a tiny door into a room no bigger than a pocket handkerchief. It was lined with shelves, each neatly stacked with dark glass bottles, closely stoppered and labelled with names like Syrup of Poppy and Remedy for a Toothache. There were jars of unpleasant-looking, desiccated things and bunches of herbs and grasses hanging in plaits from the beams, so low they brushed our shoulders as we moved.

There were cans of oils for making her embrocations, tins of powders, and a very fine set of scales. Bowls for mixing, various wooden implements, and a wickedly sharp knife marked with the initials RY were tidily arranged to be close at hand. The knife was a pretty thing, but no lady's trinket. I touched a finger to the carved initials and wondered what exotic second name her parents had given her. Yolanda? Yasmine? I moved on to peruse the rest of the shelves as Rosalie took down a bottle and a sturdy stoneware bowl. She retrieved a tin of goose fat, an assortment of bones and motioned for me to hand her a small, pointed silver spoon and the knife marked with her initials. She drew it from its sheath, exposing a long, sawlike blade. I pulled a face as I looked at the macabre collection.

"Today I am to mix St. Hildegard's ointment," she told me.

I leaned over her shoulder to watch her work.

"St. Hildegard's," she said, drawing me around to stand next to her. "This is an ointment for swollen joints. It soothes rheumatisms. The receipt is a very old one. It is from Germany, and it is very specific."

Through the course of the next half hour, she never referred to a book or scribbled bit of paper. The receipt had been committed to memory, and I watched carefully as she assembled the mixture. She measured by the palmful, four parts gin to two parts goose fat to two parts deer marrow. Extracting the marrow was the most tedious part, requiring patience and no small skill in order to keep the mixture free of bone slivers. It was messy work and the smell was appalling, but she seemed pleased with the salve she produced.

"Now, for this to work, it must be rubbed firmly into the swollen joints. The rheumatic must sit in front of an elmwood fire. Raw quince is the best food for drawing out the pain of rheumatism, but if that is not to taste, then a pudding or pie of quince or even quince wine will work as well."

She spooned the salve into a fresh jar and sealed it. Together we tidied up the stillroom and as we worked, I ventured a question.

"Rosalie, Miss Ailith has told me of the customs of the moor. Have you ever heard the bell that tolls under Grimswater?"

To my surprise, she smiled. "I would have thought you immune to village superstitions, Lady Julia."

I shrugged. "This superstition is not confined to the village. The folk at Grimsgrave claim to have heard it."

"What makes you think the Allenbys are any more sensible than the villagers? They have been here for too long. It is not good for the blood of a family to be unmixed. They have dwelt here on this moor, marrying their cousins and producing beautiful children for a thousand years. They ought to have travelled, married fresh blood and learned a little of the world."

"Sir Redwall travelled," I pointed out. "He went to Egypt."

She tipped her head, her bright gaze searching my face. Then she smiled. "No, lady. I do not mean only the travelling that takes a man into a new country. I mean the travelling that takes a man into a new place here." She touched her heart lightly. "Too many Englishmen go to a new country and bring with them the same clothes, the same tea, the same food, the same books. They try to bring England itself with them, and then they are dissatisfied when they are foreigners in a foreign land."

"True enough," I admitted, "but Gypsies marry their own and keep their own ways, in spite of their travels."

"When have your kind ever wanted to share our ways?" she asked without rancour.

"I suppose you are correct. I should be quite hopeless at that sort of thing. What I know of Sir Redwall suggests a man who would like his comforts. But I wonder what caused him to leave Grimsgrave and venture abroad when no one else in his family had ever done so. Was it purely the love of Egyptology?"

"Who can say? It was a difficult time in the village, and the Allenbys were not very popular just then."

"The village?" I prompted.

"Those who do not farm here used to work the mines. Lead mostly, a little silver. The last mine on Allenby land played out shortly before Sir Redwall left. Folk did not take it well when he closed the mine and refused to survey for another vein. He ought to have paid for someone to look properly, but he would not. He claimed he had no money, then left for Egypt, sending back a stream of expensive artefacts. He was not received warmly when he returned."

"What happened?"

"He were pelted with rotten eggs when he came, and folk chased him from the village clear out onto the moor, throwing stones and threatening him."

I stared at her, aghast. "Their own benefactor?" I could scarcely fathom it. The relationship between the largest house in the area and the country folk was a throwback to the feudal age, with protection in difficult times and opportunities for work provided by the big house, and strong backs and willing workers provided by the villagers. It was astonishing to me that the relationship could have broken down so completely at Grimsgrave, but then northerners had a reputation for the sort of independence southerners would never countenance.

She shrugged again. "He denied them work, took food from their children's mouths. He was no benefactor to them. When he closed the mine and refused to survey for another, it caused a great deal of suffering. The estate began to fail, and he sold off some of the farms. He turned out the farmhands, sending them back to their homes, and sent the maids home as well. Many of those young people had depended upon their wages at Grimsgrave Hall to sustain entire families with their fathers out of work and younger brothers and sisters to feed. But the Allenby fortunes were in decline. Sir Redwall had spent himself into oblivion, and when he realised what he had done, he turned his face to the wall and died."

I thought of the handsome, charismatic face in the photograph and shook my head. "It seems impossible," I murmured.

"Do not think a handsome face may not hide a weak will," Rosalie advised me. I thought of my late husband and was forced to agree.

"What of his sister?" I asked suddenly. "The one who eloped with the portrait painter? Miss Ailith told me of her this afternoon. She made her escape from here."

"Did she? No one knows what became of her. She simply disappeared one night. Yes, the painter left as well, but was he forced to leave? Did he abduct the girl? Or did either of them ever leave that house alive?"

I stared at her, not quite comprehending. "Are you suggesting there has been murder done at Grimsgrave Hall?"

She smiled her enigmatic smile. "I suggest nothing. But Grimsgrave Hall is a house of secrets, and there will be no peace there until every one of them is brought into the light of day."

* * *

It was late when I left her, the shadows lengthening on the moor, the sun sinking below the horizon in a blaze of red and gold. I watched the sunset for just a moment, tearing myself away from the magnificent display when I remembered how long a walk still lay before me across the chilly moor. I set off toward Grimsgrave Hall, but I had not gone more than a dozen steps before I turned back. I stood very still, uncertain of what I had heard. And then, as the brisk moor wind rose, I heard the unmistakable sound of a bell, tolling low and mournful beneath the black waves of Grimswater.

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where, To lie in cold obstruction and to rot.

—William Shakespeare

Measure for Measure

I was not surprised Brisbane made no appearance at supper, and I was just as glad he did not. I was still smarting over his silly attempt to push me further away, and deeply frustrated that I could not discuss the matter with Portia. I went to bed early with a headache, and woke feeling only marginally better.

The next morning I closeted myself in Redwall's study directly breakfast was over. I took Grim in his cage to keep me company as usual, leaving Florence curled up in Minna's apron. It was warm there, and Minna used her for a place to rest her mending, so they were both satisfied with the arrangement. I placed the cage in its accustomed spot on the desk, but this time I opened the door to give him the run of the place. Grim bobbed his head excitedly.

"Mind you don't upset anything. Some of these artefacts are terribly valuable," I told him. He hopped out of the cage and began strutting round the room, pausing now and again to peer at something shiny. I slipped Redwall's photograph from my pocket and propped it on the desk. I told myself it was for a bit of inspiration, for the work could be tedious and grimy, but the truth was there was something arresting about that face, and wherever I turned, his level gaze seemed to follow, the mouth turned up in amusement at something I had done. I put his Egypt notebooks into a drawer to peruse later, and set to work. I had finished the books and was thrilled to be cataloguing the last of a set of delicately-wrought shawabtis. They were tiny statues of servants, waiting to do their master's bidding in the afterlife. It amused me to see them ranged there, each with slightly different features or a different drape to his linen kilt. The artist had been so skilled, I could almost sense the watchfulness of each, the willingness to anticipate the needs of the master and respond. They were remarkable, and oddly charming.

I had just finished describing the last when Grim put his glossy black head around the edge of the desk and quorked at me.

"Are you hungry?" I rummaged in my pocket for a tin of sweetmeats, tossing him a sugared plum. He tore into it greedily and I threw him another.

"Oooh, that's for me," he said in his odd little croaking voice. The first time Grim had spoken to me it had been a revelation, but I was accustomed to him now, and more than once his little sayings had been frighteningly apropos.

"Yes, that's for you, dearest." I rose and tidied up the box of shawabtis, then cast around for the next item to be catalogued. There was a couch I had been longing to put my hands on, but the shawabtis had been stacked atop it. Now, if I just shifted a set of ebony chairs, I could reach it properly. It was not an easy proposition. The chairs were precariously balanced and surprisingly heavy, their legs resting on the edge of the couch and braced by the brickwork of the fireplace. The fireplace backed the one in Brisbane's bedchamber, the two flues sharing a single chimney. I put my back to the brickwork and pushed against the first chair to edge it up in order to get a proper grip on it.

Just then Grim quorked loudly, startling me. I dropped the chair and stepped back heavily, catching my elbow on the side of the brickwork of the chimney breast.

"Damnation," I muttered, rubbing at my elbow and praying I had not damaged the chair.

Grim tilted his head up at me. "Damnation."

"Do not repeat that," I told him severely. "Or if you must, tell people Valerius taught it to you."

I examined the chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Even after a few millennia in a desert tomb, my clumsiness had not harmed it. The chimney breast was not so lucky. My elbow had dislodged a bit of it, and I bent to retrieve the piece of brick, surprised to find it was a neat slice rather than a crumbled lump. I moved to fit it back into place, and as I did so, I saw a tiny ring-shaped handle sitting slightly proud of the mortar beyond, just large enough to admit an index finger. I slid my finger inside and twisted.

To my astonishment, the mechanism worked perfectly. The side of the chimney breast swung open noiselessly, and I saw that the brick here was not solid at all. The entire panel was covered in thin slices of brick, a perfect trompe-l'oeil to trick the eye into believing it was as solid as the rest of the construction. It was beautifully done, each part of the mechanism fitting to within a hairsbreadth. A master had been at work here, I mused, but to what purpose?

"Of course," I murmured to Grim. "The Allenbys are Catholics. It's a priest's hole!"

He ignored me and toddled off, quorking quietly to himself, but I was intrigued. I had read of them, these odd little spaces fitted perfectly into Roman households for the purpose of hiding recusant priests. They had been hunted after the Reformation, and for a few centuries after, I recalled. But Catholics had had a stronghold in the north, and many of the manor houses had sheltered the priests who clung to the old ways and refused to recognise the Anglican church.

The spaces were invariably tiny, so as not to attract the attention of the men who searched for the priests. Some barely accommodated a fully-grown man, and there was no question of comfort. Priest's holes were for survival, and this one was no bigger than one might expect. Fitted directly against the fireplace, it must have been uncomfortably hot, stifling even, although a tiny speck of daylight high in the back wall showed where a supply of clean air might be had. There was even a silver tube still hanging next to the hole, a clever device to enable the priest to draw in the fresh air deeply.

But it was not the accommodations of the priest's hole that had captured my attention. Wedged tightly into the hole was an anthropomorphic box, the wood gilded and painted, as bright and beautiful as the day an Egyptian artist had last put his brush to them.

I leaned closer in the dim light to look at it, and felt a rush of excitement. This was what I had been searching for, a treasure from a pharaoh's tomb, the coffin of a king.

Or a queen, I decided, looking more closely at the painted face. The features were delicate and feminine. I touched a fingertip to the gilding, scarcely daring to breathe. It seemed impossible that Redwall Allenby could have spirited home the mortal remains of a pharaoh's wife, but the more I thought on it, the less outlandish it became. He was a passionate student of Egyptology, and what part of that discipline commanded more devotion than the study of its mummies? I had already learned enough of his character to know he could be impulsive and opportunistic. If he had been forced from Egypt in disgrace, might he not have taken the chance to purloin a magnificent trophy as a reminder of his travels to a beloved land?

I put out a hand and tested the weight of the coffin. It was futile to think I could move it myself, but I realised that the lid rocked a little against my palm. Without pausing to consider the consequences, I went to the desk and retrieved the knife. The blade slid easily between the lid and the coffin, and I silently blessed the work of good Yorkshire craftsmen. A lesser blade would have snapped as I rocked the lid free, but this held true, and I stepped back sharply as the lid dropped free of the sarcophagus. I peered behind it, prepared to look upon the linen-wrapped features of a long-dead queen.

Instead, there were two tiny bundles, each less than two feet long, positioned snugly in the sarcophagus, one where the lady's torso ought to have been, one in place of her legs. For one gruesome moment, I thought the lady had been dismembered, her body laid to rest in separate wrappings, but as I looked more carefully, I realised the bundles were two separate persons. I could make out the contours of heads and shoulders and legs, and each had been wrapped with all the care one would expect in an ancient burial, presided over by embalmer-priests. And to my horror, I knew precisely what they were.

I stepped out of the priest's hole and took several deep breaths, peeking once or twice to make certain the coffin was still there. Grim had found the tin of plums and pried it open, greedily helping himself to the contents. I no longer cared. My hands were still shaking as I closed the panel, careful to mark where the mechanism was as I slotted the brick into place. I was calmer by the time I put Grim back into his cage. He clucked irritably at me as I fastened the clasp.

"Damnation," he said, fixing me with a beady eye.

"Oh, do shut up, Grim," I returned.

I hurried to the hall and snatched up the first garment I found, a cloak of Hilda's, rusty black and so heavy I could barely stagger with it on. I was halfway across the moor path before I finally managed to tie its strings, picking my way toward Thorn Crag. I did not know where Brisbane was to be found, but it made sense to try the highest point in hopes I would be able to spy him from there.

As I drew closer, I fancied I heard his voice, and just as I rounded the top he came rushing from the other direction, nearly knocking me flat.

"Julia, what the devil are you doing up here? These rocks are dangerous," he scolded, putting a firm hand under my elbow and guiding me to firmer footing.

"Is there someone here? You were talking to someone," I prodded.

"Myself," he said, setting me onto my feet. "Why have you come?"

I pulled my elbow away and rubbed at it. It was the one that had collided with the brickwork, and it was still tender.

"You have mummy babies," I blurted without preamble.

He stared down at me, his dark brows furrowed. "I have what?"

"Mummy babies. In the house, in Redwall's study. He kept them jammed into a priest's hole behind the fireplace. I found it, entirely by accident," I said quickly. "I was cataloguing the contents of his collection for Lady Allenby, and—" I broke off, realising with a rush of annoyance that I had just told Brisbane something I had not meant to reveal. I hurried on in the hopes he would not notice. "I found them, hidden away in a wooden sarcophagus. They are horrid."

He continued to stare at me, his bright black gaze as inscrutable as Grim's. "Coffin," Brisbane corrected finally.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Coffin. You said it was wood. Sarcophagi are made of stone. They hold coffins, which are made of wood and gilded and painted."

"Brisbane, this is no time to be pedantic. Come and look at them." I tugged at his sleeve, our earlier quarrel quite forgotten.

To my surprise, he did not demur. He simply glanced around casually, then gestured for me to descend the crag behind him. I scrambled over the rocks with a great deal less grace than I had ascended, but at length I reached the bottom, Hilda's cloak only slightly the worse for wear. Brisbane touched it lightly.

"Taken to wearing Hilda's things, have you?"

I pulled a face. "It is vile. I only wore it because it was the nearest thing at hand."

"It does not suit you. You are too short by half to wear it," he observed.

I snatched the trailing hem out of the mud and shot him an evil look as I stalked away. "Thank you for that. Hurry up, will you?"

He came along mildly, as unconcerned as if we were on a picnic. I think he may have even whistled a tune at one point. I ignored him until we reached the Hall, pausing only to slip Hilda's cloak back onto the peg. I made a note to have Minna brush it for her, then hurried on to the study, Brisbane following.

I noticed he closed the door behind us.

"Hullo, Grim," he said, catching sight of my pet.

"Good morning," Grim returned cordially.

"Brisbane," I said, tapping my foot. He joined me, watching as I slipped the slice of brick from its careful slot, then twisted the small iron ring and opened the panel.

"Very clever," he murmured, studying the mechanism.

"Brisbane, you can admire the craftsmanship later. The mummies," I pleaded.

He heaved a sigh, then stepped around me to study the coffin. After several minutes, he stripped off his coat and tossed it to me. In spite of a day spent upon the muddy moor, his waistcoat was smooth, his sleeves perfectly clean. He unpinned his cuffs and folded them back, baring strong brown forearms. He fitted the lid back into place, then tested it to make certain it would hold long enough to withstand a move. He positioned himself then and after a few aborted attempts managed to get a proper grip upon the coffin, removing it carefully to the storeroom floor.

"It is marvellous," I breathed, watching the lamplight play over the gilded wood.

"Quite," he murmured. He ran his hands over the coffin as carefully as a lover, testing the surfaces, for what I could not imagine. Only after he had gone over every inch of it did he straighten. He slid a hand into his boot and retrieved a knife. I blinked in surprise, but he carried on, sliding the sharp blade between the lid and the body of the coffin. As it had done against my blade, the lid eased open and Brisbane slid his fingers underneath. A few moments' careful manoeuvring and it was open. We both peered into the shadows of the coffin.

"Mummy babies indeed," he murmured, studying the little forms intently.

I shuddered. "But why babies? It's so horrid."

"Some collectors prefer to purchase the remains of children. They are usually less expensive, and the decorations on the coffins can be quite beautiful, although in this case, that was clearly not the motivation. The coffin was designed for a grown woman," he said reasonably.

I pulled back and gave him a reproving look. "Are you not outraged? Those are someone's children! And he bought them, like they were trinkets in a bazaar!"

Brisbane shrugged. "Most likely they were. That is where most tourists in Egypt purchase their souvenirs, Julia. He was probably walking through the souk one day and thought they would be an interesting memento of his travels."

"I do not care," I said fiercely. "Dead people ought not to be souvenirs."

"No, they would not be my first choice of keepsake," he agreed mildly, "but I only know of one person who has returned from Egypt without some bit of mummy. Everyone wants a mummy, even if it's only a cat."

I thought of an unrolling of a mummy I had attended, given by a duchess to amuse her friends. It had seemed a diversion, an entertainment then. I had had no sense of the person beneath the wrappings. Just a bundle of withered skin and bones, a few bits of dark red hair still plaited into a tidy arrangement.

But this…I leaned over again to peer once more into the coffin. The bundle was neatly wrapped, the linen strips woven into a perfectly-executed pattern of lozenges. It was so beautifully done; I could imagine the painstaking care to make certain each fold was just so. And it was heartbreakingly small. The child could not have been more than a few days old at most. The other was almost precisely the same size, and I wondered if perhaps they were siblings or if Redwall had merely begun his macabre collection out of whichever stray mummy babies he could find.

"It is horrible," I said finally. "One oughtn't collect people as though they were curiosities."

"I happen to agree with you—" He paused, dropping his arm. He had stepped closer to the desk, but not to look at the mummy. His gaze was fixed on the photograph of Redwall Allenby. He arched a black brow at me in inquiry. There seemed no possible explanation without revealing to him my purpose in being in Sir Redwall's rooms.

Instead, silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring, until Brisbane bent to retrieve the lid of the coffin. He replaced it, shutting the tiny remains from sight. He returned the coffin to the priest's hole and slid the panel neatly back into place.

"Brisbane, you cannot leave them there!" I made to move toward the priest's hole, but he turned and placed himself squarely between me and the resting place of those sad little bundles.

"I can, and I shall. There is no reason to disturb them at present. Carry on with your cataloguing," he said, his tone oddly cold.

I gave a little sigh of resignation. "I knew you would not like me poking about in here, but the Allenby ladies have so little, and they cannot have these things with them in the cottage. I suggested to Lady Allenby—"

"You suggested? I might have known. And here I thought you were meddling in here at her request," he observed, his tone acid.

I blinked at him. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. You were careful to replace the dustsheets, but there were signs things in here had been disturbed. And you will forgive the observation, I am sure, but it did occur to me if there were someone snooping about, the likeliest culprit was by far yourself."

He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and I thought of the implacable expression of a particularly imperious pharaoh I had just catalogued. In his current mood, Brisbane might as well have been fashioned out of the cool black basalt himself.

I took a step toward him, deliberately gentling my tone. "There is no need to be cross. The Allenby ladies must have some means of keeping themselves. The sale of this legacy might well be the making of them."

"Oh, that it might," he said agreeably, "save that it is not their legacy to sell."

I blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

He leaned close so there would be no mistaking his words, each syllable clipped and impersonal. "This house and everything in it with the exception of the personal effects of Lady Allenby and her daughters is mine."

"I do not understand."

"Then let me be quite clear—this house and all of its remaining contents were sold. Lord Salisbury, acting as an agent of Her Majesty, purchased the estate and deeded it to me. I own every stick of furniture, every pillow, every spoon. I even own that revolting tapestry mouldering on the wall in the great hall. It is mine."

I shook my head. "Brisbane, that is not possible. Lady Allenby—"

"Lady Allenby does not know. She never troubled to read the terms of the sale, and her solicitor, a drunk old devil from Leeds, never bothered to tell her. He couldn't even be bothered to travel out here to see her. He conducted the entire matter by correspondence, taking a fat fee for himself. She has nothing except the clothes upon her back."

I stared at him for a long moment, scarcely able to comprehend what he had told me. "That poor woman," I murmured finally. "To lose her home must be a complete devastation, but this as well. She has nothing, and neither have her daughters. How could you not tell them?"

He shrugged one muscular shoulder, his expression indifferent. "They will discover it soon enough. When the cottage I am preparing is ready, they may take a few furnishings to suit and their own effects. Under the law, I will have been far more generous with them than I am required."

"And what of your conscience?" I demanded. "Is there no moral law greater than those passed by Parliament? Brisbane, you cannot let them go on thinking they have been fairly treated. And you cannot let them believe this collection will be sold to their benefit. I must stop cataloguing," I finished, more to myself.

"Oh, no. Do go on. I won't want these things around, so you might as well catalogue them for me. I daresay the proceeds will more than recompense me for the repairs I have put into the cottage."

I took a step still closer, searching his face, but to no purpose. I did not know him. "You are a stranger to me," I said softly. "I never imagined you could treat a defenceless lady with such callousness. This is not you."

"Perhaps you do not know me," he returned.

"Oh, it would please you to think so. You do enjoy the masquerade, don't you? The mysterious, the enigmatic Nicholas Brisbane, living in shadows and secrecy. But I do know you. I know you as well as I know my own name. You are not a man who would torment any woman, no matter her offence. You are not cruel or malicious or vengeful, and yet you pretend to these things because you have some secret purpose you do not care to share with me."

Brisbane curled a lip at me, his smile scornful. He jerked his head at the photograph on the desk. "Blame him. He is the one who left them with nothing. The sale was arranged before his death."

I shook my head, trying to make sense of a senseless situation. "No, the sale was concluded after his death, when the ladies had no choice, when they had sold all of the important furnishings."

"The sale was arranged before Redwall's death," Brisbane repeated. "He did not have time to complete it, but the papers were presented for Lady Allenby's signature, and she did not trouble to read them properly. He was the one who put them into this situation. And anything I do for them, anything," he said, his voice low and brutal, "is more than he would have."

He straightened and cast another glance at the photograph. "Not such a handsome face now, is it?"

He brushed past me, collecting his coat as he went. I sank down onto the chair, desperately trying to understand. I had never known Brisbane to be so cold, so distant, but neither could I comprehend a man who would leave his closest relations penniless. I picked up the photograph and searched the face, looking for something, anything that would offer some insight. There was nothing. Just the same beautiful features, the same winsome smile, the same exotic background. I did not replace it on the desk. Instead I tucked it carefully into one of the drawers. If nothing else, I did not want Brisbane to dispose of it in a fit of pique. For a stranger, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of antipathy on Brisbane's part to the previous owner of his house.

And then, I realised what I ought to have known since the first conversation I had had with Ailith Allenby. Redwall was no stranger to Brisbane. They had been children together on this very moor, and whatever had passed between them, it angered Brisbane still.

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

—William Shakespeare

The Comedy of Errors

After a quiet luncheon taken by myself in the kitchen—Lady Allenby felt unwell, Hilda had disappeared onto the moor, and Ailith had sent word to Mrs. Butters not to expect her—I wanted nothing more than to get right out of the house. I buttoned myself into a snug coat of heathered green tweed and tucked a scarf of soft bottle-green wool into my collar. The day was not quite so cold and the wind had died to a dull murmur, like gossiping voices whispering over the moor. I left by the front door this time, skirting the reed-fringed pond. The front wall sheltered the pond from the wind, its green surface barely rippling. I heard a frog croak and then a little splash as I walked past. The reeds shivered where something had disturbed them, and I hastened my steps a little, making my way around the ruined wing and onto a narrow path that led to a little copse of ash trees.

Just as I reached the edge of the copse, a shadow fell across the path and I started, my hand at my throat.

"'Tis only me, my lady. Thou art skittish as a new colt," Godwin said, smiling as he came near, an axe swinging from his hand.

"Oh, no. You just startled me. I did not realise anyone was about. I have never taken this path before."

"You'll not get lost," he promised. He pointed over his shoulder. "Tha' way lies the gardener's cottage where I sleep. Just beyond is the graveyard and the chapel ruins, and from there the path to the Bear's Hut, but mind you don't go tha' far. Mr. Brisbane's given orders it's not to be disturbed while the repairs are being done."

"The Bear's Hut? Were there really bears kept there?"

"Aye, though tha's quite before my time. 'Tis a cottage now, and has been for many a year. The roof is rotten through, and 'tis a dangerous place. When it is fitted up good and tight against the weather, 'twill be a fine home for the Allenby ladies. 'Tis quiet there and far from the bleating of the sheep."

"Rather inconvenient lodgings for you at the gardener's cottage," I remarked, keeping my tone deliberately light. "So far from the moor and the flock."

"Tha' it is, particularly when the ewes are throwing lambs and the weather is grim, and it's twice as broken-down as the Bear's Hut. The wind fair roars through some nights, and I can hear my own name in it." He paused a long moment, then hefted the axe in his hand. "I must be getting on," he said, edging around me on the narrow path. "If there is aught you need, make use of the cottage. Whatever I have is yours," he added with a gallant little bow. There was a twinkle in his eye, and I waved in response, turning my back and setting off down the path without looking back. His manner was one that puzzled me exceedingly. He was friendly to the point of flirtation, but for what reason I could not fathom.

I was still turning over the question of Godwin's familiarity when I rounded a bend in the copse and came upon the gardener's cottage. The little stone house, which must once have been quite snug and handsome, was in a state of pitiful decay. Half of it had come down, although the other half, considerably newer by the look of it, seemed sturdy enough. Judging from its size, it would just admit a single room, enough for a bachelor's needs, but whatever would they do if Godwin decided to marry?

But that was Brisbane's problem, I realised with a little stab of annoyance. However high-handed he was about the Allenby ladies, Godwin was his responsibility as well, and I wondered if he meant to make any better accommodation for his farm manager. I moved on, thoroughly irritated now and beginning to get a little chilled. I had been optimistic in thinking it was growing warmer, or perhaps it was the trees that made a difference. The ashes had given way to larger trees, oaks and elders and a few conifers, planted thickly and blocking out much of the sunlight. It was much darker now, and I had the sensation of venturing into a faery-tale forest, one out of myth and perhaps populated with dangerous creatures. It seemed difficult to breathe in that little wood, as if the trees themselves had robbed the place of air.

"Rubbish," I said stoutly, tugging my coat more tightly about me and straightening my shoulders. "They are just trees." I walked on for some distance, the path winding ahead of me, always turning one direction and then back on itself so I could never see far ahead. Suddenly, the path opened abruptly and I was in a large clearing on the edge of a hill, the ground sloping down and away toward a river. I took a deep breath and the feeling of constriction in my chest eased. It was peaceful, partially because of the gentle rushing of the river, for once drowning out the constant murmur of the moor wind, but also because of the little graveyard nestled against the stone wall of a chapel. The building itself was in ruins, only the barest structure remained, and a bit of tracery in a window where stained glass must once have been fitted. It was perfectly situated to capture the dying light of an afternoon, and I wondered what story had been memorialised there.

"It was King Alfred burning the cakes," came a low voice from behind a gravestone. I turned to see Ailith rising, holding her cloak tightly about her. She nodded toward the broken stone frame in the chapel wall. "Not appropriate for a chapel, really, but the Allenbys never wanted anyone to forget whence we came," she remarked, picking her way over the stones to where I stood.

"A lovely spot," I remarked, nodding toward the sloping hill and the pretty sweep of the river as it tumbled over the rocks.

"One of the prettiest in Yorkshire," she agreed. "It is no surprise our family chose to bury its dead here rather than build a house for the living." The words were laced with wistfulness and I wondered if she knew precisely how much the Allenbys had lost.

She stepped forward, lifting a graceful hand to gesture toward the ruined chapel. "There was an arched roof there, and even a few tiny flying buttresses to support it. It was meant to be a cathedral in miniature. It was quite a work of art in its day. I am told architects used to come from all over Europe to study it."

We began to walk, choosing our steps carefully amidst the broken stones. "What happened to it?"

She led me around to where the interior of the chapel must once have stood, and I gasped. The stones here were scorched deeply.

Ailith shook her head sadly. "That is what your neighbours will do when a family insists upon sheltering priests."

I put out a tentative hand to touch the blackened stones. "The villagers did this?"

"In the time of Elizabeth. Our family had known some prominence during the reign of the first Mary, but with her death, our hopes for a Catholic restoration were dashed." She nodded toward the chapel stones. "The queen sent agents north, ferreting out all of the recusants they could find. They tore houses apart looking for them. Sometimes local people helped in order to curry favour. Here, the villagers decided to take matters into their own hands. After they found the priest's hole in the house and dragged our poor priest screaming from its sanctuary, they turned him over to the queen's men. He was burned alive."

I started at her mention of the priest's hole, but she went on, her face expressionless as her voice. She was reciting a story she had been told, but its horrors did not touch her.

"After they had burned the priest and all the Roman articles of worship, they burned the chapel. They dared not lay hands on the family, but they destroyed everything we held most dear. The statues of saints, the Alfred chapel, the tapestries depicting the life of the Virgin Mother. All were destroyed."

"That is dreadful," I told her, trying and failing to imagine the peaceful people of Blessingstoke ever turning upon Father or laying a hand against his estate at Bellmont Abbey. But then, Father had always looked to their benefit, and I wondered not for the first time at the antipathy that seemed to exist between the Allenbys and the villagers who ought to have owed them a livelihood.

Ailith turned then and left the shelter of the ruined chapel. "Come, Lady Julia. I should like to show you something," she called over her shoulder. I obeyed, coming to stand beside her where she had paused in front of a gravestone. Unlike the other Allenby monuments, some grand, all beautiful, with weeping angels or statues of saints, this was a plain slab, the chiselled words sharp and black against the dark grey stone.

Sir

Redwall Allenby 1848-1887

Let

not be shut in my soul

Let

not be fettered my shadow

Let

be opened the way for my soul and for my shadow

May

it see the great god.

A gay little bundle of daffodils rested on the stone, and I knew Ailith had laid them there. She nodded toward the inscription. "It is an Egyptian funerary text. Redwall used to read me poetry sometimes, and funny little fables. But once he read to me a darker book, one that spoke of death and the passage of the afterlife. I remembered it, and told them to carve it into his gravestone. He was ill when he came home from Egypt, you know. I think his travels destroyed him. I think he knew he would not leave this place."

Her cool composure had not deserted her—her voice did not tremble, nor did her calm gaze waver—but I saw her hands tighten until the knuckles went quite white. I had never pitied her more. She had lost her beloved brother, and as nearly as I could surmise, had no idea that he had arranged to leave her penniless. It seemed likely she had never seen the macabre little relics hidden in the priest's hole either. They had been close then, as I was to my own brothers, but he had only permitted her to know that much of his business as it suited him to reveal. I longed to ask her about the financial arrangements at Grimsgrave, or about the gruesome little mummies, but when I turned to her, I saw the beginnings of a tear shimmer on her lashes. I could not do it.

I pressed her arm instead and offered her a kindly smile. "It is a lovely quote, and a fitting one for a gentleman who was so devoted to his studies."

Ailith nodded and blinked furiously. Ever mindful of her dignity, she would not weep, not in front of me, and I tactfully bent over and pretended to fuss with my bootlace to give her time to compose herself.

I wandered to the next stones, a series of small markers, identical down to the tiny cherub carved in each.

"Those were Mama's," Ailith said, coming up behind me. "She calls them her 'disappointments.' Most of them were born after Redwall and I, one came after Hilda."

"How tragic," I breathed. "There must be five, no, six of them."

Ailith nodded. "Yes, all of them dead at birth. Mama said they were taken justly, as a punishment for her sins, hers and Father's."

There seemed no possible response to that. I knew the notion was a popular one, but I had little use for any divinity that would punish innocents for the crimes of their parents. I bent and put a fingertip to the last in the row, the smallest cherub in the graveyard, barely larger than my palm. It was beautifully carved, and I wondered if it had given any comfort to Lady Allenby, or if she denied herself the solace of visiting her children's graves.

After a moment I straightened and we left the little graveyard together. The wood seemed friendlier now that I had a companion, and as we walked, Ailith pointed out the things I had missed—a clump of violets blossoming in a bit of moss, a pretty bird with red wings I had never seen before. I did not take note of its name, but she seemed very knowledgeable about the creatures of the small wood, and I complimented her on her understanding of the wild things.

"It is my kingdom," she said, her voice lightly mocking. "The wood, the graveyard, the moor. There is not an inch of it I do not know, not a foot of it I do not command."

We had passed Godwin's cottage and were just emerging from the wood onto the moor path back to the Hall.

"Do you not wish to travel? Have you never been to London?"

"What could I possibly desire there?" she demanded. "A dirty city full of strangers?" She drew a great deep breath of moorland air. "Everything I require is here."

I thought of her sister, running away from Grimsgrave with the travelling artist, her brother venturing to faraway lands, even Hilda, retreating into her books, and it seemed sad to me that Ailith had been nowhere, had seen nothing.

But just then the path turned and I could see Grimsgrave, and for an instant I saw it, not as it was—an age-blackened house falling to ruin—but as it had been, a gracious and elegant manor house, lording its austere beauty over an even more austere and beautiful moor. And I thought of the unbroken line of the Allenby family, stretching back in time, tethered by the blood of kings, and I marvelled that they had held their little domain for so long. Viewed in that light, it seemed tragic that it had slipped from their grasp.

I paused on the path and Ailith turned, her expression quizzical. "It is a fine view," I told her, nodding toward the house.

"Very little to admire now," she commented without rancour. She might have been a property agent assessing an investment. "But it was once magnificent. There was a painting over the fireplace in the dining room, commissioned just after the east wing was added, and it was a very good likeness, my grandmother used to say. She knew the house before the wing crumbled. Hers was the last generation to know the house whole."

Ailith began to describe it for me as her grandmother must have done for her: ladies trailing silken hems over the wide lawns, swans gliding gracefully over the glassy pond, gentlemen in velvet breeches waving plumed hats as they spurred blooded horses home from the moor.

"They did not mix with the neighbours, you understand," Ailith told me carefully, "but they hosted parties for their cousins and more distant relations. That is how the masters of Grimsgrave chose their brides and kept the bloodline of Allenby unblemished. Not a single bride was ever taken who did not bear some strain of Allenby blood."

I raised a brow, but did not comment. Father had often said that the wild eccentricity of the Marches was due to too many generations of close breeding. He had insisted upon tracing my mother's ancestry for twenty generations to prove they shared no kin. "Fresh blood," he always said, "is the key to good breeding, in horses or in children. Someone ought to tell the queen that," he would invariably add. He did not approve of the heavy concentration of German blood in the royal family, and I doubted he would approve the Allenbys either.

"So many weddings celebrated here," Ailith went on. "So many births, burials. So many centuries, and still it stands."

"It is a noble tribute to the Allenby family," I told her.

"Noble once, and it will be again," she said, darting a meaningful glance at me.

I chose my words carefully. "I believe Mr. Brisbane can make a very worthy contribution to its heritage. He would never destroy the integrity of such a place. He would only restore it to its former grandeur."

Brisbane had not said precisely that, but I refused to believe he would do something as ludicrous as pull the entire house down and put up a modern monstrosity of red brick with crenulated towers. It might be the fashion, but Brisbane only chose those fashions which suited his aesthetic, and I could not believe modern architecture was one of them.

"Of course he would put it to rights," Ailith said, tipping her head winsomely. "Hilda shall never permit him to do less."

I struggled to understand her meaning, but she did not wait for a response. "She will take over all of the restorations herself when the time is ripe. He will want her to, and it would be her duty as the mistress of Grimsgrave."

I did not speak. There were no possible words. She started up the path and I walked next to her, meek as any lamb to the slaughter.

"Of course, he has not asked her, but that is merely a formality these days. A woman knows when a man has intentions, don't you think?"

The beautiful cornflower-blue eyes that looked into mine were entirely guileless. She was merely repeating what her sister had told her, and I realised, as I ought to have realised before, the true cause of Hilda's antipathy. She might prefer my brother's company, but she was determined to save her home for her family. The little snippet had set her cap at Brisbane and meant to drive me away.

"And has Brisbane given any indication of his intentions?" I asked, certain of the reply.

"Oh, no, but then he would do the thing properly, would he not? He would wait until he has secured Mama's blessing, and I think she would demand rather a lot. Of course, he ought to ask me as the eldest, but I should never accept him."

I resisted the urge to smile. "Would you not?"

Ailith laughed and linked an arm through mine in a rare gesture of friendship. "Of course not. That was finished many years past." She paused, then laughed again at my obvious bemusement. "Has he not told you? We were not just playmates together. I was the first girl he ever loved."

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

With a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument Smiling at grief.

—William Shakespeare

Twelfth Night

The next day I carried the midday meal up to Lady Allenby. She was abed with another attack of her rheumatism, and as Mrs. Butters and Minna were busily occupied extinguishing the pudding Minna had managed to set alight, I offered to take the tray myself. Neither Ailith nor her sister were to be found, and I was glad of it. After Ailith's pronouncement of the day before, I was not certain I could manage civility. Ailith had not struck me as an unkind woman, but I could not make her out, and the more I thought about our conversation, the more confused I became. Surely she knew of my attachment to Brisbane. My very presence in the house was of such monstrous impropriety it must have shouted news of my affections from the rooftops. Ailith could not have repeated her sister's intentions innocently.

But perhaps it had been meant kindly. We had become friends after a fashion, and it was entirely possible that Ailith knew something I did not about her sister's scheme. Hilda had shown herself to be impetuous and coarse. What treachery was within her sights? If Ailith suspected some mischief, she might well warn me simply out of her own natural kindness, and perhaps out of some lingering affection for Brisbane, her childhood playmate. Of their youthful dalliance, I could not even begin to think. My mind positively reeled at the thought, and I decided to turn my efforts to the situation at hand.

It had occurred to me that with a little deft questioning, I might learn something from Lady Allenby, and a nice little chat over her marrowbones might be just the thing.

Mrs. Butters thanked me profusely as I took up the heavy tray. "Oh, that is a kindness, my lady! It saves my hips, it does. Stairs are unkind to an old woman. I think you must be a Sumerian!"

I thought for a moment before I realised she had meant Samaritan. I smiled at her and sniffed appreciatively at the tray. There was a plate of marrowbones, a sauce boat full of thick gravy, and a rack of toast, along with a few other little dishes of tempting morsels—pickles and radishes and some of her favourite bottled mushrooms. Lady Allenby exclaimed with delight when I appeared in her room, pushing herself up onto her pillows.

"My dear, how kind of you," she began. I hastened to put the tray down and slid a careful arm behind her to help her settle more comfortably. She was dressed in a worn velvet bedcoat, its silken ribbons shredded a bit, but still a beautiful blue that flattered her eyes. Her hair had not been dressed, but she had donned a simple lace cap, the old-fashioned lappets framing her face. Altogether she looked like a queen of old, receiving statesmen in her bed of state as courtiers looked on.

I settled the tray and poured out the tiny glass of quince wine that Rosalie had recommended. Lady Allenby looked a little scandalised, but pleased. "A bit is just the thing for rheumatism," she agreed. She nodded toward the window. "Would you draw back the curtains, my dear? I see a bit of sunlight peeking round the edges."

I obeyed, careful not to tear the fragile draperies from their rings. Sunlight spilled over the windowsill and into the room, motes dancing in the warm, buttery light. I glanced down and realised her bedchamber overlooked the kitchen garden. I could see the few little beds still struggling to produce, and the ruins of the beehives tucked into the crumbling stone wall. I commented upon them to Lady Allenby.

"They must have been charming in the day," I finished. "I have never seen any quite like that, with such detail."

She smiled wanly. "And the bees appreciated it, I am certain they did. They gave tremendous amounts of the sweetest honey. I tended the hives myself until last year." Her smile faded and her expression took on a faraway look. "They were quite my little companions, so brave. They gave their lives to assuage my pain," she said, rubbing at her swollen joints.

"I beg your pardon?" Surely I had not heard her correctly.

"The sting of a bee is a sure remedy for rheumatism. When my hands were at their worst, I used to thrust them into the hives. The bees stung me and after the first shock of the pain, there was relief, blessed relief. But I never forgot it cost them their lives to do it. I always felt so terribly guilty afterward. And then last summer after Redwall died, it seemed the proper time to let them go. One windy day, I opened the hives and destroyed the queen's chamber. The hive fled, and my bees have never come back. That is why the garden failed, you know. No bees to work it, and they will never return here."

The sunlight had fallen on her face, cruelly, for it revealed the furrows and wrinkles of her ruined beauty. I wondered if Ailith ever looked at her and mourned what she would become. Or if Redwall had ever looked upon a mummy queen and thought of his mother, I thought with a shiver.

"You ought to eat before the toast goes quite cold," I told her.

She did not hear me, or at least she gave no sign of it. "I did the right thing by sending them away. My hands are quite ruined, but pain purifies, that is what God teaches us," she said with a nod behind me. I turned to see a prie-dieu, ebony with a cushion of the finest needlework I had ever seen. A prayer book lay open upon it, and overseeing all was a representation of Christ upon the cross, dripping with the gore of Crucifixion.

I said nothing, and Lady Allenby nodded. "You are not of the Roman faith, my dear. You would not understand. To suffer is to understand Him, and His suffering for our sins and the sins of the world."

I felt faintly embarrassed, as I always do when earnest people discuss religion. My brothers and sisters and I had been raised Anglican, of course, and all of the momentous events of our lives had been celebrated within the ceremonies of the Church. But we seldom attended of a Sunday, and discussions of spirituality were few and far between. We were far likelier to argue over the whereabouts of Shakespeare's lost play or the plight of prostitutes in Whitechapel, both pet subjects of Father's and Aunt Hermia's. God was rather far down on the list of our personal interests.

"You are young yet," Lady Allenby assured me. "Many do not turn to God until life has revealed all of its bitterness and the promise of the hereafter is the only solace left. There is a natural order, you know. Ordained by God. It ought not to be disturbed by man."

I thought of her children, the runaway eldest daughter, the opportunistic dead son, the peculiar daughters left to her, and I agreed that she knew far better than I of the suffering of the world.

She struggled a bit with her utensils, and I offered to spread the marrow onto her toast. Lady Allenby assented graciously, with a regal nod of the head as though she were granting a royal favour. I handed her each slice as it was spread, pausing a little so the toast should not become sodden if I prepared it too soon.

"Quite delicious, will you not join me?" she offered. I declined. "The very thing for joints." She sampled the other dishes as well, exclaiming over the crispness of the radishes and the excellence of the mushrooms. "So few pleasures left at my age," she said at last, patting her lips with a napkin. "It seems almost sinful to enjoy one's food so completely."

"I think a greater sin would be to fail to enjoy it if you are privileged enough to have it," I said, wondering if I had overstepped myself.

To my astonishment, she laughed, a rusty, wheezing sound, as if she had not laughed properly in a long time. It ended badly, with a little fit of choking, and it was several minutes before she was settled again on her pillows.

"I am sorry. I ought not to have said it." I busied myself with tidying the tray to hide my embarrassment.

"Dear Lady Julia, you are such a charming girl. Little wonder Mr. Brisbane is so taken with you," she said, fixing me with those knowing blue eyes.

I folded the napkin carefully. "Do you think so? Ailith seems to be under a different impression."

Lady Allenby sighed. "Did she tell you Hilda means to marry him?"

"Words to that effect," I admitted.

Lady Allenby motioned for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I did so, gingerly, so as not to disturb her. She twisted the edge of the coverlet in her gnarled hands.

"You must not mind my daughters, Lady Julia. It has been difficult for them, living here, so far removed from appropriate society."

I tipped my head. "Ailith at least seems to relish it. I believe she even referred to herself as queen of this domain," I said lightly.

The strong silvery-white brows knitted together. "Oh, my poor girl. You see, she was devoted to her elder sister and her brother. The loss of both was difficult, is difficult, to bear." She hesitated, then went on, each word clearly painful for her. "My older children were born very close together. Only two years separated my eldest and my youngest. Redwall and Ailith were even born the same calendar year, one in January, the other in December. They always said it made a bond between them, like twins. Their sister, Wilfreda, was a little apart. She was bookish and solemn, a contemplative, competent child, rather like Hilda, but with a ready laugh. Redwall and Ailith were wild as moor wind. I never knew where they were or what they were about. Wilfreda was always at the graveyard or up on Thorn Crag, book in hand, preferring her own company save for the times she bullied Godwin into taking her riding. Wilfreda always knew her own mind, and once she had determined to do something, it was as good as done. I did not realise until it was far too late that she had decided to leave us."

Lady Allenby talked on, spinning out her tale.

"When the children were nearly grown, Wilfreda was eighteen, Redwall seventeen and Ailith very nearly, I engaged an artist to paint them. Not Hilda of course. She was but a child. It was tradition for the Allenbys to be painted upon maturity. There used to be an entire gallery of excellent paintings in the east wing," she said ruefully. "Until necessity compelled us to sell them, and the wing itself fell into decay. But the children, I wanted them painted, and the artist I engaged was one of fine reputation. He began with Ailith and Redwall, they insisted upon being painted together. The artist objected, but Redwall had his way. He told me he did not trust the artist, he thought the man a blackguard and felt he was not to be left alone with young ladies. He was quite right to be concerned. Ailith was painted with Redwall, but Wilfreda would have none of it. She and Redwall quarrelled terribly over it, but she had her way in the end. And she left this house with him, one moonbright night. I have not seen her since," she finished, her voice faltering just a little.

I put a gentle hand to hers. "I am so very sorry."

Her smile was mournful. "I was so angry when she left, I burned the painting of Redwall and Ailith. I ought not to have done it. It was an excellent likeness of them both. There was nothing of Wilfreda's painting to burn. Only a blank canvas he had never touched with paint. He must have talked to her during her sittings, plotting with her to carry her off. I made inquiries of course, but there was nothing to be done. The trail had gone quite cold, and I did not like to make a scandal. Perhaps it would have been different if my husband had still been alive. It was so difficult after his death, everything. The house, the children. So much to look after, and I had never been taught to."

She trailed off then, and I saw her eyelids, heavy now as she wandered in the past. I slipped off the bed and drew the curtains over the window, dimming the room. She gave a little sigh and settled deeper into her pillows. I took up the tray and tiptoed to the door, glancing behind me to see the mournful eyes of Jesus looking down at me from the bloodied cross. It was a gruesome thing, and I did not know how she could bear to sleep with it in her room.

* * *

Once I left Lady Allenby, I returned her dinner things to the kitchen feeling quite irritable, nervy and cross, and I was not fit company for anyone. Ironically, it was company I longed for. I had begun to miss Portia terribly, and Brisbane's insistent avoidance of me was verging on insult. He could not have been more pointed in his evasion if I had had boils and a leper's bell.

And to complicate matters even further, I was not at all inclined to carry on with the work in the study until I had spoken to Brisbane. I could not entirely believe his assertion that he meant to keep the proceeds of the sale of Sir Redwall's collection, but experience had taught me Brisbane was nothing if not unpredictable.

A dozen other questions circled in my brain, about Hilda's intentions toward Brisbane, the mysterious disappearance of Wilfreda, until my head ached and I could not stand to be inside a moment longer. The sky had been lowering all day, but I resolved to take my chances. I was in the hall buttoning my coat when Minna ran me to ground, smelling of smoke and burnt currants, a plump Florence resting languidly in her arms.

"There you are, my lady," Minna said, thrusting the little dog at me. "I do wish you would have a look at Florence."

I stopped buttoning and peered at my little pet. I stroked her head and she gave a soft moan. "She's got terribly fat, Minna. What have you been feeding her? I imagine it's just a bit of indigestion."

She shook her head, her eyes wide with alarm. "I do not think so, my lady. I think she is—" She dropped her eyes modestly. "I think she is in pup."

I looked closely at Florence, and I fancied her large, woeful eyes were slightly embarrassed. "But by whom? She does not go out, she does not mix with neighbourhood dogs."

Minna primmed her lips. "That rascal, Mr. Pugglesworth."

"You cannot be serious. Puggy is half-decayed. I do not see how he could manage it."

"Manage it he did, my lady! Morag said she caught them at it two months back."

"Did she? And she did not see fit to warn me at least?"

"She had to swat him with a slipper to get him off of poor Florence. She thought she had parted them in time, but I think she did not," Minna added.

I considered Florence with her fine-boned, shivery elegance and Puggy in all his decrepitude. "How perfectly revolting. It seems rather incestuous, although I don't suppose such things matter to dogs." I cupped my hand under Florence's chin. "My poor darling. What frightfully ugly pups you're going to have."

She licked at my hand and I scratched behind her ears. "Feed her up, then. She must keep up her strength if she's going to whelp. Prepare a quiet place, warm and safe, perhaps the bottom of a cupboard if you can find one suitable," I told Minna. "And line it with some towelling or an old blanket."

She bobbed a tidy curtsey and left me, cuddling Florence and crooning a little lullaby. I made a mental note to write the happy news to Portia. She would be greatly diverted to know of Mr. Pugglesworth's prowess.

* * *

As soon as I left the house, my feet turned toward the poultry yard, almost before I realised I intended to go there. Hilda was there, wrapped in a shawl and tossing kitchen scraps from a pail as she clucked her tongue at a plump chicken, muttering under her breath.

"Leave off, you great fat brute. You've not even given a single egg in a fortnight. I ought to put you in the cookpot."

"You have the countrywoman's gift for poultry, Miss Hilda," I called. "I do not think I have ever seen such plump birds."

She looked up, scowling, and threw the rest of the scraps out in a single motion. She stood for a moment, uncertainty rising in her face, then she made a sound of resignation and crossed to where I stood.

"I suppose you want an apology for what I said." Her eyes were wary, and I made no move toward her.

"Not unless you mean it. I've always hated telling someone I was sorry because I ought to."

She said nothing for a long moment, her eyes fixed over my shoulder as she turned the matter over in her mind. I nodded toward her little flock.

"I meant what I said. They are very fine birds. You ought to be proud of them."

I turned to leave her, but she snorted, a derisive sound, but not one that was intentionally insulting, I fancied.

"Any fool can raise a chicken," she retorted.

"I assure you that is not so. My brother Benedick once attempted to keep a flock to raise egg money. He managed to forget to shut the henhouse the same day Father acquired a new mastiff. Poor chickens."

Her lips twitched, but she did not smile. "You have brothers then? Besides Valerius?"

"I am the youngest daughter of ten children. I've five brothers altogether. Believe me when I say you have met the best of them."

She fell silent again and it occurred to me that she was simply unused to conversation. Lady Allenby had mentioned that Hilda was seldom to be found and rarely engaged with the rest of the household. It was entirely possible she had never had a proper friend.

"Valerius is by far the most easygoing of my brothers," I continued. "I wonder, is he anything like your brother, Redwall, was?"

She shook her head slowly. "You must have heard tales of Redwall by now. You must know what he did to the villagers. He was thoroughly spoilt and undeserving." Her complexion was mottled again, a sure sign she was becoming distressed.

I cast about for a safe subject, then decided recklessness might serve as well. "I understand from Ailith that you mean to marry Mr. Brisbane."

Her mouth gaped, then she closed it with an audible snap. "I suppose you think I am a fool. You've come to taunt me."

"I assure you, Miss Hilda, I am in no position to taunt anyone. But Brisbane hardly seems like a good match for a young lady of solitary temperament. I merely wondered if you had thought the matter through."

She jerked her head angrily. "Of course I have. I don't really want to marry him. You must know that."

"Naturally. You do not even look at him, so you cannot wish to marry for love of the man."

In spite of herself, she laughed, a wheezing, unfamiliar sound. "No, I most assuredly do not love him. But I want my home. And I am so deadly tired of not having money."

She kicked at her pail, rather like a tired child, and I realised that was precisely what she was.

I seated myself quietly on the step, and after a moment she began to speak, not to me, but in a low, faraway voice, as if she had forgot I was there.

"Poverty is so wearing. I remember what it was like to have nice things. When I was a child I had the prettiest dresses. And picture books. And a pony of my own."

"There is always a pony," I murmured, but she did not seem to hear.

"But then Papa died, and Mama was never good at figures. Nothing seemed to pay as it ought to. And Redwall left, just when he ought to have been making it better. He left and travelled the world, letting the capital run through his fingers like water and here we sat, watching it all fall apart, sinking a little further each year. We turned our clothes and when that would no longer serve, we went to the attics and wore things that were half a century out of date. Who was to care? No one ever comes here. No one visits, no one even knows we exist. And then Redwall came back and for one brief, dizzying moment, I thought it would be better. I thought he would put everything to rights."

She fell silent again, lost in her memories. I ventured to ask, "And he did not?"

Her mouth twisted in bitterness. "No. He was sick, you could see it in his eyes when he arrived home. Malaria. And the treatment for it only made him worse. He lasted less than two years. He had every chance in the world, every advantage, and he squandered them all."

I thought about the entries in his notebooks, the mentions of doses of something that began with a q. Quinine, no doubt, to ease the symptoms of his malaria.

Hilda's gaze sharpened suddenly. "I know about the collection," she said, her voice flat. "I know it was lost with the house. Mama and Ailith think that Redwall kept it back to save us, but I know the truth."

"I am sorry for that." I paused, wishing I could give her some reassurances that Brisbane would take care of her little family, but I had none to give. Though I believed Brisbane was a man of honour, I could not speak for him. "How did you discover the truth?"

"I went through Brisbane's papers," she told me roundly.

I stared at her. "Miss Hilda, I am appalled."

"You may not judge me," she returned, her face white to the lips. "You have not lived as I have."

"You misunderstand me. I am appalled I did not think of it myself," I told her truthfully. I had spent a fair bit of time alone in his rooms, and I had not troubled to read his papers. "Although Brisbane always seems to know when I am up to mischief. I daresay he would have known what I was about."

Her colour returned, and she seemed mollified at my approval. "It is so unfair," she said fiercely, "that we should be ruled by men. They control our very happiness, and yet they do not see fit to tell us anything. We have no more consequence than these chickens," she finished, nodding toward her little flock, contentedly scratching the ground in front of their tumbledown little henhouse.

We were silent a moment, and it was the pleasantest moment we had yet passed. There was a sympathy between us, and I ventured an expression of sentiment.

"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hilda. It is difficult when those we love disappoint us so acutely."

She gave a short laugh. "Love? I hated Redwall. He had the life I ought to have had, the life I would have had if I had been a son."

"And you think you can still have that life, that independence, if you marry Brisbane?" I asked her gently. "It will never work, you know. He will not marry for money and he cannot marry for love because he loves me."

Her eyes narrowed and I shook my head, intuiting her thoughts. "I know what you are thinking and believe me, it will not work. He cannot be tricked into marriage by compromising his honour."

"Why?" she demanded. "Hasn't he any?"

"Oh, yes, and he guards it rather ferociously, but his notions of honour are quite different from ours. If you were to climb into his bed and arrange for, say, Godwin or Mrs. Butters, to find you, he would simply shove you onto the floor and go back to sleep. He has very little tolerance for deceit."

Her hands tightened, creasing the unbecoming tweed of her skirts. "If I do not marry him, I will have no life at all."

I rose, brushing the dust from my skirts. "I am sorry you believe that, Miss Hilda. I can think of no worse reason to marry than that, and I speak from experience."

Uncertainty clouded her eyes once more. "But you want to marry him. You must—why else would you have come?"

"Oh, yes. I mean to marry him. But not because I want him to give me a life. I want to marry him to share the life I already have. The difference, I think you will find, is a significant one."

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick.

—William Shakespeare

The Tempest

I set off for Rosalie's cottage then, my ears constantly straining for any sound from the Grimswater bell. I ought not to have bothered. I might well have imagined that I had heard anything at all. But I was aware now of a sort of watchfulness, a stretched-on-tiptoe feeling of the moor itself, as though it waited for something or someone.

I told myself it was just a fancy and hurried on, reaching the cottage in good time. I had just set my hand to the latch of the front gate when the door of the cottage opened, and I heard Brisbane's voice.

I cannot answer for what I did next. Brisbane must have known I had made Rosalie's acquaintance; I had every right to call upon her. But instead of declaring myself, I ducked behind the little stone wall and crept along until I rounded the corner, keeping myself tucked out of sight below the line of the shrubbery. I was careful to keep opposite the direction Brisbane would have to turn to set off for Grimsgrave, and I could only pray he would turn his steps in that direction. I did not think he would much care to find me playing the spy, nor would I care for the consequences. So I crouched in the shrubbery, concealed by the stone wall, and watched.

Brisbane emerged, his hair tumbled as usual, his black greatcoat flung over his shoulders. Rosalie stepped out with him and stretched out her hand.

"Do not forget what you came for, chavvo," she said, proffering a bottle. It was filled with a thick red syrup and tightly-stoppered by the look of it, doubtless one of her remedies, but I was more intrigued by their conversation. Try as I might, I could not remember what the word chavvo meant. Magda, my Gypsy laundress, had been rigid upon the point of never teaching me a word of her language. I would have given my right arm to know it now, I thought bitterly.

Brisbane turned back to take the bottle from her, slipping it into his pocket. At that moment, Rook bounded from the cottage, thrusting his great head under Brisbane's hand. Brisbane smiled and rubbed the dog's ears, murmuring something I could not hear. He straightened after a moment, then turned to Rosalie.

"Parika tut," he told her. She nodded, and he paused, turning to look over the moor toward the crossroads and the path back to Grimsgrave. "You ought not to live here alone. Are you not frightened of the mullo?"

She gave him a little shove and laughed. "Kakka, chavvo. I have no reason to fear the mullo, do I?"

"I suppose you don't at that," he replied. He turned on his heel and left her then. Rook followed him as far as the gate, whining a little when he was left behind. Rosalie stood watching Brisbane until he had taken the turning at the crossroads and began to descend down the moor, his black coat billowing in the wind.

"Aren't you cold out there, chavvi?" she asked, turning to the shrubbery where I was hiding.

"Not a bit," I told her, rising and brushing the leaves from my hair. "I dropped my ring. I was looking for it."

She laughed, clicking her fingers for the dog to go inside. "You are a bad liar, my lady. Come inside and I will make tea to warm you."

I gave up the pretence then and followed her inside, stamping my feet to restore the circulation.

The fire was blazing merrily as usual, and the air smelled of spices and something sweet as well. I sank into a chair by the fire and something tightly coiled within me seemed to relax.

"Roses," she told me, putting her hands under my nose. I breathed deeply, feeling a rush of summer as I inhaled.

"But roses will not be in bloom for more than a month," I protested. "The scent is too pure to be dried rose petals."

"Not dried," she corrected. "The oil from the rose. Very difficult to extract, and very costly. I made my perfume today, always in spring, just before John-the-Baptist returns."

"Oh, do you expect him soon?"

She shrugged, shifting the long, dark ringlets over her shoulder. They looked darker now, perhaps a bit less silver than had been there before. I wondered if she used more than just perfume to enhance her attractions.

"A few days, a few weeks. It does not matter. He will come. Always with the spring."

Rook padded over and laid his head on my knee, gazing up at me with adoring eyes. I laid a hand on his rough head, and to my astonishment, felt a hard lump rise in my throat.

Rosalie came then and put her own hand on my shoulder.

"You are lonely today," she said softly. "Rook has a gift for sensing it. Let him comfort you."

She moved away then, discreetly, to gather the tea things, and I laid my face against the lurcher, wetting his fur with my tears. I was lonely and feeling appallingly sorry for myself. It was not a state to which I was accustomed. I had been lonely for the better part of my marriage, but I had never acknowledged it. I lived then wrapped in cotton wool, seeing the world through misty glass, a pretty specimen pinned to a collector's card.

But Edward's murder had stripped the scales from my eyes, and I saw things clearly now. I was no longer sleepwalking through my life, and I wondered sometimes if it was worth it, to feel so sharply the bad as well as the good. I was capable of happiness now, real happiness, and passion as well, I thought with a rueful memory of Brisbane's strong arms. But I was capable of despair as well. I missed my sister; Brisbane was being thorny. The moor was a lonely, isolated place, and there was little warmth and comfort for me there.

"This cottage sits at a crossroads," Rosalie said, bringing the tea things to the table. I lifted my head, drying my eyes quickly. "It sits at a crossroads for you as well," she added.

"How so?" I peered at the plate of oatcakes she had brought to the table. Plain and good as earth; with butter and honey they were delicious.

"Because you must decide. You have been drifting, one foot in the past, one in the present. But you must step forward into the future, or you will linger in limbo forever."

She handed me a cup of steaming tea and I gave her a repressive look. "I thought limbo was a Catholic notion," I told her.

"I do not speak of your soul, lady. I speak of your heart, of yourself. You do not wish to be as you were, but you are not entirely who you will become. It is difficult to be a stranger to yourself, is it not?"

I put the cup down, untasted. "Are you quite certain you do not practice the fortune-teller's arts, Rosalie? You have assessed me quite accurately."

She shook her head, smiling, her coins jangling at her ears. "It does not take a crystal ball to know you. I see people, lady. That is my gift. So many come to me because they are troubled. Would they come to me if they were perfectly happy? No, they come because they know Rosalie can see them for what they are, and can help them see which paths lay before them."

I sipped slowly at the tea, feeling it warm me through to my bones. "You do not give them a little nudge down the right path?"

"Who is to say what is the right path? If a girl comes to me because she carries a child but has no husband, I will offer her pennyroyal to shed the child from her womb, or raspberry leaf to strengthen the womb to carry it. The choice is entirely hers."

I toyed with an oatcake, turning over her words in my head. "I wonder. I have been stubborn, bullheaded even, and I wonder if I ought to have gone back to London with my sister."

"You doubt yourself. That is the surest way to misery," Rosalie advised. "Do not waste, lady. Eat the oatcake or give it to the dog. Do not crumble it to bits."

I began to nibble it, licking the honey from my fingers. My manners when with Rosalie were appalling, but perhaps that was part of the pleasure I took in her company.

"How am I to know, then, if I am on the right path? I have made myself miserable, and perhaps another as well." I thought of Brisbane with a guilty pang.

Rosalie was thoughtful for a long moment, sipping at her tea whilst I made a mess of the oatcake. "If I would know someone, lady, I do not listen to what they say. I watch what they do. Tongues lie, bodies do not."

I laughed aloud. "That seems a very simple formula. Too simple. It cannot possibly be correct."

She shrugged again, her expression pitying. "Why must you gorgios always make things more complicated than they are? Be simple, lady. Nature is simple. And we are not so far removed from the savages we once were."

I shook my head, scarcely believing that an uneducated Gypsy woman was lecturing me on what, with a little judicious handling, might well be a corollary to Darwinian theory.

"Perhaps you are right," I said at length.

She smiled, baring those beautiful white teeth.

"Perhaps. Remember, lady. If you would know a person, stop your ears to their words, but mark their actions. Think on what I have said, and you will know what to do."

I looked up at her, startled, but she rose then and went to freshen the pot of tea. I looked into the fire, considering carefully what she had said and stroking Rook's ears. He gave a little sigh of contentment.

"Would that everyone were as easy to please as you," I murmured into his fur. He did not reply.

* * *

The afternoon was drawing to a close as I left Rosalie, and the long purple shadows of Thorn Crag were lengthening across the moor. Just as I reached for the latch of the garden door, Godwin pushed it open from the other side.

"Lady Julia!" he cried. The wind must have risen a little, for the bushes behind him fluttered. I rubbed my hands over my arms, raising the blood. "May I have a word?"

I longed for the fireside after my chilly walk, but Godwin's habitual good-natured expression was serious.

"Of course."

"I have just learned that you have been working in Redwall's study."

"Yes, I have. I was hoping to write a catalogue of his Egyptian collection. It will help to sell the things when the time comes."

He shook his head, his dark gold curls waving about his ears. "You ought not to be there alone. I carried them in when they arrived, and I know how heavy they are." He brought his head closer to mine, lowering his voice. "Thee must not hurt thyself. Thou'rt too delicate for such things."

I stared at him, taking far too long to realise this was north country wooing at its finest. He reached for my hand, and I pulled it back, giving him my cheeriest smile.

"You are very good to be concerned, Godwin, but I am quite careful, I promise. I will call if I have need of you," I told him, making a note never to rely upon him if I could help it. His demeanour had always been friendly, but this impertinence was something new.

He was not abashed. If anything, my cool amiability seemed to amuse him. He smiled, and dropped his eyes to my lips, then lazily moved his gaze back to my eyes. "You do tha'," he said, then stepped back to let me pass. I did so, keeping to the edge of the path so I would not brush against him.

He sloped off the opposite direction then, whistling a little tune. Just then Brisbane stepped onto the path, arms folded over his chest, his expression inscrutable.

"If you want to rendezvous with the hired help, Julia, you ought to make quite sure you are alone," he suggested.

"Do not be foul," I said irritably. "I have no greater interest in Godwin than you have in Hilda Allenby."

His brows rose and he blinked at me. "Hilda?"

"Yes," I said, matching the coolness of his tone. "I am reliably informed that she means to marry you. So once more, I find myself offering you my heartiest felicitations on your upcoming marriage," I added, alluding slyly to the entanglement he had suffered during our last investigation.

"I would sooner cut off my own head than marry Hilda Allenby," he said flatly.

"Oh, I know that, but the lady in question seems most insistent. I suggest you look carefully under your coverlet before you get into bed. She has rather medieval ideas about compromised honour." I bit back a smile. In spite of our recent difficulties, teasing him was a delicious pastime.

But Brisbane was not laughing. He reached out and gripped my arms, his face a breath from mine. "Why do you not leave?" I noticed his pupils then, and I reached a hand to brush a fingertip over his brow, ignoring the question. We knew well enough the answer, the both of us.

"You have been dosing yourself with an opiate," I said softly. "The migraines are returning."

"More vicious than ever," he said, grinding the words between tensed jaws. "I cannot sleep now but I have dreams—" He broke off and passed a hand over his brow, catching my hand in his, crushing it.

"What sort of dreams?" I dreaded the reply. I knew only too well what grim horrors stalked his dreams, and I knew it was his desperate attempts to push these visions away that brought about his virulent headaches.

"Death," he said finally, his eyes never wavering from mine. "Every time. I see it coming, and there is nothing I can do to stop it." He closed his eyes and gave a little groan, pulling me to him. His heartbeat was slow and steady, dulled by the opiate he had consumed. "You must go, Julia. I know I cannot command it. I have known since the first moment I met you, you cannot be ordered to obey. But I can ask you, beg you, on bended knee if I must. Leave this place," he said harshly, his fingers biting into my arms.

I thought of Rosalie's words then, and I realised that all the while Brisbane had been telling me to go, he had been pulling me closer to him.

"You impossibly stupid man," I told him. I put my arms about his waist, and we stood thus, clinging together for a long time, the air turning purple around us as dusk gathered in the ruined garden.

At length he pulled away and rubbed his thumbs over my cheeks, catching my tears. "That's the second time today," I said, feigning cheerfulness. "I am becoming a regular blubberpot."

"You will not leave me, will you?" he asked at length, his tone resigned. I studied him in the fading violet light. The strong, almost arrogant planes of his cheekbones, the aggressive nose, the seductive underlip, its fullness offset by the purposeful, even cruel upper lip. There was just enough light left to see the tiny scar on his cheek, white and curved as a crescent moon.

"I cannot envisage any circumstances under which I would," I told him.

And I could not have imagined then that I would be packing my trunk the very next evening, determined never to see him again.

* * *

I catalogued for the better part of the next day, doggedly recording various items of what I assumed was funerary equipment. I found an embalmer's kit, a set of canopic jars, and a great bag of something that resembled salt. There were a few nasty bits of mummies, but nothing so horrific as the babies in the priest's hole. There was a cat, stuffed into a peculiarly long, thin coffin, and a baboon with a menacing mask complete with elongated, sharp teeth. I marked them down and put them aside as quickly as possible. Now that Brisbane knew what I was about there was no need to conceal my work. I was able to move more rapidly through the collection, taking notes and writing out descriptions. The papyri were too fragile to handle, at least for my clumsy and uneducated hands, so I left them and moved on, endeavouring to do as little damage as possible.

After several hours, I was dusty and filthy, but surprisingly absorbed in the work. Not for the first time I reflected that one of the primary components of happiness was a worthwhile occupation, a thought that would likely horrify my brother Bellmont.

But Brisbane would understand. He had established himself in trade out of necessity—his noble Scottish relations not being inclined to support him—but I had seen him often enough on the trail of an investigation to know that work was not only an obligation for him, it was a pleasure of the most satisfying variety. And I took great satisfaction myself in the thought that my little scribblings might well be the foundation of restoring the Allenbys to solvency. There was still the matter of Brisbane to get round, but I would deal with him when the time came.

In the afternoon, I took my tea in the workroom, feeding bits of crisp shortbread to Grim and sipping at my tea as I wondered about the infants' coffin. It had occurred to me that Sir Redwall must have had a reason for secreting the babies in the priest's hole.

Why, I wondered, would Sir Redwall go to the trouble to hide the coffin? He had displayed the others, the mummies of baboons and cats and whatever else lurked beneath the dustsheets. Why secrete this coffin, then? And if Redwall had purchased it, why was there no bill of sale amongst his papers? Was that the reason for hiding it? Had he obtained it illegally? Or were the babies themselves contraband? There were no laws that I knew of preventing him from taking them out of Egypt so long as they had been purchased, but what if they had been stolen instead? I made a note to search his papers thoroughly for a bill of sale for the little mummies, and his diaries for a clue to where he had obtained them. In the meantime, a closer look at the coffin itself would not go amiss, I decided.

I rose and went to the panel, working the mechanism and steeling myself for the task ahead. I scrutinised it carefully, looking it over without expectation of what I might find. I knew too little about Egyptology to draw any proper conclusions, but it seemed to be precisely what it appeared: an authentic coffin, earlier than the Greco-Roman period judging from the lack of portrait mask, and in very good shape aside from a piece of crushed wood at the top. It had been propped just below the hole provided for ventilating the priest's hole, and it looked as though moisture had dripped down, corrupting the wooden case. On the front, a cartouche was engraved with a series of hieroglyphs, a funerary inscription, no doubt, perhaps a sort of incantation for the afterlife.

I fetched the knife again from the desk and applied myself to the lid. It took several minutes and a great deal of effort to pry it open, but at last it came free, and I wrestled the lid aside. I peered more closely at the mummies. They seemed in exquisitely good condition.

Swallowing down my squeamishness, I peered more closely at the tiny, linen-wrapped forms. Someone had taken exquisite pains to make certain these children were suitably prepared to enter the afterlife, I reflected. I realised then more than just the coffin was damaged. From the little neck down, the upper mummy was undamaged, beautifully wrapped and perfectly dry. The head was a different matter. The bandages had rotted away where the coffin was pulpy, and I felt my stomach churn as I put out a hand to touch the shredded linen. I meant to tuck one of the bandages in more securely, but it was rotten and fell away in my hand. I saw the top of the child's head, and jerked backward, dropping the linen scrap.

Instantly, I replaced the lid, working feverishly until the babies were tucked safely behind the panel, hidden from sight, but not from memory. I knew I would never forget what I had seen, so long as I lived. I had endured a postmortem with Brisbane, examining the body of a man who had had his head crushed by a candelabrum, but nothing could have prepared me for the shock of what I had seen in that small coffin. The skin had dried and darkened, pulling taut across the baby's brow in a grotesque imitation of life.

But it was not this that had shocked me. Just above the brow I had seen the child's hair, beautiful hair, perhaps an inch long. It had been loosely curled from the damp, and was gold—the bright, pure gold of a blond child.

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

My first thought upon finding the blond child was to go to Brisbane, but even as I replaced the lid upon the coffin I remembered that Mrs. Butters had told me he was busy in the sheep pens with Godwin. Dipping was a vile and messy job. He would not be finished for hours, and in the meanwhile, there were things I could do.

My hands were shaking, and I paused to take several deep breaths and think. What did I know? Nothing, for certain. I knew the child with the damaged wrappings was blond, but nothing more. It was tempting to speculate that the baby was English, but I had no proof, I told myself severely. I had myself seen a red-haired mummy at an unrolling. True, the majority of Egyptians bore the traditionally dark, Mediterranean colouring, but the Macedonians had introduced some fairer strains into their society. This child might have been of Roman or Greek colonial parentage, in spite of the coffin's distinctly Old Kingdom appearance. And there was no way of determining the origins of the child without a proper examination of both the baby and its coffin, as well as the other child. The person best qualified to do so was Brisbane, and I would simply have to curb my curiosity until he was present.

I wiped my hands on my skirts and collected a few items to take to my room. I had a mind to peruse a volume or two on Egyptian funerary customs to see if I could add to my store of knowledge before I spoke with Brisbane. I took Redwall's diaries, the ones Ailith had given me, and a book on hieroglyphs. The latter was almost an afterthought, but it had occurred to me that I might be able to read the inscriptions on the coffin's cartouche if I knew the symbols. I took the notebook and recorded the cartouche swiftly.

I worked the rest of the afternoon in my room, not even noticing the deepening gloom of the oncoming evening until Minna came to fetch me for supper.

"I am sorry to disturb you, my lady," she said, dropping a quick curtsey. "Mrs. Butters wondered if you would prefer a tray."

I must have mumbled a reply, for a little while later Minna appeared again with a tray of soup and bread. She laid it carefully onto the writing table and took a moment to light the rest of the candles in the room. I was deep within the book on hieroglyphs, just beginning to crack the first of them.

Nothing in Redwall's diaries had mentioned the coffin or the mummies, either their purchase or their shipment home.

And then with a moment of breathtaking clarity, I realised there was one person in the house who must have known about them.

"Minna, is Godwin taking supper downstairs?" I asked suddenly. Too suddenly, for the girl jumped and put her finger into the flame. She sucked it, nodding.

"Yes, Lady Julia. He is alone. Mr. Brisbane is supping in his room as well. He did not wish to be disturbed."

I waved aside the mention of Brisbane. I would deal with him later. "Tell Godwin I would like to speak with him before he leaves. He can send you up to tell me when he is finished with his supper."

She curtseyed again and fled, leaving me to my excellent soup, or what would have been excellent soup had I remembered to eat it. I had two or three spoonfuls before I pushed it aside, too enthralled with my reading to finish. The hieroglyphs were not tremendously difficult, particularly as I found the very inscriptions on the coffin's cartouche in the book.

"Most unusual," I murmured. How was it possible that ancient inscriptions on a lady's coffin had come to be replicated in a modern text on hieroglyphs? Either the inscription was a standard one, or the person who had inscribed the coffin had read the book.

I slammed it closed, very nearly certain of what had happened. I rose and hurried downstairs. Godwin was in the hall, standing close to Minna.

"My lady, I was just about to send Minna to you," he said, straightening and giving me his most winsome smile.

Minna flicked me a quick, sideways glance, then scurried back to the kitchen. I motioned for Godwin to join me in the old great hall. He took up a candlestick and followed. The candle threw up odd shadows, touching the mouldering tapestry of Allenby names with a spark here and there where the thread shone gold. Other shadows, thick and black, danced over the ceiling, and over Godwin's face. The light played peculiar tricks with his bone structure, making him look angelic one moment, devilish the next.

"What is it, Lady Julia? Is there aught I can do for you?" he asked, his gaze moving meaningfully over my face.

"Yes, you can answer a question," I told him repressively. "You said you unpacked all of the crates Sir Redwall sent from Egypt. Did you ever handle a lady's coffin? Or mummies? Tiny ones?"

He shook his head slowly. "No, not from Egypt."

I sagged a little. I had been so certain.

"But there was a lady's coffin here before he left," Godwin added.

"Before? How did he acquire it?" My eagerness was back.

Godwin shrugged. "'Twere his grandfather's, old Sir Alfred's father. He had a mummy, a lady. That were what started Sir Redwall on his foreign studies. That coffin were his most prized possession."

"You're quite certain?"

"Oh, aye. He had a great unrolling of her, when he came into his inheritance. His grandfather, he would never unwrap that mummy. Said it was sacrilege or blas-blas—"

"Blasphemous?" I offered.

"Aye, tha' were the word. When Sir Redwall finally became master, he unrolled it in front of the whole household. I remember it because tha' were just when old Samson, the master's old saddle horse, had bitten my hand clear to the bone." He raised his hand to show me the curved scar, pale against the weathered skin of his hand. "I would have lost a finger without Rosalie Young's care. And tha' were the year the mine closed. I remember it well because I rode Samson to the village and fairly had my head bashed in when they realised I were on the old master's horse, and them with hardly any food to feed their children."

I brushed aside his village gossip and posed my next question.

"Godwin, what happened to the mummy? The lady?"

"She were rotten, through and through. Sir Redwall said she'd not been prepared proper, but he were tha' furious. He had her thrown into Grimswater up tha' moor. Folk said Grim himself did not like it, and tha's why the Allenbys have done so poorly since. Lady Allenby told him not to bring any others home. She were quite firm, told Sir Redwall it were unChristian to keep folks from a proper burial. She told him to buy all the animals he wanted, but he were never to bring home a person."

"One more thing, Godwin, and please think very hard. Do you remember if the lady's coffin lid bore an inscription?"

He rubbed a hand over the rough stubble at his jaw. "Not tha' I recall, but I am not a great man of letters. I can read well enough—"

"No, not English," I said patiently. "Egyptian writing. It would have been a series of pictures in an oval on the front."

"Ah, no. Tha' were empty. I remember it because I asked Sir Redwall about the coffin and he explained the markings and such. He said it were quite unusual as the name had been rubbed off and the wood was smooth. Said it was a shame someone had bothered to chisel off the old inscriptions, but as they had, it made it less expensive and his grandfather could afford it, so he was not tha' put out."

"I see," I said faintly. "Thank you, Godwin. I will not keep you."

"Won't you?" he asked, his voice soft, and his lips curved into an inviting smile.

"No, I will not." I nodded toward the open door. I had left it open for propriety's sake, and now I was glad I had. "Good evening, Godwin."

He thrust the candle at me and strode off, touching his forelock as he left, a bit impudently. I ignored him, my mind racing with the implications of what he had told me. Redwall Allenby had inherited a lady's coffin and an Egyptian mummy, which he had later destroyed. At some point, he had acquired a pair of mummified babies, blond mummified babies, I reminded myself, which he had secreted in a coffin whose cartouche he had altered. There was nothing else to be done then, except the thing I dreaded most: it was time to tell Brisbane what I had learned.

* * *

I hurried to Brisbane's bedchamber, shuddering a little as I made my way through the study. I had closed the door softly behind me so we would not be disturbed. The door to his bedchamber was ajar, the soft gold light spilling into the study over the threshold. It was not enough light to prevent me from tripping over a chair, and I cursed as I rubbed at my ankle.

A shadow fell across the threshold, and I could make out Brisbane's silhouette.

"It is I," I told him.

"I told Minna I did not wish to be disturbed," he said. He went back into the bedchamber and I followed, my ankle still smarting.

"I know, but I had to see you. It's about the mummies, the babies," I clarified.

He puffed out an impatient sigh. "There is no hope that you will leave me in peace, is there?"

"There is not."

He waved toward the bed. "Then you might as well make yourself comfortable. I've a letter to finish. Can it wait five minutes?"

I nodded and perched on the edge of his bed, trying very hard not to think about the intimacy of sitting where Brisbane slept, scant inches from his pillow, while the gentleman himself was seated at his writing table, near enough to touch. Instead I glanced idly about the room, taking in the growing untidiness of his possessions since he had returned from Edinburgh. I had had occasion before to notice that Brisbane did not so much stay in a room as inhabit it. He had fashioned a little table next to the bed of books, unwieldy volumes on the care and feeding of sheep, Roman history, garden design, and even an atlas, an enormous thing bound in green calf. Nearby, the little chemist's glasses were smouldering over a tiny flame, sending off little puffs of smoke and the occasional spark, although Brisbane ignored this entirely.

I turned my gaze to the hearth and smiled to see that Minna had forgot his supper tray. It rested on the hearth, the bowl of soup scraped clean and just a few stray mushrooms left congealing on the plate. I noticed he had had a decanter of wine and felt a little put out. Mrs. Butters only ever sent me tea. She must have subscribed to the theory that ladies should not drink spirits, I thought darkly.

I continued my inventory of the room, marking the addition of a little row of pots on the windowsill resting under bell jars. As yet there were no sprouts to be seen, but Brisbane had always had an interest in botany. Perhaps he had a mind to start some experiments to be carried out in the derelict gardens. As fastidious as he was, it must have pained him to walk through that sort of decay on his way out to the moor each day.

Next to the washstand, his best boots were freshly polished and placed at a careful distance from the fire. There was a clean towel hung there, and I was glad to see Mrs. Butters had at least attended to that. His razor was dry, and I noted the fresh growth of beard at his chin. His whiskers were coal black, and I wondered how he would look with a beard. I loathed them, but it occurred to me that Brisbane might look rather piratical with one. I was just about to suggest it when I noticed the bottle on his washstand. Clear glass and full of dark ruby-red syrup—no, not full. At least an inch had been emptied from it, and I saw the spoon resting next to it.

I glanced back at Brisbane. He sat at the writing table, his profile sharp against the wall behind him. He did not look up as he wrote, his pen dashing quickly over the page in the bold hand I had come to know so well. Occasionally he paused to think, passing a hand over his brow or his jaw, and once he heaved a sigh, exhaling heavily as he scrawled his signature. He darted a glance at me, then folded the letter quickly, thrusting it into an envelope. He sealed it with a thick, old-fashioned wafer of wax and put it aside. There was no direction on the envelope, and I wondered to whom he had been writing so secretly. His colour was pale under the dark olive of his complexion, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, signs I had seen before when the headaches were upon him. He turned to me, his pupils quite small in the wide black iris.

"Well?" His tone was not encouraging. Doubtless he thought I meant to needle him about returning the collection to the Allenbys, and it was a mark of how well he knew me that he should think so.

"I do intend to persuade you to give the collection, or at least its proceeds to the Allenbys," I told him, "but we can quarrel about that later." I told him what I had found when I inspected the coffin, and what I had learned from my inquiry of Godwin.

Brisbane said nothing for a moment, pursing his lips. His booted legs were stretched out before him, one arm thrown over the back of the chair. "So Redwall kept the coffin, then found mummies to fill it, against Mama's wishes," he mused.

"Precisely," I said. "But there is something else, something rather more disturbing." I explained quickly about the inscription. "The cartouche was blank when Godwin last saw the coffin. At some point, Redwall Allenby chiselled an inscription, taking the text from a book on hieroglyphs, a chapter dealing with funerary customs, to be precise. He carved into the coffin a prayer for the dead."

"You found the text?" he asked, his expression one of acute astonishment.

"I did. It was rather obvious when I knew what to look for. I was prepared to translate, one character at a time, which I know is a preposterously difficult matter for someone not trained in Egyptology, but I was determined. Imagine my surprise when I found the entire text printed in the book." I preened a little at this point. I was immensely proud of my investigative accomplishments, but Brisbane wasted no time in praise.

"Show me," he ordered. We moved into the study and he quickly extracted the coffin lid, placing it carefully onto the floor. I held a candle aloft and he ran his fingers over the cartouche, tracing the characters.

"I ought to have noticed this before," he murmured. Then, to my astonishment, he began to chant in a language I had never heard, and after a moment I realised why: it was a language that had not been spoken in thousands of years.

"Brisbane! You speak Egyptian," I said, feeling quite breathless.

He flicked me a glance. "As well as anyone could be expected to. It is a dead language, after all."

I shook my head. "How do you know what that cartouche says?" I demanded, my astonishment rapidly giving way to anger.

"I conducted an investigation in Egypt," he said blandly. "I had to pass for an Egyptological scholar. My speciality was language, hieroglyphs and hieratic. I still remember bits of it, but you know what they say about losing languages you do not practise."

My hands were fisted at my sides. I forced my fingers to unclench, although I longed to throttle him with them.

"All this time, you have been letting me slave away in here in the dust and the grime, and you knew precisely what everything was. I never even needed to catalogue a single artefact, did I?"

He shook his sleek, dark head. "No," he said, his tone remarkably cheerful.

"You have been through this room already," I hypothesised. "You already knew every piece in this collection, didn't you?"

"Not the coffin, nor the mummies," he pointed out. "Those were hidden. And they weren't in the catalogue."

"The—the catalogue?" I was stammering in my rage. "There is a catalogue already?"

He had the grace, or perhaps the sense of self-preservation, not to laugh. "In my bedchamber. I slid it under the bed."

I was beyond angry. I felt the blood beating in my ears, and if he had smiled at me, I would have flown at him, regardless of his advantage in size and strength. "And you thought it would be amusing to let me toil away, doing my pathetic best to catalogue a collection I could not begin to understand, while you slept a foot away from a proper catalogue the whole time." It was not a question, and he did not bother to reply.

"How could you?" I asked him finally. "I thought I was helping those poor women, and instead I was being made a fool of."

He shrugged. "It was not meant to make a fool of you. It was meant to keep you busy and out of trouble."

I stared at him, my mouth agape. It was several seconds before I could speak coherently. "Of all the arrogant, high-handed things you have done, this is by far the worst. I came here because I thought you needed me. We have faced down death and tracked murderers together, and I thought we were partners after a fashion."

I paused, feeling flat and empty, as though the breath had been knocked quite solidly out of my lungs. "How stupid I was. Of course you would have made yourself acquainted with the collection. You had months, didn't you? Long, cold winter months with nothing to do. You would have searched the books and found the catalogue easily. I daresay it was even in his desk, waiting for you. And then I came, blundering in as usual and you could not resist having fun at my expense, could you? Stupid Julia, let her play at being useful. How you must have laughed, knowing what I was doing each day, and what pains I took to make certain you did not find out."

"If you did not want me to find out, you ought not to have worn your perfume. I did remind you the first night that you smelled of violets. Next time, leave it off," he pointed out. That he chose to comment on that one matter, and said nothing of the rest, spoke volumes to me. I smoothed my skirts, and composed my expression.

"There will be no next time," I told him, my voice calm and even. "I have had my fill of your mysteries and your secrets and your tricks. I will return to London tomorrow, and I will only say that I am sorry I have troubled you. I hope the amusement I provided has more than made up for the inconvenience."

His expression did not change, except for the faintest flicker—of what?—behind his eyes. He merely inclined his head and folded his arms over the breadth of his chest, his knuckles white. I turned and took my leave of him, and it is to my credit that I did not shed a single tear, nor did I hasten my steps from the room. I walked slowly and with dignity, each footfall a death knell as I left him.

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

Death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

—William Shakespeare

Julius Caesar

I went directly to the maids' room, opening the door without knocking. Minna was alone, knitting and talking to Grim and Florence. She looked up in alarm.

"Is there something amiss, my lady?" she asked, clearly alarmed.

"We are leaving. Pack your things and the animals and be prepared to leave first thing in the morning."

Unlike Morag, who would have peppered me with questions, Minna merely laid aside her knitting and rose.

"Yes, my lady. I will begin at once." She had gone quite pale, and I felt a surge of pity for her. It could not be an easy thing to live one's life always at the mercy of another's whims.

"I will pack for myself, Minna. See to yourself and the animals."

She dipped a quick curtsey and said nothing.

I left her then and went to my chilly room, pausing to poke at the fire. I shoved viciously, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney until it was blazing. I opened my trunk and began to pitch things in, not troubling to fold anything. I was too angry to do the job properly. I knew that once I gave myself time to think about what had happened, I would be shattered, and it needed all my energy to get myself, a maid, an expectant dog, and a raven back to London.

I had just hurled a pair of boots into the trunk with a satisfying clatter when my door was thrown back on its hinges. Minna stood there, panting as if she had just taken the stairs two at a time. Her round little face was dead white, and she was wearing her cloak.

"Minna, whatever is the trouble?"

She put a hand to her side, pressing a stitch, I guessed. "My lady, oh, you must come! I think he's dying!"

I blinked at her. "Who is dying? What on earth are you talking about?"

She tugged at my arm, dragging me toward the door. "I went downstairs to—oh, never mind! I heard him, at least, I heard a noise, as if something heavy had fallen. I went to his room to see if I could help, and I found him there. Please, my lady, you must come. He will die else!"

I realised then that she was talking about Brisbane. I jerked my arm out of her grasp and flew down the stairs, Minna hard on my heels. I found him in his bedchamber, collapsed on the floor between his bed and the hearth. He must have reached for something as he had fallen, for a stack of books was scattered over the floor, and the little bottle of red syrup was shattered over the hearthstones. He was lying on his side and he had been sick, comprehensively so. He was unaware of Minna, or of me, bending over him, calling his name. I pushed back his eyelids, but his eyes had rolled white, and as I watched, his muscles began to seize.

And as I looked down at him, suffering and broken, I knew that for the second time in my life, I was watching the death throes of a man who had been poisoned.

"My lady," Minna sobbed, "what shall I do?"

The world stopped then, for I knew whatever choice I made would determine whether Brisbane lived or died. He had been poisoned—deliberately, I was certain. But by whom? He needed help, and if I applied to the wrong quarter, he would certainly die. I had to know whom to trust with a life more precious to me than my own.

A thousand questions spun through my mind in the space of half a minute, a thousand pieces I had to fit together instantly. I thought of the bottled mushrooms, lovingly prepared by Lady Allenby. I saw the beautiful red syrup distilled by Rosalie in her little stillroom in the moor cottage. And I thought of Godwin, with his tins of arsenic for dipping sheep. Any one of them might have poisoned him, and any one of them might be waiting to make certain they finished the job. There was no hope, I thought desperately. Brisbane was going to die because I did not know whom to trust. The only possible action at that point was prayer, I decided hopelessly.

But before I could beg the Almighty's intercession, I knew.

I rose and took Minna hard by the arms. "I dare not leave him, but you must go for help. Do you know the cottage at the crossroads on the moor? The one where the Gypsy lady lives?"

Minna nodded, her mouth trembling. She was trying desperately not to look at the ruined man on the floor. "I do."

"Go and fetch her. Tell her that Brisbane had been poisoned, and to bring whatever remedies she has. Tell her it was either mushrooms or arsenic, I don't know which—"

I broke off, thinking rapidly. I did know which. In our first investigation, Brisbane's friend, Dr. Bent, had explained to me that a victim of arsenical poisoning would expel fluids that smelled heavily of garlic. No such smell hung in the air of Brisbane's room.

"It was mushrooms, tell her it was toadstools and tell her if she wants to see him alive again, she must hurry. And if you make it there and back with her in quarter of an hour, I will give you a hundred pounds. Go!" I gave Minna a shove and she ran as if all the hounds of hell were at her heels.

She did not return in a quarter of an hour. It was nearer a half, and those thirty minutes were the darkest of my life. I held his head over the washbasin, but there was nothing to be done for him, nothing except hold his still hand in mine and watch him slip away. I did not speak. He would not have known me in any event. I simply sat, feeling his hand grow cold and then hot in mine, the fingers limp one moment, then so tightly grasped I thought he would break my bones. I welcomed the pain. It was the only thing tethering me to that moment. Were it not for the grinding of those little bones together, I think I might have gone quite mad, waiting for Minna to return with Rosalie, listening to the terrible sounds of the poison ravaging Brisbane's body.

At last Rosalie appeared, swirling skirts and long plaits swinging as she slipped off a man's greatcoat and pushed up her sleeves. She said nothing to me, merely bent over him and assessed him, as carefully and critically as any Harley Street physician.

"Mushrooms, eh?" she said at last. I nodded. "A nasty business. I will do all I can, and still he may not live. Will you help me, lady?"

I turned on her, angry as a cat. "Of course I will help you. Do you think I mean to sit idly by while he dies?"

She made no reply, merely turned to Minna and delivered a litany of orders. The fire must be stoked up, kettles of hot water must be brought, sheets and towels, and various other implements of nursing. Minna bobbed a curtsey and fled, grateful, I think, to have something useful to do.

Together Rosalie and I manoeuvred him onto the bed, stripping his soiled shirt off of him and saying nothing.

When Minna returned, she folded back her cuffs and poked up the fire, heaping fuel upon it until the flames blazed up the chimney. She went to fetch the first of the hot water kettles and Rosalie turned to me. "You trust me, lady?"

Her eyes were on mine, black and fathomless, and I felt a little faint at the power in them. I nodded. "Yes."

She gave one short, sharp nod. "As I said, I will do what I can to save him, but I make you no promises. We may fight like tigresses and still lose him, do you understand?"

"You will not lose him," I told her fiercely. "I will not lose him."

Rosalie gave another nod, then gestured for her basket. "If it was mushrooms, he must be made to vomit, as much as possible for a short period of time. It will not help the poison that has already settled in his system, and it will make him very weak, but it will prevent the rest from harming him."

She took a packet of ground herbs from her basket, a little paper twist that smelled like something rotten and decayed. She mixed it with water and told me to hold his head. "This will not be easy," she warned me. She was entirely correct.

The next hours I cannot clearly remember. There are sounds and impressions, and fleeting, sharp memories. Brisbane was sick, over and again, because we made him so, and I found myself murmuring apologies under my breath as he heaved and groaned. In between, we rubbed his chest and arms with towels soaked in vinegar. Minna worked the fire until sweat ran freely from her brow. All of that terrible night she tended the fire, saying almost nothing, but every time I looked at her, her lips were moving in inaudible prayer. She left only to brew pots of strong tea. Mine grew stone cold, as did Rosalie's. I could think of nothing but Brisbane, and even now, when I think of that terrible night, I remember Rosalie's eyes, black and determined as she laboured to save his life.

When he had been fully purged, she administered a solution of milk thistle and watched him carefully. At last, he settled into an uneasy unconsciousness, and Rosalie turned to me.

"That is all I can do for him. Milk thistle now, and weak tea later if he will take it, and as much as he will take."

Minna stretched, pushing her fists into her back and then went to the window, rattling back the draperies.

"Oh, look!" she cried. I turned to see the moor, purple-black and stretching to the ends of the earth, and just beyond, the first tinge of pink as the sun began to edge into the grey sky.

"It is morning," I said, sagging in relief. "He has survived the night. Surely he will live." I looked to Rosalie in appeal, but she shook her head. Her face was deeply lined and her eyes darkly shadowed, betraying all of her years. I knew I must look as worn. We had all of us lived a lifetime in that night. I opened my mouth to argue with Rosalie, but she held up a hand.

"This is the time of danger, lady, not the first hours. The poison may have settled too deeply, and we will not know until two, three days have passed. He is unconscious now, and he will either recover, or he will die. There is no way of knowing which, and there is nothing more to be done except to answer his thirst. We have done all that we could. It is in God's hands now."

I wanted to scream or rage or put my fist into her complacent face. But she was entirely correct. We had purged and dosed him, and there was nothing more to be done but wait.

I was surprised the rest of the household had not been raised during the night, but they had apparently slept on, peacefully unaware of our ordeal. At least, all but one of them had. Somewhere, a villainess must have lain awake, counting herself clever. I barred the door and gave Minna strict instructions that none of the household, particularly Lady Allenby, was to be admitted. Minna took it upon herself to prepare food for Rosalie and myself, although none of us ate much. That day stretched into another torturous night, and into the second day, the hours dragging past one and the same. I sat next to the bed, holding his hand, willing him to feel me there, to come back to me.

And as horrible as the entire ordeal had been, nothing was as black as the second night, when the witching hour came and went and I felt his skin growing cooler under my touch. Minna had dragged a thin mattress downstairs and was sleeping by the fire, curled like a child. Rosalie, exhausted by her efforts, was slumped in the chair, her head on the writing desk, pillowed in her arms.

Sometime in the smallest hours of the morning, I looked at Brisbane, and I saw something had changed. His features seemed different somehow, the features I had memorised, etched in my mind forever. I realised it would be easiest then to kiss him once and let him go. He was slipping away, it seemed, even as I watched. Or perhaps it was a fancy of mine, brought on by worry or exhaustion. I cannot say, even now. All I know is that I leaned close to him, whispering into his ear the things I ought to have said to him when he could hear me. I talked until my voice was hoarse, and even then I could not stop. I told him I could not imagine a world where he did not exist, and I told him how thoroughly I loved him, and even as I said the words, I realised it could be the only chance I would ever have to tell him so. The only chance, and it might well have come too late. I touched the lines of his face, his hands, every scar, every place where the world had been unkind to him and promised never to leave him if only he would come back to me.

I talked until I could talk no more. My head dropped against his shoulder and I slept, falling at last into an exhausted, fitful slumber, my head next to his, my hand tucked between his arm and his bare chest. I do not know how long I drowsed, only that it was dawn when Minna's shriek woke me. I started, blinking and rubbing at my eyes. She was pointing to Brisbane, incapable of speech.

I lifted my head and looked at him. His eyes were open and clear and he was staring at me.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words did not come. Instead I crumpled slowly onto the spinning bed and slid gratefully into blackness as I fell to the floor.

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

Blood will have blood.

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

I woke much later in my own bed, blinking against the flicker of the candle at the bedside. From his cage in the corner, Grim quorked worriedly, flapping a dark wing in my direction. I stirred, feeling a warm hand over mine, a hand I knew as well as my own.

"Portia?" My voice was a mere croak, but it was enough to rouse her. She lay next to me, fully dressed and on top of the coverlet, ready to rise at a moment's notice. She smiled sleepily, but the smile did not erase the new marks of fatigue upon her lovely features.

"It is quite time you woke, slugabed," she chided. She put a hand to my brow, her expression anxious. After a moment she relaxed. "No fever then. You gave us a bit of a scare, you know." Her tone was light, but there was a thread of unmistakable emotion. She had been afraid, afraid enough to return from London.

I moved to rise, but she pushed me firmly back against the pillow. "He is resting now. You have not lost him," she told me, her voice thick with emotion.

I felt something tight and painful in my chest ease. "What of Jane?" I asked.

A shadow passed over her face, and she said shortly, "She is gone. I do not wish to speak of it."

I nodded, my head feeling thick and woolly. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Two days, more or less," she told me.

"Two days!" I made to rise again, but Portia's arm and a wave of giddiness thwarted me.

"You fainted when Brisbane came around, and Rosalie thought it best to force you to rest. She dosed you with one of her potions and Brisbane sent Godwin into Howlett Magna to telegraph me. Valerius and I came at once, Morag as well, of course."

I sank back against the pillows. I felt boneless, weightless, and I wondered if my head would ever be entirely clear again.

"Brisbane?" I murmured.

"Mending quite nicely, according to Rosalie. Valerius has taken over the care of him, and said Rosalie could not have done better were she a proper doctor. She and Morag have been veritable dragons at keeping away visitors until he is fully recovered, and this morning he threw his soup plate at the wall."

"A very promising sign," I commented sleepily.

"It is indeed. Rosalie is plying him with all manner of tonics, and he is eating, although he says he is heartily sick of soups and blancmanges. Apparently that is what precipitated his temper this morning."

I struggled against the weight of sleep, forcing my eyes open. "Food. Who is preparing his food?" I clutched at Portia's arm, but she soothed me.

"Minna is preparing it herself, and Morag is tasting everything before she will permit Brisbane to so much as lift his spoon. Valerius thought it a sensible precaution under the circumstances."

I would have laughed at the notion of Morag serving as taster to Brisbane were the situation not so horrifying.

Grim quorked again and I waved a hand at him. "Good morning, Grim."

"Good morning," he returned politely. "Sweetie."

I motioned to the box beneath his cage. "Toss a few of those violet creams in the cage for him, will you, dearest?"

Portia obeyed, but with an expression of distaste. Grim's manners were impeccable, save when it came to enjoying his food. He tore at the little sweetmeats savagely, and Portia pulled a face.

"I always think he'd prefer a nice, juicy mouse," she commented.

"By all means, go catch him one. What of Lady Allenby?" I asked finally.

"Withdrawn to her room. She confessed the deed at once, and took to her chamber. She will see no one, and when Brisbane is recovered, he will take the matter in hand. Hilda is hiding out with her chickens and will not speak to any of us, she is so horrified. Ailith has apologised perhaps a hundred times, and Godwin says he can manage the estate perfectly until Brisbane is fully himself again. They have all been quite human about the whole thing, really. I do rather feel sorry for Hilda. She is quite changed. All her old arrogance is gone. Even Valerius cannot make her talk. He plans to build her a nice new henhouse to make her feel better when Brisbane is recovered."

Portia continued to talk, but her words flowed together, soothing and soft, and after a few minutes, I heard nothing more.

* * *

I woke the next morning, feeling as if I had slept a hundred years. I longed for a bath and I was ravenously hungry. Morag carried up an enormous plate of eggs and bacon and devilled kidneys with toast and a steaming pot of tea. There were no mushrooms, I noted with a grateful shudder. I doubted I would ever be able to eat them again. I applied myself with vigour to my breakfast, and by the time I had wiped the last crumb from my plate, I was feeling entirely myself again.

I washed and dressed and emerged. Lady Allenby's door was closed, and I wondered if she were still immured in her room. I found Portia with Brisbane. He was propped up in bed, neatly dressed in a clean nightshirt, arms tightly locked about his chest as Portia endeavoured to cut his hair and Valerius attempted to take his pulse.

"Brisbane, honestly. You look quite a pirate. Now, if you will just let me trim a lock here and there, I can make you thoroughly respectable," she argued. She advanced toward him with scissors, and he held up a hand.

"I may not yet have regained my full strength, but if you so much as lay a single blade on my head I will have Puggy stuffed and mounted to hang over my fireplace," he told her, his eyes glinting coldly. I blinked back sudden tears. I had not imagined it would be so moving to see him alive and in a foul mood, but I had come to accept that I would rather have Brisbane in a savage temper than any other gentleman with perfect manners.

"Portia, do you mind?" Valerius asked sharply. "I am trying to assess his condition, and you are agitating him."

"I would not agitate him if he would give in," Portia pointed out reasonably.

"Now, children," I said briskly. "No need to fuss. Brisbane, if you wish to go about looking like Heathcliff that is your affair. Leave him be, Portia." She subsided, and Val shot me a grateful look as he applied himself to Brisbane's pulse.

I glanced at the hearth where Mr. Pugglesworth was resting on his favourite cushion and emitting foul smells. "Ah, Puggy. I thought I smelled something decaying. Well, I am glad you've brought him, Portia. He will be on hand when Florence is delivered of his offspring."

I had not had the chance to write the news to her, and Portia blinked at me in surprise. "Mr. Pugglesworth is going to be a father? Are you quite sure?"

"As sure as ever I would want to be," Morag told her sourly from the doorway. She entered bearing a tray with a pretty little dish of custard and a soup plate of beef tea. Brisbane looked pointedly at the dark smear on the wall, the souvenir of his earlier displeasure.

"Morag, unless there is something on that tray I can chew, do not bother to come any farther." Morag sniffed and put the food on the hearth. Puggy hefted himself off of his cushion and sniffed at the custard before putting his front paws into the dish and lapping it up.

Val sat back with a decided air of satisfaction. "Strong and steady. Mrs. Smith, I have the utmost respect for your methods."

Rosalie was sitting in the little chair by the fireplace, knitting a sock of purple and scarlet wool, Rook curled quietly at her feet, occasionally looking with interest at Puggy's plate of custard.

"A bit of beef, well cooked and the broth thickened with blood, that is what you need now," she told Brisbane. "Do you not agree?" she asked Val.

He preened a little at her tact. "I will tell Minna," he said, rising and taking his leave.

Rosalie stood as well, tucking her knitting into her pocket. "I will tell Minna to bring an egg also, soft-boiled, and a glass of good wine to build your blood."

She turned to me as she passed and put a hand to my cheek. "You are well now."

"Yes. Thank you, Rosalie," I told her. I dropped my voice to a whisper. "For everything."

"We will talk later, chavvi," she said. She left us then, and Rook moved to sit at Brisbane's side, his shaggy head tucked under Brisbane's hand. Portia settled into Rosalie's abandoned chair, rubbing at Puggy's back with her slippered foot. Bits of hair and dandruff littered the cushion and I looked away, feeling rather queasy. Brisbane was watching me closely as he stroked Rook's ears, and I felt suddenly shy of him. I thought of all I had said to him, baring my soul and telling him things I could not imagine ever saying again in the clear light of day. My cheeks burned and I looked away.

"It is there, the book with the green kid cover," he said suddenly, his voice cool. He nodded toward the stack of books that had been tidied into a teetering pile next to the bed.

I blinked at him. "What is?"

"The catalogue," he said with the merest sigh of impatience.

I retrieved it, willing him not to remember what I had whispered to him in his unconsciousness. I opened it to find a catalogue, perfectly organised and exact in its details.

"Ah," I said. "A fair sight better than what I was about, I can promise you. If I may borrow this, I can at least compare the current collection with this and see if anything is missing."

He nodded, and as I made to rise, he put out his hand, clamping it tightly about my wrist. "I ought to thank you," he said softly. "If you had not acted so quickly and so decisively, I would be dead."

I opened my mouth, then closed it and shrugged. "It was Minna who found you. And Rosalie who knew what to do. They deserve your thanks, not me."

I left him then, clutching the book to my chest like a shield. He had not remembered then, and I was unutterably relieved. And dismayed. I had found the courage to tell him precisely what I felt for once. I did not think I could do so again.

* * *

Portia followed me from Brisbane's room, cuddling Puggy under her chin. I left the catalogue on Redwall's desk in the study, and without discussion, Portia and I took up wraps and made our way into the fresh air and sunshine of the garden. It was the warmest day yet during our time in Yorkshire, and I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun when we stopped to a little bench in the orchard.

"It was a very near thing for him," Portia commented.

I opened my eyes and nodded. "Closer than you know. I thought—"

"I know," she said, covering my hand with her own briefly. She stroked Puggy's ears, cooing to him over his wheezing. "But why? Why should Lady Allenby want to poison Brisbane?"

I shook my head. "I am not certain, but I think it has to do with this house and with Redwall Allenby. Brisbane knew him when they were boys, and they did not get on. When Brisbane talked of him, there was a venom there, a hatred I have never seen in him." I quickly explained to her the terms of the sale of Grimsgrave and the precariousness of the Allenby fortunes.

"But killing Brisbane would not solve her difficulties," Portia pointed out. "Presumably his estate would pass to his heirs, whoever they may be. Perhaps Monk," she suggested, referring to Brisbane's trusted man of affairs and sometime valet. "Good God, where is Monk? Brisbane hasn't mentioned him, and I didn't think to ask. He ought to have been here, having a care for Brisbane."

"He is engaged upon a case. I do not know where, but I do not think he has been here since Brisbane took up residence at Grimsgrave, although he ought to be," I finished waspishly.

Portia shook her head. "Be fair, Julia. Brisbane had no notion he was in danger here, and if he did not suspect, how could Monk have known? Now, who besides Monk might benefit should Brisbane die?"

I shrugged. "Hortense de Bellefleur. He has paid her an allowance for twenty years. It would be like him to want to take care of her even after his death." It remained an interesting development that my father's dearest companion should have been Brisbane's first mistress. Though Brisbane and Hortense had concluded their liaison before Brisbane had even turned twenty, he still counted her a dear friend, as did I.

Portia pursed her lips. "I suppose. Or he could leave everything to you."

I gaped at her. "To what purpose? I have more money than Croesus. Brisbane knows that. He would not be so senseless. He would leave his assets to those who could best profit from them."

Portia and I fell silent, pondering the implications of the attack on Brisbane.

"Of course," I said slowly, "there are the Allenby daughters. Ailith claimed she was Brisbane's first love, and Hilda was quite forthright about her intentions to marry him to regain her home." Quickly I related the details of these new revelations to Portia.

She was thoughtful, stroking Puggy's swayed back. "I wonder. What if Lady Allenby knew of Hilda's scheme?"

"I know she did. I told her myself."

"Aha!" Portia jumped, unsettling Puggy. He puffed out an annoyed sigh and she settled him down again. "You told Lady Allenby that Hilda meant to marry Brisbane. What if she opposed the match?"

"But she told me she did not believe anything would come of it," I argued.

"So she told you," Portia echoed meaningfully. "Just because she said it, does not mean she believed it. What if she knew of Hilda's intentions, and feared that Brisbane would marry her? The Allenbys do not marry outside their own semi-royal blood, do they? Lady Allenby might have viewed such an arrangement as the grossest lèse-majesté. Who is to say what steps she might take to prevent it?"

"Preposterous," I said roundly. "She had only to remove Hilda from his house."

"Which she has not the means to do," Portia rejoined.

"Then she would have been better off waiting until they had married. Then Hilda would have inherited the Hall and the Allenbys would once more be masters of their own domain."

"But that would have polluted the Allenby line," Portia argued. "What if Hilda conceived a child in that time? The Allenby blood would have been tainted with his."

Her expression was smug, but try as I might, I could not believe it. "It is madness," I said finally.

"And who is to say the old woman is not mad?" she asked. "Think how they live. She is alone up here, with only another old woman and an oafish farm manager for company, and two daughters who are scarcely better than children. Ailith spends all day scurrying meekly behind her mother and stitching at her needlepoint, while Hilda wanders the moors like a madwoman and talks to chickens. They have buried the last male heir of Grimsgrave, and they have only themselves left, the remains of a noble and illustrious family. Isn't it at all possible Lady Allenby would rather let their name die out than mix it with lesser blood?"

"It is possible," I said slowly. "But there is another Allenby still unaccounted for." I told her about Wilfreda, her quiet, bookish ways, and her desperate flight from Grimsgrave with the artist commissioned to paint her portrait. "Her name was unpicked from the family tapestry," I finished. "They would rather pretend she never existed than admit she married beneath her."

Portia nodded. "Mark me, Julia. Lady Allenby was determined not to let another of her daughters go astray, and her only recourse was to attempt the life of the man who attracted her."

I shuddered. "It seems so much more terrible, you know. I cannot imagine what a person must think, picking the mushrooms so carefully, wiping them and slicing them and bottling them just so, placing them carefully upon someone's plate, all the while knowing what you mean to do with them. No one quite in her right mind could do such a thing."

"Well, I have always said northerners were not trustworthy," she reminded me. "And Yorkshire folk are the maddest of the lot."

I thought of Deborah at the inn, and gentle Mrs. Butters, and Godwin, rough but kind for all his country ways. "Oh, I don't know," I said finally. "I think people are much the same wherever you go. Some of them good, some of them clever, and some of them with the devil in them."

"The trick is learning to distinguish the difference," my sister added.

"Indeed. There is one more thing," I began, and told her about the mummified babies I had discovered in the priest's hole. She gaped at me, horrified.

"Julia, that is beyond belief. Why on earth would Redwall Allenby have such things? And why keep them squirreled away behind the chimney?"

"Probably because they are so horrid. If you had mummy babies, would you advertise the fact?"

"But that is precisely the point. If I were the type of person to keep mummy babies lying about, I shouldn't think I would mind if people actually knew it," she pointed out.

Puggy let out a great, flatulent noise and I turned away. "But what sort of person collects mummified babies in the first place?" I asked.

"We are arguing in a circle," Portia noted with maddening logic. "Mummified children are collected by the sort of people who would collect mummified children."

"I feel a headache coming on, Portia. We have established that Redwall Allenby had rather peculiar tastes. Now, we must determine why. Were the mummies merely a curiosity, like the baboon and the cat? Or were they collected for a more sinister purpose?"

Portia arched a cool brow. "Like what?"

I began to tick the possibilities off on my fingers. "Medicinal properties, public demonstration, speculation…"

My sister waved a hand. "Your cart has galloped apace of your horse. Let us begin at the beginning. Medicinal properties?"

"Mummy dust has been used for medical compounds for centuries to cure a variety of ailments. One of the more disgusting facts I have recently learned."

Portia pulled a face. "You mean people eat them?"

"Drink them, actually. A pinch of mummy dust in an embrocation of other assorted ghoulish ingredients. Just imagine how much power a superstitious peasant mind might attribute to powdered mummy."

"I suppose," she said slowly. "It was not so long ago that desperate syphilitics tried drinking from virgins' skulls to cure their affliction."

"Yes," I said lightly, trying not to dwell in the long shadows of previous investigations. There were things I had learned that I had never told my sister, and never would.

"Public demonstration," I continued. "Remember the unrolling we attended at the Duchess of Ottley's? It was grotesque, but I am told the scientist who procured the mummy was paid a fantastic sum for the evening's entertainment, particularly because the mummy was red-haired and therefore a rarity. Imagine how much more might be demanded for unrolling a pair of children."

Portia shuddered. "Go on. You said speculation."

"Hm, yes. The unlikeliest of all," I told her, "but entirely possible. What if Redwall looked at his coffin, empty and therefore less valuable? And what if he then decided to fill it, and thereby increase its value? Procure a pair of mummified children and etch some appropriate inscription into the cartouche. It would be a very simple matter to find another buyer then, one who would be willing to pay a great deal more than Redwall would have had to put up in the first place."

"Possible," Portia said. She lapsed into silence then and I considered my theory. It fitted very well with what I had learned thus far of Redwall Allenby's character. Opportunistic, resourceful, perhaps a little weak, and entirely ruthless when it suited him. I could well imagine him piecing together a superbly-fashioned hoax to fleece an unsuspecting lamb of a buyer. I made a note to delve further into Redwall Allenby's notes and diaries. Whatever became of the Allenby ladies at this point, I would finish this investigation, I promised myself.

"What will become of Lady Allenby?" I asked suddenly. In spite of her attempt on Brisbane's life, I hated to think of her turned over to the authorities to hang for her crime. She was so old, so fragile. But even as I thought it, I pictured her gnarled hands cupped tightly over the head of her walking stick, her firm carriage, her indomitable will, and my pity withered a little.

Portia shook her head. "Brisbane has not spoken of it. It is for him to say, you know. Perhaps he will not tell the authorities at all. She is very old."

Much as I did not like the idea of Lady Allenby in the hands of the law, I did not like the notion of Brisbane settling his score himself any better. His notions of justice were usually quite sound, but I wondered at his ability to remain impartial where the Allenbys were concerned.

"I must ask him." I rose then and Portia and I made our way back toward the house. The empty east wing cast long shadows over the grass, stretching out to meet us. Or capture us, I fancied. I could not imagine ever feeling entirely comfortable in the house again, and although I still admired the elegant lines and solid workmanship, it would always hold horrors for me. I was so reluctant to return to it that we walked the long way round the pond, watching the wind stir the reeds and ruffle the surface of the black water.

"That pond wants a fish," Portia said roundly. She put Puggy down to romp, but all he managed was a wheezing cough as he stumped toward the house.

"That pond wants filling in," I returned. "It is bleak and unwelcoming. Just like the rest of this place. Don't you feel it?" I turned on my heel slowly, taking in the empty wing, the crumbling stone, the weed-choked gardens and brackish pond.

"It is a bit austere," Portia admitted. "It just needs a bit of work. A little repointing of the stone, rebuilding the east wing—"

"An exorcism."

She pushed me. "Don't be feeble. It could be a very nice house with some effort and a good deal of money. Brisbane could make a very nice home here."

Indeed he could, I reflected, but not one that I would ever live in.

"Portia, about Jane," I began.

She shook her head, and for an instant, the cool mask of self-possession slipped. Her anguish was so complete, so raw, it seemed like a trespass to look upon it. I dropped my eyes. "No, Julia. Jane has left for India. It is quite finished, and if I have to talk about it there is every chance I may never recover. Do you understand?"

I said nothing more. I whistled to Puggy and followed Portia inside, pulling my cloak more tightly about me as I entered and closed the door behind me.

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace.

—William Shakespeare

Coriolanus

"Brisbane, you cannot live in this room with Morag tasting your food and Minna jumping like a hare every time there is a knock at the door. You must make a decision about Lady Allenby. This situation cannot go on indefinitely," I told him.

We were alone in his bedchamber two days later, after supper. Rosalie had returned to her cottage to collect some fresh supplies, while Portia was endeavouring to be kind to Ailith by spending the evening looking at her doll's house. Valerius had finally persuaded Hilda to let him begin work on a new henhouse for her little flock. Morag and Minna had agreed to leave Brisbane for the evening on the condition that I remain in his room at all times and surrender my post to Morag when he retired. She had laid a pallet across the doorway and intended to sleep there to guard him. Her devotion to him was beginning to alarm me.

He was still abed, but his nightshirt had been changed and he had grudgingly permitted Morag to shave him. He had a handkerchief pressed to his jaw.

"Am I still bleeding?" He pulled the handkerchief aside and I inspected the wound.

"Not much. But the one on your cheek has opened again. Here, let me," I said, taking the handkerchief and pressing it firmly against his cheek. "Why on earth you let Morag shave you is beyond my comprehension. She is singularly unsuited to the task."

"I was bored."

"Do not shrug. You've opened it again. Be still, and listen to me. You cannot leave matters indefinitely. Something must be done about Lady Allenby."

He touched my wrist, and I suppressed a shiver. "It will be. I have made arrangements already. When you were under Rosalie's sleeping draught, I dictated instructions to Minna, and Godwin took her to Howlett Magna to the telegraph. The matter will be out of my hands very soon."

I clamped my mouth shut, determined not to speak. My resolve did not last. "You were quite busy whilst I was out of the way. You mean to see her hang then? Brisbane, how could you? She is old and ailing. She might well be out of her mind, not in the sense that you or I might notice, but somewhere deep within. She cannot really have meant to kill you, not in the same fashion as a person who takes up a knife and stabs another to the heart. She mayn't even have meant to kill you at all," I pointed out, warming to my theme. "She might only have meant to make you ill and miscalculated how dangerous the mushrooms were. Or how many you would eat. You can be quite greedy when it comes to food, I've noticed. You ought to be more restrained. You could run to fat when you get old."

"Are you quite finished defending the woman who tried to murder me? You would make a delightful witness for the defence, you know." His lips were tight, but I did not believe he was entirely put out with me. I blotted at his face again.

"You're all right now." I handed him the handkerchief. "If there is nothing I can say to change your mind—"

I moved to the door, but before I could leave he gave a great sigh. "A convent. She is going to a convent. In Ireland. There is apparently some connection with the family. It was founded by an Allenby lady a thousand years ago or some such rot. In any event, I have sent to the mother house in Dublin, and a very discreet abbess replied that they would dispatch a pair of sisters from the convent to fetch her. They have even," he said, his lips twitching in what I assumed was amusement, "promised to pray for my soul in perpetuity for showing such compassion to an old woman who now has time to atone for her sins before she must stand in judgment before her Maker."

I hardly knew what to say. How like him to resolve the entire situation so neatly and so appropriately. And how like him to torment me a little before taking me into his confidence.

"When does she leave?"

"Tomorrow. I was naturally not inclined to spend any more time than strictly necessary under the same roof as Lady Allenby once she confessed."

"Her poor daughters," I murmured. "They will be quite lost now."

Brisbane's expression turned thoughtful, but he said nothing.

I shook my head. "I still cannot quite take it in. That elegant old lady, willing to kill you."

Still he did not speak, but a muscle moved in his jaw, and I realised he was angry, far angrier than I had guessed.

"I would like to see her before she goes," I told him.

He nodded and Morag returned, effectively putting an end to our conversation. I left him then, his expression thoughtful and his eyes fixed on the view of the moor from the window.

* * *

The next morning after breakfast, I paid a visit to Lady Allenby. Mrs. Butters had told me she was still in her room, receiving no one. I gathered my nerve and tapped on the door, calling softly to her.

"Lady Allenby, it is Lady Julia. May I come in?"

She made no reply, but I opened the door and slipped in, closing it behind me. Lady Allenby was kneeling at her prie-dieu, her full skirts spread about her like a still pool of black water. Her rosary was clasped in her hands, and her lips were moving. Her gaze did not waver from the crucifix on the wall. I waited several minutes as her hands moved over the beads, counting them off one at a time.

At last she reached the end and crossed herself.

"I apologise," she said faintly. In spite of my horror of what she had done, I went to her and helped her to her feet. She gave me a grateful smile, only faintly tinged with cynicism.

"You are kind," she said, looping the rosary at her belt and regarding me closely. "You do not like me, and yet you help me. That speaks of the virtue of compassion. Something of the divine dwells in you, my child."

Already she spoke like a nun. She seated herself in a straight-backed chair and waved me to another opposite. I settled myself, feeling strangely awkward, as though I were a pupil summoned before an exacting headmistress. I tried to compose myself and remember why I had come.

"I do not think you came to gawk at the would-be murderess," she remarked softly. "Was there another purpose?"

I shook my head, wondering why I found the interview so difficult. She was in the wrong, and yet she had managed with a coolly superior look and a few choice words to make me feel entirely at fault.

She sighed, and when she spoke it was with exaggerated patience. "Do you want to know why I did it, or how? Life with him will be extraordinarily difficult, you know. It might suit you to know the method. Just in case you have need of it," she finished coldly.

I rose at once. "It was a mistake to have come," I told her, my tone as icy as hers. "I thought to understand you, but there is nothing to understand. I ought to have known you for what you were the day you told me about the bees. You were ruthless to them, and you were ruthless to Brisbane."

She curled her lip at me, scorn written in every line of her countenance. "My dear girl, now you know the true legacy of the Allenbys. Ruthlessness has always been our byword."

She began to laugh then, laughing until she wept, great, wracking sobs. She motioned angrily for me to leave her, and the sound of her weeping was still ringing in my ears when I left her.

I descended the stairs, intending to take a brisk walk across the moor to calm myself, but there was a stranger standing in the hall, a small travelling bag at her side. She was dressed in a plain black habit, the coif perfectly starched and blindingly white. I wondered vaguely how she had managed to keep herself so tidy on her travels.

"Sister?" I began, moving toward her. She had been looking about the panelled hall with great interest, but at the sound of my voice she turned, her eyes wide, her lips set in a half-smile.

"I rang the bell, but no one came. I thought no one would mind if I let myself in," she began.

"Think nothing of it," I assured her. "The master of the house, Mr. Brisbane, is still abed," I said, glossing lightly over the reason for her visit.

She nodded, the smile fading. "I am Sister Bridget," she said suddenly, thrusting out a hand. I took it, introducing myself and explaining briefly as I could that I was a friend of the new owner. Her hand was warm in mine, the palm hard and edged with calluses. It was a sturdy hand, formed by hard labour, and it suited her, for she was a tall, solid sort of woman. I doubted she spent her days singing in the chapel choir. This was a woman who served God literally, toiling in the fields or labouring in the kitchens, I decided.

"I hope you have not travelled alone, sister. I thought there was a pair of you coming to collect Lady Allenby."

The nun's eyes drifted up to the ceiling again, where pale shadows of crowned A's were barely visible overhead.

"Aye. Sister Dolores. She thought to stay in Lesser Howlett and let me come alone. She did not fancy a walk across the moor, and Godwin Allenby was kind enough to fetch me," she said with a faint smile.

Brisbane had given no instructions regarding the nun, and I was just wondering what I ought to do with her when Minna appeared.

"Mr. Brisbane said as the sister has arrived, if you would be good enough to show her into the great hall to wait, he will come," she said, bobbing curtseys at me and to Sister Bridget, to the nun's obvious amusement.

"He ought not to be up and about yet, but if I tell him so, he will only argue. Very well, Minna. Tell him we will await him there."

She scurried off and I turned, but Sister Bridget was already moving, looking about her with avid interest.

"It is a lovely house," I said, not quite truthfully, "but it has seen some difficult times lately. The furnishings are gone, but there is one relic of the family who built the place."

I nodded toward the mouldering tapestry on the wall. Sister Bridget gave a little intake of breath and went to it, putting out a fingertip to trace the lines of embroidery. She ought not to have, but it was not mine to protect, and truth be told, it was in sorry enough condition as it was. I wondered what would become of it now. I supposed Ailith and Hilda would live together in the Bear's Hut with Mrs. Butters, but I doubted there would be a wall in any cottage large enough to accommodate it.

"Moths have been at this," Sister Bridget said finally, touching a series of tidy little holes. "And likely the damp as well." She scraped a fingernail over the patch that had been picked out, pulling loose a tiny golden thread. She held it out to me, smiling.

"One gold thread. The only remnant of a lost girl," she said softly.

I blinked at her, comprehension dawning at last. "You are Wilfreda Allenby."

She smiled, and in her wide honest face, I saw none of the ruthless cunning of the Allenbys. They were nature's aristocrats, beautiful and merciless. This girl had kindness in her face and good humour, and I found her altogether more attractive than her far lovelier sister. She reminded me of Hilda, but there was a pleasantness to her countenance, a contentedness that spoke of satisfaction with her place in the world.

"I am," she said roundly. "And I think you know more about my family than a stranger might. Tell me quickly, is Mrs. Butters still here? I am gasping for a cup of tea and one of her little plum cakes."

I managed a nod. "I am sure she would be only too happy to provide you with refreshment. Forgive me, you've had a long journey. I ought to have offered straightaway."

She waved a hand. "It can wait a moment. I am too much a coward to leave this room quite yet."

With a rush of sympathy, I realised what she meant. She was at Grimsgrave to collect her mother to do penance for attempting a murder. That would have been difficult enough, but added to that was the strangeness of coming home after so many years away.

"How long has it been?" I asked her.

"Very nearly twenty years. That was why I came alone. Sister Dolores thought I ought to face my ghosts on my own. She is very wise."

"Did Godwin know you?"

"Oh, aye, he knew me well enough. I could not bring myself to ask him after my family. We talked rather a lot about sheep on our way here. I understand they are disappearing. They never did that in the old days." Sister Bridget gave me a smile then that was so sad, so wistful, I wondered how I could ever have thought her merry.

"Has it been so difficult then?"

She groped for her words, choosing them carefully. "Not always. Most of the time it has been peaceful. I have known real serenity, Lady Julia, and that has been a gift. I will not know it again. I had thought Grimsgrave and my family were in my past, and I find they are in my present as well. I will not make that mistake again. We are what we are, blood cannot be undone."

"Were you close to your family?"

She said nothing for a moment, and I wondered if I had offended her. But the wide, clear brow was furrowed slightly, and I realised she was thinking carefully.

"No, I do not believe that I was. We were never the ideal, you know. Never what one thinks a family ought to be. Father was always too busy carrying on with his magistrate's duties, making quite certain everyone followed the law to its strictest interpretation. Mother was distant—living in the past, I think, when the Allenby name meant something. We were kings, once upon a time, and for my mother, time has stood still. We were never permitted to make friends with the other children. We never even played with Godwin. We had only each other, and yet…"

She paused and I looked at her encouragingly.

"Have you brothers and sisters, Lady Julia?"

"Nine, actually."

The fair brows lifted. "Indeed. Then perhaps you will understand. Even amongst one's siblings, one can be entirely alone."

I thought of my place in the family as the youngest daughter. Only my brother Valerius was lesser, and yet he and I, who ought to have been allies, had often been at odds. I had known the close affection of Benedick and Portia, but some of the elder children were far removed from the nursery by the time I made my appearance. The eccentricity of my family had made it easy enough to justify holding them at arm's length when I was so inclined.

"I think so," I told her.

"It was that way for me. I was the eldest, and I was a disappointment. Both of my parents were certain I would be a boy, an heir for Allenby. And when Redwall was born, I was dispensable."

Such was the legacy of primogeniture upon the female psyche, I reflected bitterly.

"And when Ailith was born?"

"Oh, more disappointment, of course. They would have liked another son to secure the line, but she was so beautiful, even from birth. It was as if everything pure and lovely in the Allenby blood had been perfected in her. I never saw a more striking child, although truth be told, Redwall was extraordinarily handsome himself. Hilda was nothing but an afterthought. No one ever paid her much attention. I was the odd one out," she said with a wry smile. "With a peasant's face and a sturdy gait, always with an argument or a truculent mood. My mother despaired of ever making a lady of me. All I cared about were books. I thought for awhile that Redwall and I might be good friends because we shared a love of learning, but he had no use for me."

The words were spoken conversationally, with no regret, no bitterness. A simple recitation of facts that must have wounded her deeply at the time.

"The truth is Redwall was so obsessed with anything Egyptian. He simply could not be educated in any other subjects. Father ran off a dozen tutors for failing to teach him simple mathematics. He was a stubborn boy. I think being fussed over, having so much made of him as the heir, rather ruined his character. He was not always a pleasant child, and Ailith always followed where he led."

I thought of the mummified children hidden behind the chimney and wondered if Sister Bridget knew precisely how unpleasant her brother could be.

"He was given to playing pranks, and I am sorry to say, the tricks were usually cruel ones, at someone else's expense. He stole the note I left for Mama, explaining my decision to join a convent. He told her I had eloped with an artist."

"That is monstrous," I breathed.

Sister Bridget shrugged. "He did a dozen things worse, I am certain. He was angry that I left, that I was willing to reject the Allenby name and all that it stood for, and he wanted to hurt me. He thought that maligning my reputation would be the best way, but in truth, it was the only weapon he had. He could not harm me. I was in a convent. All he could do was spread gossip about me, and I was immune to his venom."

"But Lady Allenby, she must have been quite devastated. The thought of her daughter taking the veil might have given her some comfort. At least, the comfort of knowing you were safe and happy."

"Oh, Redwall would not have cared about that. He was angry with Mother because she would not give him the funds to go to Egypt. It was before he attained control of the estate, under the terms of Father's will. He was dependent upon Mother for everything then, and I think it galled him to have to ask for every last farthing. He was angry with her, angry with me. It was a rather efficient little revenge really."

"And has Lady Allenby never learned the truth? Even now?"

Sister Bridget shrugged. "I do not know. If Redwall confided in anyone, it would have been Ailith, and she would never have gone against his authority, even after his death."

"Why did you never tell Lady Allenby yourself? You might have written."

She gave a short, unpleasant little laugh. "My dear lady, you clearly did not know Redwall. He collected the post himself. He wrote to me once, and only once, to tell me what he had done and to assure me that it was futile to think of writing to Mother because she wanted nothing to do with me." She gave me an apologetic look. "I was younger then, and I believed him. I went to the head of my order for guidance, and she counselled me not to write, as thinking on my temporal family would only serve to interfere with my conventual life. For the most part I obeyed," she said with a wry little twist of the lips. "But once or twice I did send a letter, appealing to Redwall's better nature. Unfortunately, he did not have one."

I thought of the note in his diary about correspondence from SB. Sister Bridget, the sister who had renounced all material wealth and the legacy of the Allenby name.

"What a beastly young man," I said, forgetting for a moment that he had been her brother.

She smiled. "He had his moments. But you must recollect I intended to leave the world behind in any event. The convent was my home, and that was where attention must be paid."

I must have seemed dubious, for she touched my arm lightly.

"I would not have you think entirely ill of my brother. Redwall could be quite charming as well. And so generous. I remember once when I found a bird, a young pheasant with a broken wing, Redwall helped me to bring it home and care for it. When it died, I sobbed over it for days and Redwall promised to bury it for me, so that I should not have to do it myself. He saved me one beautiful feather from its plumage. And another time, when I was sent to bed without supper for some childish transgression, Redwall threw his own supper out the window, and Ailith's as well, and said if I did not eat, neither would they."

She leaned toward me, her tone conspiratorial. "I would have preferred if he had just shared his, but that was Redwall. He always liked a grand gesture, and Ailith was always so content to play the consort, pretty and docile and standing in the shadows. And poor little Hilda, always overlooked."

She sank into a reverie for a moment, and the silence stretched between us, comfortable and peaceful. After several minutes, she collected herself and smoothed her habit.

"I am sorry. I am unaccustomed to talking so much. It fatigues me, in a way I did not expect. I am responsible for the gardens at the abbey, and I often spend whole days in silent contemplation."

"What a lovely thought," I told her. "I will leave you now. Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable while you wait?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I would like only a little solitude, if that could be arranged. A few moments of contemplation would be most useful."

I nodded and went to the door. I lingered a moment as I pulled it closed, watching Sister Bridget, the prodigal daughter come home. She slid to her knees, but did not cross herself, and unlike her mother, she did not finger her rosary. Instead her eyes were fixed on the tapestry where her name had been so carefully unpicked until only a single golden thread remained to show she had ever been born.

* * *

I went to the kitchen to find Portia and Mrs. Butters chatting soberly over cups of tea. Ailith was nowhere to be found, and I took the opportunity to apprise the others of Sister Bridget's identity.

"Bless my soul," said Mrs. Butters, her face alight. She had been sunk in gloom since Lady Allenby's confession, but the prospect of seeing Sister Bridget roused her like the arrival of the prodigal son. "Miss Wilfreda come home. 'Tis like she were raised from the dead, like tha' fellow, oh, what were his name?" She frowned, drumming her fingers on the table.

"Lazarus?" Portia hazarded.

"Tha' is the one!" Mrs. Butters beamed. "You are clever, my lady. Yes, indeed. I had thought her dead, I did, for many a year. What a turn it will give the mistress to see her alive again. And to go and live with her in the convent, I cannot imagine it."

"Yes, quite the coincidence," Portia remarked, arching a brow at me significantly. I gave a quick, sharp shake of the head to silence her, but I might not have bothered. Mrs. Butters was off again.

"Always loved my plum cakes, did Miss Wilfreda. I have just one put by in the larder. Oh, I must go and see to it. I left it a few days past now, and I do hope the moths have not got at it."

She hurried away and Portia blinked at me. "Moths? Isn't it too early for moths?"

"Portia, never mind about the moths." I darted a glance at the door. "You must meet her before she leaves. She is quite something. I spent quarter of an hour in her company and felt so peaceful, I think I might well join an order on the way back to London."

"I shall forward your post and adopt your pets, shall I?" my sister asked.

"Yes, and you may have all of my clothes," I told her generously.

Portia snorted. "Your clothes? I would sooner give them to Florence to use as birthing cloths."

"They were all made by your dressmakers," I reminded her, but she waved a hand and I lapsed into a sulky silence.

Just then Brisbane entered, fully dressed in a fine black coat and a black silk neckcloth wound tidily about his throat. His shirt was neatly buttoned, and although his hair would never be orderly, it was less tumbled than usual. He was paler than I would have liked, and there were new hollows carved beneath his cheekbones. He had lost weight through his ordeal, although I noticed his coat still tugged across the width of his shoulders.

"Where is she?" he asked without preamble.

"The old great hall, as you asked. She wanted a few moments of solitude, to pray I think. Brisbane, you ought to know, Sister Bridget was Wilfreda Allenby. She is Lady Allenby's eldest daughter."

"I know," he said, shooting his cuffs.

I stared at him, and Portia merely sipped at her tea, looking from me to Brisbane with avid interest. I think she smelled a quarrel brewing between us.

"Kindly explain," I directed him.

"I know Sister Bridget is Wilfreda Allenby," he said slowly. "I have known it for months. I traced her whereabouts some time ago and was already in communication with the abbess in Dublin. When it became necessary to remove Lady Allenby, it was a simple matter to arrange it."

My mouth was agape and he huffed an impatient sigh. "For God's sake, Julia, how do you think I managed to arrange this so quickly from a sickbed? I am a competent man, but I am no conjurer."

"How very clever you are," I said sweetly. "And how stupid of me not to have known, but then you take great delight in amusing yourself with my silliness, don't you, Brisbane?"

His lips tightened. "Julia Grey, I have no intention of quarrelling with you now. Nothing I have done was with the thought of making you feel foolish. In fact, nothing I have done has anything to do with you. Now I am telling you, leave it be."

He turned on his heel and stalked out. I turned to Portia, fairly sputtering in my rage.

"That is why I gave up men," she said ruefully. "They can be so very difficult."

"I was packing to leave when he fell ill," I confessed. "I was through with him, with his tricks and games, with all of it. I was quite shattered when I thought he would die. I thought it would change things. Clearly, it has not. I suppose I ought to leave now."

Portia tipped her head quizzically. "I thought there were mysteries afoot here? Questions unanswered? Puzzles undetected? You cannot really expect me to believe you would rather leave here, not knowing the truth."

I recognised the tone. She was cajoling, the way she had always done when she wanted something of me and suspected bullying would not work.

"Stop it, Portia. Don't you want to go back to London, too?"

She went white to the lips, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. "Not now. Jane is gone, Julia. Forever. I have nothing to hold me in London, and in fact, I rather think a diversion might be quite welcome at present."

"Portia," I murmured, reaching for her hand. She let me pet her a moment, then drew herself up briskly, tucking her emotions away.

"So, what is it to be? Shall we endeavour to sleuth about and lay some of the ghosts of Grimsgrave Hall, or shall we slink back to London like whipped dogs?" She thrust out her hand.

I pulled a face, but clasped her hand in mine to seal the bargain. "Very well. We will stay until it is finished," I told her, not entirely happy about the arrangement. God only knew what fresh humiliations Brisbane could conjure for me. But knowing that I had meant to leave him gave me a little more power than I had had before. I made a mental note to keep my trunk packed in any event.

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea, and one on shore.

—William Shakespeare

Much Ado About Nothing

The departure of Lady Allenby was accomplished with a great deal less excitement than I would have expected. Godwin had told Ailith and Hilda of their sister's arrival, and the ladies met in the entry hall where we had all assembled to bid farewell to Lady Allenby. Ailith embraced her sister with warmth, but Hilda greeted Bridget awkwardly, and I realised that they had not seen one another since Hilda was a young girl. It was a sober moment.

Valerius came to stand in the shadows next to Portia, and I took the place next to them. Mrs. Butters was weeping softly into her apron as her mistress descended the great carved staircase for the last time. Lady Allenby was dressed in one of her usual wide gowns of deepest black, a rosary at her belt. Ailith had packed for her, the smallest bag imaginable, with the few things she would need for the journey. Once at the convent, God and the good sisters would supply her needs.

To my astonishment, Brisbane himself had gone to fetch Lady Allenby from her room. I do not know what words they may have exchanged, only that she leaned heavily upon him as they moved down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, she turned to him, her impressive height bringing her very nearly eye-to-eye with him.

"You have shown me more compassion than I deserve, Nicholas Brisbane," she said, her imperious voice softened by something that sounded like gratitude. "One day, when you have need of it the most, and deserve it the least, God will repay you."

He gave her a short, sharp nod and in that instant she raised one gnarled hand to make a quick sign of the cross over his bent head.

She turned instantly, lifting her chin and surveying the rest of the assembled company. "Of the dark deeds done in this house, I say only this, that I am responsible, and I will spend the rest of my life atoning for them, and begging God's benevolent mercy upon my poor sinner's heart. And although God has no cause to listen to a transgressor whose failings are legion, I will pray for each of you in the long dark evening of my life."

The words were purest melodrama, but they seemed heartfelt, and oddly touching as well. As she passed, Lady Allenby gave each of us a brief nod, as if committing our faces to memory. It felt strange then, to know I would never see her again. In spite of what horrors she had perpetrated, I felt a surge of pity for her, and I hoped that her convent would be a place of refuge and repentance for her.

She said nothing to her daughters. There was a sigh of recognition when she looked upon the plain, placid features of Sister Bridget, and I suspected Brisbane had told her of Wilfreda's return. She lingered a moment before Ailith and Hilda, her expression as sorrowful as the Christ before which she knelt each day, and I knew she must be grieving for how thoroughly she had failed them. She was leaving them adrift in the world whilst she found a safe haven in her Irish convent, and I wondered if she would ever forgive herself for that. And more to the point, if her daughters would.

Sister Bridget took charge of her then, and it was Ailith who shut the door behind them. Hilda, her complexion reddened from wind and emotion, dashed angry tears from her cheeks and turned to me as if to speak. But she turned instead and fled to the garden, slamming the door as she went. Valerius followed hard upon her heels, and I hoped she would take some comfort in his company. He was seldom tactful, but his intentions were always good.

Ailith said nothing. She merely shook her head sorrowfully and looked neither to the left nor right as she slowly ascended the stairs.

"Those poor girls," Portia breathed. "Whatever will become of them now?"

I shrugged. "They will go to live in the Bear's Hut with Mrs. Butters, and that will be the end of them."

* * *

That afternoon I walked across the moor to Rosalie's cottage. Portia stayed behind, pleading a headache, and I was secretly glad of it. I was eager for some fresh air and I wanted to talk to Rosalie alone. She opened the door before I even put my hand to the little gate in the stone wall, as if she had been expecting me.

"Good afternoon, lady," she said, stepping aside. The cottage was as tidy and cosy as ever, but I noticed her hearthrug was empty. I mentioned it to her.

She gave a shrug. "Rook prefers Brisbane's company, so I let him go where he pleases. He may return, he may stay at the Hall. It is no matter."

I was glad she introduced the subject of Brisbane, for I had not yet fixed how to go about learning what I wanted to know.

"You were marvellous when he was ill," I told her. She gave me a fathomless, familiar look.

"I think we will need something stronger than tea for this chat, eh, lady?" She went to the beautifully painted cupboard and took out two tiny glasses, thin as paper and decorated with a design of Venetian gilt. She took out a bottle as well, dark green and felted with dust. When she had poured us each a glass of thick, amber liquid, she lifted hers to me in silent salute. I returned the gesture and sipped, gasping a little as the liquid slipped down like molten glass.

"What is this?" I asked when I recovered my breath.

"A mixture of my own making. Brandy, and a few other special things."

"Very tasty," I remarked, taking another sip, this one smaller and I took the time to roll it over my tongue, tasting honey and something more elusive.

She drained her glass and poured another for each of us, then sat forward, resting her elbows on the gaily-printed tablecloth. "You've questions in your eyes. Ask them."

"I hardly know where to begin."

"At the beginning, child."

I took another sip, feeling its warm Dutch courage suffusing my bones. "When Brisbane was poisoned, Minna came to fetch me and I thought of the different means by which he may have come to harm. I thought of the mushrooms of Lady Allenby and Godwin's arsenic for dipping the sheep. And I thought of your poppy-red syrup, and I had no way of knowing which of the three of you might have wanted him dead."

"You took a chance," Rosalie said. "You are bold, Lady Julia."

"I was not bold," I confessed. "I was terrified. I knew if I made the wrong choice, he would die. It was that simple. And I chose you, without even knowing why. Until later, when I had long hours full of dreamless sleep, and I woke knowing what I ought to have pieced together before."

I paused and she looked at me expectantly, her mouth curved into a faint smile.

"I chose you because I knew you would never harm your own kin. Brisbane is your nephew, isn't he?"

The smile deepened. "He is. My poor little chavvo. Not quite a Gypsy, not quite a gorgio. When he was a child it made him very bitter. He used to say he would never fit into either man's world, neither the Gypsy's nor the gorgio's. And I always told him it was because neither of those worlds was big enough to hold him. I taught him that he carried what was best of both inside him, and to be proud of what he was. Or I tried," she finished with a sigh. "His mother, she was not so kind to him. I have never known another woman so beautiful as my sister. But neither was there a woman as cruel as Mariah Young. She was many years older than I was, the eldest of our mother's children, while I was the youngest. I was fifteen when he was born, and his mother wept and cursed him for being the son of a faithless man. Do you know about Black Jack Brisbane?"

"Good Lord, he sounds like a pirate."

"He was no better. He took what did not belong to him, usually women. They came willingly, make no mistake, for he was the handsomest man I have ever known. Quite a match in looks for Mariah, and in temper. They were a tempestuous couple. They never lived together for more than two months running. Always the fighting, the screaming, the throwing of dishes and breaking of chairs. Always Mariah ran away and Jack would bring her back. Her brothers and cousins learned not to interfere. My own husband, John-the-Baptist, still carries a scar upon his neck from coming between them."

"Jack stabbed him?" I breathed.

"Mariah," she corrected with a grim nod. "Jack had been choking her, and John-the-Baptist thought to impress me with his bravery. We were not married then, but he thought I was pretty," she recounted with a tiny smile. "He jumped into the fray and pulled Jack off of her. And quick as a cat, Mariah went for him, cutting him with the blade she carried in her skirt."

She gave me a stern look. "Whatever gorgios say of us, you must believe that we are not all like that. We are a passionate people, but we do not like to fight. We are peaceful and loving, but Mariah was always the devil's child, and Jack was just the same. They were alike as brother and sister, the same faults, the same witch-black hair and the same peculiar way of looking right through a person. I always wondered if Black Jack's mother was quite a lady, or if perhaps she had had an indiscretion with a travelling tinker," Rosalie said with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows.

"In any event, by the time Nicholas was ten, he had had enough. His father tired at last of Mariah's tricks and left them for good, and Nicholas had taken a lifetime of abuse from his mother. He did what any good Roma does when the welcome is a cold one. He packed his little bundle and he struck out on a new road and he did not look back. It was many years before I saw him again, years of loss and pain, for both of us."

I waited, and she went on, speaking more to herself than to me. "They say the Roma came from Egypt, and that is why they are called Gypsies, that we came dancing out of the pharaoh's lands, summoning our luck with magic spells and telling fortunes in teacups. That is a faery story for children. Even we do not know where we come from, but the Sight is a true gift, one that has been handed down for centuries, and for as long as the women of the Young family have travelled this isle, there have been those of the blood who knew things before they came to pass. Mariah was one of those. I was never blessed with the gift, but Mariah was exceptional. She could tell a woman was quick with child before she had even missed her courses. She could watch the way the moonlight fell on a man's face and know he would die within a fortnight, and she passed her gift to Nicholas, the first male of our line ever to have the Sight."

"He fights it," I told her. "I have watched him struggle against it. He thinks—I don't know—that it is superstition or something out of a story to frighten children with. He does not see it for the gift it is."

"Many do not," Rosalie pointed out. "Can you imagine what it must be, to know things before they happen, and yet so often be powerless to stop them?"

"He is not powerless," I argued. "He could do a great deal of good if he only accepted the visions and acted upon them. Instead he fights them with all of his might, ending up with migraines so ferocious he doses himself with all sorts of monstrous things. I have seen him take absinthe and hashish, and God knows what else, all because he will not admit what he really is."

"And what is he?" Rosalie prodded gently.

"The most extraordinary, maddening man I have ever known," I said, feeling exhilarated and a little deflated at the same time.

"And you believe that just because you are willing to accept him for what he is, that others will be as broad-minded?"

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. "Of course not. You are quite right. They would clap him in an asylum the first time he tried to tell anyone what he saw. I am a fool."

She shook her head, the golden coins at her ears glinting in the light. "Not a fool. A woman in love, and that is a very near thing."

"Am I so very obvious?"

She was kind enough not to laugh.

"Thank you for not answering," I said with a touch of asperity.

We fell silent a moment and I was struck by how companionable it was. We were from very different worlds, Rosalie Smith and I, but we were kindred spirits.

"How did you know I was his aunt?" she asked finally.

I shrugged. "The initials on your knife. RY. I thought it stood for Yolande or some other second name, but then I realised it might well be your maiden name, Young. And then Godwin actually referred to you as Rosalie Young. I did not pay it mind at the time, but I thought of it later."

She nodded. "I have known him since boyhood. He used to bring his pets to me to nurse them back to health."

I shook my head. "I still cannot imagine that you have lived here so long."

"Ever since Mariah died," she said softly. "John-the-Baptist married me even though he knew I would never travel with him, not so long as Mariah's boy was out there, lost in the world, with none of his kin to know him."

I stared at her, scarcely comprehending what she had just said. "You have been here since Brisbane ran away? He ran away from here?"

"We were camped out on this very moor, just below Thorn Crag. Sir Alfred hated the Gypsies on his land, but he liked to keep us where he could watch what we did. He thought we would behave better under his thumb," she told me, her eyes slanting maliciously. "We made more trouble here than any other two places combined. But Nicholas was not happy. He left here, running away, and Mariah went out of her head. There were legal troubles and she died of a broken heart. There was no one left to wait for him. The chemist had died and this cottage was vacant. Sir Alfred agreed to rent it to John-the-Baptist and me, provided we marry in the church. We did, and I told John-the-Baptist to go on. I knew he could never leave the road, and I could not leave this place, not so long as there was a chance that Nicholas would come back and need to find his people."

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. It was perhaps the most extraordinary tale of sacrifice I had ever heard. I only wondered if Brisbane appreciated it.

"Did you never see him then? Not until he came to Grimsgrave in January?"

"Bless you, of course I did. He has come before, a dozen times since he was grown. He found me when he was barely twenty, and he insisted upon paying for the rent on this cottage himself, although if you ask him, he will deny it. He has been good to me."

"But if he found you, why didn't you join John-the-Baptist and the rest of your family on the road? Why do you still live here, in such isolation?"

Her gaze slanted again, this time with all the Byzantine mystery of her people. "Because my destiny is not yet done here, lady. I am called to stay until the earth itself moves and gives up her dead. That was the last prophecy Mariah ever uttered, and I will remain until it is done."

The words chilled me, and although we moved on to speak of other things, pleasant, harmless things, my blood did not warm again until I left her.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

When a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness overruled.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VI, Part 1

When I had taken the turning at the crossroads toward Grimsgrave Hall, I paused to look back across the moor, and just then caught the faint toll of the Grimswater bell.

Without thinking, I set off across the moor toward the black lake, heedless of the prickly furze and heather, striding over the spongy ground.

"Julia!" Behind me I heard Brisbane's voice, carried on the wind. He was only a dozen paces behind me, and before I could reply he was upon me. I waved him to silence, but it was too late. The bell had quieted.

"Bother!" I muttered, puffing out a sigh of frustration. I turned to Brisbane. "Did you hear it?"

"Did I hear what?" he asked, his gaze sweeping the empty horizon.

"The bell," I told him, my voice edged with impatience. "The one that lies beneath the waves of Grimswater. You must have heard it."

Brisbane shrugged. "What bell? Julia, you must have heard the moor wind. It can play tricks upon the ears."

"There is a village buried under Grimswater," I told him. "There is a bell there that tolls when an Allenby is to die. Surely you've heard of it," I finished.

I turned to set off again toward Grimswater, but Brisbane took my arm and spun me round.

"I am not interested in local superstition, and I did not trouble myself to walk all this way to chase after imaginary bells," he said sharply. He paused for breath, and I realised the long walk had tired him. He was still recovering from the poisoning, and I ought to have had a care for his health, I chided myself. I was even generous enough to overlook his pointed reference to "imaginary" bells.

"Of course. Shall we walk back together? We could take it quite slowly, in stages, if you like?" I offered.

He shot me a nasty look. "Oh, and then will you tuck me up in bed and feed me rice pudding? I am not an invalid, Julia. I am perfectly fine, only a bit fatigued."

I bit off the sharp reply that rose to my lips. I had seen him suffer the effects of ill health often enough to know that he bore infirmity with even less grace than most men.

"Then let us by all means stand out here on a freezing cold moor and discuss world events," I said sweetly.

He glowered a little, but came straight to the point. "I want you to continue to work in the study. You have the catalogue, but it must still be compared to the present collection to see if any pieces are missing. I will require a proper catalogue when I go to sell it."

"I do not think I want to help you." I raised my chin a little, making a point of looking over his shoulder at nothing in particular.

"Don't be stubborn. You look quite mulish and that is never an attractive trait in a woman."

I resisted the urge to put out my tongue at him, and sighed instead. "Brisbane, why must we always quarrel like children? You are the most impossibly arrogant man I have ever known."

He looked genuinely surprised at my remark. "I would not seem arrogant if you occasionally did as you were told," he said mildly, stroking the dark shadow of a beard at his chin. He had been clean-shaven when he had groomed himself to meet Sister Bridget. I supposed he needed to shave twice a day if he meant to be really tidy.

"Have I ever given you reason to believe I was the sort of woman who would do as she was told?"

"You did once," he told me, his impenetrable black gaze fixed on my face. "When I first met you, you were a quivering little mouse. You did precisely as you were instructed, and I thought you were the dullest woman I had ever met."

I laughed and he nodded. "You have changed. Once upon a time you would have flown at me for making that observation."

"I am older now," I said.

His expression was thoughtful. "No, it isn't just that. Do you remember when you wanted to embark upon that first investigation and I warned you it would change you forever? You have seen death now and evil, and the ways it can twist a soul into something unrecognisable. There was something childlike about you when our paths first crossed. I feel as though I murdered that girl with my bare hands," he said finally, a faint edge of bitterness cutting through his words.

I put a hand to his sleeve. "I did not want to be that girl any longer. I was sleepwalking through my own life, didn't you know that? I wasn't happy. I wasn't unhappy. I scarcely even existed. I did not really care about anything, least of all myself. Now I feel alive every moment. I care for everything, and right now," I said, warming to my theme, "I care for Ailith and Hilda Allenby."

He raised a brow, but I hurried on before he could speak. "I know Hilda has been rude and Ailith is rather vague, and I know your dislike of the Allenbys runs deep, but I am asking you, please, give the collection back to them. They have nothing, they are nothing. Their own mother was taken today for attempting an unspeakable crime, and they will never see her again."

I stepped closer still, my hand tightening on his arm. "You showed compassion to Lady Allenby in letting her retire to a convent. I am only asking the same for her daughters."

A tiny smile played over his lips as he glanced down at my hand. "Do you mean to win me over with feminine wiles? I must admit it is a more diverting notion than your usual method of screaming at me like a fishwife."

I did not rise to the bait. I simply looked at him. "Please."

He caught his breath, a slow smile warming his features. "My God, you are trying to seduce me."

"I am not," I said primly. "I am merely trying to get your attention."

He bent swiftly and kissed me hard, pulling back so suddenly I nearly toppled over. "I believe I have already made it quite clear that you have my attention."

He strode past me then down the path toward Rosalie's cottage. I was still gaping after him when he turned back, his hands thrust in his pockets like a schoolboy.

"Oh, and the reason I came to find you was to ask you to finish cataloguing the collection for Ailith and Hilda. They will want the sale completed as quickly as possible. They will need money to furnish the Bear's Hut."

I could not speak. I simply stared, openmouthed as he gave me a wink and went on his way, whistling a bit of Paganini as he went.

* * *

When I returned to Grimsgrave, I hung my cloak upon the peg and went in search of my sister. I found her in the maids' room, crouched over a panting Florence, very much in Godwin's way as he crooned to the little dog. They had arranged her in a snug box with a nice warm blanket and placed her near the fire. On the bed, Mr. Pugglesworth was lying on Morag's pillow, snoring wetly.

I motioned to Portia to join me in the bedroom, gesturing for her to close the connecting door.

"Anytime now, Godwin says," she told me. "We shall be aunties. Or I suppose you will be a grandmother," she amended, regarding me curiously.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "So would you," I told her tartly.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that! I suppose I ought to buy them presents then. Perhaps little collars?" She looked more cheerful than I had seen her since her return, and it occurred to me that it might be a very good notion to keep her too busy to dwell on Jane's departure.

"That would be lovely, I am sure. But what is Godwin doing here? It is wildly inappropriate, you know."

She rolled her eyes at me. "Honestly, Julia. Have you no sense of occasion? I do not know the first thing about whelping pups, do you?"

"No," I admitted. "But all of our dogs pupped in the stables. I imagine the grooms took care of matters."

"And so Godwin will for us," she promised. "He is extremely knowledgeable about animals, you know. He is a trifle worried that Florence might be too small to deliver them safely. Puggy is rather plump."

I was astonished. It was the first critical word I had ever heard out of Portia regarding Mr. Pugglesworth.

I heard a little yip then and I cringed. "I cannot look. Go and help him if he needs anything. And, Portia," I called after her, "tell him to do what he can for her. I have grown rather fond of the little horror."

She nodded, her expression serious as she slipped into the adjoining room. There were various scufflings and moist noises and in the end I could not bear the suspense. I fled the room, determined to be useful elsewhere.

I had no desire to see Morag—I dreaded telling her about her pillow to begin with—so I went to the study instead. I thumbed through the official catalogue, the one Brisbane had kept hidden beneath his bed. It was a comprehensive document. It described each of Redwall's purchases, the entries inscribed in his own hand in excruciating detail. Everything was there, date of purchase, dealer's name, the date and condition of arrival. It made for surprisingly fascinating reading. I recognised many of the entries straight off, greeting them as old friends. There was a statue of Thoth, the ibis-headed god and judge of the dead. Then a pair of vases, alabaster and gracefully curved as a maiden's hip.

I thumbed a few more pages, idly perusing the entries. The bulk of them dated to the years between 1866 and 1885 when he had been travelling, mostly in Egypt it seemed, although he had apparently been willing to travel quite far afield to secure a purchase. His journeys were carefully noted, some to Paris, others to Morocco, even one to America. Anywhere his beloved antiquities were likely to turn up, Redwall Allenby had been there.

"Little wonder he frittered away a fortune," I murmured. Granted he had travelled to many inexpensive destinations; one could live far more cheaply in Paris than in London, for instance, and it was customary for gentlemen in need of retrenchment to go abroad to live. But many of his destinations had been so remote, it must have cost him the earth to get there, to say nothing of the expense of shipping his purchases home.

And all the while, there was the upkeep of Grimsgrave to be settled as well, although it was apparent he had neglected that particular duty shamefully. If even a quarter of his expenses as a collector had been put into the house, it might even now be able to pay its way, and need never have been sold, I reflected.

Or was that what Redwall Allenby had wanted all the while? It was a horrible but intriguing thought. He had spent freely, profligately even, and no man in his right mind could have mistaken the rapid, inevitable shift from one column to the other in the ledgers. His estate had been decimated, and since it was not entailed, he must have realised it was his to do with as he pleased. The sale of it, even as a ruin, would have brought him thousands of pounds of capital. Had that been his scheme all along? To spend his liquid assets, and then begin on the estate itself? I wondered how long the proceeds of the estate would have lasted him if he meant to live on them. And what was the point in assembling such a massive and comprehensive collection without the house to display it?

I rubbed at the spot between my brows, feeling a headache gathering behind my eyes. I had been squinting at Redwall's handwriting for too long in uncertain light. There were delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, and my stomach gave an indelicate rumble. I made to close the ledger, but as I did, an entry I had not noticed caught my eye on account of its brevity. It was early on in the ledger, under the heading for 1886, shortly after Redwall returned to England.

17 February: Two caskets of natron have arrived from source.

That was all. No mention of who the source might be, nor from whence the natron came. I thought quickly, remembering from one of the volumes I had perused that natron was a natural salt, found in the Wadi Natrum in Egypt. Its only use was mummification.

I sat back in the chair, clasping the ledger to my chest. It was unthinkable, and yet I was thinking it. The mummified babies in the priest's hole. It was possible, I thought, with a sudden sick twist in my gut.

I had to find the natron, I decided. That was the first, logical step. If the natron was still here, both barrels full, I must be wrong, and I would thank God on my knees for it.

Just as I rose Brisbane entered, his hair windblown from coming across the moor, dark crescents shadowing his eyes. He took one look at my stricken face and came straight to the point.

"What is the trouble?"

I put out my hand with the ledger. "Natron. He ordered two barrels of it from an unnamed source two years ago."

I said nothing more; I did not need to. Brisbane scrutinised the ledger, then drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"We must search for the natron," he said finally. "If it is intact—"

"Then Redwall Allenby did not make a habit of mummifying babies," I finished. He gave me a grudging nod.

"Precisely. We will search after supper if you are up for it," he said, his tone lightly mocking.

"I am perfectly well, thank you," I told him, although in truth I was feeling rather wilted and longed for my bed. A good plate of supper and a few strong cups of tea would restore me, I promised myself. And a stiff whisky.

We separated then to wash for supper, and I went to look in on my pups. I tapped lightly at the door and Godwin opened it, looking a bit the worse for wear. His hair was standing out around his head in great gold tufts and his expression was jubilant.

"Four strong, healthy pups," he told me. "All born alive, and all taken to the teat," he announced proudly.

"Indeed?" I said, my voice a trifle faint. "How splendid."

"Aye, an ugly bunch, but charmers all the same," he said. He stepped back so I could peek at them. They were all nestled against Florence, nursing happily while she looked down at them with a faintly embarrassed expression. They were ugly, I admitted to myself. They mixed Puggy's protuberant eyes and lumpy head with Florence's long nose and skinny legs. It was not a prepossessing combination, but they were winsome in spite of it.

Portia entered then waving several lengths of silk ribbon.

"I've brought yellow for the girls and this lovely green stripe for the boy," she announced. Godwin guffawed and I gave her a repressive look.

"I rather think we could see the difference without ribbons," I pointed out. She ignored me and began to tie a pretty bow at each pup's neck.

I turned to Godwin. "Thank you for your help. I am really very grateful. You must choose a pup for your own if you would like one to keep."

His blue eyes danced merrily. "Would I not? There is nothing grander than a new wee pup in the house." He nodded toward the fattest of the lot, a peculiar mottled thing with fur that managed to be black, brown, and white at the same time.

"I'll have tha' lad there, if you don't mind," he told me. Portia tweaked its bow, shooting me a dark look as she did so.

"Excellent choice," I told him. "You may have him as soon as he is weaned." Portia grumbled a little, and I fancied then I knew what ailed her.

Godwin tugged his forelock then, in his mischievous little gesture of respect and took his leave. I turned to Portia. "I mean to keep one myself to keep Florence company, and you ought to have one for Puggy."

She brightened instantly. "I cannot decide," she announced. "Of course, Godwin took the biggest and the only male, but this one here has the prettiest markings. Isn't she lovely? Or perhaps this one?" She was asking questions, but expected no answers, and I was grateful. There were too many questions to answer at present, and the most horrible of them was whether or not Redwall Allenby had done something unspeakable to a pair of infants in the name of science.

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense.

—William Shakespeare

King Lear

The evening was a strained one for conversation. Godwin tried his best to talk of pleasant things, but Hilda would have none of it. She merely curled her lip at him and took the first reasonable opportunity to escape to her room. Valerius watched her go, his expression thoughtful as he worked on the plans for the henhouse, labouring with a pencil and rubber over the same drawing until it was sprawling and grubby. Portia prattled on about the puppies and kept dashing upstairs to peek at them. Brisbane was unusually quiet as was I, and I fancied we were both thinking of the coffin lying in the priest's hole. As soon as the clock struck the hour, we made our excuses to each other, and even Godwin seemed pleased to make an early evening of it.

I looked in on Portia and the pups and listened to Morag grumble for a full ten minutes about her room being turned into a puppy nursery. I appeased her by promising her my pillow in exchange for her nasty one and hastened back downstairs. In the short time I had been upstairs, Brisbane had managed quite a lot. As there was little room to manoeuvre in the study, he had given up part of his bedchamber for our task. The writing table had been swept clean of paper, pens, inks, and blotters, and in their place was a clean sheet and a few instruments, the looks of which I could not like. There were wickedly sharp scissors, blades, hooks, and something that looked like a double-headed corkscrew. I only hoped we would not have need of it.

For lighting he had gathered as many lamps as he could find and stoked up the fire, with the effect that the room was uncomfortably warm. To offset this, he had opened a window to the cold evening air.

He was just bringing in the coffin when I arrived. He did not greet me, but placed it carefully atop the sheet and disappeared back into the study for a moment, returning with a notebook and pencil.

"I locked the door," he said in reply to my questioning look. "I thought it best if we were not interrupted."

I nodded and took the notebook. The entire affair was putting me painfully in mind of the occasion upon which Brisbane and I had conducted an informal post-mortem together. He had been recovering from his bullet wound at the time, and I had had to function as his hands. The memory of it still chilled me.

"I'll take notes, shall I?" I asked brightly.

Brisbane had already stripped off his coat and waistcoat and loosened his collar, dropping his discarded neckcloth over the end of the bedstead. He was folding back his cuffs, baring strong brown wrists when he noticed I was staring at him. I ducked my head instantly and began to scribble nonsense into the notebook.

"You have seen me often enough without my shirt. I did not think it would distress you to watch me take off my waistcoat," he remarked, tucking the cuffs into neat points.

"I am not disturbed, and you are quite right. I have seen altogether too much of you," I retorted, still not daring to raise my eyes.

In fact, it had disturbed me, but not in the sense he thought. My husband had never disrobed in front of me, and the times I had seen Brisbane without his shirt—and there had been several—I had come upon him already disrobed. I had never been a witness to the slow, graceful gestures, the unveiling of solid male flesh like a glorious statue being revealed for the first time.

With an Herculean effort, I pulled my thoughts back in line and stepped a little closer to the cool breeze from the window.

"Are you sure you can see properly from there?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, perfectly," I lied. I made a hasty sketch of the coffin while he removed the lid and laid it aside. When I was done I held it out at arm's length to gauge its likeness and decided it looked more like a loaf of bread than a coffin. I sighed and turned to a fresh page.

Brisbane was bending over the coffin, inspecting the little remains carefully. I crept closer as he leaned nearer still, running his gaze over every inch of the tiny, linen-wrapped bodies. He put a hand into the coffin and slid it under the first child.

"I shall lift the body out and I want you to hold it while I look underneath."

"Why can't you simply put it down on its face?"

"Because I do not wish to damage it further. There may be some clue in the wrapping, and I would like to at least make a cursory examination. Now hold out your arms."

"No," I said stepping backward. "I won't."

He flicked one quick glance of those imperious witch-black eyes at me. "Yes, you will. Now put down that notebook and take the child."

I made a rapid calculation. Either Brisbane and I could stand and argue for some minutes and I would end up holding the child, or I could capitulate now and save us both the time and aggravation.

I dropped the notebook and held out my arms. He laid the child gently in them, and I felt a queer, sick lurch in my stomach. He went onto his knees and peered up at the underside of the mummy.

"Oh, do hurry, Brisbane. It is awful," I murmured.

To his credit, it was but a moment before he relieved me of the grisly burden and replaced it onto the table. He gave me an odd look, but said nothing.

We spent the next several minutes examining the linen wrappings and the tuft of blond hair at the top.

"I must know for sure," he said finally. "The lozenge pattern of the wrappings is one I have never seen before. I think whoever prepared this child for burial created it, and there may be other clues as well if there are the usual amulets inside the wrappings."

The next half hour was one of the most gruesome of my life. Each layer of linen had to be carefully unwrapped, every inch of the fabric scrutinised for clues to the child's identity. I knew what Brisbane and I both suspected, and I knew how desperately I wanted to be wrong. Inch by inch, layer by layer, the linen was unrolled. It gave up a pair of amulets, a peculiar knotted image and an animal, both fashioned of gold.

Brisbane held them up to the light. "It is a tyet," he said. "The Knot of Isis. Common enough."

He passed it to me, and I saw a resemblance to a few pieces I had seen in Redwall's collection already. Brisbane laid the other aside and proceeded with the unrolling.

I scarcely dared to look now, but I could not betray my squeamishness a second time. It was oddly out of character for Brisbane to invite me to participate in an investigation with such good humour; I was not going to let him regret it.

"At last," he said softly, lifting the last bit of linen free and laying it aside. What remained was barely human. It was clearly a perfectly formed child, born at its full gestation, or very nearly. There was no deformity, no violence upon it, save for the damage inflicted by the rotting coffin. The rest was grotesque, yet oddly peaceful. There was something timeless about the tiny face, a nobility I would not have believed possible. The skin was perfectly dried and stretched taut over its features, giving it the look of some ancient deity come to rest in a faraway land. I could not take my eyes from it.

Brisbane looked away for a moment, then at me, his jaw hardening into an expression I knew quite well.

"This mummy is not ancient," he said flatly. "I would put it at perhaps two years, and likely less."

I said nothing for a long moment, wishing he was wrong, and knowing he was not.

"I knew he was a devil, but even I would not have thought him capable of this," he said, his voice thick with anger.

"You are quite certain about the age of the mummy?"

He gave me a vicious look and I waved him off. "Very well. You are certain."

"Yes, I am," he returned coldly. "Those wrappings were no ancient pattern. The amulets are wrong, and there is no heart scarab, not even a place where one ought to have been. And even if the mummy were not wrong for an Egyptian, it is quite wrong for four thousand years ago. Look at the skin, Julia. It is barely dried. Look at the hair. It is bright gold. Gold. Not a colour one usually associates with Egyptians, as you pointed out to me."

"I know," I said, spreading my hands. "I just wish you were wrong. I wish I did not know that a man could be capable of such things."

Brisbane dropped his head, his hands braced on the table. After a deep, shuddering breath, he looked at me, his eyes on a level with mine. "Men are capable of every evil. I should have thought you would know that by now."

"It is one thing to know it intellectually. It is entirely another to see a dead child that has been butchered for someone's amusement," I snapped.

We were both breathing hard, angry and disgusted, and perfectly willing to take out our bad tempers upon one another.

"I do not know it," I said finally. "I thought I did. I thought I understood evil after the last two investigations. This is some new wickedness I could never have imagined. You don't think he killed them deliberately?" I asked, still clinging to the hope that Redwall might not be quite the monster I feared.

To my relief, Brisbane did not laugh. "No, this child was dead when the mummification was begun. There are no other signs of violence. It is likely it died of natural causes."

"How do you—never mind. I do not want to know," I amended hastily. "But if he did not kill them, where did he get them?"

Brisbane shrugged. "If we want to know that, we must examine the other child." He gave me a sharp, searching look. "Are you up to it? You went quite white when I handed you the first."

"I am perfectly fine," I told him. "Go and get the other." He took me at my word and turned to retrieve the other mummy, and I was glad. If he questioned me further, I might have told him that when he had put the mummified child into my arms, all I could think was that the first time he had laid a baby in my arms it was a cold, dead, lifeless monster. It had not seemed a good omen for any happiness between us.

* * *

The examination of the other body yielded little more information, save one interesting fact: the children appeared to be twins. They were remarkably identical in appearance, even after enduring so invasive and grotesque a procedure as mummification. One was a boy, one a girl, but their features were astonishingly similar, and both had the same curling, gilt hair, and each was missing a lock, shorn close to the head, to what purpose we could not say. The second child had been buried with the same amulets, wrapped in the same pattern. There was no doubt they had been mummified by the same hand, and it seemed certain whose hand it must have been, particularly as there was not a speck of natron to be found in the study. We turned over bowls and peered into baskets and barrels, but nothing remained of the preservative salts Redwall Allenby had ordered.

When we had put the study back to rights, Brisbane laid the babies out carefully next to one another for purposes of comparison. The amulets were arranged next to them, identical golden talismans, the Knot of Isis and the other, a stylised animal I could not identify. I put a fingertip to one of them gingerly.

"What animal is this meant to be? Some sort of livestock," I hazarded.

"A ram," Brisbane said grimly.

"A ram?" I straightened, my mind racing. "You don't suppose this could be some sort of clue?"

"In what way?" he asked, studying the children's heads closely.

I smothered a sigh, irritated that he could not tear himself away to give a moment's consideration to my idea. "We believe Redwall mummified these children. The question is where did they come from? Whose children are they? And I am suggesting that those amulets might present us with a starting point."

I had his attention now. He looked up from the tiny blond heads and gave me a shrewd glance.

"As a joke on Redwall's part? Or something else?"

"Who knows? Perhaps he paid for the children's corpses and did not like to leave them completely unidentified after he had conducted this monstrous experiment. If it was an experiment," I fretted.

"It was." Brisbane spoke with perfect confidence. "He wrote several articles on the subject for various Egyptological periodicals. He had a mania for the subject. He was extremely well-informed, and made quite a name for himself before he was twenty. All of his writings were limited to the rituals of embalming and mummification. I believe he began with a snake. The last article he published was about a cat he had successfully mummified. It was only a matter of time before he moved on to humans."

"That is revolting."

"That is science," he returned, nodding toward me meaningfully.

"If you are referring to my brother's experiments, I can only point out that Valerius has aspirations to becoming a physician. And his patients have all been willing to be butchered, unlike these poor babies," I finished, wilfully overlooking the fact that I had once suspected my own brother of graverobbing to support his studies.

Brisbane was considering the mummies thoughtfully. "So let us suppose Redwall decides to take the next obvious step in his studies of Egyptian embalming. He brings home from Egypt an embalmer's kit, orders natron, and is wise enough to conceal his source, even in his own journal. He has only to find the babies."

"Why babies?" I put in suddenly.

"They are smaller, quicker to embalm. And he could handle them by himself. It takes at least two men to mummify a fully-grown man."

"No, why babies? As in more than one," I asked again. "Why two of them? Why not just one?"

Brisbane shrugged. "For purposes of comparison, I presume. Take two infants of the same age and subject them to the same procedures. Store them for a certain period of time, then unroll them and see which has survived intact and figure out why. Perhaps he altered the formula slightly between them. Embalmers in ancient Egypt devised their own compounds of resins and aromatics to use upon the dead. If Redwall was attempting to perfect the art of embalming, it would have served him very well to use two formulae and compare the results."

"True," I said slowly, still fitting the pieces together. "But that leaves us with the question of where the babies were procured. Let us assume he did as you suggested and embalmed the children as some sort of hideous experiment. He would need a secure place to store the bodies for a fixed period of time—years, I imagine."

Brisbane nodded. "Certainly. I should think at least a decade if he was quite serious about determining the rate of decay. Longer, if possible."

"And what would have happened to Redwall if the mummies were found before he had an opportunity to conclude his experiment? Presumably he would have unrolled them, recorded his results, and then buried them secretly somewhere. He could not simply leave them tucked away behind the chimney forever."

"Yes, he could have," Brisbane argued. "You only found them by chance. They might have lain there undisturbed for years yet. His death was untimely. He had no reason to suspect he wouldn't have years left to finish the experiment."

"But what would have happened to him if they had been found prematurely? By someone who would have turned him over to the authorities?" I demanded.

"Putting aside the fact that Redwall Allenby himself was the magistrate, if the mummies had been discovered in his possession, he might have been charged with graverobbing."

"Not a serious offence in and of itself, but devastating to his family. Think of the scandal."

"I think the Allenbys believe they are above scandal," he said slowly. "But I confess I am intrigued. Carry on."

"Redwall would have known he was taking a risk in keeping the children here. What if he left some means of identifying the parents upon the children as a way of proving he did not actually kill them?"

"You think the parents turned them over to him willingly?"

I spread my hands. "How else could he have acquired them? The corpses of twin stillborn babies are not exactly littering the roadsides, Brisbane. Either a desperate and impoverished parent sold them, or a dishonest gravedigger thought to line his pockets by pretending to bury them and then selling them off—the churchyard!" I cried suddenly.

Brisbane blinked at me. "You do have the most alarming processes of ratiocination," he said. "What churchyard?"

"The one at the chapel ruins," I explained. "If there is a gravestone there for these children, we will know where they came from. We will know their parents' names, and when they died. And we can rebury them," I said with satisfaction. "The chapel was Roman Catholic—do you think it matters?"

Brisbane rubbed a hand across his face. His eyes were heavy, and the lines at the corners were more pronounced.

"Julia, you are galloping ahead, as usual. We must proceed in a more orderly fashion. We know the children were mummified, that is all. We may conjecture they were embalmed by Redwall Allenby, but beyond that we simply do not know. Explore the churchyard if you must, but for the love of God, be careful."

I blinked at him. "Careful? What possible danger can there be at this point? If anything we would be doing the children's parents a service by returning them."

"Would we? What if the parents did sell them to Redwall for an experiment? Do you think they will want us uncovering that fact? More to the point, those children have gold hair, just like all the Allenbys. And," he added, picking up the animal-shaped amulet, "this is not just any type of livestock. It is a ram."

I inhaled sharply. "Godwin. If the amulets were put there as a hint to the parents' identities, the ram would point directly to him. He is a sheep farmer. And the children had gold hair," I echoed.

"Now do you see how dangerous this could become?" he demanded softly.

"We do not know, Brisbane. It is only the wildest speculation at this point, as you just pointed out."

"In any event, I do not want you alone with him."

I flapped a hand. "He is no danger to me because I am no danger to him, at least not insofar as he knows. I will be careful and discreet, but if I leave off speaking privately with him, it will raise his suspicions."

One black brow winged up. "Are you in the habit of conversing privately with him?"

"Yes, upon occasion," I said, exasperated. "He is a part of this household for better or worse, and it would be a strange thing if I did not."

Brisbane rubbed at his temple. "He seeks you out, doesn't he?"

"From time to time. Brisbane, are you quite all right? Why are you pressing your head like that?"

"Because it hurts," he muttered through gritted teeth. His eyes had glazed, and I realised with a start that he was in the beginning stages of a migraine.

"Lie down," I ordered. It was a mark of his disorientation that he did so without question. He sat heavily, then stretched out, averting his eyes from the fire. I moved to blow out the candles and extinguish the fire as best I could, dousing it carefully with water from the washstand.

Hastily I bundled the babies back into their coffin, heedless of either my revulsion or the dignity they deserved. I dropped one set of amulets into the coffin, and slipped the second set into my pocket before turning back to Brisbane. The room was chilly, but too smoky to risk shutting the window. Instead I took up his dressing gown and laid it over his shoulders. It was a heavy silk affair, weighty as a king's robe and I hoped it would keep out the worst of the chill.

"Thank you," he said, ending the words on a groan. He fisted his hands and put them to his eyes, grinding against the pain. The few times I had seen him suffer the headaches before, they had come on more gradually, over the course of hours or even days of increasing pain and sensitivity to light. This had struck him with the force of an axe blow, and I wondered how long he had been fighting it off, or if perhaps his recent illness had hastened its onset.

I knelt in front of him and put my hands to his, bringing them down. "Brisbane, I want you to do something."

He groaned again by way of reply.

"I want you to give in. Stop fighting the vision. That is why the pain has come. Just let go and see what will become of it."

"No," he growled. He moved to pull his hands away, but I held them fast.

"You must. Brisbane, listen to me. I know the visions are terrible. I know they show you things you do not want to see. But the headaches are more of a curse. You dose yourself with God knows what sorts of vileness to keep them at bay, and it only hurts you more. Just give in to the vision and see what you are meant to see."

He tugged again at his hands, but still I held them fast, and I fancied he did not resist as strongly. I rose up on my knees and put my lips near his ear.

"I will not leave you," I whispered. "I promise. I will stay with you until it is done, and I will not let you come to harm."

He opened his eyes then and I saw a torment there I had never seen on any human face. "You do not know what you are asking," he said thickly.

"I know that if you do not do this, you will keep killing yourself with hashish and absinthe and whatever is in that red syrup of Rosalie's. Can that sort of a life be enough for you?"

"It has to be," he told me. "The visions—" He broke off then, and with a renewed strength he tore free of my grasp and put the heels of his hands to his eyes.

I sat back and waited. After a long moment, he rose with a tremendous effort of will, and thrust himself up from the bed. He stumbled toward the washstand and took up a bottle of poppy syrup. I did not try to stop him. He unstoppered it and drank off a deep draught from the bottle. He did not look at me as he returned to the bed, falling heavily into sleep almost as soon as he dropped onto it.

I sat on the cold stone floor for a long time, watching him sleep, peaceful now, and free of his pain. The room grew colder, and I rose, stiff and aching. I took the coverlet from his bed and draped it over him, and brushed a stray lock of hair back from his brow. Poets say that men look like children when they sleep, but Brisbane did not. His breathing was so slow, his pallor so complete that he looked like the effigy on a prince's tomb, carved from marble, perfect and unchanging.

There was little for me to do before I left his room. I wedged the coffin under the writing table and draped it with the sheet, hoping that small attempt at subterfuge would keep it from sight.

And then I took the little bottle of red syrup and poured the remains out the window, poked up the fire, and closed the door behind me.

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

We are yet but young in deed.

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

The next morning I left the house early after checking in on the growing menagerie in the maids' room and telling Portia to look in on Brisbane. I did not particularly want to be the first person he saw when he realised his supply of poppy syrup had been tampered with. I simply told Portia he had been unwell the previous evening and had taken a sleeping draught, neatly glossing over the fact that he had drugged himself into oblivion.

I ate a quick breakfast alone, stopping only long enough in the hall to collect my cloak and make certain the little gold amulet was still in my pocket. I had just gained the orchard path when I heard a voice behind me, calling me to stop. I turned, fixing a smile to my face.

"Good morning, Miss Ailith, you are about bright and early." She fell into step next to me, although I did not relish taking her with me to search the graveyard, it occurred to me this was a rather good opportunity to question her discreetly about a few matters.

"I am glad I found you," she told me. She looked better rested than I would have thought possible, her eyes clear and her expression serene. The loss of her mother had not affected her as deeply as I would have expected, but I wondered if perhaps Ailith had known her mother was unbalanced in the mind. They had lived so closely together, she must have seen some sign of derangement in her, or malice or wickedness or whatever one might call it. Perhaps she was relieved that her mother's domination of her was at an end.

"I have been thinking," she went on, "that it seems quite silly for you and Lady Bettiscombe to share a bedchamber. Now that Mama is gone—" She paused to clear her throat, then continued on stronger. "Now that Mama is gone, the largest bedchamber is unoccupied. I thought perhaps you or Lady Bettiscombe might prefer to take up residence in that room."

I thought of the bloody crucifix and the weeping saints and suppressed a delicate shudder. "I am quite comfortable in the room I have at present. Portia might like to move, and I should like for her to move, I cannot deny it. She snores, although if you tell her I said it, I will call you a liar."

Ailith's lovely mouth curved into a smile. It was one of the few times I had seen her truly happy, and the difference in her was remarkable. If she had been striking before, she was supremely beautiful now.

She closed her eyes and turned her face to the rising sun, drawing in great lungsful of air. "It is going to be a beautiful day, Lady Julia. Can you not feel it? There is a lightness now, a freedom that was not there before."

It was as I suspected then. Little wonder she had been vague and meek. Trapped under the thumb of a woman capable of such viciousness, her character had surely been held down, stunted as a flower in a shaded garden, choked by weeds and yet yearning for the sun. There was hope for Ailith Allenby now that she was free of her mother, and I made up my mind then to help her in any way that I could.

"Yes, I think it will be a beautiful day," I replied firmly.

She opened her eyes and regarded me for a moment, tipping her head to the side. "You are in love with Brisbane, aren't you? Oh, careful! You might have twisted your ankle. Did I startle you so much?"

"No," I lied, smoothing my skirts and rolling my ankle around in a circle to make certain I had not wrenched it. "I am quite all right. I suppose I am. Does that concern you?" The words were direct, but I endeavoured to make my tone civil.

She smiled. "Not at all. I was indiscreet when I talked of Hilda's intentions, as well as my own past with him. I hope I did not hurt you. You have been so very kind to me." I said nothing and she went on, her voice dreamy. "Mama was furious at the idea that Hilda meant to marry Brisbane. He is a half-blood Gypsy, far beneath our status," she told me, her expression serious. "She would never have permitted such a match, but I never imagined she would take such steps to prevent it."

I thought of my own conversation with Lady Allenby and her assurance that her daughter would not marry Brisbane, her prodding of my own hopes in that direction. I felt a sharp stab of guilt that my discussion with her might have prompted the attack on Brisbane.

Ailith shook her head. "I think I have always known there was something quite apart about her, something different. I pushed Hilda, you know, in spite of Mama. I knew she hated the idea, but I did not care. I looked after her for so many years, and she never thought to provide for us, not properly. There were no marriages arranged, no trips abroad, no friendships. It did not matter to me. I love the moor, and I should never want to leave it. But Hilda, oh, how she hates it here. She ought to have a life of some sort, some money to travel, a chance to get right away and really live." She broke off, burying her face in her hands. "So I pushed her toward Brisbane. I thought Mama would come to accept it. And instead she nearly killed him because of it."

She lifted her face, tears sparkling like tiny gems on the dark gold of her lashes. "Can you forgive me, Lady Julia? I never thought she was capable of such monstrousness. I only meant to bring her to our way of thinking, and I was stupid, thoughtless. Please, say that you forgive me." She took my hand in hers and squeezed it hard.

"Of course, my dear," I said faintly, slightly taken aback by the passion of her outburst. "None of us know precisely what the consequences of our actions might be. Your concern for your sister is quite commendable, and under the circumstances, I might well have done the same myself. We will speak no more about it."

"Oh, you are good!" she cried. "I feel free as a newborn child." She smiled broadly, then clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her immodest pleasure. She was almost giddy, but I felt a little chill at her words, and thought of the newborn children lying in their wrappings behind the chimney breast of her brother's room. Had she known, had she any reason to suppose what he was capable of? She had suspected her mother's villainy; had she intuited her brother's?

Once at the graveyard, Ailith stopped to pick daffodils, gathering a great armful as I pretended to idly peruse the gravestones, all the while searching for some monument that might lend a clue to the identity of the dead children. Mindful of the fact that they might have been merely recorded on a parent's stone, I read them all as carefully as I could, casting the occasional glance back at Ailith and keeping my demeanour casual.

At length, I had come to the end of the little graveyard and had to concede there was nothing to be found. The children were not mentioned, either on their own markers or those of some family member. They had not been stolen from the Allenby graveyard then, I surmised. That left the village churchyard as a possibility, and I made a note to search it as soon as possible.

I turned to find Ailith just bending over to lay her bundle of daffodils at the foot of Redwall's gravestone. She paused a moment, her head bowed, then gave a great sigh of release it seemed to me. She caught my eye then and smiled.

* * *

We arrived back at the Hall to find the place at sixes and sevens, with Brisbane tearing at his hair and shouting at Portia in the kitchen while she brandished a spoon at him and shouted back. Ailith scurried to her room, and I envied her heartily.

"I do not care if she has gone to the devil," Brisbane shouted, "but I want her back immediately!"

"Do not raise your voice to me, you oaf!" Portia yelled back at him. "Do you think I have any control over what my sister does?"

It had been some years since I had heard Portia lose her temper, and I was never particularly enthusiastic about seeing Brisbane in a pet. I tiptoed past the open door, but not quickly enough. They turned as one and saw me, and before I could make my escape, Brisbane lunged.

He caught me by the arm and began to herd me toward the study.

"I am so glad you found her," Portia called after him. "Perhaps she can teach you some better manners."

"Not bloody likely," Brisbane ground out through gritted teeth. He pushed me through the door and slammed it behind us.

I smiled up at him brightly. "Good morning, Brisbane. You do seem livelier than when I saw you last."

"Livelier? I ought to turn you over my knee right now and give you the beating of your life. Do you have any idea what it feels like inside my head just now?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, I don't imagine it can be hurting too terribly or you wouldn't be shouting."

"Quite right," he said, clipping his consonants sharply. "It is dull as cotton wool in there because you saw fit to throw out my only means of controlling the pain."

His fingers were still tight about my arm and I pried them free, rubbing at my flesh. "I think you've bruised me. I do not understand. How is the pain gone if I threw out the poppy syrup?"

"Because when I woke in the middle of the night to swallow another dose, I had no choice but to do as you wanted me to in the first place."

I caught my breath. "The vision."

"The vision," he said. In spite of his anger, I thought he looked quite well. The shadows beneath his eyes had gone, and his pupils were clear and undilated. Even his colour looked better to me.

"Was it very awful?" I asked him finally, dreading the answer.

"Awful?" his voice was thick with sarcasm. "Not at all. The merest ramble in the park. I can't think why I didn't throw out my remedies sooner and simply enjoy them."

I bit at my lip and he jerked back his cuffs, baring his arms to the biceps.

"Do you see those marks? They are from the hypodermic syringes when I used to inject cocaine. Would you like to see the scars on my back where a Chinese doctor used to apply hot glass cups to draw out the devils? Or the tiny slashes on the backs of my knees where an Austrian specialist once bled me by nicking my veins with a scalpel?"

His fury was palpable now, and building. I took a step backward, but there was no retreat. The wall was behind me, and Brisbane in front of me, implacable and enraged. He planted his hands flat on either side of my head and loomed close to me, his face inches from mine. It was not the first time we had stood thus, but it was the first time I had ever seen him regard me with such naked contempt and I shrank from it.

"Do not pull away," he ordered. "You ought to face the consequences of what you have done, for once in your life. You thought you knew better, didn't you? You thought you would fix me by forcing me to confront what I really am."

I turned my face aside, but he grabbed my chin in his hand, holding it hard, forcing me to meet his eyes. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

"And what if I am a monster? Did you ever wonder that, Julia Grey? Did you ever ask yourself what I might really be capable of?"

I stared at him, lips trembling a little as I searched his face for some sign of the man I had known. I knew his features as well as my own, from the scar high on his cheekbone to the hard curve of his jaw, and yet there was nothing familiar in this face.

I lifted my hand and touched a fingertip to his cheek. He jerked backward as if I had scorched him, dropping his hand from my face. He shook his head slowly, as if emerging from a dream.

"Do not push me too far, Julia. You have meddled with me in ways I ought never to have permitted. But I will finish what I began here, and you will not interfere with me again."

He turned on his heel and left me then. I slid to the floor, my legs powerless to hold me. I sat there for a long time, turning over the words he had said, his coldness, his resolve, the chilling glitter of his eyes. But what I remembered most vividly was that even as his right hand had gripped my chin so cruelly, forcing me to face him as he raged at me, his left hand had stolen into mine, clasping it with all the desperation of a drowning man.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

Rage must be withstood. Lions make leopards tame.

—William Shakespeare

Richard II

That afternoon I collected Portia after dinner and told her we were going into the village proper.

"Ought we to ask Valerius?" she inquired. "He has been spending every waking moment with Hilda, and her peevishness is beginning to wear off on him. He's becoming sulky. He has struck himself twice upon the thumb with a hammer in building that henhouse, and has raised four blisters. It has not improved his temper."

"Not this time. I want to get right away, and I do not think I could endure him if he's in a mood. May we go alone?"

"Gladly," Portia said, pinning her hat firmly onto her head. "Anything to get out of this place. You know, when Brisbane is angry, it creates quite an atmosphere."

"Yes, I had noticed," I returned, shoving her out of the door. She complained about Brisbane for the better part of the walk into the village, rather a relief to me as all that was required of me was the occasional nod or murmur of agreement.

As we reached the village, footsore and thirsty, she stopped and turned to me. "I just realised what it felt like when he was shouting at me," she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "He felt like one of the family."

"Very funny," I told her, turning toward the little stone church in the village. There was a statue in front of St. Agnes with her lamb.

"I mean it," she replied, hurrying to catch up to me. "He sounded exactly like Benedick in one of his rages," she said, referring to my favourite of all our brothers. "Do you suppose he might be related? Distantly, of course. Perhaps through the connection to the Duke of Aberdour. Weren't Mama's people related somehow to the Comyns? And the Comyns are connected to the Aberdour line, I'm certain of it."

"All the aristocrats on this island have intermarried so much I am quite sure we are related to everyone above the rank of baronet," I said absently.

"It isn't healthy," Portia commented. "Father always says inbreeding will be the downfall of the monarchy, and the aristocracy as well. Bad blood always tells, whether it's horses or dogs or men," she added, echoing one of Father's favourite sentiments.

"Or sheep," I finished, thinking of Godwin's travails with the flock at Grimsgrave.

We pushed through the little gate and I began to scrutinise the markers. It was a far more daunting task than inspecting the tiny chapel graveyard. The graves here went back at least three hundred years, although I reminded myself only markers carved within the last year or two were of interest to me. I looked for anything that might have a bearing on the identity of the little mummies: stillbirths, twins, women dead in childbed.

Portia peered over my shoulder. "What are we looking for?" she asked suddenly. "I thought we were simply making our escape from Brisbane's bad temper."

"Not exactly," I told her, moving slowly from one stone to the next, squinting at the grimy, obscured carving. "I am looking for babies, twins actually, stillborn or died shortly after birth. A year, or perhaps two or even three years past. See if you can find any."

Portia shrugged and did as she was told. We walked the rows slowly for the better part of an hour, rubbing moss away from old gravestones and occasionally stopping to read an interesting epitaph.

"Nothing," she said finally, straightening as we reached the end of the last row. "Not even a child under the age of four in this lot. Why do we care, incidentally?"

I told her quickly what conclusions Brisbane and I had drawn from the discovery of the mummy babies, and that I thought to expand the investigation by an examination of the churchyard. Her eyes were enormous by the time I had finished explaining that we no longer believed them to be ancient specimens, but rather the sinister remains of a recent crime.

She punched me lightly on the arm. "Julia Constance Desdemona Grey," she began.

I rubbed at my arm. "That was unnecessary. I am sure you have left a mark."

She folded her arms over her chest and put out her underlip, her expression mulish. "It isn't fair, you know. Aunt Hermia has her prostitutes to reform, Father has his Shakespearean society, Valerius has his medical studies. And now you seem to trip over mysteries wherever you go. I want a hobby."

"Perhaps you could take up painting kittens?" I suggested. "Hooking rugs? Needlepointing?"

She sat down on a gravestone marked Cecily Potts, Beloved wife of Thomas. "I mean it, Julia. I intend to take up something useful."

"I don't know that what I do is particularly useful," I said slowly. "I've nearly got myself killed more than once, and Father has had to step in both times to make quite certain the scandals did not become fodder for the public. I imagine he would rather I gave up sleuthing altogether and sit quietly in the corner improving my French."

"French is passé," she commented without a trace of irony. "Italian is much more of the moment. Or perhaps I ought to take up something more active, like stalking pheasant."

"Darling, one doesn't stalk pheasant. One shoots pheasant and one stalks deer," I corrected, putting out my hand to her. She pulled a face. Country pursuits had never been of the slightest interest to her even when she lived in the country. "But right now I would quite like to know where those babies came from. And I imagine Mrs. Potts would be greatly relieved if you got off of her."

Portia took my hand and we made our way to the gate, chatting idly. It was not until we had nearly reached the gate that we looked up and realised we were not alone.

"Lady Bettiscombe! Lady Julia!" It was Deborah from the inn, waving over the gate, smiling. "I saw you pass from the window. I told my mam it was the ladies from Grimsgrave come to the village, and we hoped you would stop in for a cup of tea. She would so like to make your acquaintance."

I thought of how deliciously full of local gossip old women were likely to be and smiled.

"We should like nothing better," I told her. Portia nodded graciously to her and Deborah hurried off, calling over her shoulder that she would lay the tea things and we must take our time.

"Are you quite serious?" Portia hissed when Deborah was scarcely out of earshot. "Do you really want to spend teatime with an old woman we do not know?"

"Do you know of anyone likelier to know who might have borne twins within the past two years than an elderly woman?" I returned. Comprehension dawned on Portia's lovely face and she gave me an approving look.

"You have a gift for deviousness," she told me. I was not entirely sure it was a compliment.

We were received at the inn with the warmest of hospitality. Deborah fluttered around, apron flapping as she guided us to the snug, warm parlour where we had taken tea upon our arrival in the village.

"Here the ladies are, Mam," she called out. She gave us an apologetic look. "Mam is a little hard of hearing. Lady Bettiscombe, Lady Julia, my mam, Mrs. Earnshaw. Mam, here are the ladies to have tea with us," she said, raising her voice.

The elderly woman seated by the fire looked us up and down, nodding. "Handsome girls and they know it," she said to herself.

Portia smothered a laugh as Deborah threw an apologetic look over her shoulder. "Do forgive her," she whispered. "She doesn't realise what she says half the time."

We were given chairs by the fire, ours drawn into a cosy semicircle with Mrs. Earnshaw's. The old lady was dressed in the fashion I had noticed in the village, the full skirts and plain caps of the mid-century still popular with the local ladies. Her dress was of plain, serviceable brown stuff, but she had pinned a pretty brooch of carnelian to the neck of it to secure her lace collar. They were the only touches of frivolity in an otherwise plain and sober costume. Her hands were a bit swollen with arthritis and her eyes were faded and rheumy, but still sharp and I fancied there was little she missed.

"I am so pleased to make your acquaintance," I told her, smoothing my skirts over my knees. "Earnshaw is quite a famous name, thanks to Miss Brontë. I did not realise there were Earnshaws in this country."

Mrs. Earnshaw gave a sharp nod. "Aye. And Heathcliffs and Eyres, as well. Proper little thieves, those Brontë girls."

"Did you know them?" Portia asked. Deborah, who had been hovering in the background, apparently judged us on safe footing, for she left us to fetch the tea things.

"They'm from Haworth way," Mrs. Earnshaw said, as if the distance of some six miles was all the Earth to her.

"You have never been to Haworth?" I asked.

"And why would I?" she demanded. "There'm naught to see in Haworth thee could not find here," she told me firmly.

"Quite right," Portia seconded. "Lesser Howlett is a very fine village. My sister and I have just been walking the churchyard, admiring the gravestones."

Mrs. Earnshaw blinked. "Tha's a curious habit, tha' is. Londoners," she snorted.

"We are actually country-bred," I corrected with a smile. "We were reared in Sussex."

"Sussex is near enough to London," Mrs. Earnshaw advised me. "'Tis all the devil's pleasure ground, is it not?"

Portia coughed, disguising a laugh. Mrs. Earnshaw gave her a sharp look, but I hurried to reply.

"That it is," I agreed. "Society seems more wholesome here in the north."

She nodded, mollified. "Aye. There is soberness here, and a respect for righteous ways."

"Indeed," Portia murmured.

"Of course," Mrs. Earnshaw went on, "even here there has been wickedness, and the devil will work his craft wherever he finds the tools."

Just then the door opened and Deborah returned, bearing a tray that must have weighed an hundredweight, loaded with bread and butter and small cakes and sandwiches and pots of tea and little dishes of jam. It looked hearty and comforting, like a nursery tea, and I would have been thoroughly pleased had Deborah not interrupted her mother just when she had seen fit to drop such an interesting titbit into conversation.

The next quarter of an hour was taken up with pouring out and the dainty selecting of cakes and sandwiches, although there was no polite dithering for Mrs. Earnshaw. She heaped her plate as high as any youth might have done, taking a goodly portion of everything on offer.

"You were talking of wickedness," I reminded her with little subtlety when she had finished her first plate and replenished it.

She nodded, finishing a delectable little ham pie that I wondered if Mrs. Butters could replicate. "Aye. Wickedness. Not among the God-fearing folk of this village. Nay, we are sober, respectable folk who know one way, and that is to work hard and to obey God. But there are others who think themselves above such things."

Portia and I exchanged quick glances, but not quick enough. Mrs. Earnshaw noticed and waved a hand.

"Not you, my ladies. You've got goodness in you, I can see tha'. Tell me, d'ye give to those tha' have need of it in your village in Sussex?"

"Of course," Portia said roundly. "There are always baskets at Christmas, and whatever the farm folk need is always attended to."

Mrs. Earnshaw nodded in satisfaction. "Thee has been brought up properly to know thy duty. But there's those that were born here have not."

"The Allenbys?" I asked. Mrs. Earnshaw gave me a slow, meaningful wink.

"Aye. Born to the manor and they keep to the manor. No thought to help the villagers, save when it suits them."

"Well, perhaps their circumstances are strained," I put in. It was not my place to salvage the Allenby reputation, but Ailith and Hilda did still have to make their home amongst the villagers, however removed they might like to think themselves.

Mrs. Earnshaw gave a sharp cackle. "Strained? Oh, my girl, there was a time when the Allenbys were rich as any lord between here and the border. And what did they do with it? Not a bit of good. The poor of this village went without shoes or coal or meat, while they prospered on the backs of the miners. 'Twere a black day for folk here when the mine collapsed, but there were those who wondered if we might not be better working for anyone besides the old devil, Sir Alfred."

"He was not a popular figure then?" Portia put in. She reached out and helped herself to a third slice of parkin.

"Nay. A Roman he was, and yet every Sunday he came to sit in state at St. Agnes, not to worship God, but to see us and be seen in turn. He wanted us to know he was watching, always watching, just like God."

"He sounds like a religious zealot," I commented. Mrs. Earnshaw laughed, sounding like a rusty squeezebox.

"Bless you, lady. There were no religion in him. There were pomp and popish ways, but no Christian virtues. He played the man of God, but there was no godliness in him. He was a vengeful, brutish, lustful man, and this village was not sorry when the devil took his own."

"Lustful?" The word struck a chord. I had heard of Sir Alfred's harshness, but this was the first I had heard of something darker. "Do you mean he took his droit du seigneur with the local girls?"

"I don't know about tha'," Mrs. Earnshaw said, her mouth twisting bitterly, "but I know he forced himself upon whatever girl he fancied, maiden or wife, and when there were bastards to be had, he gave them nothing for it. The day they carried him to be buried at Allenby chapel, there were naught but dry eyes in this village, I can tell you."

A hundred questions trembled on my lips, but none of them were appropriate.

Just then the door opened again and Deborah entered, followed by another person who stood behind her in the narrow doorway.

"I do hope your ladyships will not mind. My sister has just come, and she so wanted to make your acquaintance. She's a governess down Manchester way," she added with an unmistakable note of pride.

"Not at all. Do bring her in," Portia instructed.

"Lady Bettiscombe, Lady Julia, my sister, Jerusha Earnshaw." Deborah stepped aside and there stood a girl so like her, I blinked. Jerusha dropped a curtsey as Deborah laughed at my expression.

"Aye, lady. Jerusha and I are twins."

Twins with golden hair and bright blue eyes, I noted. I smiled at the newcomer. "Miss Earnshaw, how delightful to make your acquaintance."

I glanced at Mrs. Earnshaw. There was no mistaking the pride on her face at having two such pretty daughters, but there was something else flickering behind her eyes as she looked into mine. Mrs. Earnshaw was wary.

But before I could determine why, Miss Earnshaw had claimed my attention. Unlike her mother and sister, she did not affect the clothing of the mid-century. Her skirts were fashionably slim and she even wore a tiny bustle, although one perfectly in keeping with her position. Her clothes were serviceable and neat, and her expression wore a clever watchfulness I had not seen in her sister.

"Miss Earnshaw, do join us for tea, won't you? I should so like to hear about your position. A governess, your sister says?"

If Miss Earnshaw thought my curiosity odd, she gave no sign of it. She sat and accepted a cup, her gestures neat and economical. She would not be noticed, but she would notice everything, I wagered.

"Thank you, Lady Julia. Yes, I have a post in Manchester. My employer owns several factories there. He is in textiles."

"He's a townhouse in London, and an estate outside Manchester," Mrs. Earnshaw put in with a satisfied nod. "Jerusha has the keeping of his two daughters, good girls too, and the lady of the house is generous to her. Give her Sundays off, and a half-day Wednesdays, as well as one weekend every other month to come home. And she pays the railway fare as well."

A ghost of a smile touched Miss Earnshaw's lips. "My employers are very generous," she agreed.

Mrs. Earnshaw leaned close, darting her eyes around as if to make certain we were alone in the room. "The lady is ill, she is. She'll never make old bones, and then who will be mistress, I ask you?"

Portia murmured, "Oh, my," at this juicy bit of scandal in the making, but Miss Earnshaw merely sipped at her tea. "That is quite silly, Mam," she told her mother. "Mrs. Bellingham is perfectly healthy, and I have no designs on a dead woman's shoes."

She was unruffled as a mill pond, and I found myself warming to a woman who could maintain her serenity in the face of such a mother.

"Is it your first post, Miss Earnshaw?" Portia inquired.

"No, my lady. I have kept myself since I was seventeen. I took a post teaching in a school, but found I preferred working with a smaller number of pupils. The work is often more demanding in such cases, but it is far easier to gauge one's success."

"Oh, well, you wouldn't have had any success with us, would she, Julia? We went through a dozen governesses and still cannot speak more than two languages each, nor can we do our sums. Our educations were frightfully neglected," Portia confided to her.

I did not bother to contradict my sister. Efforts to educate us had been spotty, but rather effective. We were terrible at sums, that much was true, but I still retained a fair smattering of Latin while Portia could discourse freely on the sciences.

"The Allenby ladies seem quite accomplished," I put in, rather clumsily. "I wonder what sort of education they employed in schooling their children? Did they have governesses and tutors?" I gave Miss Earnshaw a wide-eyed look, but out of the tail of my eye I saw her mother dart a glance between us, her fingers plucking at her skirts.

"I believe Sir Alfred saw to the education of his children himself. Lady Allenby schooled the girls, while Sir Alfred taught his son."

"Surely not Egyptology," I said, thinking aloud. "I do not remember hearing that Sir Alfred was interested in such a subject."

"He wasn't interested in anything tha' could not make him money," Mrs. Earnshaw put in bitterly.

"I believe," said Miss Earnshaw, drawing attention away from her agitated parent, "that Sir Alfred's interest in Egyptology was a passing one, the sort of thing he toyed with for a season or so. He had many such interests—Roman ruins, the history of the Popes, that sort of thing. Sir Redwall's interest went much further and he continued his studies independently."

"How interesting," I said, noticing that Mrs. Earnshaw had taken another biscuit onto her plate. She had not eaten it, but was crumbling it slowly to bits.

"Julia," Portia said, nodding toward the shepherdess clock standing upon the mantel, "it is quite late. We shall be very tardy getting back to Grimsgrave."

"How silly of me. We have far overstayed ourselves, but the company and the refreshments were so delightful," I said, smiling at Mrs. Earnshaw. She returned my smile, but I fancied she was not sorry to see us go. We gathered our things and bade her farewell, and she was careful not to invite us to return. I wanted to speak privately to Jerusha, but we had lingered as long as we dared, and I wondered if there would be some pretence I could manufacture to bring her with us to Grimsgrave.

Deborah ushered us out of the cosy sitting room and down the stairs, chattering all the while. We thanked her for her hospitality, and when we had reached the bottom of the stairs, I realised Jerusha Earnshaw had followed us.

"May I walk with you as far as the path to Grimsgrave?" she asked, reaching for her hat.

"Of course," I told her, immensely relieved that I had not had need to fabricate a reason to invite her along. We waved to Deborah and started down the village street. Dusk had fallen and the windows of the shops were shuttered and dark, while the windows of the houses were bathed in warm yellow light.

"It is late," I told Portia. "At least the moon is rising."

Just ahead of us, the moon hung low on the horizon, round and white as a pearl. The gravestones of St. Agnes' churchyard were silhouetted against it like a picture from a child's book of spooky tales.

"I do hope you won't think too harshly of Mam," Miss Earnshaw began, coming straight to the point.

"Why on earth should we think badly of her?" Portia asked.

"Because she lies so," Miss Earnshaw said with no trace of embarrassment. "She likes to pretend that Deborah and I are legitimate, but of course we are not. We are Sir Alfred Allenby's bastards, and everyone in the village knows it."

I stumbled over a cobblestone, catching myself quickly.

Miss Earnshaw was looking at me with cool, smiling detachment. "Are you quite all right, Lady Julia?"

"Quite, thank you," I returned crisply. "But I confess I am rather impressed with your briskness. Most people would not find it so easy to come to terms with their illegitimacy."

Miss Earnshaw shrugged. "It is of no consequence to me. The crime is not mine. It is Mam's and Sir Alfred's. Why should Deborah and I be any less worthwhile simply because our parents chose to conceive us out of wedlock?"

"You are a very modern thinker," Portia put in, admiringly.

"It is simple common sense," Miss Earnshaw rejoined. "A person ought not to be held accountable for any errors made by others. My parents may have committed double adultery, but their transgressions have nothing to do with me."

"Mrs. Earnshaw did allude to Sir Alfred being less than gallant in his conduct with women," I offered. "Perhaps your mother's crime was only in catching the eye of an untrustworthy man."

Miss Earnshaw's expression warmed to amusement. "I think not, Lady Julia. Did you not notice the carnelian brooch at her throat? It was a love trinket from Sir Alfred when Deborah and I were born. She never takes it off. If he had forced her, do you think she would still remember him so warmly? Nay, he was a rogue, but he was a handsome one, golden-haired and strong. The man who raised us, Richard Earnshaw—Amos' father—was a miner, small and dark. His mother's people had come from Wales, and he had the look of them. Deborah and I are cuckoos in the nest to be sure."

We walked along in silence for a moment, and I was struck by this woman's self-possession. She had been born into circumstances more unlike my own than any I could imagine, and yet she was poised as a duchess.

"Did Sir Alfred ever help with your education? With maintenance?"

Miss Earnshaw shrugged. "He died the year after we were born. He left us a small sum of money. Deborah used hers to help our half brother, Amos, buy the inn. I used mine to go to school. I wanted out of this village, away from the clacking tongues, the whispers behind our backs."

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "I always forget what it is like, how small, how dark, how closed. And then I come back, and it quite takes my breath away. I will come until Mam dies, and then I will not come again," she said with an air of finality.

A sudden thought struck me and I turned to her. "This Richard Earnshaw, he was a miner?"

A slow smile ripened on her lips. She knew precisely where I was leading with my question. "Yes. And he was killed when the mine collapsed. It was ten years after Sir Alfred died. Deborah and I were only eleven. It was a terrible blow. He never once treated us as though we were less than his own. He sang us songs of the Welsh hills and taught us to stand proudly, even when the gossips in the village were whispering our names."

"It must have been a tremendous loss to your family when he died," Portia put in.

"It was. Mam had the keeping of us, so she did anything she could to feed and clothe us. She went into service at Grimsgrave Hall as a chambermaid."

I stared at her. It was difficult to read her features through the deepening gloom. "That must have been a trifle awkward, with your mother working for Lady Allenby."

"Oh, I think it must have been why she was employed in the first place. Lady Allenby is a God-fearing woman. She would not let her husband's children starve, even if they were the fruits of sin."

I said nothing, but I wondered if Miss Earnshaw would be quite so quick to praise Lady Allenby if she knew what horrors she was capable of.

"Sir Alfred must have been rather young when he died," Portia put in suddenly.

"Just over forty," Miss Earnshaw corrected. "Not young, but not long past his prime."

"Was it sudden?" I do not know what prompted Portia's questions, but I was suddenly interested in the answers.

"Yes, rather. There was actually quite a bit of talk at the time. The villagers said he was cursed to death."

I stopped in my tracks. "Cursed?" I said, my voice barely audible.

"Yes. He was the local magistrate, as befitted his position as the largest landowner. He had bound over a Gypsy woman for trial, and when he did so, she cursed him. He was dead within a fortnight. It was all anyone could talk about for months. She cursed the chemist as well, and he died several months later, of fear, some said."

"What became of the Gypsy woman?" Portia asked.

Miss Earnshaw shrugged again. "She died as well, as soon as she delivered her curse. Never even made it to the trial, poor thing. Pity, she might well have been set free."

"Curious," Portia offered. "One would think the death of the Gypsy woman would have lifted the curse."

We had reached the path then that struck off toward Grimsgrave Hall. I put out my hand.

"It has been a pleasure, Miss Earnshaw," I said, my mind galloping ahead. "If you have a mind to call at Grimsgrave while we are visiting, we should so enjoy meeting you again."

Miss Earnshaw shook my hand soberly and gave a little shake of her head. "I think not, Lady Julia. I do not believe I would be comfortable in my father's house knowing that, but for a few words said in church and a bit of paper, it might have been my home."

"You do know that Lady Allenby is no longer in residence?" I asked, delicately skirting the issue of why.

Miss Earnshaw's expression did not vary. "Yes. It was a nine days' wonder when she left in the company of two nuns from Ireland. For a rest cure for her rheumatism, it seems. Folk said that one of the nuns looked very like her eldest daughter, Wilfreda, who eloped with a painter many years past."

"That is not the truth of it," I protested, but Miss Earnshaw merely smiled.

"This is Lesser Howlett, Lady Julia. The truth does not matter half so much as what people think is the truth."

"I quite understand," I said, inclining my head.

Portia made her goodbyes and we left Jerusha Earnshaw there, standing at the moor gate, smiling into the darkness.

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?

—William Shakespeare

King Lear

Portia and I made our way back to Grimsgrave Hall, chattering most of the journey.

"I cannot believe Mrs. Earnshaw," Portia began once we were out of earshot of the woman's daughter. "So righteous and godly, and all the while, she's borne a pair of illegitimate daughters to Sir Alfred Allenby for all the world to see."

"She did not have much choice about the world seeing once they were born," I pointed out. "They are tall and blond with blue eyes. Anyone would have known them for Sir Alfred's daughters. I knew there was something familiar about Deborah, but I did not realise until just today it is because she is so very like Ailith Allenby."

"But more to the point, we now have proof the Allenbys run to twins."

I nodded. "Yes. Twin babies with blond hair, walled up in Grimsgrave Hall. There seems little room to doubt those children are Allenbys. The question remains, who is the father?"

"Godwin or Redwall," Portia said promptly. "And I shall plump for Godwin. He has an earthy sort of character. He's robust and always slightly flushed, as if he had just come from rogering the milkmaid in the haymow."

I gave her a little push. "There are no milkmaids at Grimsgrave. But I know what you mean. He is indeed earthy. From the impressions I have been given, Redwall seems an altogether different character. Studious, scholarly, more interested in his cold-blooded experiments than seducing the village maids."

"Besides which we have heard nothing of intemperate habits," Portia observed. "One teatime's conversation and we know that his father was a rogue. Wouldn't we have heard at least a whisper of scandal about Redwall if he'd been making free with the local maidens?"

"Just think of it," I said slowly. "Redwall embalming children that were actually related to him. Even if they were Godwin's, they would still be a sort of cousin."

"How perfectly disgusting you are, Julia. It is frightful to think of Redwall embalming children of any variety, let alone family."

I stopped and put a hand to her sleeve. "So, let us work from the likeliest hypothesis—Godwin Allenby fathered a pair of bastard twins upon some hapless girl, and then gave them to his own cousin to experiment upon."

We walked in silence awhile, each of us pondering the same thing, I think. Godwin was a likeable fellow, and it was oddly painful to think him capable of such callous behaviour to his own children.

"Perhaps they were born dead," Portia put in hopefully. "Without a proper postmortem, there is no way of determining what really happened. You said Brisbane believes they were not killed by violence, and I want to believe it, too. Oh, Julia, the other possibility does not bear thinking about."

"He is a farmer," I said slowly. "Think how many times he must have laid a killing hand to a struggling lamb or a starveling calf. He would view it as a necessity, no different than culling the weakest of the litter if the children had no prospects of a good life."

"But why should they have no prospects?" Portia demanded. "If he lay with a village girl and got her with child, why should he not marry her? He is not so far above the local folk as all that."

"Isn't he? He is still an Allenby. Think of them, Portia. All of them, nursed on that overweening pride, not of the normal variety, but the mad sort. They've got their obsessions and their delusions, and they think they are so far above everyone else because their grandfather forty times over was a Saxon king. Do you honestly believe Lady Allenby would have sat idly by while Godwin married an unlettered farmer's daughter? And who else is likely to have fallen victim to his seductions? Jerusha Earnshaw is, as far as I can see, the only properly educated young lady in the entire village and she fled it as soon as possible. If the Allenbys wished to preserve the exclusivity of their blood, they would never have permitted Godwin to commingle his with the local folk."

"I suppose you are right," Portia said finally. "But what if the mother died in childbed? The birthing of twins can be difficult, particularly if it was her first pregnancy. If she died, her family would want the scandal quieted down, wouldn't they? And it would suit the Allenbys as well. Pay the girl's family a suitable sum to keep their silence and then dispose of the children themselves."

"Is it possible to keep such secrets in a village?" I wondered aloud. "We always knew everything that happened in Blessingstoke," I reminded her. "That is why we never dared misbehave in the village. The news would have reached Father before we'd even returned home."

Portia stumbled over a stone in the fitful moonlight and cursed. "Perhaps it isn't likely," she conceded. "But it is possible. And we've no theory as plausible as that one."

"I suppose. I still think if villagers were involved, there would be talk of it. You know the old saying, three can keep a secret if two are dead."

Portia stopped suddenly and turned to face me, her complexion pale as the moonlight that shone upon it.

"What did you make of that tale Jerusha Earnshaw told us about Sir Alfred, dying by a Gypsy woman's curse?"

I kept walking, schooling my expression to serenity. "I think it proves my point about village gossip. They tell the most outlandish stories. I have no doubt that one in particular was embellished and embroidered in the retelling until it hardly resembles the truth anymore."

Portia hurried to keep pace with me. "I don't know. Jerusha Earnshaw struck me as an extremely sensible woman. I cannot imagine she would believe it if it were a faery story."

"Did she say she believed it?" I asked lightly. "I thought she was just repeating village tattle. Besides, she was a year old when Sir Alfred died, by her own admission. She would have hardly been in a position to know these things for herself."

"I suppose," Portia said at length. We topped a rise just then, and the moor stretched out ahead of us, silvery-white and rustling, like a wide ghostly sea. In the distance lay Grimsgrave Hall, black and hulking as a ship adrift on moonlit waves.

"It is horrible," Portia said. "And I do not know why it should be. It is actually quite a pretty house in broad daylight. But under that moon…"

"It is sinister," I agreed, steeling myself to return to it. Lady Allenby was gone, the danger to Brisbane was past. And yet knowing what Godwin had likely done to his own children made me reluctant to stay there. I wondered what it would take for Brisbane to return to London and leave this place to its ghosts.

"Tuppence for your thoughts," Portia said at last.

I shook my head slowly. "I was just thinking of Brisbane, and why he feels compelled to stay here. It reminded me of something Father once told me when Bellmont was being difficult, just after I was widowed. He said Bellmont was turning forty, and it was a hard age for a man because that is the age when he looks at his life and realises whatever he is is all he will ever be."

"Why did you connect that thought with Brisbane?"

"He will be forty this year," I told her, arching my brow significantly. "Perhaps he has something to prove to himself." Or others, I thought privately.

"Speaking of Bellmont, I saw him in London," Portia said. "His family were just preparing to leave for an extended visit to the Duke of Driffield's country seat. Nothing formal has been announced between Driffield's girl and our nephew, Orlando, but matters are quite far advanced. Bellmont cherishes hopes that this visit will seal the match. Parliament is sitting, of course, so Bellmont could not accompany them, but he means to come up when he can," she finished.

I stared at her. "Driffield. His seat is in Yorkshire, in the East Riding. Do you mean to tell me—"

"Yes, dearest." She patted my hand. "Bellmont will be in Yorkshire very soon. And he means to call upon us here whilst he is in the north."

I let loose a stream of colourful language I had learned from my brother Benedick.

"You have conjugated that particular word most incorrectly, but I quite agree," Portia told me. "If it is any consolation to you, I propose we put him in Lady Allenby's bedchamber for the duration of his stay. I will be quite happy to share with you again, and he can spend his nights being stared awake by a bleeding Jesus."

"I can think of no one more deserving," I said sharply. This was a new worry I did not need. Bellmont's presence at Grimsgrave would effectively end my involvement in the many mysteries I was ravelling out. He capitulated often enough when Father exerted his influence, but we were far from London, and if Brisbane wanted me gone, Bellmont was entirely capable of packing me off. There was no hope for it, I decided, lengthening my stride and taking in great lungsful of fresh moor wind. If I wanted to solve the mysteries that swirled around Grimsgrave Hall, I would have to do it myself, and before Bellmont came. There was no time to waste.

* * *

Brisbane had been irrationally pleased that Portia and I had gone to the village, and thoroughly annoyed when we returned.

"I had rather hoped you had both come to your senses and gone home," he commented nastily upon seeing us.

Portia merely put out her tongue at him and proceeded to instruct Mrs. Butters to lay our supper. He retired to his room then, to sulk no doubt, which was just as well. I had much to think about, and Brisbane was frequently a distraction.

True to her word, Ailith had removed Portia's things to Lady Allenby's chamber, and I ought to have had a peaceful night's rest. Instead, a hundred questions tangled in my mind, keeping me wakeful long past midnight.

At length I fell into a long, pointless dream about picking mushrooms with Rosalie and Rook while Godwin sat on a riverbank, playing mournful tunes on a flute and Ailith arranged furniture made of acorn caps and twigs in her dolls' house. Back and forth Brisbane strode on the horizon, never moving farther away, never coming closer. It was a maddening dream, and I felt oddly unsettled when I rose.

If nothing else, the dream suggested a visit to Rosalie might be in order, and I set off for the little cottage on the moor shortly after breakfast, leaving the rest of the inhabitants of Grimsgrave to their various occupations. Portia was reading—a thick, densely-written tome about India. Minna was stirring up a pudding under Mrs. Butters' watchful eye whilst Jetty turned out the larder for a thorough scrubbing. Morag could not be shifted from her post with the pups, clucking over them like a doting mother hen. Valerius was busy hammering upon the new henhouse with his sore hands, watched closely by a nervous flock of chickens who seemed to disapprove of his plans. Ailith applied herself to her mending, and I kept to my plan and turned my steps to Rosalie's, bearing a basket with a fresh ham pie, courtesy of Minna's efforts in the kitchens.

But before I reached the moor, another notion struck me. The person most likely to illuminate Redwall Allenby's character was his sister. Not Ailith, she had been too fond of him. Her simple, sisterly affection may well have blinded her to his faults. No, it was an altogether more critical observation I wanted.

I found Hilda in the garden, tucked in the limbs of an apple tree, her feet dangling just above my head.

"I am reading," she told me without looking up from her book. "Leave me be."

"I would like to speak with you, Miss Hilda. Will you come down, or shall I come up?" I called pleasantly.

She regarded me suspiciously. "You would, wouldn't you?" She sighed and snapped the book closed, shoving it into her pocket. "Very well."

She scrambled down, neatly as a monkey, then stood in front of me, her shoulders rounded down, hands thrust into her pockets.

"Valerius is no carpenter, but he seems to be making quite good progress on the henhouse. I don't wonder it will be finished soon."

"The chickens were perfectly happy with the old house," she said flatly.

"Then why did you permit my brother to build them another?"

She gave shake of her head as an impatient pony will do. "Because I am humouring him. He has been kind to me and he wants to do this."

I was impressed in spite of myself. "You astonish me, Miss Hilda. Most people recognise the importance of giving. Few understand the importance of letting others give. Yes, Valerius is a bit of a fixer. Nothing gives him greater pleasure than to think he's been useful. It's a family failing," I mused, reflecting briefly how much satisfaction I had had in solving the little mysteries I had encountered.

Her gaze narrowed. "You have not come to discuss the chickens. What do you want of me?"

"I want to know about Redwall."

Emotion of some sort flickered over her face, but I could not read it. "Why?"

"Because I would like to understand his character," I temporised. "I have been fascinated to work on his collection, and I want to know more about the man who built it."

She put her head to the side, her cool gaze running over me from booted feet to the locks I had pinned into submission behind my ears. "You are untruthful, Lady Julia. But it doesn't matter. I will tell you all you need to know about Redwall. He was selfish and greedy, and whatever evil you can conceive, he was capable of its execution. Our father was cruel and amoral, and Redwall was his equal. He had no sense of duty or propriety, and I did not love him. I did not even like him."

She stopped then, her breath coming quite fast. It was a lengthy speech for her, and I gave her a moment to compose herself.

"Do you remember a coffin, an Egyptian lady's coffin, in his collection? I believe it was owned by your grandfather first," I said at last.

If the change of subject unbalanced her, she did not betray it. "Yes. It was the first piece in Redwall's collection. He unrolled the mummy without the slightest bit of scientific method, I am sorry to say. He quite destroyed it," she finished bitterly.

"When was the last time you saw the coffin?"

Hilda shook her head. "Years ago, before he left for Egypt. Probably when he unrolled the mummy. I imagine it was thrown back in the storeroom after that. I told you, I was not permitted to touch his things," she said coldly.

"I understand. Thank you," I said, giving her a cordial nod. I walked around her then to the moor gate.

"Why do you care?" she called after me. "Let the dead bury the dead, or haven't you heard that?"

I turned. "Yes, but I find they so often don't."

* * *

It was a cool, grey morning, the air freshening over the moor, the sort of weather that might burn away into glorious sunshine by noon, or might just as easily turn to lowering skies and thick, black clouds. Still, I hoped it would hold as I wished to speak with Valerius before I ventured out to Rosalie's cottage. I made my way to the poultry yard to speak with my brother.

"Valerius!" I cried over the din of his hammering. He waved and dropped his hammer, barely missing his foot. His face was grimy with dust from the chickens and he looked nearly as disreputable as Godwin usually did.

"I was hoping to speak with you and Portia," he said. "I thought I could tell you both at the same time, but I suppose I will have to face you down separately."

He looked serious, sober even, and I put out a hand. "Val, what is it? Are you ill?"

He smiled and linked his arm with mine, a rare gesture of affection. "No, I wanted to talk to you about Miss Hilda."

I gave him a little pat. "Excellent. I came to discuss that very subject. I thought to give you a word of warning."

His expression sobered. "Julia, I must stop you there, for I will hear no word against her. I have quite made up my mind. I mean to ask Miss Hilda to marry me."

"Are you quite mad?" I asked, pulling my arm from his. "Val, you cannot. You hardly know the girl."

"I know her well enough," he countered roundly. "I know her character. She is honest, as honest as the earth. She has a good mind and—I know you will not believe it—but she can be quite funny at times."

"And this is your basis for marriage? The most important decision you will ever make," I argued.

His colour rose a little. "I can think of worse reasons to marry," he said. If his words pricked like thorns, I believe it was unintentional.

I stared at the toes of my boots, torn. "I feel I ought to counsel you, to point out that marriage ought to be based on sounder reasons than those you offer."

"Why don't you then?" he asked.

"Because I am a fool. I know property and family and common interests are supposed to be the pillars of a good match, but I cannot preach to you what I do not believe myself. I married for security and look what became of me. I was the Mistletoe Bough bride."

Valerius' warm hand closed over mine. "I am glad you understand."

"I did not say that," I warned him. "In fact, I object, strenuously, for the opposite reason. Val, you cannot take a wife so dispassionately, as if you were ordering soup from a menu. Life is far too long to spend it shackled with someone who does not—"

I broke off and looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He prodded me. "Someone who does not?"

"Someone who does not rouse your passions," I said in a burst of bravado. "Tepid affection or an overdeveloped sense of chivalry are no proper reasons for marriage. Surely you must see that."

He turned to me, mouth agape. "Chivalry? You think I mean to rescue her?"

"Of course you do. What other reason could there possibly be? Valerius, I have seen the dancers you admire. I know your tastes well enough. If you have ever kissed a girl who was not tiny and brunette and buxom, I will eat my basket."

His cheeks wore a painful flush. "Bellmont was right about you. Your association with Brisbane has coarsened you. I cannot believe you would notice such things, much less speak of them."

"Why?" I demanded. "Because I am a woman? What hypocrites you men are! You and Bellmont could happily spend an entire evening judging the opera chorus like a pair of horse dealers, and yet I am vulgar because I am willing to speak of what you ought to know well enough. For God's sake, Valerius, you have studied medicine! If you do not appreciate the fact that women have passions as well as you, then you are not fit to treat them."

He swallowed hard, his jaw set. "This discussion has become both uncomfortable and unprofitable. I see no need to prolong it. I intend to offer my hand to Hilda Allenby."

He turned on his heel and left me then, scattering chickens as he went. I hurried out onto the moor in a bad temper, an incipient headache lurking as I walked, hoping my interview with Rosalie would be more productive than either of my previous conversations.

As I drew nearer, I could hear a thin thread of violin music reaching out over the waving grasses of the moorland. It was a Gypsy tune, quick and lively, beckoning me onward. When I reached the wicket gate, Rosalie threw open the door, rosy and smiling.

"Lady, come and meet my husband!" I handed her the basket with my compliments, and she thanked me. She stepped back and I entered the cottage. Standing in front of the window was a Gypsy man of middling height, wiry and dark, with dancing black eyes and handsome features. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, and even a touch of flirtation as he drew his bow across the violin on one last, dancing note.

He was dressed in traditional Roma garb, with breeches tucked into soft leather boots to the knee, his shirt gaily patterned with checks and a scarlet handkerchief tied neatly about his neck. He wore a waistcoat, buttoned to show off his trim waist, and he sported a pair of handsome, lush moustaches, liberally oiled.

When he saw me, he doffed his flat cap and swept a courtly bow. "Good day to you, my lady. I am John-the-Baptist Smith."

I smiled and extended my hand. "How do you do? I am Lady Julia Grey."

He smiled back at me, his teeth flashing beautifully white against his olive skin. "Oh, I know you, lady. My Rosalie tells me all."

"Indeed? Then I shall be glad I have confessed to no crimes," I said lightly.

Rosalie did not laugh, but her husband roared, slapping his knees. "Tea, Rosalie love," he called, and she moved to put the kettle on.

"You should take Rook for a walk on the moor," she told him when she had done. "He returned yesterday, and he is pining for some attention. The tea will be ready when you return."

It was subtly done, but both John-the-Baptist and I knew it was an order, not a request. It amused me to find that Rosalie wielded such power in their relationship, but as John-the-Baptist took down his coat and whistled for the dog, I realised it was probably only because he permitted it.

"A singular fellow," I commented when he had gone. "And a likeable one."

"Indeed" was her only reply.

"It is a rare man who would consent to have a wife he could see only once or twice a year," I said, keeping my tone casual.

She shrugged. "Some men would see it as a blessing. No one to nag constantly, no one to spend his money."

"Oh, I don't know. I rather think John-the-Baptist would prefer your presence, don't you?"

She sat then, heavily, and gave me a sigh. It sounded like a breath of surrender, and I knew it was time to ask the questions I wanted answered.

"Why didn't you tell me Sir Alfred Allenby was the man responsible for putting Mariah Young in gaol?"

Rosalie's face had settled into lines of fatigue, or was it despair? There was something old and tired about her, and for the first time I realised how much of her youthful vigour was an illusion. There were spots on the backs of her hands, just a few, and there seemed to be more silver threads among the black of her hair.

"Yes, the Allenbys and the Youngs have a long history," she said finally. "Our destinies were intertwined long ago, and even now we are not able to break free."

"Of course you could," I said sharply. "Brisbane has only to sell this place and you to go travelling with your husband. No one is keeping you here."

Rosalie laughed, a dry, brittle, mirthless sound. "She does. She keeps me here. I swore an oath to her, and I am bound by it, as firmly as by the strongest iron chains."

"Are you talking about Mariah? Rosalie, she has been dead for thirty years. You owe her nothing. If there ever was a debt or obligation, you have certainly paid it by now."

She shook her head, her expression mournful. "You do not understand. The blood oath is a thing which cannot be broken, must not be broken. I am bound to remain here until it is done."

"Until what is done?" I demanded, my frustration rising. I had had my fill of half truths and enigmatic tales.

But she merely shook her head again, turning her wedding ring round and round on her finger, the slender band of gold mellow in the firelight.

"It was my fault," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What was your fault?"

"Laudanum." She spoke slowly then, each word delivered painfully, as if being wrenched from her. "She suffered so from the headaches. I wanted her to be free of it. I gave it to her the first time. But she took it so often, too often. And she needed more and more to keep the pain at bay. That last day, she needed it so desperately, and I would not get it for her. We quarrelled, and I told her if she needed it—" She broke off, closing her eyes, her hands fisted in her lap. "I told her if she needed it she would have to steal it herself."

"Oh," I breathed, finally understanding at long last the burden of guilt Rosalie Smith carried upon her shoulders.

She opened her eyes. They were tearless, but full of pain, and I hated myself a little for opening such wounds.

"She was seen, and when they made her turn out her pockets, there it was."

She spread her hands helplessly, and I took one in my own. "Rosalie, it was not your fault. Mariah made her choices, and they were not good ones." I thought for a fleeting moment of Brisbane and his devils, wondering if it was even possible for him to avoid his mother's fate. I tightened my grip on her hand. "Rosalie, what is in the red syrup you gave to Brisbane? Is it poppy?"

She shook her head. "No. I would not give him syrup of poppy. He wanted it, but I knew it would destroy him. It is dangerous, the poppy—the hedge witch's laudanum. I gave him a special mixture of lettuce and skullcap, with a little colouring of beetroot so he would think it made of poppy. It will soothe a headache and induce sleep, but it is not dangerous."

I sagged in my chair, boneless with relief. "Thank God for that," I murmured. "I threw his out. I thought it was poppy. If you have more, I ought to take it to him."

"He has already been," she told me. The kettle had begun to boil and she rose to prepare the tea, moving slowly, as a woman underwater. "He came this morning to fetch it." She flicked me a sidelong glance. "You are meddlesome, Lady Julia. But from the best motives, I think."

"Of course from the best motives," I snapped. "I do not want anything to happen to him."

She spooned leaves into the teapot and poured in the water. I noticed something else in there as well, a few starry borage flowers. I said nothing. I could use whatever courage I could find, I decided.

"Something has already happened to him," Rosalie said, bringing the pot to the table. "He had a vision this morning, a gruesome one."

I felt a cold prickle down my neck. I hated to think that my actions had caused Brisbane to suffer, no matter how maddening he could be.

"What sort of vision?" I asked, my voice unnaturally high. But I had already guessed.

"He saw Death, lady. Dressed in black and gliding over the moor, waiting to collect a new soul as the moon waxes full."

Rosalie spoke then with all the theatricality of her people, imbuing each word with horror. She paused to allow the full dread to overcome me, then poured out a cup and pushed it toward me.

Defiantly, I drank it off, scalding and bitter. "Then his visions are singularly useless," I told her. "Death is everywhere."

"Indeed," she said, sipping at her tea, looking markedly more composed than she had a few moments before. "Death is everywhere. I only wonder if you will know him face-to-face," she finished darkly. And then she smiled her slanted, enigmatic Gypsy smile, and I wondered if I liked her quite as much as before.

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

Fortune, good night; Smile once more, turn thy wheel.

—William Shakespeare

King Lear

As soon as I left Rosalie's cottage, I spied John-the-Baptist returning, Rook hard upon his heels, frisking in the soft heather. John-the-Baptist called a greeting and I paused on the path, waiting for him to join me.

"Tha women's gossip is all finished?" he asked, smiling knowingly.

"Are women ever finished gossiping?" I asked by way of reply. Rook nuzzled my knee and I bent to pet his rough white head.

"The dog likes you. He doesn't usually take to gorgios," John-the-Baptist remarked.

"We are old friends now, Rook and I." I straightened, brushing the dog hairs from my skirts. "You must be very glad to see Rosalie again."

He nodded. "Aye. It's been too many years apart. But there's an end to that."

"You mean to take her with you this time?" I wondered if Rosalie knew that. She seemed perfectly content to remain where she was, mired in guilt and bound by a promise to her dead sister.

"I do," he told me, folding his arms over his chest in a confident gesture I had seen so often upon his nephew. "This business here is done, or it will be soon."

My hand stilled of its own accord. "You know this for a fact?" I wondered then if he had spoken to Brisbane, if perhaps he knew something more of Brisbane's plans than his own aunt did.

"My sister has the sight. She told me this will be the end of things," he said, his brows lowering ominously.

"Ah, yes. When the moon waxes full, I have heard," I returned waspishly.

A small smile played about his lips, nearly hidden by his moustaches. "You do not believe in the sight?"

"Oh, no, I believe. I have seen it often enough to know its power. It would just be helpful if the sight could be more specific," I complained.

John-the-Baptist gave a little snort of laughter, but said nothing.

"You knew Brisbane as a child," I said suddenly, remembering Rosalie's tale of how John-the-Baptist had intervened in a quarrel between Brisbane's parents.

He gave a nod, and the kerchief at his neck fell an inch or so, baring the flesh. I could see a thin white line, the legacy of his interference. It marked him still.

"I taught the boy to sit a horse like a centaur and to play the violin as if it were part of his own arm," he said proudly. "Rosalie and I had no children. The boy was like my own."

"It must have been quite a wrench for you when he left," I hazarded.

Again, that slow secret smile. "A wrench? Lady, I gave him the money."

My expression must have betrayed my surprise for he gave a roar of laughter, startling the dog. "We are not like gorgio folk," he reminded me. "A boy is a man when he can keep a wife. And Nicholas had wit. I knew he could survive." He shook his head. "Lady, you look doubtful, but I tell you the truth. Nicholas was more of a man at ten years old than I was at twenty. He took care of himself because he was forced to it. Life for a poshrat in our tribe is not easy, particularly if his father is the gorgio parent. He would never have been fully accepted."

I recognised the word poshrat. It meant a half blood, and it was never used by the Roma as a term of affection.

"You mean your own people did not consider him one of them?"

"Never," he said flatly. "This is why marriage between your people and mine is not encouraged. Life is very hard for the children, more so if the mother is Roma. It is her duty to keep the blood pure and not marry outside of her own people."

I gave a sigh of exasperation. "And so the children are punished, when it is through no fault of their own that their blood is mixed?"

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It is the way. I am not so particular. If the boy was born to my wife's sister, he is a Rom, that is my way. But I am only one man in the tribe. I cannot change the old ways, and I would not want to. I did what I could for him, and I helped him to leave. I never told Rosalie, but believe me when I say it was the best."

"I suppose it was," I said slowly, thinking of the life Brisbane had made for himself.

John-the-Baptist must have intuited my thoughts, for he threw his arms wide. "You see what he is now? A gorgio lord, even if he does not bear the title. He owns land and the other gorgios treat him with respect. It is not our way, but it is the gorgio way. If he must live in their world, he must be better than they are."

I took his point, but there was no possible reply to such a statement. Brisbane, as a half blood, would always be judged by a different standard, by both his Gypsy family and the English he lived amongst. It struck me as a formula for an incredibly difficult and lonely life.

"My tea is ready," he said. "I leave you now." He lifted his cap to me and I offered my hand.

He smiled in surprise and took it. His own hand was wide, the fingers long as suited a violinist.

"You are a lady of many surprises," he observed, giving me a mischievous smile. "I wonder what secrets you know."

"Not as many as I would like," I told him truthfully.

He laughed again. "Do not wish to know what is hidden," he advised me. "Things that are kept in locked cupboards are not worthy to be seen."

He left me then, whistling for Rook to follow. The dog gave me a mournful look and trotted obediently away. As they moved, I heard the sound of the Grimswater bell, beckoning faintly. John-the-Baptist did not turn, but Rook pricked up his ears and paused a moment, then put his head down and followed his master.

"I will see at least one mystery in this place solved," I muttered, gathering up my skirts and picking my way hastily over the moor toward Grimswater. The ground was softer here, the mud clutching at my shoes and hems like soft, grasping fingers. I jerked myself free time and again, never quite making headway as I zigzagged over the ground, searching for a safe, dry path.

I thought that keeping to the low clumps of moor grasses would ensure safe footing, but no sooner had I stepped upon a promising bit of gorse than the ground gave way beneath me and I sank nearly up to my knees in squelching black mud.

"Damnation," I said. I wriggled my legs but they were stuck fast in the mud.

I heard a voice behind me.

"Lady Julia, are you quite all right?"

I glanced over my shoulder. Godwin was bounding toward me, light-footed as a damsel, springing from tussock to tussock until he reached me, not even breathing heavily.

"Godwin, thank God. I am quite stuck," I told him, looking ruefully at my legs.

He clucked at me and bent swiftly to remedy the situation. He looked up at me, his hand poised near my leg.

"May I?" His lips were twitching with amusement, and I thumped him on the back with a fist.

"Yes, you lummox. I don't care about propriety just now. Get me out!"

He bent again to his task, wrapping his hands firmly about my stockinged thigh and pulling slowly and evenly until the leg came free with a sickening sucking sound. There was a gush of black water and the hole filled again, swirling peaty mud about my other leg.

"Do not put tha' foot down again," he warned. "Thee'll only be stuck fast again. Wrap your arms about my back and keep tha' foot free of the ground."

I obeyed, but in spite of my little lecture about propriety, it was an awkwardly intimate position to occupy. His back was broad and warm under my arms, and I could feel the play of the heavy muscles as he gently worked my leg free. There was another great sucking sound as the earth rendered up my leg, dripping filthy water from my sodden boot and stocking.

Godwin turned and scooped me up easily. "Put tha' arms about my neck. I'll carry thee to solid ground, and then we'll see if thou're hurt," he said, cradling me gently as he had the pups. We had not far to go, and I did not argue with him. It was rather pleasant being taken care of, and so long as I did not make a habit of it, I did not see the harm.

In a very few minutes we had regained the path. He set me gently on my feet and spent quite a long time examining my ankles and knees for injury, feeling both carefully with surprisingly deft hands.

Finally I twitched my skirts down with a brisk gesture. "I think that will do, Godwin," I told him repressively. "I am quite all right, and I thank you for your timely rescue. I might have been stranded out there for hours."

The prospect was not an enticing one, but what he told me next chilled my blood.

"Tha' might not have survived at all," he said, his expression sober. "There are mires on the moor, and some of those spots have no bottom, nought but pools of mud tha' go on forever, right to the centre of the earth. Sheep have been lost on the moor before, and people, too, from time to time. Did no one say thee must keep to the path?"

I thought I remembered Ailith saying something of the sort, but I could not recall. "Perhaps. I had no idea it was all that dangerous. Thank you for intervening. My thoughtlessness put you at risk, and I am sorry for that."

He flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. "'Twas nothing. I've known these moors from boyhood. Besides, I would have done it twice over to save thee. I want you to think well of me, my lady."

He ducked his head, almost bashfully, and I gave a little cough, uncertain how to respond. Whatever admiration Godwin harboured for me, surely he knew nothing could come of it.

But perhaps I could use it to my advantage, I thought suddenly. I reached into my pocket and drew out the object I had been carrying.

"Godwin, do you recognise this?" I opened my palm, and lying flat, glowing burnished gold in the morning sun was the amulet of the ram.

His eyes widened and his tanned face went white to the lips. He took a step backward and looked at me in horror.

"Where did you get tha'?"

I held his gaze with my own. "I think you know where I found it. And the other, just like it."

He shook his head, angrily, as a child will. "I have never seen tha' before."

I took a step closer, raising my palm to his eye level, forcing him to see it. "Godwin, you are not that accomplished a liar. You have seen it. Tell me where."

He shook his head again, and when he spoke, his voice was clipped and completely lacking in the warm northern burr to which I had become accustomed. "I have never seen it before. And I have work to do. You can find your own way back to the Hall."

I stared after him as he broke into a run, taking the moor path in great, loping strides. I shoved the amulet in my pocket, nearly ripping the seam in my frustration. I had mishandled the situation badly. It had not occurred to me that he would be so horrified by the sight of the amulet. I had thought to surprise him, to startle him into telling the truth. I had not counted on his abject terror at seeing it.

I turned my steps toward Grimsgrave Hall, determined to find answers at last.

* * *

Not surprisingly, Brisbane was out when I arrived back at Grimsgrave. There was no sign of Godwin either, and I went to my bedchamber to freshen up a little. Grim quorked at me from his cage, but whether it was a greeting or a scolding, I could not tell.

I opened the little door of the cage and clucked at him, encouraging him to come out, but he merely fixed me with a cold, beady eye.

"Good morning, Grim," I said formally, but he continued to look just over my shoulder, ignoring me with all the cool hauteur of a fine gentleman. A scolding then.

"Very well, sulk if you must. I am going to have a think," I told him. I reclined on the bed, hoping a few moments of meditative silence would help me to put the pieces together.

Still, nothing seemed to fit quite properly, and after a quarter of an hour I gave up and got something to read. Redwall Allenby's travel journals would be just the thing, I decided. He had left for Egypt just after the mine had collapsed and shortly after the disappointment of unrolling the ruined mummy. It occurred to me that he might well have alluded to his experiments in his first journal, and I opened it, skimming the spiky letters in faded brown ink. His writing style was painfully pedantic, with regular, dutiful recordings of what he ate, how long he slept, and even his toilet habits. I cringed a little as I skipped over them, searching for some mention of anything of significance.

But there was nothing, I soon realised. I reached for the next journal, and the one after, and these were more detailed, but just as disappointing. His travels had broadened to the Americas, to other parts of Africa and Europe as well as he trailed each new purchase related to Egyptology. He seemed to make many varied and interesting acquaintances, but none of his connections deepened to friendship, and there was a distinct air of superiority when he spoke of them. He was the worst kind of traveller, I reflected sourly. The entitled Englishman, considering himself lord of all he surveyed, and looking down on everything and everyone with marked contempt.

But as the journals went on, I noticed one change. There was frequent mention of money troubles, of requests on the part of his mother for funds for Grimsgrave, and his repeated annoyance that he should have to maintain an estate he no longer occupied. His spending was curtailed, expenses were curbed, and at last, to his outrage, he was obliged to accept a post with an expedition if he hoped to return to Egypt for the 1884-1885 season.

"The Evandale expedition," I murmured, tracing his endlessly dull recitation of the facts surrounding the equipment of the party. There were lists of supplies, innumerable complaints about poor accommodations and slights to his dignity. I skipped over the greater part of them, turning a dozen pages at a time. The first thing of interest was a tiny set of sketches, not very well-rendered, but perfectly recognisable. One was a ram of Osiris, the other the tyet of Isis. Underneath were scrawled the words, Seven Days. Something stirred in my memory, but only distantly. I turned the page, reading as Redwall railed against the members of the expedition, lambasting Lord Evandale for a fool, and naming the Comte de Roselende as his greatest enemy.

I have known him from childhood, and although I have the power to inform Lord E. that he has accepted employ under a false identity, I have said nothing. I have seen his black eyes upon me, and I know he realises I have recognised him. I have him in my power, and he wonders, even now if I mean to do him harm. He is a fool. I do not care what becomes of him. He is less than the dirt beneath my feet. Petty revenges will not distract me from my true purpose here: I will make great discoveries this season, discoveries which will ensure the recovery of my fortune, and the Allenby name.

I sat up as I read the words. Redwall Allenby rarely noticed anyone whose path crossed his. The fact that he found an enemy in Egypt was highly interesting. That was the season of his disgrace, I realised quickly, the last season he had spent in Egypt before returning home to England, and a premature death. He had been wrong not to fear his enemy. Whoever he was, Redwall had apparently estimated him badly.

I turned the page to read more, but it was blank, and in its place was clipped a photograph, smudged and grimy, but still clear enough. It was a group photograph, the Evandale expedition in that fateful year when Redwall Allenby was disgraced and drummed from Egyptology forever. I found Redwall at once, in the back of the group, tall and handsomely blond, perhaps only a slight twist of the lips betraying his annoyance at not being seated next to Lord Evandale in the front of the group. Lord Evandale's feet rested on a stuffed lion, and his expression was one of jovial bonhomie. Clearly he was no enemy to Redwall; he had not the temperament for it, and his face was like a child's, open and guileless. He was obviously delighted to be financing an expedition, and he had gathered his staff about him like an indulgent parent. I studied the other faces carefully, but none were familiar, save one. The man standing next to Redwall Allenby. He was muscular and well-formed, perhaps an inch taller than Redwall. He sported a luxuriant black beard, and across his firm waist stretched a watch chain, its slender length hung with a coin struck with the head of a Gorgon. The reverse of the photograph was labelled in Redwall's familiar hand, and I only turned it over to confirm what I already knew. Redwall Allenby had identified the tall, dark man beside him as St. John Malachy-LaPlante, the Comte de Roselende. But of course, I knew him as Nicholas Brisbane.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VI, Part 2

I stared at the photograph for a long time, feeling oddly light, as if my head was stuffed with cotton wool. I had known Brisbane loathed the Allenbys. He had even told me himself that he had been in Egypt, masquerading as an Egyptologist. Why had I not connected the points sooner? Brisbane had been the instrument of Redwall Allenby's disgrace and destruction.

Sickened, I closed the journal, shutting Brisbane's clever, calculating face away. I turned onto my side, thinking hard. The feud between their families was an old one. Sir Alfred Allenby had been responsible for seeing Brisbane's mother put into gaol where she died. Did Brisbane hold the rest of the Allenbys accountable for what one of them had done?

He must have, I thought fiercely. He had insisted upon Lord Salisbury purchasing Grimsgrave Hall for him when a dozen other properties might have done just as well if not better. Properties in excellent condition, near to his business interests in London, properties with no ghosts or scores to settle. But Brisbane had chosen none of them. He had insisted upon having Grimsgrave, knowing the Allenby women would be at his mercy, dependent upon him as completely as Mariah Young had been upon the clemency of Sir Alfred Allenby.

And because Sir Alfred had shown no mercy to her, none would be given to the Allenbys, I realised with horror. Brisbane had marked his time, dangling the promise of a snug, pretty cottage in front of them, but forcing them to live under his roof, beholden to him. Until from frustration or anger or thwarted pride, Lady Allenby had attempted his life, giving him the perfect pretext to send her away. That he had not had her hanged ought to have given me a flicker of hope, but it did not. Brisbane was a subtle and clever man with a fair measure of hot Gypsy blood. He had been schooled in blood feuds since childhood. If he wanted an enemy to suffer, a quick snap of the hangman's noose would be too quick, too easy. How much more terrible to be immured in the stone walls of a convent, knowing nothing more of the outside world, but remembering every day that one's child and one's beloved home were still in the hands of a sworn enemy.

The very notion turned my stomach to water, and I was glad I had not eaten dinner. I relived every moment I had spent with Brisbane since I had arrived at Grimsgrave, every anguished glance he had given me, every time he had demanded my return to London. He did not want me to witness what he had become, to know what monstrousness he was capable of. How many times had he warned me he was bedevilled? And fool that I was, I had not listened. I had believed the passionate kisses, the warm, demanding hand in mine, and I had not believed him capable of real evil. But then, the poets tell us love is blind, I thought bitterly, and for all his sins, I loved him.

And as soon as I had constructed the case against him, I demolished it. "No," I told myself firmly, "it is not possible. He is no monster." I had known Brisbane in many and varied circumstances, and even though I knew him to be clever and dispassionate enough to be the architect of a revenge scheme, he was not vicious. I would not believe, even if I heard it from his own lips, that he would truly harm the Allenby women for the sins of their kinsmen.

But I had to know precisely what his intentions were toward Ailith and Hilda, and the only way to bring an end to the matter was to clear away all of the mysteries in that gloomy house. There was a legacy of pain and treachery in that place, and there would be no future for any of us if I did not expose it at last.

I closed the cage on Grim and hurried out of the room. The door to Ailith's room was closed and I tapped on it, shifting my weight impatiently. She called for me to come in, her voice serene as ever.

She was sitting on the floor, arranging dolls in her dolls' house. I went to her and knelt, startling her.

"Ailith, I wanted to talk to you, about Redwall and Brisbane—"

I broke off as I looked at the dolls in her hands. A pair of babies, tightly swaddled, with identical shocks of golden hair, hair identical to that shorn from the mummified babies in the study.

I rocked back on my heels, thinking hard. "They were yours," I said flatly. "The babies were yours."

She did not look at me. She merely continued to fuss over the tiny dolls, stroking their silken locks. "Yes. They were taken away from me as soon as they were born. I never even held them."

She laid them into the pair of cradles in the nursery she had so lovingly prepared. I felt a rush of horror and sympathy for her. She had given birth to children she had never even been permitted to hold. I thought of Lady Allenby and her flinty pride, Redwall and his horrible experiments.

"Were they stillborn?" I asked her, keeping my voice low and gentle.

She shook her head, her golden hair falling free. It was the first time I had seen her without it bound tightly into a coronet. She looked younger, and terribly vulnerable.

"No. They were alive when they were taken from me. I heard them cry."

"Who took them?" I asked, although I thought I knew the answer.

Her head came up then, her eyes flashing with anger even after all the years that had passed. "She took them. Godwin knows. He was there."

She ducked her head again and busied herself with tidying the little nursery of make-believe. I could not quite take it all in. It had been Godwin after all who was the villain. Father to illegitimate children, doubtless goaded by Lady Allenby, he had been a party to giving them to Redwall to be immured forever, burying their secrets and shame with the bodies. Little wonder he had behaved so strangely when I had confronted him with the ram amulet. It must have been like seeing the very ghosts of his children resurrected. I wondered what would become of Ailith should the truth be revealed. I knew Brisbane would not deliberately harm her, but I could not say with perfect certainty that he would help her either. Perhaps the enmity between their families ran too deeply for that. No, it would be left to me to save her if I could.

I put an arm around her, noting that she had lost weight. She felt little more than skin and bones. My pendant slid out from my neckline and her eyes fixed on it, watching it swing back and forth, like a sleepy child watching a candle flame.

"That is Medusa, is it not?" she asked, putting out a finger to touch it.

I tucked it away and gave her a patient smile.

"Ailith, I wonder if you would not like a little rest. Perhaps we could go away. A trip to the seaside. Would you like that? I have a fancy to see Whitby. It would be such fun if you came as well. And Hilda and Portia. We could invite them, and make it a little party of hens, what do you say to that?"

Ailith shook her head. "There is no money for such trifles," she said sadly. "There is no money at all."

"Oh, do not mind about that. I will make all the arrangements. You must come as my guest. Would you like to visit the seaside?"

She nodded slowly. "Someone will have to mind Hilda's chickens. You will tell her to find someone to mind the chickens, won't you?"

Her gaze was flat and childlike. I coaxed her toward the bed. "Of course. Why don't you lie down now, and I will settle everything. Have a nice rest, and we can be gone in the morning. I will even have Minna pack for you. You need do nothing at all."

She climbed onto the bed and lay atop the coverlet. Her eyelids drooped, but then flared open. She put out a hand to mine.

"You are so very kind, Lady Julia," she murmured.

"It is nothing," I told her. "Rest now, and do not worry about anything."

She nodded and turned onto her side, curling into the pillow. In one hand she clutched the little pair of dolls with the bright gold curls.

* * *

I hurried from her room to the poultry yard. Hilda was pouring out fresh water for the chickens who were clucking irritably at her feet.

"Oh, be quiet, you bloody monsters. Can't you see I am doing you a favour?" she muttered.

"Miss Hilda, I should like a word," I told her.

She flicked a glance up at me but did not pause in her labours. "If it is about the proposal I have had from Valerius, it is none of your concern."

I smoothed my skirts. "Your impertinence notwithstanding, I quite agree. I have made my feelings known to Valerius. What he chooses to do is entirely his own affair."

She straightened, her thin upper lip curled. "Hardly an enthusiastic endorsement."

I spread my hands. "Did you expect me to feel differently? You have scarcely uttered a civil word to me the entire time I have been here, and you have made your intentions to marry another man quite clear. Naturally I am concerned if the lady my brother plans to wed is motivated solely by mercenary interests."

"Mercenary?" She threw the pail to the ground. "Oh, I like that. Val has told me something of your past. Tell me, would you have married Edward Grey if he hadn't had tuppence to rub together?" she demanded.

"Of course not," I told her. Her expression of triumph faded to one of astonishment. "I married Edward because we were friends, because I wanted an establishment of my own, because I was tired of being a spinster and a laughingstock. If he had not had money, our paths would never have crossed. I moved then in rather more exclusive circles," I finished apologetically.

"Well, at least you are honest," she said, deflating a little.

"One ought to be, when speaking of such things," I replied. "And in perfect honesty, I do not wish you to marry my brother because I think you cannot make him happy, and I believe he would fail you as well. His intentions are of the very best sort, but he is a somewhat unhappy young man because he has no proper occupation for his time. Until he is settled within himself, he will be no sort of husband. That is my opinion, but I meant what I said. I have spoken to Val, and now I have spoken to you. I will say nothing further on the matter, and if you choose to marry, I will welcome you as a sister."

She curled her lip again, a singularly unattractive expression, and I longed to tell her so.

"Very well, believe me or don't. I do not care. I am more concerned about Miss Ailith."

Her eyes widened, but her gaze slid from mine. "Why?"

"I believe she is quite fragile at present," I said slowly. I did not know how much Hilda knew of her sister's ordeal, but it was not my place to disclose it. I must tread warily. "She has been in low spirits since your brother died. I think the departure of your mother has had a dampening effect upon her, and I detect signs of melancholia. I proposed to her a rest cure at the seaside. I would like you to come as well, as my guests, of course," I finished hastily lest she refuse on monetary grounds.

She stooped to retrieve her pail. "That is good of you," she said grudgingly. "But I think not. It would be best if Ailith stays here."

She drew an apple core from her pocket and tossed it to the hens, clucking softly at them.

"Hilda, I must disagree. Your sister seems changed, childlike. She must be looked after."

Hilda turned then and fixed me with a pitying stare. "Looked after? Ailith is more capable of looking after herself than anyone I have ever known. The devil himself could not stand against her."

I blinked. "You do not understand. I am not at liberty to reveal everything, but I can say that your sister suffered a tragedy when your brother was lost, and the recent upheavals in your family have not helped in her recovery. She needs gentle treatment and a rest cure if she is to be restored."

Hilda's little hands fisted at her sides. "The only treatment my sister needs is a hangman's noose."

She clamped her mouth shut as if to bite back the words. I moved toward her.

"What do you mean?"

She dropped her head, but I took her shoulders in my hands and shook her hard. "What do you mean?" I demanded again.

Hilda wrenched her arms from my grasp. "She was the one who attempted Brisbane's life, not Mama. She was the one who put the mushrooms onto his plate. She took a toadstool from the wood and sliced it up and mixed it with the mushrooms Mama bottled last year."

Blackness crept into the edge of my vision and I blinked it away. I felt terribly cold, as if I had just swum in a lake of icy black water.

"Why?" I whispered.

She shook her head, her expression mutinous. "I have said too much already. But you must go. Leave this place and make Brisbane go with you." Her voice broke on a sob. "I know I cannot marry Valerius. You will not want to have your brother connected to a murderess. I know her for what she is. I have always known her. She will not harm me, but she hates Brisbane. And you as well. I beg you, leave."

I pressed my temples to stop the roaring inside my head. "I cannot believe this. I thought her vulnerable—"

Hilda gave a ragged sob then, and to my surprise, she permitted me to embrace her. She cried like a child, great gasps of emotion that tore at my heart. There was so much raw feeling under that brusque exterior, it was like holding some newborn, quite awkward thing.

I held her until she stopped. She pulled back suddenly, wiping the moist places of her face on her sleeve.

"I am sorry," she said finally. "I do not know what came over me. I am not usually such a blubberboots."

"I don't imagine you give way to emotion very often," I ventured.

"Not unless it is anger," she agreed. "It is so much easier that way. I am so tired, you see. So tired of being here, year after year of my life just unrolling behind me with nothing to show for it. I've no education, no career, no family or home of my own. Nothing to show that I have ever set foot on this earth. When I am gone, there will only be a stone to mark that I was here, and even that will crumble in time."

There was no pity for herself in her voice, only the flatness of resignation, and I realised she and Valerius shared precisely the same affliction. They both wanted desperately to matter in a world that took no notice of them. Perhaps they were better suited than I had thought.

But this was no time to worry about their romantic prospects. I needed to talk to Brisbane, and the sooner the better.

"I will go and find Brisbane," I told her. "He will know how to get to the bottom of—" I broke off as something in the tail of my eye caught my attention. "He must be out on the moor. I will find him. Go and close the door before the chickens get out." The door in the stone wall that led to the moor path was slowly swinging open in the wind.

Hilda went white to the lips. "I shut it myself. Someone has been listening to us."

She looked at me in horror. "Ailith," she whispered. "Julia, she will kill him. She means to, and now that she knows I have told you, she will stop at nothing." Her eyes rounded and she clutched at me. "Valerius is out on the moor. He went for a walk. If he thwarts her…"

I gave her no time to finish the thought. I was through the door and on the moor path before she finished speaking. She was hard behind me, urging me faster.

We broke into a run, and I cursed my stays as they bit into my sides. But every minute counted now, and I was determined to keep pace with Hilda as we raced over the moor, mindful of the boggy mud and the low thorny bushes snatching at our skirts. She led the way, hurtling along like a modern Atalanta.

From time to time as we ran I looked up toward Thorn Crag, but I could see no one. I thought I saw a flash of movement just once, but it might have been a trick of the light. The clouds were lowering over the moor, weather that Yorkshire folk call wuthering. A moor mist was rising, and I blessed it, for if it shrouded the top of Thorn Crag, it hid our approach as well. We climbed as quickly as we dared, hoping the descending fog would muffle our movements.

It was very dark now, the afternoon sun blotted out by the thunderous black mass of cloud that hung low and threatening. The rain started to fall as we ascended the crag, making the rocks slippery and dangerous and more than once we fell heavily. Hilda was bleeding from her hands and I from a particularly nasty cut above my cheek, but we did not stop, nor did we slacken our pace. We forged on, wiping blood and rain from our faces. We climbed on our hands and knees in some places, clinging to the steep path only through force of will.

I smothered a scream when I put out my hand and felt a face. It was Valerius, unconscious, his complexion deathly pale, bleeding freely from a wound to his temple. There was a rock next to him, jagged and blood-stained.

"You must stay with him," I told Hilda. "Bind the wound, and hold it fast."

It is to her everlasting credit that she did not argue. She knelt swiftly as I stepped past him, sending up a desperate, incoherent prayer as I did so. He was in God's hands now, and Hilda's, and there was nothing more I could do for him.

I looked up the path, dashing the rain from my face. There was one more ledge to climb, and I did so, peering around the last boulder, steeling myself for what I would find when I reached the top.

It was unthinkable. Ailith was perched on the very edge of the crag, her cloak whipping behind her on the wind. She was sobbing, her hair streaming wildly, like a maenad's, and she clutched a dagger in her hand, the obsidian blade of the Egyptian embalmer, taken from her brother's collection, doubtless snatched up before she left Grimsgrave. Brisbane was perhaps ten paces from her, his back safely to the rock, his hand held out in front of him as if to push her. Blood was streaming from a cut to his brow, and I realised she must have landed at least one blow with her blade.

"You are a monster," she shrieked, her voice carrying on the wind. "You deserve to die for what you have done," she cried, edging farther away from him. She trembled on the very rim of the drop now. "Do not come closer!"

Brisbane advanced purposefully, stealthy as a lion. He put out his hand. "I want to watch you die, Ailith," he said, in a voice I had never heard him use before, cold and commanding. I had underestimated his hatred for the Allenbys, I realised. Here before me was the proof of it, Ailith pleading for her life and Brisbane, coolly preparing to deprive her of it.

At that moment I stepped from behind the rock. Brisbane's head jerked toward me, his eyes locked with mine. He said nothing, but I understood him perfectly. In the space of a heartbeat, I made my choice.

I rushed at Ailith, throwing wide my arms to embrace her and twisting as we fell so that we landed hard upon the ledge.

As we fell, we rolled, so that Ailith was on top of me, the tip of her knife wedged firmly into my stays. She pushed herself up slowly, her eyes burning with rage.

She wrenched the dagger from my stays and brandished it just as Brisbane leapt. He had caught her by surprise. He could move as swiftly as a cat when he liked, but what he did to her was not graceful or lovely. It was brutal and almost faster than the eye could see. He snapped her wrist back, breaking the bone and forcing the dagger from her hand. She screamed and would have fallen to her knees but for Brisbane's grip. She cursed and spat, but he held her fast as I struggled to my feet, holding my side where the knife had dented my stays. I stood next to Brisbane, keeping a wary eye upon Ailith, who had gone suspiciously quiet.

"Are you hurt?" he asked me in a low voice, never taking his eyes from Ailith.

"Just a bruise, nothing more," I told him.

"Good." He tightened his grip upon Ailith's arm. "If you had hurt her, I would have thrown you off this crag and smiled as I did it. As it is, it will be my very great pleasure to watch you hang."

He paused and wiped the blood from his face with his free hand. "Ailith Allenby, I am holding you for the attempted murder of Valerius March," he said flatly.

"And yours," I told him, prodding him in the ribs. He winced a little, and noticed then the ever-widening red stain on his shirt. "It was she who poisoned you, not Lady Allenby."

"Yes, I did know that," he said. He spoke to me, but his gaze never wavered from her face. "That was why I sent her mother away. Lady Allenby was in as much danger from her as I."

Ailith laughed then, doubling over and screaming her mirth to the teeming skies. It echoed over the moor and rolled back to us. There was madness in that laughter, and I wondered I had not seen it in her before.

"You stupid man, even now you don't understand, do you? You're still the filthy ignorant Gypsy brat you always were. I am an Allenby, a daughter of kings. I am not subject to your laws," she told him, raising her chin high and staring at him with all the disdain of an empress.

She looked at me then and gave me a little smile, and I knew what she meant to do. I could not have stopped her, even if I had wished to. There was no time.

With her uninjured arm, she gave Brisbane an unexpected shove, catching him off guard and rocking him back on his heels. Then she straightened her back and simply stepped off the side of the crag. There was no mad laughter now. There was only the long, deathly drop and the faint tolling of the Grimswater bell through the soft, muffling rain as Ailith Allenby fell to the rocks on the moor below.

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

Be just, and fear not.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VIII

It was a difficult job getting Valerius off the crag. The wound to Brisbane's chest was shallow but bleeding freely, making rather a mess of things until I demanded a knife to cut my skirt hem to make a bandage. He handed me Ailith's knife and I felt my stomach churn at the sight of it. But I put my hand to the grip and sliced through the tweed, hacking off enough cloth to bind Brisbane's wound until he could be properly stitched.

Brisbane hefted Val onto his shoulders, his teeth gritted against the pain that must have seared his ribs. But he held my brother steady and set his face against the rain and the wind to carry him to Rosalie's cottage as it was the nearest shelter. Hilda followed, her eyes red with unshed tears. She did not look back at the broken body of her sister.

Without speaking of it, we hurried as fast as we dared to the cottage. John-the-Baptist hastened out to help and he and Brisbane carried Val in between them. Rosalie bustled about, collecting what she would need to nurse them both and to attend to the rest of us.

I sat by the fire, bone-tired and drenched to the skin, pressing a cloth soaked in calendula water to my cheek. Rook the lurcher came to sit with me, putting his head onto my lap. He did not seem to mind when my tears dampened his fur, and I stroked him for what seemed like hours. I kept reliving that terrible moment when I had rounded the boulder on the crag and seen Brisbane, menacing and vengeful, and Ailith, teetering on the edge of the crag, giving every appearance of pleading for her life. It would have been so easy to have made the wrong choice, I reflected. It was only by the smallest chance I had not.

"Lady." I looked up and there was Rosalie, holding out a warm wrapper of bright scarlet cotton. "I have already made Miss Hilda change. You must get out of those wet things. You will catch your death. I have brewed a posset for you, and John-the-Baptist has hung a curtain. You can change there. Let me look at your cheek."

Gently, she pulled the cloth away, and peered closely at my face, then nodded. "It will not even swell. I will give you a salve of calendula and thyme. It will help you to heal. Use it often, and there will not even be a scar to remind you."

I did not think I should require a scar to remind me of the day's events, but I was too tired to argue.

She coaxed me to stand and I saw that Val had been settled into her little bed, his head neatly bandaged, his tanned face still too white and unnaturally still.

"Will he—" I did not want to ask it.

She patted me. "He will be fine, if God wills. We have done all that can be done."

Hilda was sitting perfectly still in a chair next to the bed. She was dressed in a bright green blouse and blue skirt, the colours incongruous against the moment. She did not look at me, nor did she speak. She simply sat, staring at Val's pale face.

I turned then to see Brisbane, stripped to the waist, sipping something that steamed in the cup, something bitter from the expression on his face. His uncle was plying a needle and thin silk thread, neatly stitching up a long, shallow gash across his ribs.

I swallowed hard and Rosalie patted me again. "There is no one with a better hand to the needle than a Gypsy harness-maker," she told me firmly. She steered me behind the curtain, and when I made no move to lift my hands, she came with me, briskly undressing me and rubbing my skin with a rough towel. My skin was tingling by the time she had finished, and I was warm for the first time since I had seen Val lying broken on the crag. Rosalie helped me into the wrapper, knotting the sash snugly at my waist. She cleaned the gouges on my hands and cheek then, careful not to hurt me. Then she unbound my hair and brushed it until it crackled.

"There. Now for your posset," she said firmly. She seated me next to the fire again and gave me a steaming cup like the one Brisbane was drinking from. It was bitter, full of tea and herbs and something potently alcoholic. I felt energised and much the better after I drank it.

John-the-Baptist set the last stitch and Rosalie handed Brisbane a pot of salve to daub onto the wound. He obeyed and she bound it neatly with clean strips of white linen while John-the-Baptist brought him a fresh shirt and cleaned the cut to his brow. We looked rather more reputable then, and Rosalie brewed tea and ladled out mugs of hot soup as John-the-Baptist departed to take a message to the Hall.

I had no appetite for soup, but drank my tea, feeling a hundred years old and saying nothing. Hilda was finally persuaded to take some posset, but she drank less than half of it, letting the rest of it grow cold in the cup.

Brisbane did not speak either, and Rosalie asked no questions. She knew the answers would come soon enough, and I almost dreaded the arrival of my sister when we would have to explain what had happened on Thorn Crag.

Rosalie brewed tea for everyone and was just putting out new bread and butter when John-the-Baptist returned with Portia and Mrs. Butters, Minna and Godwin in tow.

I roused from my torpor. "Portia, dearest, why have you brought the entire household?"

She shrugged. "It hardly seems fair to keep them out of it now. It is a family affair, and Godwin is an Allenby." She took a little stool next to me and dropped her voice. "And apparently Godwin and Minna have an understanding," she told me, lifting her brows significantly. "We shall have to write her mother."

I thought of Godwin standing before me on the moor path after he had helped me out of the boggy mud. I want you to think well of me, he had said. And I thought of how badly I had misinterpreted his interest in me. He might well have acted the part of the country gallant, but he did not want me; he wanted my approval of his match with Minna. I shook my head, wondering how many other things I had misunderstood since I had come to Grimsgrave.

Rosalie found low stools for Minna and Godwin, while Mrs. Butters took the last chair at Portia's insistence. John-the-Baptist stood a little distance apart, but Rosalie came to sit with the rest of us at the table. It was quite a snug fit for the cottage, but I felt comforted at having so many of us there, and I fancied the others felt the same.

It was Brisbane who spoke first. He looked from Godwin to Mrs. Butters as he addressed them.

"Godwin, Mrs. Butters," he said softly, "I am sorry to tell you Ailith Allenby is dead."

Mrs. Butters said nothing for a long moment. Then she nodded toward the cut on his brow, a thin, wicked slash that only enhanced his resemblance to a pirate. "Is tha' her handiwork?"

Brisbane nodded.

"I am only sorry she harmed you before she died," Mrs. Butters replied calmly. "I will not pray for her. The devil looks after his own, so the Scriptures tell us."

I blinked at her and Portia gave a little gasp which she covered with a cough, but not successfully. "I thought that was Shakespeare," she murmured to me.

Mrs. Butters turned to her, her expression one of mild surprise. "Have I shocked you, Lady Bettiscombe? I am sorry for it. But Ailith Allenby was wicked, through and through. She always was, even as a child, and Redwall was just the same. It was bad blood, you know. A little weakness in a family is a small matter. A tendency to melancholia, or a love of drink, these may be overcome by fresh blood coming into the line. But the Allenbys seldom married outside of their own. They insisted upon maintaining the purest blood in Britain, and they paid for it."

Her expression took on a faraway look, as if she were telling a faery story to children. "I saw it in Sir Alfred's mother when I first came to Grimsgrave. She were elderly then and nearly an invalid. But she lived in mortal hatred of cats. Whenever one came to Grimsgrave, she drowned it herself in the pond. I daresay tha's what gave Lady Allenby the idea."

"Lady Allenby?" I asked.

Mrs. Butters' smile was infinitely sad. "The twins, my dear. Ailith's children. Lady Allenby drowned them in the pond in front of the house, just after they was born."

Brisbane went a shade paler under the olive of his complexion, and Portia and I exchanged shocked glances, but Rosalie's expression did not change.

"You knew she had been pregnant," I said suddenly. "You gave her raspberry leaf tea when I first came here."

Rosalie nodded. "She bore the twins last year. She was too old to bear for the first time, and the birth tore her womb. It has never been strong since. She used to come to me for remedies. The raspberry leaf was soothing."

Portia shook her head. "Ailith bore illegitimate twins? And her mother killed her own grandchildren? I cannot take it in. They must have all been mad as hatters."

"They were," I said softly, casting a glance at Hilda. She was silent, her head resting against the back of her chair, her eyes closed. I went on. "Mad enough to let Redwall embalm the children and make mummies of them. But he left clues in their wrappings, a pair of amulets, the knot of Isis and a golden ram. They were tokens to symbolise the parents. The knot of Isis stood for Ailith, the tall, golden goddess. And the ram stood for…" I glanced at Godwin, the sheep farmer who had been so poorly used by his cousins. I cleared my throat and proceeded. "The ram was the symbol of the god Osiris, the husband and brother of Isis, and it stood for Redwall Allenby."

Hilda gave a low moan of disbelief and dropped her head into her hands. Portia stared at me. "Ailith Allenby gave birth to twins fathered by her own brother?"

"Yes," I told her, gaining confidence as I finally remembered what had stirred in my mind when I had seen the little sketches of the Isis knot and the ram in Redwall's journal.

"Redwall left a clue in his journal. He sketched the knot of Isis and the ram and beneath it he wrote, Seven Days, the title of an Egyptian love poem." I paused and cleared my throat, then began to recite.

Seven

days since I saw my sister,

And

sickness invaded me;

I

am heavy in all my limbs,

My

body has forsaken me.

When

the physicians come to me,

My

heart rejects their remedies;

The

magicians are quite helpless,

My

sickness is not discerned.

To

tell me "She is here" would revive me!

I glanced around to see a mixture of horror and revulsion and sadness on the faces gathered in the little cottage. "Egyptian love poems often used the terms 'brother' and 'sister' when referring to lovers," I finished. "But Redwall meant them quite literally. He must have begun his seduction of Ailith even before he returned home from Egypt. She was his golden goddess, his sister-queen, and to his mind, she was his only worthy consort."

"Madness," Portia breathed.

"But it is true, isn't it, Mrs. Butters? It makes sense, really. They were always together, thick as thieves when they were children. Only the Allenby pride, twisted to madness by now, would not let them marry outside of their own blood. And Redwall began to study Egyptology. There was a strong precedent there for fraternal marriage. The gods did it, and so did the pharaohs. Cleopatra married two of her brothers. It was a means of keeping the blood pure and the power within the family. And so these two beautiful, mad individuals came together and conceived a pair of twins."

"Yes, it is true," Hilda said, opening her eyes slowly. She rose and came to the table, moving as stiffly as an old woman. Godwin stood and she took his seat, leaving him to stand next to the fireplace. She began to speak, and it was akin to watching a purge. The words flowed out, slowly at first, then faster as she released them.

"They were lovers. I saw them at it once, at the chapel by the river. They had always been close, and when he left for Egypt, Ailith was the one he wrote to every week, without fail. I do not know if it was the distance that blunted him to the fact she was his sister, or if it was his illness."

"His illness?" Portia prompted softly.

"Malaria. He contracted a virulent form of it," Brisbane put in. "He was dosing himself with quinine, massive amounts."

"Oughtn't that to have made him better?" Portia inquired.

"Not the amount he was taking. The cure can be worse than the ailment. He was already suffering from a touch of deafness and spells of dizziness, as well as hallucinations. I warned Lord Evandale that he wasn't to be trusted in that state. Lord Evandale sent his doctors, but Redwall would have none of it. He was too far sunk into his depravity by then."

"It was a pretext," Hilda put in bitterly. "An excuse for him to do what he liked. Mama indulged him so, and Ailith did as well. Only I saw him for what he truly was—a monster. But I never imagined that there might have been children. It is too horrible to be believed."

She lapsed into silence, and I resumed the thread of my narrative. "I wonder if Ailith was horrified when she realised she was going to bear a child? Perhaps it had all been a dream to her, something not entirely real, a bit of play-acting. A romance of sorts for a girl with a romantic imagination who had never had a lover. And then she knew she would have to tell her mother what had happened."

"She was not horrified," Mrs. Butters corrected, her chin quivering with indignation. "She was proud, proud as the devil she was. She actually thought her mother would understand. She and Redwall went to her hand in hand. They wanted to go right away together, to start anew and pass themselves off as man and wife. Lady Allenby persuaded them to stay. She told them Ailith would require nursing after the birth, and tha' she was the one best suited to do so discreetly."

"But she did not approve, did she?" I asked.

Mrs. Butters shook her head. "Tha' was when her religion became an obsession with her. She prayed for hours on her knees, until sores opened and when she could no longer kneel, she lay right on the floor before the Crucifix. She never said, but I think she was praying for God to take the child before it was born. She shut Ailith in her room and told everyone she had taken a bad chill and must not be disturbed. And every day she went on her knees to beg God to intervene. Ailith delivered twins, healthy, beautiful children. It must have seemed to Lady Allenby as if God himself had forsaken her. But she knew what she had to do."

Mrs. Butters paused in her story, looking into the depths of her teacup. "She took the babies from Ailith. She told her they must be cleaned before they could be swaddled. And she carried them out to the pond and drowned them, praying over them all the while. Then she took them back inside and dried them and gave them to Redwall. She told him sometimes healthy babies die for no reason. He were out of his mind with grief and sickness. He would believe anything she told him. He wanted to preserve them forever. He began to mummify them."

She nodded toward Godwin. "You knew. Ailith had been able to hide her pregnancy for a very long time. She favoured those wide, old-fashioned skirts, she did. But at the end, you knew she was carrying. You're a clever lad and you've seen enough ewes at lambing to know what breeding looks like.

You listened at doors and peered in windows as well, and you knew what had happened. You went to Redwall and Redwall promised you a sum of money to be quiet, did he not? He also promised to leave you the farm in his will," she added.

"A promise he didn't keep," Godwin put in, his face flushing.

"Did you know about the children, Godwin?" I asked him. I thought of Ailith's insistence that he had been there, but she had said quite distinctly that "she" had taken her babies. I wondered which version was the truth. Godwin's eyes held mine for a long moment, then he nodded.

"Aye. And I would not have thought it possible, but Redwall hated me the more for it. The thieving bastard would have cheated me. He meant to take the gardener's cottage from me, told me so just before he died. He would have turned me out to starve if he'd lived."

Minna, completely unconscious of the fact that her betrothed had just confessed a very sturdy motive for murder, patted his arm consolingly.

I turned suddenly to Brisbane. "Did you know whose children they were?"

He fixed me with a steady look from those deep black eyes. "When I saw the amulets together, I knew."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded, but he said nothing more. His quarrel with the Allenbys was long and deep and he had done his best to keep me at a remove from it. Perhaps he had meant to use the information against Ailith, I surmised, or perhaps he simply had not decided what to do with it.

"She knew you meant her harm," I told him. "That is why she poisoned you. It was not Lady Allenby at all. With one stroke, she thought to remove you and see her own mother hanged for the crime. A perfect revenge upon you both."

"Except that I did not die," Brisbane said softly.

"No, you survived, and in an unexpected act of clemency, you did not turn Lady Allenby over to the authorities. You sent her to a convent," I finished.

"For her own protection," Brisbane said. "Ailith planned to destroy us both, and her initial plan would have done it. Once she was thwarted, there was no telling what she might do. If Ailith Allenby was so determined to see her mother hanged, then she would likely try again. I had to get her straight away from Grimsgrave. That left Ailith only one victim to vent her wrath upon."

I stared at him, scarcely comprehending his carelessness. "You rage at me, but you are without a doubt the most headstrong, wilful, obstinate, reckless man I have ever known."

Brisbane did not rise to the bait. He merely shrugged, wincing a little at his stitched ribs. "She had to try, and she did today on Thorn Crag. I had not expected a direct attack, and my failure to anticipate her nearly cost Valerius his life."

"She might have poisoned you again!" I pointed out, aghast.

"Not likely, my lady," Minna chimed in. She was still holding Godwin's hand, stroking it gently. "Mr. Brisbane did ask me to prepare all of his food from a store I was to keep locked in the pantry. I was never to leave it unattended for a minute, and if I stepped away, I was to throw it out and boil an egg for him instead. Eggs is hard to tamper with," she said sagely. Then she gave a sheepish little smile. "Poor Mr. Brisbane has eat a lot of eggs recently."

Brisbane gave her a warm smile. "You did very well, Minna," he told her, and the girl blushed deeply.

I felt a surge of anger and battered it down. It was maddening that he had entrusted himself to Minna and not to me, but given my complete uselessness in the kitchen, it was probably all for the best.

"What happened today on Thorn Crag?" Portia asked.

Brisbane did not look at me. He stared into his cup as he replied, his words clipped. "Valerius came to Thorn Crag to speak with me. He wanted to discuss a private matter and thought we would not be overheard there. It was pure bad luck he was still there when Ailith arrived. She attacked him with a rock, leaving him unconscious. Then she came at me with a knife she had taken from Redwall's collection, an Egyptian embalmer's knife," he clarified.

He reached into his pocket and drew it out, laying it in the centre of the table. Light gleamed off the black obsidian blade. There were gods and goddesses wrought in small gold figures on the grip, with a chain of images set within a cartouche. It looked like something one might use to practise the dark arts, and I turned away.

"Julia arrived just as I disarmed Ailith and she fell from the crag," Brisbane finished smoothly. He flicked me a significant look, then let his gaze slide away. I opened my mouth, then closed it sharply.

"Miss Ailith fell?" Mrs. Butters asked.

"Miss Ailith fell," I told her, my voice ringing certain.

* * *

The process of moving us all back to Grimsgrave in the rain was slow and torturous. Valerius had roused a little, and taken some broth. Rosalie offered the use of the cottage to nurse him, but we decided it would be more comfortable and suitable for everyone if he were removed to the Hall. John-the-Baptist was dispatched to the Gypsy encampment to secure horses and willing hands. They came, a dozen Roma men, dressed in high boots and checked neckerchiefs, leading glossy horses whose tails and manes were plaited with silken ribbons that hung limp with the rain.

I glanced around just as we left the cottage to find Brisbane. I watched as he mounted a borrowed horse in one fluid motion. He caught my eye then, and held my gaze for a long moment. Then he turned his mount in the direction of Thorn Crag and kicked it hard in the flank. Portia prodded me then as we moved to the horses the Roma had provided for us.

"Where is Brisbane going?"

I did not meet her eyes. "Someone has to bring Ailith home," I told her.

I turned away then and John-the-Baptist laced his fingers to provide me a mounting block. I hefted myself onto the back of a sweet little piebald mare and turned her head toward Grimsgrave.

We must have looked a mad sort of parade as we rode slowly back to the Hall, a motley crew of injured and heartsick. The Gypsies, always superstitious about matters relating to death, were sombre and said little. From time to time I searched a face, wondering if any of these were cousins or uncles of Brisbane's. Here and there I caught a resemblance, in the curve of a high cheekbone or the imperious profile. John-the-Baptist rode next to me, keeping one hand on my bridle and a careful eye upon my face. I must have given him cause for worry because he heaved a great sigh of relief when he helped me to dismount in the forecourt of Grimsgrave.

He pressed my cold hands, startling me with his sudden gesture. "You will be fine now, lady. You are safe here."

I looked up at the bleak façade of the Hall, then at the dark waters of the pond, and shook my head. "I do not think I will ever feel safe here. This is a house of too many secrets and too much pain."

He smiled his gentle smile, his moustaches curving upward. "Lady, a house is merely stones. And this house holds no horrors now."

I did not believe him, but I smiled to be polite and thanked him for his kindness. He ducked his head. For an instant I thought I detected the faintest trace of a blush staining his cheek. But darkness had fallen, and in the fitful light it was impossible to tell.

He mounted his horse again and whistled to his kinsmen. Two of them had carried Valerius inside and they returned, taking up the reins of the spare horses. They rode off then, saying nothing, but lifting their hands in farewell.

Hilda had hurried inside with Mrs. Butters to attend to Val, and Portia and I were left quite alone in the suddenly empty forecourt. My sister put her arm about me in an unusual and welcome gesture of affection.

"I cannot believe you and Hilda were stupid enough to trail a murderess to Thorn Crag," she scolded. "You might have been killed."

"We had no choice," I said simply. "She meant to kill Brisbane and very nearly Val as well. There was no time to bring help."

We moved slowly into the hall.

"I still cannot believe it. She was such an odd, fey creature, at times reserved and elegant and at others almost childlike," Portia said.

"And cunning," I pointed out. "It was she who gave me the journals her brother kept in Egypt. She knew I would eventually recognise the photograph of Brisbane and deduce that he had been responsible for Redwall's disgrace. Perhaps she thought I would leave then, go back to London and leave the field clear for her to murder Brisbane at her leisure."

I gave a great shudder and Portia herded me upstairs as I talked, giving Morag quick instructions and seeing me safely into bed. Morag asked no questions, but I knew from her expression she would expect a full disclosure of the day's events the next morning. She brought up a cup of hot milk with honey and left us alone again. Portia fussed with bedwarmers and stoking up the fire before she drew up a chair and made me finish my tale.

"What happened after Redwall mummified the children?" she demanded.

"He planned to sell the estate and raise more funds, perhaps to leave with Ailith after all, but he died before he could do so. Lady Allenby and her daughters were left with the house, but no money at all to keep it. They were forced to sell it, and most of the furnishings and art. Only Redwall's collection was kept."

"I wonder why?" Portia mused.

I yawned broadly. "Sentimental value? Or guilt perhaps? We shall never know…." My voice trailed off then.

"Sleep now, Julia. I will go and sit with Valerius. If there is any news, I will come."

I wanted to nod, but my head was far too heavy. I thought I felt the brush of lips to my brow. Before I could respond, I fell fast asleep.

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

We must not make a scarecrow of the law.

—William Shakespeare

Measure for Measure

I rose sometime later, when the fire had fallen to cold grey ash and the moon had risen high above the crag. I could just make out the cool white glow of it, though the rain still fell softly against the windowpane. I slipped my arms into my dressing gown, tiptoeing silently down the stairs.

The door to Brisbane's room was ajar, as though he expected me.

"You ought to be abed," I told Brisbane. He was stretched out upon his bed, book in hand, still dressed, even to his mud-splashed boots and his uncle's shirt.

He laid aside the book.

"I cannot sleep," he said simply. A glass full of amber liquid stood on the mantel and he rose and took a deep draught of it.

I put out my hand. "Whisky?"

"From my great-uncle Aberdour's personal stock," he said, handing me his glass. I took a long sip, feeling its shocking warmth clear down to my toes.

"God bless the Duke of Aberdour," I said faintly. I handed the glass back to him and he finished it off.

"Where did you put her?" I asked. His knuckles were white against the glass.

"The inn. That is where the inquest will be held, so it seemed the simplest." He flicked me a glance. "You will have to give evidence. I am sorry for it, but there does not seem to be a way around it."

I folded my hands together. "Very well. I am sure it will not be so very terrible. We will say she fell, since that is the story we have already told. It will save a verdict of suicide being returned, and she will be buried in hallowed ground. Perhaps that will give her mother some comfort."

Brisbane stared at me, his black eyes wide. "You are the most singular woman I have ever met. You threw yourself at a murderess today and yet there you sit, cool as a duchess, calmly plotting to perjure yourself in front of a coroner's jury."

"What would you have me do? You are the one who said she fell. If that was not the story you wanted told, you ought not to have told it," I pointed out waspishly.

He shook his head and poured out another measure of whisky. "You really do not understand, do you? You have been so insulated from the world you do not have the faintest notion what the jury will make of you."

I blinked at him. "Of me? Why should they make anything of me? I am simply Julia Grey."

He gave a short, sharp laugh. "Simply Julia Grey." He downed the whisky in one go, clearing his throat as he put down the glass. He folded his arms over his chest, gingerly, so as not to pull at his stitches.

"Julia, you have broken almost every convention known to society. You are a widow, yet you do not wear black. I am a bachelor, yet you stayed as a guest in my home without a chaperone. You were alone with me on the crag when Ailith died. Read that, with the worst possible construction, because that is what the jury will do."

I considered it for a moment, then shook my head. "Nonsense. I realise it looks bad, but when they understand that Valerius was here—"

"Valerius was not here," he corrected. "Not for a matter of days. Neither was Portia. And if they have a mind to question her character as a witness, how long do you think it will be before they discover her relationship with Jane?"

"Oh, that needn't be a problem. Jane is gone. She left Portia to marry some man she met in London. She is off to India."

"That is beside the point," he said, grinding his teeth. "She is a woman of known immoral habits, that is what they will say. Do you want that in the newspapers?"

"They wouldn't dare," I whispered.

"Julia, you are not in the south. Your father's title carries little weight here. He cannot simply come in and fix everything up for you as he always does."

I bristled. "Father doesn't always fix everything up, thank you very much. I do make some rather good decisions."

Brisbane passed a hand over his face, fighting fatigue and frustration, no doubt.

"The March name is not hallowed here. He cannot head off the damage that might be done. Only I can," he finished softly.

"You? What can you do?"

He stared at me for a long moment, and when he spoke, his words were weighted, as if he had chosen each one with exquisite care.

"In order to protect your character—and your sister's—we will have to present a fiction to the jury. We will have to pretend to be betrothed."

I said nothing.

"We will say there was opposition from your family because of my low birth and my connections with trade. Your brother and sister came to lend respectability to the match in spite of your father's disapproval. We will tell them we meant to marry when the Hall was restored to order, only there was more work than we had anticipated. We had fixed the date for next week and were preparing to elope to Scotland. We will say Ailith suggested a picnic luncheon on the crag to celebrate our impending nuptials, but the weather turned foul and when we went to descend, she slipped and fell. It was a tragic accident, and that is all."

"What about Hilda?" I asked faintly.

"Hilda will do anything to keep the true story from becoming known."

I tipped my head. "You are rather fond of her, aren't you?"

Brisbane shrugged. "She is alone and defenceless, and she is as much a victim of this bloody family as those babies in the coffin."

I suppressed a smile. "I knew it. I knew you could never really harm a defenceless woman. You are the most virtuous man I know."

He sputtered. "Virtuous? I cannot think that that is a word that I have ever heard in relationship to my character. You are quite mad."

"I am not," I said stoutly. "I am perfectly serious."

"Julia," he began patiently, "there are certain expectations of behaviour in every civilized society. The fact that I observe them does not make me virtuous. It makes me no better than the next man."

"Rubbish. What virtue is there in a man who demonstrates goodness because he has been bred to it? It is his habit from youth. But a man who has known unkindness and want, for him to be kind and charitable to those who have been the cause of his misfortunes, that is a virtuous man."

He shook his head, wonderingly. "You are a singular woman, Julia Grey. You persist in seeing me as the man you want me to be."

"No," I corrected him. "I see you as the man you want to be."

He looked away sharply and took another sip of his whisky. "Thank you for that."

I primmed my mouth. "Yes, well." We both fell silent for a moment until I cleared my throat and wiped at my eyes. I assumed a brisk tone. "And what of your escapades on the moor? Surely you do not expect me to believe you were really playing at being a sheep farmer. What were you about at all hours, creeping about on the moor and receiving secret correspondence?" I asked, reminding him of the letter he had sealed so secretively in my presence.

"Mines," Brisbane said shortly. "There is still silver and lead under this land, I know it."

I quirked a brow and he pulled a face.

"Very well," he said. "I do not know. It is merely an intuition, but it springs from sound logic. Romans mined here, and there are traces of where they worked, if you know how to look for it. I instructed Monk and he set himself up in Howlett Magna as a visiting schoolmaster, complete with false whiskers. That way he had an identity established to account for being in the neighbourhood. We met once a week upon Thorn Crag or at the Bear's Hut to discuss our findings."

I stared at him, mouth agape. "That is astonishingly clever. But why the secrecy?"

Brisbane shrugged. "I did not want the village to know what we were about. If we found a mine, it would have put half the village back to work. It seemed cruel to raise their hopes only to dash them. Not only cruel, dangerous. They nearly stoned the Allenby who closed the mines, remember." His mouth shifted into a grin. "You gave poor Monk quite a fright when you arrived, you know. He spotted you across the street and dove into a linen-draper's lest you recognise him and give it all away."

I thought back to the odd elderly man with the curious limp I had seen in Howlett Magna.

"So there are no mines?"

"None that we have found," he said, his tone regretful. "And the estate itself has no resources beyond three sheep."

"Three sheep? You and Godwin spend every day out of doors looking after three sheep?"

He gave me a grim smile. "I needed a plausible reason to be away from the Hall," he said. "And Godwin doesn't want me to know that he has been systematically selling off the sheep to put something by should I turn him out."

"Thievery!" I breathed.

Brisbane shrugged. "I can hardly blame him. I would have done precisely the same under the circumstances. He has not been paid in three years, you know. So I pretended to believe there were more sheep on the moor and to spend my days looking for them. I could hardly tell you that Monk and I were searching for traces of Roman mines. We took it in turns to sit upon the crag, surveying the moor with a glass, both of us careful to keep out of Godwin's way. It was highly methodical and perfectly useless," he finished in disgust. He gestured toward the little flasks and bottles of his scientific equipment. "I have even experimented with the soil, and still we cannot find precisely where the veins rest under the moor. We have been so close."

I thought of the day I had sought Brisbane on the crag and wondered if he was quite alone. Monk must have been there then, comparing observations with Brisbane in their futile quest.

"All these months," I sympathised, "and nothing to show for it."

"Yes, well, it doesn't much matter now, does it?" He paused, as if marshalling his thoughts. "You did not answer me."

"About what?" I blinked at him.

"About pretending to be my fiancée," he said in exasperation. "Will you do it?"

I fought the urge to sob. It hardly seemed fair that I was being asked to pretend to be his fiancée when he might have proposed to me outright and been able to tell the truth to the coroner's jury.

I swallowed hard and smoothed out the skirts of my dressing gown. "As you have made it clear you are acting out of the noblest concern for my own reputation and that of my sister, it would be churlish of me to refuse," I said formally.

He inclined his head, matching my coolness with a dispassionate chill of his own. "Good. If we mean to make this plausible, we should tell no one it is a fabrication."

"You mean I have to lie to Portia and Valerius."

"They will forgive you when the truth comes out," he said dismissively. "After all, it is for their own good."

At that moment I felt an overwhelming urge to throw something heavy at his head. I left him instead. Maiming him would be a very poor start to our betrothal, sham or not.

* * *

I lingered in bed the next morning, nursing my physical ailments and hiding from my sister. A spectacular violet bruise had blossomed across my ribs from the blow struck by Ailith's knife against my corset. Morag helped me to dress, buttoning me into the only ensemble I owned that did not require a corset. It was a casual affair of bottle-green velvet, more suited to entertaining privately at home than being seen in public, but it was the best I could manage under the circumstances.

She told me Valerius had been awake for hours and had taken a nice bowl of beef tea and cursed Portia for fixing a fresh bandage too tightly about his head. In defiance of convention, Hilda had sat with him through the night and had finally retired to her own bed for some needed rest.

Morag said nothing of my erstwhile betrothal so I judged the story had not yet made its way belowstairs. My sister was another story altogether. No sooner had I seated myself at the table for breakfast than she pushed away her empty plate and fixed me with a sour smile.

"I hear congratulations are in order. Shall I buy you a wedding present? What would you like? A nice set of fruit knives, perhaps?"

Mrs. Butters bustled over with a plate of piping hot eggs and bacon, a rack of crisp toast, and a steaming pot of tea. Jetty was weeping quietly into her apron in the corner. Apparently, she had taken the news of Godwin's betrothal to Minna rather hard.

I took my first exquisite bite of breakfast and savoured it before turning to Portia.

"Don't let's be peevish. You always thought Brisbane and I would make a match of it."

"Yes, well, I didn't think you would be so furtive about the whole business. Brisbane said you have had an understanding since he left Bellmont just before Christmas."

My mind whipped back to that last moment, full of unspoken yearning, when we knew we would not see one another for a long time, if ever. I thought of what he had said to me, his lips against my hair, and what he had told me later still, when he lingered at the door. A woman could easily interpret such things as declarations, I reasoned, although I knew perfectly well if Brisbane ever proposed there would be no need for interpretation. He would be forthright as a bull in his intentions.

"Don't sulk, Portia. You've a nasty crease, right between your eyes. It's aging," I added maliciously.

Instantly she brightened. "Still, I think you might have told me. When do you mean to marry?"

I shoved another forkful of food into my mouth to buy myself a moment. "We have not really discussed it," I told her.

"I should think sooner rather than later," she told me sagely. "Neither of you is very young, after all."

"I am only thirty!" I protested.

"And Brisbane is nearly forty. If he means to settle down and start a family, he ought to get to it."

I shoved my plate away, feeling rather desperate to turn the conversation to another topic, any other topic.

"Mrs. Butters, what perfect eggs. So light, I cannot imagine how you do it."

Mrs. Butters, who had been lingering discreetly in the background, came near with a fresh rack of toast. Portia took a piece and began to break it to bits in a desultory fashion. Mrs. Butters beamed at me.

"Thank you, Lady Julia. I have always taken great pride in my eggs."

"With excellent reason," I said, giving her a grateful smile.

Portia, who had been lost in thought, perked up suddenly. "Mrs. Butters, will you stay on now that Lady Julia is going to be mistress of Grimsgrave?"

I groaned, but neither of them paid me any mind.

"I should think Lady Julia would be an excellent mistress," Mrs. Butters said kindly. "But perhaps she would care to engage her own staff."

I smiled at her again. "Mrs. Butters, you are tact incarnate. And pay no attention to my sister. No firm plans have been made at present. Nothing will be decided until after the inquest," I told them both, taking in Portia with a glance.

Portia gestured toward an empty chair. "Mrs. Butters, I should very much like you to take a cup of tea with us."

Mrs. Butters demurred, as any good servant would, but eventually Portia's powers of persuasion won out over her diffidence. She retrieved a plain cup, not a prettily flowered one such as those that had been laid for us, and poured out a tiny measure of tea, sweetening it heavily.

"Toast?" Portia offered, graciously waving toward the toast rack.

Mrs. Butters shook her head firmly. "I could not, my lady. Really."

Portia accepted this refusal and pushed no further.

"Now then, Mrs. Butters, I am very interested in Miss Ailith. There are unanswered questions, you know. And I think you can supply the answers."

I smothered another groan and took a sip of tea instead. How like Portia to go directly to the horse's mouth, no matter how discomfited the horse.

"Well," Mrs. Butters began slowly, "a servant does see rather a lot. And I have been here a very long time."

Portia nodded, beaming. "Precisely. And a valued member of staff is practically one of the family."

She was pouring on the cream rather thickly now with that sort of flattery, but Mrs. Butters merely gave her a muted version of her old twinkle and sipped at her tea.

"When did you realise there was an unnatural closeness between Miss Ailith and her brother?"

"Portia!" I scolded. "Is that really necessary?"

Portia flapped her hand at me. "Really, Julia, don't be so provincial. Mrs. Butters and I are women of the world. We can discuss such things without embarrassment, can we not, Mrs. Butters?"

Mrs. Butters was thoughtful. "I think it was always there, that attachment. Even when they were children, there was something secretive and strange about them. Miss Wilfreda, she was as plain as milk and easy to read as an open book. Miss Hilda was much the same, but she was smart as a whip, and always fretting that she could not go to school. Always hidden away somewhere with a book, she was. But Miss Ailith, she was wild as moor wind and Master Redwall was just the same. Whatever she directed him to do, he did. He was her slave."

I cocked my head, curious now, in spite of myself. "Do you mean Ailith initiated the relationship, not Redwall?"

Mrs. Butters shrugged. "I do not suppose we will ever know. But I would not be tha' surprised. I know she was deeply in love with him. She never forgave Lady Allenby for sending him away."

"But she must have realised, she must have known, what they did together was terribly wrong," I protested.

"Did she? Miss Ailith always believed there was another set of rules for her, if indeed there were any rules besides her own will. She took what she liked, and when she was done with it, she destroyed it. That was the sort of person she was."

Mrs. Butters' eyes grew misty with remembrance. "She loved the little chapel by the river. I think that might have been where those poor babies were conceived. It was Miss Ailith's special place, you know. It was like a tiny palace, and she liked to pretend she was a queen in the ruins of it. Yes, it would have done very well for their trysts."

I shuddered. "She was monstrous."

"Perhaps," Mrs. Butters said evenly. "She might have been born with a flaw in her character, like a pulled thread in fine piece of silk. Never able to be mended, no matter how much one tries. Or she might have been flawless, and twisted by human hands."

"Her mother's," Portia added.

"And her father's, and her brother's as well. Too many people too willing to acquiesce to her every whim. Such indulgence can warp even the best character, while hammering against a strong character will only hone it to its truest self," Mrs. Butters observed.

I thought of Brisbane, bashed and knocked by every circumstance life could throw at him, and I thought of the man he had become in spite of the trials he had suffered. And then Ailith Allenby, with such natural advantages and a cosseted upbringing, would have been the agent of his destruction if she could have managed it.

But I dared not say those things aloud. There were too many stories circulating at present, and none of them was the whole truth. The jury at the inquest would be given no hint that anything at Grimsgrave had been amiss. A simple, tragic accident, they would call it, and the case would be closed.

The inhabitants of the Hall knew better. They knew Ailith's character, and they knew she had intended harm when she set off for the crag. She had hurt Valerius, almost mortally, and attacked Brisbane and myself before falling to her death. Only Brisbane and I knew the full truth, and it was a secret we would hold between us.

As so often happens with my sister, she intuited my thoughts and asked the question I had been hoping would slip her mind.

"Why would Ailith want to kill Brisbane? First the poisoned mushrooms, then following him to the crag? It makes no sense."

Mrs. Butters looked at me, but I let my gaze slide away as I forked up another bit of breakfast.

"She wanted to be revenged upon her mother for the loss of her children. We discussed that yesterday," I said easily, passing smoothly over the true motive, the motive I had not even discussed with Brisbane yet, but the reason I believed to be the truth. "Lady Allenby was usually the one who prepared the bottled mushrooms. It would be an easy matter to convince a jury that her mother had wanted to dispose of Brisbane in order to regain control of her property, or some such nonsense. Believe me, Ailith would have given testimony to some plausible motive while weeping crocodile tears over her mother's fate."

"I wonder if Lady Allenby did kill Redwall," Portia mused. "I asked Valerius about quinine this morning. He shouted a bit because his head hurt, but he did say that if Redwall had already been dosing himself heavily with the stuff, it would have been an easy matter to strengthen the dose to a fatal one."

"Madness," I muttered. "I cannot believe that elegant old woman was capable of murdering her own son." But even as I said it, I realised I did believe it. She had taken bold, drastic action when Ailith delivered a pair of incestuous, illegitimate twins. What else might she have been prepared to do to prevent sin and scandal from polluting the atmosphere of her home?

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

The gods are just.

—William Shakespeare

King Lear

The inquest proceeded precisely as Brisbane had predicted. The coroner and the men of his jury journeyed out to the crag to see for themselves the location of Ailith Allenby's death. Then they retired to The Hanging Tree to view the body and conduct the inquisition of the witnesses.

Brisbane was called first, and must have made a tremendous impression upon them. He had dressed carefully in sombre black, but for him the choice was not merely appropriately doleful. Black always lent him an elegant authority, and coupled with his skin, still pale beneath its olive cast, and his imperious black gaze, he was a formidable witness. He took great care when he moved not to betray any sign of the wound he had sustained to his ribs, moving with all the grave dignity of an elder statesman and bearing a striking resemblance to Grim. I noticed that he had permitted a lock of hair to tumble over his brow, neatly obscuring the thin cut from Ailith Allenby's knife. I was not permitted to hear him give testimony, and I waited in the upper sitting room alone, twisting my gloves into knots as I listened to the low rumble of masculine voices rising and falling through the floorboards at my feet.

At length there was a scratch at the door and the coroner himself appeared. He was an elderly man, with great flyaway tufts of candy floss white hair and the most impressive set of eyebrows I had ever seen. His manner was gentle and very kindly, and he put me in mind of a country parson.

He gave me a rheumy smile and nodded as I rose.

"Lady Julia Grey? Née March?"

"I am she," I said, my voice holding steady. I put out my hand and he took it in both of his. I offered him a chair next to mine and we settled ourselves. He watched me from under those spectacular brows for a long moment, so long in fact that I wondered if he had fallen asleep. But then he cleared his throat and came to the point.

"My dear, I have never approved of the questioning of ladies when it can possibly be avoided. Now, if you will disclose to me what you meant to tell the jury, I will confirm to them that Mr. Brisbane's testimony has been corroborated, and there will be no necessity for you to display yourself before the gentlemen of the jury."

I smoothed my skirts, hardly knowing how to reply. "I am not afraid to do my duty, sir. I am perfectly willing to be questioned before the jury."

He shook his head, wisps of untidy white hair fluttering about his ears. "Oh, no. I would want no granddaughter of mine forced to such an exigency, and I will not ask it of a granddaughter of Mercutio March."

I stared at him, a slow smile spreading over my face. "You knew Grandpapa."

He nodded. "We were at Eton together. Such a character, he was. Oh, he ought to have been too grand to notice the likes of me. He was already the earl, and in command of a great estate. I was sent there on charity subscriptions and wore third-hand clothes. But he stopped me being flogged by one of the older boys, and I never forgot it."

He paused, smiling at his recollections. "I saw him once, many years later, in London. He was riding past in his carriage, a grand equipage it was, with footmen and plumed horses and his coat of arms blazoned on the door. I was standing on the kerb, waiting to cross. I would never have presumed to make myself known to him, but he knew me. He made the driver stop the carriage and leapt out to embrace me and call me friend."

He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his moist eyes. "He called me friend, Mercutio March, the earl. And I made up my mind that I would never allow any opportunity to do him or his family good pass me by."

"I see," I said, folding my hands in my lap.

"Now, I understand Mr. Brisbane is your betrothed?"

"Yes," I said, my throat going suddenly dry.

"Then we may assume that whatever he told us is what you yourself witnessed and are prepared to swear to?"

"Yes," I affirmed.

"Ailith Allenby fell from Thorn Crag?"

"Ailith Allenby fell from Thorn Crag," I echoed.

"And there is no question of suicide?" he asked. I hesitated and he went on, quite oblivious to my pause. "I dearly hope not. Suicide is a dirty and desperate business. One never likes to have a verdict of suicide returned."

I was struck then by how he had phrased his last question and I gave him a gracious smile and squared my shoulders. "No, sir. There is no question in my mind whether Ailith Allenby committed suicide or not."

He beamed at me and reached out to pat my hand. "Very good. Now I have only to tell the gentlemen that you have corroborated Mr. Brisbane's story, and there will be no need for you to be questioned." He paused. "I do hope you will not think me too forward, but I hope you have had that cut on your cheek attended to. It would be a shame for so lovely a face to be marked."

I put a hand to my cheek, brushing one gloved fingertip over the souvenir of that fateful day on Thorn Crag.

"Not at all," I told him, smiling. "You are very kind."

He was quite pink to the tips of his ears, and it occurred to me that he was really rather flirtatious.

He rose and bowed deeply. "Thank you, my dear lady. You have been most helpful."

He scurried out then, after several more protestations of goodwill and gratitude on his part, and I was left alone, staring into the fire and reflecting that Brisbane had been quite wrong: even here, in the wilds of Yorkshire, the March name still carried the day.

The coroner's jury had business yet, and I waited upstairs for Brisbane. A few minutes after the coroner left me, there was another scratch at the door, this time it was Miss Jerusha Earnshaw bearing a tea tray. I exclaimed in surprised pleasure to see her.

"Miss Earnshaw! I thought you would have returned to your employer's house by now."

She placed the tea carefully on the little table at my elbow and gave me a rueful smile. "I am afraid my mistress is rather given to the habit of gossip. She read about Miss Allenby's death in the newspapers and wants me to stay until the inquest is finished and I can provide her with the most complete story."

The words were correct, but there was a thread of disapproval. Jerusha Earnshaw might not mind sharing a titbit or two with me, but she did not much care for gossiping with her mistress.

I looked at the tea tray, puzzled. "There is only one cup. Don't you mean to join me?"

Her mouth was prim. "I would not dream of imposing, Lady Julia."

"Don't be silly. Go and fetch another cup. I would be glad of the company. If you like," I finished feebly, realising how imperious I had sounded.

But if I had been bossy, Miss Earnshaw did not mind. "I will be but a moment."

She fetched another cup and returned swiftly. I motioned for her to pour out and she did so with the same deft economy of motion I had come to expect of her. Her gestures, like her words and even her clothing, were just right, never too bold or too retiring. She was an unusually comfortable person to be around, an invaluable quality in a member of staff. For a moment I regretted not having children merely because I could not engage her.

"Miss Earnshaw, I confess, I had an ulterior motive for inviting you to take tea with me, beyond the pleasure of your company."

She did not seem at all surprised. "You want information."

"What makes you say that?"

She sipped placidly at her tea, and very good tea it was. Indian, with broad black leaves instead of the weedy dust that is so often used instead.

"You are a naturally curious person, Lady Julia, if you will forgive the observation."

"Oh, entirely," I told her, reaching for a scone.

"And the last time we spoke, I sensed a certain frustration. I think you would have liked to have asked me more, but you were hampered by the presence of Lady Bettiscombe."

"Miss Earnshaw, you are a witch. I adore my sister, but there is some business too private even to share with her."

She offered me a subtle smile. "I am, to the public eye, a miner's daughter from a thoroughly insignificant village in Yorkshire with an indifferent education. I would never have risen to the position I now occupy without learning first the complementary skills of observation and discretion."

One could make a similar comment about Brisbane, I reflected. "Very well, I wish to know things."

We settled in for a chat then, and I asked her many questions. Some answers she knew, others we were forced to cobble together from bits and pieces she had collected over the years. In the end, I believe we pieced together a fair representation of what had happened so many years ago in her little village, what ghosts had been raised, and which ones still walked their uneasy path.

"Thank you, Miss Earnshaw," I said at length. "You have been most helpful. If there is ever anything I can do for you—"

Her gaze sharpened, and I smiled. "Ask."

"Well, I have put a bit of money aside. I mean to open a school for young ladies. Not a finishing school, but a proper school where girls may learn mathematics and the hard sciences as well as dancing and deportment. I realise it is a radical proposition, but if your ladyship could perhaps mention it to a friend or two, should they have daughters to educate…"

She trailed off hopefully. I waved a hand. "It would be my pleasure. In fact, I would be happy to write a general letter of recommendation. You may use it in your advertisements, for whatever it is worth."

She thanked me effusively, and I thanked her again for the tea and the conversation, and I think we both parted feeling quite kindly disposed toward the other. I was waiting alone by the time Brisbane finally came to collect me. He looked exhausted, his face drawn with fatigue.

"Are you ready?"

I rose at once and collected my things. "Of course."

"Thank God," he said fervently. "I want to get the hell out of here."

Brisbane's language was frequently inappropriate, but there was an urgency to his tone that I had not often seen before. His pace was rapid as well, and by the time we reached the path to Grimsgrave, he was nearly a dozen steps ahead.

I stopped by the stone wall and waited. After half a minute he realised I had not kept pace and returned to fetch me, clearly battling his temper.

"I am sorry," he ground out through clenched teeth. "I did not mean to rush you. I want to get back to Grimsgrave."

"Quite all right," I told him with a smile. He offered his arm very civilly and I took it. He matched his steps to mine with great deliberation, and as we walked I felt the tension ebbing from him. The fresh moorland air blowing about seemed to clear the cobwebs and the anger away. The muscles under my hand relaxed, and the tightness at his jaw eased.

"I was rather surprised at not having to testify," I began.

He snorted. "Yes, well, it seems I underestimated the power of the March name."

I shrugged. "It is an illusion, really. People think it means something to be the daughter of an earl, so they treat you differently. And then you come to expect it, and they think it is because you are an earl's daughter, and really it's only because you have always been treated differently that you expect it in the first place."

Brisbane shook his head. "That is the most convoluted piece of logic I have ever heard."

"No, it isn't. And you are capable of some rather twisty logic yourself."

"Such as?" He quirked one glossy black brow in my direction.

"Such as permitting a would-be murderess to remain under your roof to attempt your life again just so she could be caught in the act. You seem to have entirely forgot that she might well have succeeded," I pointed out acidly.

He shrugged. "Oh, that. I took precautions, you know. I am not completely helpless."

"No, but you are reckless, as headstrong as any member of my family. I daresay it is bad breeding. The Aberdours always were rather flamboyant."

"And my mother's people," he put in. "Not exactly the reticent sort."

"True," I agreed. "They are a singular people. I quite like your aunt and uncle. Tell me, is Rosalie very like your mother?"

It was the first time I had raised the spectre of Brisbane's mother in conversation. He answered, but only after a moment, and his voice was low.

"Yes, I suppose she is. Same colouring, same graceful gestures. But there was something otherworldly about my mother. Rosalie is as plain as salt, for all that she is a Gypsy."

The fact that Brisbane could have described Rosalie thus was an excellent indication of his upbringing. Rosalie Smith was one of the most exotic creatures I had ever known. Mariah Young must have been something out of myth.

We walked on in silence for a moment, but his arm was tense again under mine.

"Portia asked me why Ailith was so determined to kill you," I began conversationally. "I told her it was because she meant to set up her mother to hang for your murder, but that is not the whole story, is it? No, I think she meant to punish you for ruining Redwall. You did, didn't you? During the 1884-1885 expedition? You needn't bother to deny it. I saw the photograph of the expedition party. You look rather dashing with whiskers. I wonder that Lord Evandale trusted you near his daughter. The poor girl must have been quite smitten."

Brisbane said nothing and I continued on, keeping my tone light. "It must have been terribly easy to bring Redwall down into disgrace. Was he stealing from Lord Evandale? Or selling faked antiquities as genuine? It hardly matters now. Evandale became suspicious, but he had so many new members to his expedition, he could not pinpoint the criminal. He asked you to join his excavation team and unmask the villain. You did so, with alacrity. It must have been so tempting to arrange proof to condemn him, but I don't believe you did. I think you waited until he betrayed himself. I think the evidence you presented to Evandale was entirely genuine."

"You seem to think very highly of my character," he said mildly, but his arm twitched beneath mine.

"No, I think you enjoyed the cat and mouse game too much. I believe you are completely capable of arranging for his culpability the first day. It would have been so easy for you. You are clever and deft and the coolest liar I know. Poor Redwall wouldn't have stood a chance if you had simply picked the lock to his room and cached a necklace or statue under his pillow. But watching him go to pieces was rather more satisfying, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," he agreed.

"You had months together, over the long Egyptian winter, toiling in the hot sun and lingering over group dinners, and all the while you watched him. He was confident at first, believing he had the measure of you, had you at a disadvantage. How immensely pleasurable it must have been for you to watch him disintegrate as the truth slowly dawned upon him—you had come to Egypt for revenge."

Brisbane's expression turned to one of disgust. "You have a febrile imagination, Julia. Redwall Allenby did nothing of the sort. Until the day Lord Evandale expelled him from the expedition, he thought I was in his power. He underestimated me completely."

I thought for a moment. "He was a singularly stupid man, wasn't he?"

"He was. And he was already ill, desperately so. When Lord Evandale dismissed him, he was devastated. He knew it was the end of him in the Egyptological community and he went home to die, it is as simple as that. It is a measure of his depravity that he thought to defile his sister first."

I gave him a reproving look. "It is not really that simple, is it? I cannot believe you never took the opportunity to let him know why you had come."

"I let him know every day," Brisbane said with a savage little smile of satisfaction.

"How?" I asked.

"Can't you imagine? You saw the photograph."

I thought of the images I had seen, captured in that one brief moment, stilled forever. I shook my head. "No. How did you signal your thirst for vengeance to Redwall?"

"'Thirst for vengeance?' Ye gods, Julia, you ought to be writing thrillers of the lowest variety."

I gave him a little poke in the ribs, but I must have caught him on the bad side. He stumbled and righted himself, looking very pale.

"I am sorry, Brisbane. But I was right, wasn't I? You did go to Egypt for revenge, and you had it. I finally put it all together today. I had heard of course that your mother was bound over for trial for stealing a bottle of laudanum. I knew she cursed the judge, Sir Alfred Allenby, and the chemist as well. That was Mr. Butters, wasn't it? Poor Mrs. Butters. I wonder if she ever realised it was your mother who cursed her husband."

"Of course she knows," Brisbane said, gritting his teeth a little and holding a hand to his ribs. "She used to make griddlecakes for me when I was a boy."

"Remind me to ask her what you were like as a boy. Incorrigible, I should imagine."

"Thoroughly."

His tone was light, but I knew he dreaded what was coming next. I dreaded it as well. I did not want to open new wounds, but so long as they poisoned him still, there was no hope for us. The only way for him to face the future was to put the past squarely behind him. I only hoped he was capable of it.

"But it was something Jerusha Earnshaw said that made all the difference."

"Jerusha Earnshaw?" he asked, but I knew it was a bid for time. I gave him a repressive look.

"The innkeeper's sister. She told me the charges against your mother would have likely been dismissed at the Assizes because the witnesses against her were a pair of children. Ailith and Redwall Allenby."

His jaw hardened and his handsome mouth twisted into something most unpleasant. "Did she tell you why? Did she tell you it was because of me?"

I stared straight ahead as we continued to walk. It was easier somehow if I did not have to look directly at him as I exposed his demons.

"Well, it was," he went on. "Ailith was not even ten, and the most accomplished liar I had ever met. I did my best to stay away from them, Ailith and her brother both, but sometimes our paths crossed. One day I went swimming in the river, where it flows calmly by the graveyard. Ailith and Redwall came upon me and began their usual habit, taunting and calling abuse. I ignored them until I realised Ailith was holding up a pendant of mine I had left on the bank with my clothes. It had been given me by my mother. She told me stories about the lady engraved upon it, a beautiful and terrible lady. I used to wonder if the woman on the pendant was my mother. It was my dearest possession. And there was Ailith Allenby, swinging it from her fingertips, saying she meant to keep it, even if it was an ugly piece of Gypsy trash."

I had the oddest fancy then that Brisbane did not even remember I was there, he was speaking almost to himself, in a low hollow voice, his eyes unfocused, as if he only saw the past.

"I leapt out of the river and charged at her. I pushed her down and took the pendant back, and told her if she ever touched anything of mine ever again, I would kill her. Redwall tried to stand up for her, but I shoved him into the river. It might have been funny, a stupid children's quarrel, but for the look on Ailith Allenby's face. It was not the face of a child. It was the wilful evil of some devil straight from the pits of hell. I knew then she meant to do something terrible. And, coward that I was, I packed my things and I ran away."

I had guessed some of what Brisbane told me, but I had not anticipated that. "I thought you ran away because the Gypsies would not have you as one of them."

Brisbane came slowly back to himself, as if the sound of my voice had roused him. "They have more generosity than you credit them with. I was my mother's son, and she was a powerful woman. I looked just like them, I rode and picked pockets and made harnesses as well as any other Gypsy lad."

"You picked pockets?"

He shrugged. "Once in a while and only from people who could spare it. My mother's people are resourceful."

Not quite the word I would have used, but I was not surprised he still felt warmly toward his maternal family.

"And after you ran away, Ailith Allenby took her revenge upon your mother instead."

He nodded slowly. "I am to blame for everything that happened to her. The least I could do was see her avenged. It's come full circle now."

We walked in silence a moment, and then I had a sudden start of realisation. I put a hand into the neck of my bodice and drew out the pendant Brisbane had given me, incised with the head of Medusa, a beautiful and terrible woman. I tucked it away, hastily. There was no need to ask. I knew now precisely what I meant to him. What I had always meant.

Just then he turned to me, and I felt a surge of joy. The past had been exorcised. I felt lighter and a hundred years younger. We were betrothed, as far as the world knew. This was the moment then, when it would all come right.

"I just remembered, I put notices in the newspaper of our engagement to lend the lie more veritas," he said, his brow furrowing.

"Yes," I said encouragingly. My breath felt tight within my lungs.

"I forgot to post the retractions. They ought to be printed as soon as possible. It would be more believable if you sued me for breach of promise, but the whole thing will go away more quickly if we just let it be."

I swallowed hard, concealing my disappointment. "Of course. Breach of promise suits are so terribly louche, I always think."

He stood for a long moment, staring at me, searching my face, and when he spoke it was without pretence and every word was its own tragic poem. "There is no money, Julia. Not a farthing. I've put everything I had into Grimsgrave. I was convinced there was a fortune under this moor, if only I could find it. I was a fool," he said bitterly.

"I understand," I said hollowly, but of course I did not. It was a very great irony that the fortune my husband had left me stood between me and my only happiness. "I could give it all away, you know. I am sure there is some home for elderly cats or something that would quite appreciate the money."

He laughed, and I heard the sharp edge of despair in the sound, and perhaps anger as well. "I will not touch you again. It isn't fair, to either of us."

I nodded. "I won't kiss you either. You might get ideas and I am a very respectable widow."

We stood a foot apart and yet with worlds between. He reached out then and crushed me to him, heedless of his newly-stitched ribs. I clasped my arms around him, holding him as tightly to me as my own flesh.

"For the love of God, don't cry," he ordered, his face muffled by my hair. My hat had gone tumbling over the moor, bowled along by the wind, but I did not care.

"I won't," I promised. "But I am feeling rather fragile, so you might want to look away in a moment."

He pulled back, and I saw a thousand emotions warring on his face. He seemed to be memorising my face, his eyes lingering on each feature in turn.

Finally, he released me. "Ailith will be buried the day after tomorrow. I will make arrangements for you and Portia to return to London the following day. I will be closing up the house. I am leaving England for a while."

"For how long?" I asked him, determined to keep my composure.

"Until I am quite recovered from you," he said evenly.

"When will you return?"

"Never."

He turned and left me then, walking slowly toward the village. I stared after him for a long time, until I could no longer see the strong form and the witch-black hair tumbling in the wind. And then I turned and set my face for Grimsgrave Hall.

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

All gold and silver rather turn to dirt.

—William Shakespeare

Cymbeline

And so Portia and I made our preparations to return to London. I expected her to pry and fuss, but she took one look at my face and put me straight to bed with a hot whisky.

The next morning I gathered up Redwall Allenby's things, the journals and photographs and the little amulets from the babies' coffin. I replaced them in his desk, wondering if they would ever again see the light of day. I almost opened the priest's hole, but in the end I left the children where they lay, hoping they were at peace. Brisbane would have to make arrangements for them to be buried secretly.

Mrs. Butters was subdued as she prepared breakfast, and I do not think anyone was inclined to eat. I picked at some eggs, and tried not to think. Portia fed bits of York ham to Puggy, coaxing him to eat from her hand.

"Puggy's off his feed," she complained. "I think he would rather be upstairs with Florence and the pups."

To our mutual surprise, Puggy had turned out to be a devoted father. He doted on Florence, offering her the choicest titbits of food and permitting her to use his favourite cushion. He growled when anyone came near his little family, and had even nipped Morag when she touched one without his express permission.

"I do not see how we can keep them apart," Portia said, offering Puggy a spoonful of coddled egg. "Do you mean to come back to stay with me, or will you go straight down to the Rookery?"

I thought of the peace of the countryside in Sussex. The Rookery was the charming little house Father had presented me with as a Christmas present. My devoted butler, Aquinas, had written that all was in order and I could finally take up residence whenever I liked. I would have as much quiet and solitude as I wanted, I thought.

And perhaps more. The city, with all of its heady diversions, might be a better distraction at present. But the thought of my family, pressing dinner invitations and outings upon me, made my stomach hurt. I wanted to be alone, but not alone. I wanted to pour out my hurts and frustrations, and I wanted never to speak again. In short, I was at war with myself.

I shrugged at Portia and idly buttered my toast. "I do not care. I suppose I will stay for a little while with you."

"You needn't sound so enthusiastic," she said waspishly. "I am no more thrilled about the prospect than you, I assure you."

I would have put out my tongue at her, but it was simply too much effort. Mrs. Butters brought another rack of toast, although we had scarcely touched the one on the table. I think she simply wanted to keep busy.

"Mrs. Butters, what will become of you? If Mr. Brisbane is closing up Grimsgrave, where will you go?"

She gave me a brisk nod. "You needn't worry about me, Lady Julia. Mr. Brisbane made certain I would be taken care of. I have a sister in Leeds. He has said he will arrange for my transportation to her when he is ready to leave Grimsgrave. I have put a little something by, and I will be perfectly all right."

"I am glad to hear it. At least someone will," I said peevishly.

"And Minna," Portia put in.

I lifted a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Hasn't she asked you yet? She means to stay here and marry Godwin Allenby."

"Out of the question," I told her. "I know they have an understanding, but he cannot keep a wife."

"You will break the girl's heart," Portia said softly.

I sighed. "I have promised her mother to take care of her, Portia. I have thought it over carefully, and I cannot leave her with an impoverished husband, no matter how much she loves him. If he cannot provide for her, he cannot have her."

Portia looked to Mrs. Butters. "I do not suppose Godwin has a tidy sum put by as well?"

Mrs. Butters shook her head sadly. "I regret not. I have grown rather fond of that girl. She would have trained up as an excellent housekeeper. Her cookery is very solid, and she has a head for figures."

"What if we took Godwin back to London?" I suggested. "He could find employment, something reliable and steady. Then when he has saved enough, he can approach her mother for her hand."

Mrs. Butters clucked. "Oh, no. Tha' would never do. Godwin is an Allenby. He belongs to these moors. He would never live in a city. I think it would kill him."

She cleared away a few of the dishes then, and Portia and I regarded each other across the breakfast table.

"We are a couple of sour old women," I told her.

"But you are right, even if I hate to say it," she said. "We cannot let her marry for love if it means she will starve. What if she had children? How would they keep them? I was stupid to think it. I just wanted a happy ending for them," she finished wanly.

"Because we neither of us have ours?" I asked softly.

She nodded and we fell silent.

"Then we will have to give her a dowry," I said finally. "We will each put up fifty percent. Name a sum that will settle them, either as far as purchasing a small farm and a herd to stock it, or a business in the village."

"We cannot offer it directly," Portia warned, and I bristled.

"I know that. It would be insulting to them both. We will have to disguise it as an inheritance. We can make Brisbane give it to Godwin, say it was a legacy from Ailith's death."

"But Ailith's property would go to Lady Allenby," she pointed out.

I waved her aside. "Nuns cannot inherit property," I told her loftily. "At least, I do not think they can, and if they can, we will simply have Brisbane tell him otherwise. We'll make up some story about Hilda getting a sum as well. I hardly think Godwin will question such a piece of good fortune closely."

Portia's eyes lit up and we haggled then, even drawing Mrs. Butters into the business. The three of us worked the sums and argued over the details, but in the end, we devised a settlement that seemed suitable without being too generous. There was also the question of how to present the money. We agreed to leave it to Brisbane, and Portia volunteered to apprise him of our plan while I began to pack.

I do not know what was said, or how. I only know that by suppertime, all was decided. Minna flew out of the kitchen as I was coming down the stairs. She was still holding a ladle in one hand, dripping sauce upon the flagstones as she clasped me in an embrace.

"Oh, bless you, my lady! I know you did this. Miss Ailith hated him, she would never have left him money. But I know you and Lady Bettiscombe did this between you. How can I ever thank you?"

She was sobbing freely now, and I disengaged myself gently. "If you keep crying, you will water the sauce and ruin supper."

She wiped her eyes on her apron and shook her head. "I cannot believe it. I just knew we wouldn't be able to marry, not with us having but a shilling between us. And then when Mr. Brisbane told us, it was like a miracle, like the world just cracked open wide and everything I ever dreamed of was inside."

She hugged me again, fiercely, and flew off to the kitchens, leaving me feeling fairly staggered. I was the daughter of an earl, I thought bleakly, born to privilege and wealth most people could not even hope to imagine. And in that moment, I would have happily traded places with a little maid who had everything I did not.

* * *

Ailith Allenby was buried quietly in the graveyard of the ruined chapel. There were no hymns, no weeping, only the soft patter of the rain that fell upon the coffin. The grave had been dug the day before, and I noticed that Brisbane and Godwin were conspicuously absent for a long period of time before the burial. They never said, and I never asked, but I saw the grave was rather shallower than one might have expected and the bottom of it was freshly packed, as if something else had been buried before Ailith's coffin was lowered into the ground. No one else seemed to notice anything amiss, and I murmured a prayer for the souls of the lost babies as well as their unfortunate mother as the clods of earth covered her at last.

It was a small and solemn group that wended its way back to Grimsgrave under a cluster of black umbrellas. Hilda and Mrs. Butters served as chief mourners in the absence of Lady Allenby. Brisbane had sent word to Lady Allenby of Ailith's death, but she had not replied. Perhaps she was already too deeply entrenched in the solitude of her convent life, or perhaps she struggled with the twin burdens of guilt and relief: guilt at her own crimes and relief that the daughter who was bent upon her destruction was dead.

There had been a letter from Sister Bridget, brief and to the point. All of Ailith's personal property was to be given to the poor of the parish "that she who had done so little good in her life, might do some in death." Harsh, but not inaccurate, I thought. Hilda refused to deal with the matter, so Mrs. Butters saw to the removal of her things. I wondered if somewhere in the village a little girl would be awed at the gift of the elaborate doll's house, never dreaming what it had meant to Ailith's twisted mind. The doll's house was uninhabited when it left Grimsgrave. The tiny infant dolls with their unmistakable gilt hair had been laid in Ailith's coffin. I could not imagine leaving them in the toy house, and destroying them seemed somehow wrong. Yorkshire folk believed that suicides walked the earth, never resting in their graves. It seemed a primitive sort of magic to leave the dolls with her, but perhaps she would lie quietly.

After cakes and wine at Grimsgrave, everyone dispersed. Portia went to play with the puppies, Mrs. Butters to rest, and heaven only knew where Brisbane had got to. Valerius, still weak from the blow to his head, was dozing by the fireside, and I found Hilda in the room she had shared with Ailith. It was barren now that Ailith's things were gone. A little trunk stood open under the window and it was half filled with Hilda's books and unbecoming tweeds. In spite of the recent tragedies, there was a new serenity to Hilda that she wore well. She even smiled a little in welcome as I settled myself on a chair.

"I am glad you have come," she said, and I believed her. "I wanted you to know that I am leaving tomorrow. Miss Earnshaw has offered me a post in her school. I am to live on the premises in Manchester and help her establish the curriculum. And when the pupils come, I am to teach modern languages and ancient history. Miss Earnshaw is not at all troubled by my lack of formal education," she finished, blushing hotly. "She says even though I am self-taught, I am well-suited to such a post."

"A very good fit, I think," I told her. "So you are leaving the moor at last."

She nodded. "I do hope Minna will see to my chickens," she said with a tiny smile.

"Perhaps you will have a flock at the school. You can teach the girls poultry-keeping skills," I suggested. "Every woman ought to have her own money, even if it is just a bit from the eggs."

Her smile broadened then. "Perhaps we will. It is a useful skill at that." She faltered then, and I could see that she was steeling herself for what she was about to say.

I spoke first. "Have you told him?"

"No, but I did write him a rather good letter. I even quoted a bit of Donne. He'll like that."

I nodded. "Yes, he will. My brothers all have a weakness for poetry, I'm afraid."

She looked up sharply then. "Do you think he will come after me?"

I thought a moment, then shook my head. "I think not. My brothers share a love of poetry, and a rather pliable character. They would all rather languish in their heartbreak than do anything useful about it. You've made rather a lucky escape, if you ask me. Valerius may take up writing sonnets, and that would be a tragedy indeed."

I spoke lightly, but I knew Valerius would feel the disappointment keenly. It was the first time in his life he had truly played the man, and I pitied him. He had so much compassion, so much tenderness to give. He had been badly thwarted in his choice of profession, and now he was to suffer yet another defeat.

Hilda straightened her shoulders then, and for the first time I saw the proud, stiff carriage of the Allenbys in her. "It would be too easy, you know. That's the trouble. If I married him, I would be safe and comfortable, and I would go on feeling as though I were wrapped in cotton wool. I am terrified of going to Manchester. I am terrified of living in a little room and making my tea on a spirit lamp. I am terrified of teaching. And that is why I must."

I knew only too well the feeling of being wrapped in cotton wool. I rose and offered my hand.

"Fear is how you know you are alive, my dear," I told her.

She took my hand and tipped her head to one side. She was actually rather pretty now that she wasn't scowling at me, and I understood why Val had thought her attractive. It was an interesting face, and one that promised great character.

"Are you afraid, Lady Julia?" she asked at length.

"Every day," I told her, thinking of a future without Brisbane. "Every day."

* * *

After I left Hilda, I set off amid lowering cloud to bid farewell to Rosalie and John-the-Baptist. Portia and I were almost completely packed and would be up before cockcrow to make the long journey by road to the village with our trunks in time to catch the train to London. There was so much I wanted to thank Rosalie for, and I knew I would miss her terribly.

The rain was teeming down by the time I reached the cottage. Its lights glowed through the darkening gloom of the afternoon, beckoning with such homely warmth I nearly wept.

"Oh, don't be feeble," I told myself firmly. "You are merely tired and a little melancholy. A hot cup of tea and some good company, and you will be right as rain."

I set my shoulders against the wind and pressed on, nearly slipping over the flat rock at the turning of the path, and then almost falling against the door as a strong gust blew against my back.

"Lady Julia!" Rosalie exclaimed. She ushered me in, already rubbing at my hands and face with a towel. "You ought not to have come today. The storm grows stronger."

"I wanted to say goodbye," I explained, my voice muffled by the towel.

She finished wiping my face and took my wet things. Only then did I realise she was not alone. I had expected John-the-Baptist, but not Brisbane. He was standing at the window, looking out at the moor, his back to the room. He must have seen me coming for some distance, time enough to school his reaction. He did not turn.

"Good afternoon, lady," John-the-Baptist said cordially. He rose and offered me his chair by the fire.

I held up a hand. "No, I cannot stay. I merely wanted to come and tell you both goodbye. I am leaving tomorrow, quite early."

Still there was no reaction from Brisbane. The set of his shoulders betrayed nothing. Was he angry I had come? Or was he as shattered as I by the idea of parting forever?

"I am sorry to hear it," John-the-Baptist said. "We will wish you a safe journey."

Rosalie went to the painted cupboard and returned, pressing a small silken bag into my hands. Like the first she had given me, it was lumpy and hard, and hung on a bit of velvet ribbon.

"Another charm, this one to keep you safe," she told me. "It is full of things which call down the protection of God, and it has been blessed by a powerful shuvani."

"You?" I asked, looping it about my neck.

She smiled and lifted her chin. "Of course."

We forgot ceremony then. She embraced me, pressing me close to her heart. "Do not fear the road before you, my dear. Only those who step boldly tread the right path."

I smiled at her enigmatic words. A true Gypsy to the end, I thought with great affection. I shook hands with John-the-Baptist, who then bowed with a flourish.

"Safe journey, lady," he told me.

I hesitated, then held out my hand for my wet things. It was a struggle to put them on again, for they were cold and heavy now, but I managed, and gave them both a smile that was rather braver than I felt.

I left, but Brisbane had never even turned. He could watch my back then as I left, I thought angrily, striding firmly through the wicket gate and slamming it as I went. I was not watching my steps. Between my irritation at Brisbane and the flooding rain, it was difficult to see, and my toe caught the flat rock at the crossroads.

"Why doesn't someone move this bloody thing?" I demanded, kicking it hard.

I do not know if it was my petulant gesture that dislodged the stone, or if the ground was so sodden the merest touch would have caused it to crumble like cake, but it did. One moment I was standing on solid ground, the next, I was hurtling into the opened earth, my feet and arms flailing as I fell. My scrabbling hands caught at a root and I hung, suspended, feet dangling helplessly over an abyss. I dared not look down. I screamed for help, and before the echo of the word had even died away, there was Brisbane. He must have seen me fall. There was no other way he could have managed to reach me so quickly.

"Thank God," I sobbed. He lay flat on his stomach, doubtless tearing open the stitches in his ribs, but he never gave the slightest hint he was in pain. He turned over his shoulder to shout something, and I fancied John-the-Baptist was anchoring his legs. He reached down with both arms, almost, but not quite reaching me.

He cursed soundly, then reached back with his left hand to secure a better grip. He stretched out his right hand and just caught my wrist, holding it fast.

"I cannot hold on, and you cannot lift me with one arm," I said, kicking my feet in a vain attempt to find some purchase on the wall of earth in front of me.

Brisbane gritted his teeth against what must have been a tearing pain in his shoulder. Rain dripped from his sleek black head and he held on to me with an iron grip.

"Trust me," he said, infusing his words with every emotion he felt but had never dared to say.

"I do," I told him, realising I trusted him more than any person I had ever known. My life was literally in his hands, I thought wonderingly, and yet I knew I would be perfectly safe.

And then he dropped me. Without preamble, without discussion, he merely opened his hand and let me fall. I was too startled even to scream. I landed with a thud some four or five feet below where I had been dangling.

"Well, I suppose I am well-served for not looking down," I thought sourly. There was some commotion above, and in a moment Brisbane descended smoothly by means of a rope, holding a lantern that threw wicked shadows across the planes of his face.

"You might have warned me," I told him with a peevish scowl.

"I didn't want you to have time to be frightened," he said simply, but his tone was distracted. He was circling slowly, raising the lantern to throw its feeble light along the earthen walls.

Suddenly, his expression turned grim and he put out his free arm. "Julia, I want you to move quickly but very carefully. Climb onto my back and hold on. We have very little time."

"Time for what?" I demanded, pushing myself up. It was only then that I realised I had landed on something rather firmer than the soft peat mud of the moor. "Brisbane, this is wood. Proper planking. What on earth was this doing below that flat stone at the crossroads?" I asked.

"Julia, now!" he ordered, and I obeyed. He whistled and there was a creaking groan from the ropes as we slowly began our ascent.

I pressed my face against the collar of his shirt. It smelled quite good, I thought idly. A whiff of something citrussy, perhaps bergamot.

We inched upward, at last coming to the rim of the hole. "Be careful here, the ground is not firm," he told me. I scrambled gracelessly over him and collapsed, feeling the firm turf beneath me. Rosalie darted forward, wrapping me in her arms and crooning over me. It seemed rather a big fuss over something that had in the end been so minor, but I let her. John-the-Baptist stood a few feet away, the rope harnessed firmly about his middle, stretching taut as he continued to haul Brisbane to the surface.

"What an extraordinarily strong man your husband is," I remarked to Rosalie.

Just then, the earth itself seemed to collapse. The hole where I had disappeared opened up, the walls crumbling inward with a great roar that sounded like the end of the world. Rosalie and I were knocked to the ground, and lay, clutching the sodden grass until the trembling of the earth subsided. John-the-Baptist had fallen flat upon his back, the rope snapped in half.

I screamed Brisbane's name and scrambled as close as I dared to the edge of the crater that now scarred the face of the moor. John-the-Baptist looped an arm around my waist and hoisted me backward. "It is not safe, lady. If there is a way out, he will find it."

I struggled against him, but by the time I kicked my way free, Brisbane had hefted himself over the edge, covered in peaty black mud, his expression dumbfounded.

"Oh, thank God," I sobbed. I threw myself at him, heedless of the mud.

He held me tightly for a long moment, still clearly stunned by his experience.

"What is it?" I asked. "What did I land upon?"

"A coffin," he said.

He looked straight at his aunt and she gestured toward me. "We will talk inside. Lady Julia will take a chill."

Brisbane moved swiftly to cut her off, placing himself squarely in front of her.

"We will talk now," he said to Rosalie. "That is my mother's coffin."

Rosalie looked at John-the-Baptist, but he merely shrugged. Rosalie turned back to Brisbane, her expression inscrutable.

"Yes, that is where Mariah Young was buried. At the crossroads."

"A suicide," Brisbane said flatly. "You told me she died in gaol."

"She did. She hanged herself with her own petticoat," Rosalie said sadly. "And they buried her there, with a stake through her heart so that she would not walk."

Brisbane turned to walk off, but Rosalie caught his arm, leaving me standing some little distance apart.

"That is why I stayed. For my own penance. I had a hand in my sister's death, we all did. The chemist, those terrible children, Sir Alfred. When Mariah hanged herself, Sir Alfred believed the only way to break the curse she had laid upon him was to make amends to me. He let me have this cottage, and he had them lay her at this crossroads so I could always watch over her. And now the earth has moved, and she has spoken to us at last," she said, her eyes shining.

Brisbane stared at her. "Are you quite mad?"

Rosalie began to weep then, or to laugh. The sounds were very alike, and she rocked, holding herself. "Oh, my dear boy. Did you not even see that for what it is?"

She pointed at the hole, and I realised she was not mad. She was entirely, completely, beautifully sane.

"It's a mine!" I cried, stumbling toward the edge to peer down into it.

Brisbane caught me, an arm about my waist, and we looked in together. I could just see timbers, the beams heaved into place perhaps by the Romans themselves so many centuries ago. And through the thick soft black peat mud of the walls, I could see the rain cutting through the earth, exposing the dark metallic veins.

"Lead?" I guessed, hardly daring to hope.

"Silver," Brisbane corrected. He looked at me then, a slow smile spreading over his face. "A silver mine. On my land."

I threw myself at him for the second time in as many minutes. "Shall I get down on one knee?" he asked, after an extremely interesting interlude. I noticed Rosalie and John-the-Baptist had moved a little distance away to give us some privacy.

"You haven't asked Father yet," I reminded him.

"Oh, good God. I don't think I can face that."

"Let's just run away to Gretna Green," I said, pressing my lips to the enticing spot where his jaw met his neck.

"Absolutely not," he said roundly. "Your family would string me up from the nearest tree. No, if we are going to do this thing, we shall do it properly. At Bellmont Abbey or in London, I do not care. You arrange whatever you like and I will be there," he said, brushing the sodden hair away from my brow. "And we will go wherever you wish for our wedding journey," he said, his eyes lighting with sudden mischief. "Even to the ends of the earth with you in a white petticoat."

I poked him hard in the ribs. "You did hear me."

"Every word."

There followed another extremely interesting interlude during which I completely forgave him for hearing my impassioned plea when he was unconscious. And after it was concluded, I ventured a question.

"Would you really have let me go?"

He took my hands and tucked them into the pocket of his coat. "You are cold. We ought to get you inside."

I prodded him again. "Would you?"

He tipped his head to the side, his hair thoroughly soaked and sleek as a seal's. "Would you?"

I nibbled at my lip. "Well, I was planning a rather sizeable donation to Aunt Hermia's Reformatory for Penitent Women," I admitted.

"How sizeable?"

"A few hundred thousand pounds. Just enough to reduce me to the status of barely respectable widow. I might have even had to take employment," I told him.

"What are you fit for?"

"I thought perhaps I would make a very good partner in detection for a certain inquiry agent of my acquaintance," I said, running a finger along his underlip.

He grabbed at my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. My knees felt suddenly weak and I think I may have clung to him a little harder. "Partner? I thought assistant."

I gave him a repressive look. "If we are going to do this thing," I said, deliberately turning his words back on him, "then let us have it clearly understood. We are equal partners. Both of us now have money to contribute, and both of us have rather unique talents. I think we would make admirable partners."

"We always have," he said, and that simple declaration meant far more to me than the one he made a moment later, which was a little more poetic and a great deal more private. He had just concluded this romantic little speech with an extremely expert kiss when we heard approaching hoof-beats, muffled by the moor and the rain.

We looked up to find a small party approaching, and to my astonishment, I realised it was my brother Bellmont, accompanied by his eldest, Orlando, and a gentleman and young lady I did not know.

"Driffield," Brisbane called. The Duke of Driffield raised his hat in spite of the rain, smiling broadly.

"I say, when Bellmont told me a fellow named Brisbane owned this place, I hoped it was you. Told him you were always a good fellow to know."

Brisbane walked over and the two shook hands. Bellmont was staring in disbelief, his mouth agape.

"Hullo, Monty," I called cheerfully. "Orlando, how are you, dearest?"

Orlando dismounted and came to give me a kiss, very correctly ignoring my bedraggled state. "Very well, thank you, Aunt Julia. May I present my fiancée, Lady Harriet?"

The young lady had a pleasant, rather horsy face and an excellent seat. I smiled at her. "Lady Harriet, do forgive Orlando. He's never been very good at introductions, but he is marvellous at chess. I am his aunt, Lady Julia Grey."

She nodded, smiling broadly. "Oh, we do not stand on ceremony. We prefer country manners. How d'ye do?" She turned to her father who was chatting amiably with Brisbane. "Father, this will do quite well. The moor is excellent for hunting, and I think the village could do with a little benevolent work. The drains looked rather wanting."

Her manner was brisk and managing, and I looked affectionately at Orlando. If anyone needed managing, it was he. The boy did have ambitions, solid ones, and eventually he would be Earl March, a position of great authority and responsibility. He was well-intentioned, but neither as solid nor as articulate as his father. A firm wife, practical and efficient, would be the making of him.

"But the house," his Grace of Driffield interjected doubtfully.

Lady Harriet waved a hand. "Can be put right with a bit of work. The east wing wants restoring, of course, and there will have to be a new stable block built. The old one is far too distant from the house. It will not serve forever, of course. Once we have children to be launched and Orlando is settled in Parliament, we will need to be in London regularly and it may be too far removed. But for the first fifteen, twenty years, I think it will suit us quite nicely."

Lady Harriet seemed like a very determined young lady, and I fancied that whatever she turned her hand to inevitably came right.

"The estate comes with an excellent cook and a superb farm manager," I put in, slanting Brisbane a mischievous glance. I had a feeling Mrs. Butters could be persuaded to remain at Grimsgrave, particularly now that so many of the ghosts of the place had been put to rest.

"And Gypsies," Bellmont put in. He had been remarkably silent, but nothing had escaped his notice.

Driffield brushed this aside. "I always let them camp on my land. Bad luck not to, you know."

He waved a courteous hand to Rosalie and John-the-Baptist who had maintained some distance from our visitors.

Driffield nodded toward the hole. "Bit of trouble?"

"Not at all," Brisbane said coolly. "It is a mine, actually. We mean to open it again. So I am afraid I cannot sell the estate. My apologies, Lady Harriet," he added with a nod in her direction.

"A mine will be excellent for the local folk," she said. "Must keep the villagers employed." Clearly the duke had raised her to take a keen interest in the lives of those dependent upon their goodwill. "Perhaps we can sort something out and purchase the house itself, but lease the moor for purposes of hunting if we promise not to interfere with the operations of the mine?" she asked hopefully.

Brisbane smiled. "You have a fine head for business, Lady Harriet. And I am certain something can be arranged."

"Excellent," said the duke, clearly relieved that his imperious daughter was not to be thwarted. He seemed to see me for the first time and I was aware of the wide streaks of mud across my costume and my hair, dripping wet and hanging free of pins.

"Do forgive my appearance, your Grace," I began, but Driffield merely waved a hand.

"Think nothing of it, good lady. I admire an athletic woman who is not afraid of a little dirt in the pursuit of sport."

Bellmont choked a little, but I smiled graciously.

"Yes, I am terribly athletic," I agreed.

I went to my brother and raised my face for a kiss.

He obliged me and I whispered into his ear. "Get down and shake hands with Brisbane. He is going to be your brother-in-law."

He opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly, the little muscle in his jaw working furiously. "I suppose there is no point in trying to talk you out of this disaster?"

"None whatsoever."

He paused a long moment, then asked, "Will he make you happy?"

Bellmont's wide green eyes were anxious, and I put a hand to his face, smiling up at him. "Do I look happy?"

He studied my face, took in my entire figure from filthy clothes to abominable hair. "I have never seen you more radiant," he admitted. He kissed the top of my head and slid from the saddle.

He went to Brisbane and extended his hand. "I understand congratulations are in order, brother," he said stiffly, and I knew precisely what that gesture had cost him.

Brisbane accepted his hand and I went to stand beside my betrothed.

"I only hope you know what you are getting into," Bellmont said with a sigh.

"I am quite certain," I told him tartly.

Bellmont lifted a brow. "I was talking to Brisbane."

He shook his head and remounted, leading the way back to Grimsgrave.

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

—William Shakespeare

Much Ado About Nothing

There is little more to say; I married him. The words are familiar, but the simplicity of them holds the whole world within. We married on Midsummer Day, in the little church of St. Barnabas at Blessingstoke, with my father's dearest friend, Uncle Fly, the vicar of Blessingstoke, to perform the ceremony. Most of my family were present, which meant the day was little short of Bedlam.

As it was my second marriage it ought to have been a quiet affair, but nothing to do with the Marches is ever quiet. My father smiled through his tears as he gave me away, and the little church was crowded with my relations and Brisbane's Scottish uncle, the Duke of Aberdour, nearly ninety and almost totally deaf. He shouted through the service, demanding to know what we said until Brisbane roared at him, "I just promised to endow her with all my worldly goods, now be quiet!" To which the duke replied, "I didn't know you had any worldly goods," and subsided into muttering for the rest of the ceremony.

In fact, Brisbane had rather a lot of worldly goods. The mine had apparently been closed when the Romans were driven out of the north, and never opened again until the weight of Mariah Young's coffin and the sodden earth had broken it open. In death, she had given her son the means to live his life as he pleased, and it felt like a benediction from the grave. Brisbane had defiantly reburied her in the chapel graveyard at Grimsgrave, flouting church authority, but then Brisbane was never one to observe rules he does not respect. Rosalie promised to lay flowers when they journeyed past each summer, for she returned to the road with John-the-Baptist. I did not know if we would ever see them again, but I knew she would keep her promise to Brisbane.

The Duke of Driffield settled matters quickly, paying a generous sum for the remains of Grimsgrave Hall and engaging Mrs. Butters and Minna and Godwin. Minna was training to be the housekeeper under Mrs. Butters' tutelage. Mrs. Butters, who might have held the post herself, was content to remain in the kitchen, and Godwin was very nearly beside himself at the handsome flock of sheep the duke permitted him to purchase with an eye to re-establishing the livestock. Work had already begun at the house by the time Portia and I left, and a new lightness had come over the place. The first thing Lady Harriet had done was burn the tapestry of Allenbys, claiming it was ugly and full of moths. She might have been right. It seemed a little sad to destroy the record of such a long and noble lineage, but I thought of all the pain and suffering that lineage had caused, the slow descent into madness, and I was glad for Lady Harriet. Even if ghosts walked at Grimsgrave, they would never stand against her sound common sense and practicality. When I last saw Grimsgrave, Lady Harriet was having the black pond in front of the house drained to make a flower garden.

Portia agreed to take Florence, as Puggy would not be separated from his little family. I still had Grim, and Brisbane had acquired Rook, the lurcher, who refused to travel with the Gypsies, but simply lay down in the road until Brisbane came to fetch him. I did not know how we were going to manage travelling with him, but he was surprisingly delicate in his habits, and I grew fond of him very quickly.

The wedding itself was arranged with tremendous speed and very little trouble. I simply let my sisters fuss over the details and spent every moment I could with Brisbane. They dressed me in a very suitable, elegant gown of heavy lavender silk, a nod to the mourning I no longer wore, and a wreath of lavender blossoms in my hair. I did not wear a veil, and by the time the dancing was finished, the lavender had broken to bits, twining in my hair only to fall out later in Brisbane's hands, like so many pieces of confetti. Brisbane was dressed in beautiful black, with the purest white shirt and waistcoat, a picture of elegance in spite of his tumbled hair and the slight shadow at his jaw.

We stayed the night at my little house, the Rookery, with no one to wait upon us. I dismissed Morag for the night, and sent Aquinas up to my father's home at Bellmont Abbey. We were alone, finally, and I stared at the ring upon my left hand, a slender band of diamonds.

"I told you I didn't need diamonds," I chided him. "Plain silver would have been enough."

"It is plain silver on the underside, and I had it engraved," he told me. He slid it off my finger and rolled it in his fingers, catching the light.

A chain of letters had been incised inside, "'HIIii116,'" I read aloud. "Another Shakespearean code, and a simple one."

"You know what it means?" he asked, settling me onto his lap. I put one arm about his neck and held out my other hand for him to replace my ring.

"Hamlet, of course. 'Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.'" I put my brow to his. "I have never doubted it, you know. Not really. But it is a lovely quote."

He slanted me a wicked look. "Well, it was either that or All's Well That Ends Well, Act One, scene one, line two hundred twenty-one."

I furrowed my brow. "I do not remember that one."

He slid an arm under my knees and rose effortlessly to his feet. "'Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.'"

I was still laughing when he kicked the bedroom door closed behind us.

* * *

What followed was a revelation. It is astonishing that so simple a thing can change everything, but there it is. Before we went into that room, the world was as it has always been, but by the time I awoke, long afterward as dawn was just beginning to silver the shadows, my entire life had changed. I stretched and yawned, sinuous and satisfied as a cat. It woke Brisbane who opened one eye and grinned at me sleepily.

"You have ruined that corset in your haste," I told him severely. "That was French lace, you know," I added, mourning the loss of the beautiful pale violet confection. I had ordered it from Paris at great cost and worn it precisely once.

"I'll buy you another. Besides, it is nothing compared to my complaint. You snore," he said thickly.

I hit him with my pillow, sending a shower of feathers into the air. One settled on his shoulder and I blew it off. "I do not. You must have been dreaming of another wife."

He took the pillow and put it under his head, leaving me nowhere to rest mine except his chest. I nestled there, one hand toying with the crisp, dark hair that spread toward his belly. Another interlude, vastly more interesting than those on the moor, took place and the sun was fully up by the time we had concluded our exchange of affections.

"We haven't even talked about the wedding trip yet," I said, yawning broadly.

Brisbane quirked a brow at me in a gesture I knew so well. "If that was where your thoughts were, remind me to apply myself more thoroughly next time," he said with a touch of asperity.

"Oh, no. I only thought of it after, I assure you. If you apply yourself more thoroughly I don't think I will be fit to leave this bed," I consoled.

He nodded. "That is better. As to the wedding trip, I have had Monk on the Continent, scouting suitable destinations. He seems to think Venice would be lovely, or perhaps a villa in Greece?"

I stared at him. "Monk has been looking for a house? For us?"

"Of course. You don't think I would marry you and drag you off to someplace, sight unseen? I trust him implicitly. He always thinks to inquire about things like hygienic arrangements," Brisbane said, raising a brow significantly. "I gave him a list of places I compiled months ago and sent him off to look them over."

"I cannot believe you have been thinking about this marriage, planning this marriage for months."

He put a hand through my hair, twisting it around his fingers. "I have been planning it since that first interview in your study at Grey House, a few weeks after Edward's death. You were all wide eyes and tart tongue, and you insisted to me Edward could not have been murdered."

"You are joking," I said, tickling his chin with a lock of my hair.

He shook his head, wrapping his arms about me and pulling me closer still. "I seem to recall you are the one always telling me to respect the sight," he said, only slightly mocking.

"You had a vision? About me?" He did not answer at first, and I began to nip at him with my fingers until he replied.

"Ow, yes, stop that, you vicious little beast. I had a vision of you, the first time I stepped into Grey House, the night Edward died. That was why I kept staring at you while he lay on the bed, convulsing between us. I had seen you standing before me, your hand in mine. I could not hear what was said between us, but there was a sense of belonging to you, as if I had always known you somehow, and you had been waiting for me. It came as rather a nasty shock to realise you were already married."

"Why were you so cold to me then? I thought you quite hated me."

"I hated what was happening to you," he said, brushing a bit of hair out of my eyes. "I knew you would suffer when he died. Besides, I never quite thought of myself as the marrying sort."

I stared at him, comprehension dawning. "You were afraid of me."

"Quite terrified," he said, smiling. He kissed my palm then, and I settled back against him.

"I cannot imagine that," I told him. "You, so coolly disdainful and dismissive. Terrified of me as I stood trembling in front of you, thinking you were the most alarming man I had ever met. I cannot believe you have ever been afraid of anything."

"It was a rather novel experience, I assure you," he said, tracing a path along the small of my back. I thought of the journey that had brought us together, the earl's daughter and the country-bred Gypsy lad, and I marvelled at the workings of fate. So many little turnings along the way, and if either of us had taken a different path, we would never have found one another.

"Tell me," I commanded. "Tell me about your adventures. I know you have been to China, to Egypt. I want to know it all. Tell me about the Orient first. Is it very exotic?"

Without warning, Brisbane, my partner and now my husband, rolled me smoothly onto my back and put his lips to my ear. "Later," he said, applying himself enthusiastically to the conjugal arts.

"But I want to know about China," I said, laughing as he did something rather new and thoroughly enjoyable.

He drew back, looked at me with those mesmerising witch-black eyes. He put a firm finger across my lips. "That is a tale for another time."

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3075-4

Copyright © 2009 Harlequin Books S.A.

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

Silent in the Grave

Copyright © 2007 by Deanna Raybourn

Silent in the Sanctuary

Copyright © 2008 by Deanna Raybourn

Silent on the Moor

Copyright © 2009 by Deanna Raybourn

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Table of Contents

Silent in the Grave

THE FIRST CHAPTER

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRD CHAPTER

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE NINTH CHAPTER

THE TENTH CHAPTER

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE FORTIETH CHAPTER

THE FORTY-FIRST CHAPTER

Silent in the Sanctuary

THE FIRST CHAPTER

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRD CHAPTER

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE NINTH CHAPTER

THE TENTH CHAPTER

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

Silent on the Moor

THE FIRST CHAPTER

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE THIRD CHAPTER

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE NINTH CHAPTER

THE TENTH CHAPTER

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER