The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (17 page)

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.

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.