The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (27 page)

“Good Lord,” I said to no one in particular. “Brisbane has rather a nasty right.”

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”

 

T
he 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.

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.