The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (30 page)

“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 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”

 

T
he 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 em
phasize 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.