Bonfire Night

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Amateur sleuth Lady Julia Grey and her detective husband, Nicholas Brisbane, face their latest adventure in this novella by New York Times bestselling author Deanna Raybourn

  It’s the autumn of 1890, and almost a year has passed since—much to their surprise—Lady Julia and Nicholas became parents. Just as the couple begins to adapt, a solicitor arrives with a strange bequest. Nicholas, it seems, has inherited a country house—but only if he and his family are in residence from All Hallows’ Eve through Bonfire Night.

  Neither Lady Julia nor Nicholas is likely to be put off by local legends of ghosts and witches, and the eerie noises and strange lights that flit from room to room simply intrigue them. Until a new lady’s maid disappears, igniting a caper that will have explosive results…

  The fourth in a series of Lady Julia Grey stories set during traditional English holidays, Bonfire Night follows Silent Night, Midsummer Night and Twelfth Night. Look for Deanna’s newest 1920s novel, Night of a Thousand Stars, in October!

  Also by Deanna Raybourn

  Historical Fiction

  Night of a Thousand Stars

  City of Jasmine

  Whisper of Jasmine*

  A Spear of Summer Grass

  Far in the Wilds*

  The Lady Julia Grey series

  Silent in the Grave

  Silent in the Sanctuary

  Silent on the Moor

  The Dead Travel Fast

  Dark Road to Darjeeling

  The Dark Enquiry

  Silent Night*

  Midsummer Night*

  Twelfth Night*

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  London, 1890

  “Julia, how did you misplace the baby? Again?” my sister asked with more than a touch of asperity.

  I gave her the most dignified look I could muster under the circumstances. “I did not misplace him,” I informed her in lofty tones. “I forgot him.” The fact that this was now the fourth time I had walked into the park with the child and left without him was mortifying—and not something my siblings would let me soon forget.

  “Oh, that makes it quite all right then,” chimed in our brother Plum. I put my tongue out at him, but before I could form a suitable reply, my husband spoke.

  “It’s my fault entirely,” he said, his voice silken. “Julia was generous enough to take on a case of some delicacy. She was rather preoccupied with breaking the alibi of a jewel thief.”

  Plum twitched in his chair. “The Enderby case? I thought that was put to bed last week,” he protested. The theft of the Enderby opals was the most important investigation that my husband had allowed Plum to undertake on his own authority. He had been single-minded in his pursuit of the culprit—so much so that Lady Enderby’s maid had nearly been arrested for the theft after only an hour’s investigation.

  I smiled sweetly at my brother. “Yes, the maid was the most obvious thief, wasn’t she? But the solution seemed a little too simple to Brisbane. He refused to have her arrested until I had spoken with her.”

  Plum flushed pink to his ears and shot an accusing look at Brisbane. “It was my case,” he repeated.

  “And it was mishandled,” my husband returned coolly. “The case against the girl was damning, but I was not persuaded.”

  “She confessed,” Plum retorted, his jaw set stubbornly. But the more enraged he became, the calmer Brisbane remained. It was a trick I had seen him employ a thousand times, and usually upon me. Brisbane had learnt long ago the most effective way of handling any member of the March family was to remain utterly unmoved in the face of strong emotion. Goading him out of his sang-froid was one of my favourite pastimes, but my decidedly intimate methods would never work for my brother, I reflected with a delicate frisson of remembered passion.

  “She confessed because she is French and therefore away from her home, her country, her friends. She told me about the accusations you lobbed at her,” I chided. “You practically called her a thief the moment you sat her down. What did you expect her to do?”

  “I expected her to tell the truth,” he said.

  “Careful,” Portia warned. “Plum’s getting into a pet and you know his sulking puts me off my food.”

  I waved a hand. “If we have dinner at all, you may count yourselves fortunate. The workmen have moved into the kitchens and twice this week Brisbane and I have dined on bananas.”

  “Why bananas?” Portia asked.

  “Gift from a grateful client,” Brisbane returned. “His Excellency the ambassador of the Emir of Ranapurcha was very generous with them. We have forty pounds left.”

  Portia blinked. “He gave you forty pounds of bananas?”

  “You misunderstood, dearest,” I corrected. “We have forty pounds remaining. There were one hundred to begin with. Mrs. Lawson has put them into, salads, sauces, soufflés—I think at one unfortunate meal she even managed to make them into soup.”

  “Do not remind me,” Brisbane put in with a curl of his handsome mouth. “It was grey.”

  I went on. “But she has left us at last, bound for a peaceful retirement at her sister’s cottage in Weymouth, and we are left with a new cook and a larder full of ripe bananas.”

  “That explains the smell,” Plum said. He still looked a trifle sulky, and I knew he was not over his mood. His next remark confirmed it. “So,” he said, fixing me with a gleeful look, “you were telling us about losing the baby. Again.”

  I cursed him inwardly. Plum had only ever been third favourite amongst my brothers, and I was reminded why. He was always a little too quick to find my soft spots and prod them. Pointedly.

  Portia sat forward, her expression avid. “Yes, I only ever forgot Jane once, and that was because I saw the most delicious first edition of Bacon’s essays in the window of a bookshop. I left her pram on the pavement without a thought.”

  Plum snorted. “You’ve never pushed a pram in your life. You left the nanny is more like it.”

  Portia’s gaze was glacial. “The nanny’s presence was immaterial. I still forgot the child. Although,” she added, turning to me, “I’ve never forgot her four times.”

  I looked to Brisbane. “I can’t decide if she is trying to defend me or accuse me,” I told him.

  “A little of both,” he decided. “She wants you to know that she sympathises with your peccadillo but would never be quite so daft as to commit it herself. At least not four times.”

  “That’s very helpful,” I said with a dangerous smile. He smiled back, and there was intimacy in that smile and a promise of something delightful yet to come.

  “Stop staring at your husband, Julia,” my sister instructed. “You’ve gone pink as a virgin and it’s unseemly.”

  Plum spluttered into his whisky, but Brisbane remained unperturbed.

  Portia turned back to me. “And you never answered Plum’s question. How did you manage to forget Jack?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. If I knew why I did it, I could stop. But it just happens. I will take him out for some air and then start wool-gathering about something. Before I know it, I’m somewhere entirely new and he’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Thank God for Morag,” Plum said fervently.

  “Yes, thank God for Morag,” I echoed, my voice tight. The fact that my lady’s maid had taken it upon herself to
act as nanny to the child was both a godsend and the rankest betrayal. She had served me faithfully for five years, and while I would cheerfully have cut her throat a dozen times a day, I had taken her defection badly. But it had been love at first sight between Morag and the baby, and I did not have the heart to keep her from him. From the day Brisbane and I had agreed to bring up the child as our own, Morag had been there, coddling and crooning, securing the best wet nurse and jealously guarding her Little Jack as she insisted upon calling him. My only consolation was that it meant her incessant mooning over Brisbane was a thing of the past. She had transferred her affections to his tiny half-brother, the child Brisbane and I had brought into our house after we could make none of our own.

  “Morag as devoted watchdog,” Portia said in a state of wonder. “It still doesn’t quite bear thinking about. What a journey she has had. Whitechapel prostitute to lady’s maid to the daughter of an earl, and now nanny to the little foundling.” My lips tightened and Portia flapped a hand. “Don’t pull a face, darling. I call Jane the Younger the same. Who would have guessed it? That we two should become mothers to other women’s children?”

  “Who indeed?” I said. I put on a deliberately cheerful face. “Now, who is ready for dinner? I think the banana sandwiches must be ready by now.”

  * * *

  After a better supper than I had expected—chops and vegetables with an excellent soup, passable pudding and no bananas to speak of—we repaired to the only room in the house besides the cellars that had not yet suffered from the invasion of the builders in search of dry rot. Brisbane’s study was my favourite room, perhaps in all the world. It reflected the man and his travels and the life he had led before me. I think I began to fall in love with him in that room, and it never failed to take me back to those first heady days when he was enigmatic and implacable, observing everything with witch-black eyes that gave nothing away. We had just settled in with small cups of Turkish coffee and water pipes full of apple-scented tobacco when our butler, Aquinas, appeared.

  “There is a caller, my lady, sir,” he said, proffering a card to Brisbane. “He apologises for the hour.”

  I poured out a cup of the thick black sludge that Brisbane preferred and handed it to my brother. He took a sip and pulled a face.

  “I will never get used to this,” Plum protested. “It’s like drinking tar.”

  “Peasant,” Portia said sweetly. “It takes a sophisticated man to appreciate other cultures.” As Brisbane was easily the most travelled—and the only one of us with any claim to mixed blood—Portia’s comment was nothing more than good-natured raillery, and Brisbane took it as such. He lifted his cup to her in silent salute.

  I nodded towards the small creamy card in his hand. “Who is it, dearest?”

  He shrugged and handed it over. “No one I’ve ever met. A solicitor, and one that keeps damnably strange hours.”

  I looked to Aquinas. “Show him up, please.”

  Plum settled his cup into the saucer. “Shall Portia and I go then?”

  “Why?” our sister demanded, relaxing further into the cushions of the sofa. “I quite like it here, and besides, strange solicitors showing up at odd hours speaks to an intrigue. I’d love a good intrigue.”

  Brisbane and I exchanged smiles. There was no possibility of shifting Portia once she became interested in a subject, and Plum was technically a member of the enquiry agency. Besides, living in the bosom of a large family meant keeping precious few secrets. Whatever the business this solicitor had with us, I would no doubt confide it to them in the end.

  In a very few moments the creaking of the stairs signalled his approach. Aquinas opened the door and announced him, but almost before he finished saying the name, the fellow was upon us. He was middling in height and portly with a ruddy complexion and well-trimmed whiskers of the faded ginger hue that comes when redheaded men begin to age badly. He was well-upholstered in an expensive suit and carried a small case of dull green morocco.

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, sir, and I do apologise for both the lateness of the hour and the intrusion upon your guests,” he added with a glance towards the rest of us. There was something faintly off in his expression as he looked at us, as if he smelt something not entirely pleasant.

  “Not at all,” Brisbane countered. “My wife, Lady Julia Brisbane. Her sister, Lady Bettiscombe, and their brother, Mr. Eglamour March. And you are Mr. Sanderson of the firm of Sanderson and Weevel, I believe?” he added with a nod to the card.

  “I am indeed, sir.” He inclined his head towards the rest of us in turn. “My lady, my lady, Mr. March.” He turned back to Brisbane. “The matter I have come to discuss is somewhat confidential in nature,” he began.

  Brisbane waved a hand. “I have no secrets from my wife, and I have been married long enough to know better than to believe she has any from her family. Please, be seated, Mr. Sanderson and state your business freely.”

  Still looking doubtful, Mr. Sanderson took the chair Brisbane indicated. He looked from his left, where I sat on a hassock, to his other side, where Portia occupied one end of the sofa. I lifted the pot of Turkish coffee. “Coffee, Mr. Sanderson?”

  He started a little at the sound of my voice and darted me an odd glance, sliding his eyes away from me and back to my husband. “How very kind. Erm, no, thank you, my lady.”

  He cleared his throat. “Now, Mr. Brisbane, as I say this is confidential, and perhaps it would be best—”

  I took up a plate of rose water biscuits. “Biscuit?” I asked sweetly, shoving the plate under his nose.

  He flinched a little. “No, thank you, my lady.” His tone was firmer this time, and I flicked a glance to my sister.

  She did not disappoint. She took a cushion from the sofa and thrust it at him. “Cushion, Mr. Sanderson? That chair is frightfully uncomfortable.”

  He put up his hands as if to ward her off. “I am quite comfortable, my lady. Thank you.”

  Plum, who had no notion why we were tormenting the fellow but was always ready for a bit of mischief, picked up the closest water pipe. “We were just about to light the hookah, Mr. Sanderson. Would you care for a smoke?”

  “No, no, thank you,” the solicitor said, fending him off. “I wish to speak with Mr. Brisbane about a matter of some importance,” he said tightly.

  “My wife and her family are nothing if not hospitable towards guests,” Brisbane said, giving me a fond look. “You were saying, Mr. Sanderson?”

  The solicitor darted glances at my siblings and I as if to reassure himself that we did not intend to molest him with further courtesies. He fished in his morocco case and drew out a slender document that bore the hallmarks of a legal decree.

  “This is the last will and testament of Josiah Thornhill of Thorncross Manor in Narrow Wibberley in Berkshire” he began. “The gentleman was a solitary soul—some might call him a recluse. He lived in this house for the whole of his life and never married. When he passed, it was discovered that he left no heirs, and it was believed, no will. But this document has been found and authenticated, and in it he makes clear his wish that you should be the beneficiary of his estate.”

  “Me?” Brisbane put out his hand for the document. He skimmed it swiftly, his silky black brows knit together as he read. “I have never met a Josiah Thornhill. Nor have I ever visited Thorncross or Narrow Wibberley. Are you certain you have the right man?”

  “Quite.” The syllable was clipped and emphatic, and Mr. Sanderson seemed to relax now that he had been allowed to get on with the business at hand. “As Mr. Thornhill states in his will, he felt indebted to you for the professional courtesies you rendered a lady to whom he was much attached.”

  “What lady?” Brisbane asked.

  The ginger whiskers looked affronted. “I am not at liberty to divulge that information, not least of which because I do not poss
ess it. Mr. Thornhill was most discreet upon the point.”

  “Perhaps the lady he loved was already married to another and that’s why he never married,” Portia put in.

  Mr. Sanderson flinched again. “I should not like to speculate,” he said stiffly. He gave a sharp nod to the page in Brisbane’s hand. “You will see, sir, that the deed to Thorncross is yours, free and clear. It is a fine country property within easy reach of the City, beautifully situated off a tributary of the Thames. I am assured it is in excellent condition, a splendid little estate for a gentleman eager to escape the confines of the City,” he added smoothly.

  Brisbane gave him a dangerously bland smile. “What is the catch?”

  Mr. Sanderson blinked. “Catch, sir?”

  Brisbane steepled his fingers, resting the tips of them beneath his chin. His gaze was speculative. “In my experience, gentlemen do not simply give other gentlemen houses, no matter how grateful. Did he do this to thwart another potential heir? Will I find myself dragged into court to litigate the rightful ownership of this place?”

  “Certainly not!” Mr. Sanderson seemed deeply affronted by the notion. “Of course,” he went on, smoothing his waistcoat over his stomach, “there is the most trifling of conditions with the bequest.”

  Brisbane’s smile deepened to something positively wolfish. “Go on.”

  Mr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s nothing to speak of, nothing at all, really. Mr. Thornhill was naturally very fond of his home, and he wished that the new owner—namely you, Mr. Brisbane—would live in it, at least for part of the year. His will specifically states that in order to retain ownership, you must establish residence in the house for four periods each year upon the traditional dates when the rents are paid.”

  “Four periods each year?” Brisbane asked.

  Mr. Sanderson hastened to reassure him. “They are not lengthy periods, sir. A fortnight only at each of the customary rent days. It has always been the custom at Thorncross for the master to accept the rents.”