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 over fond 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 Lu
cy 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.
Silent in the Sanctuary Page 25
