The Dark Enquiry (A Lady Julia Grey Novel)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Your home is lovely,” I told him quite truthfully.

  He beamed his pleasure, and I remembered that in the half-light of the Spirit Club, I had almost mistaken him for Plum. There was something similar in the set of the eyes, perhaps, or the extraordinary cheekbones. Over his more conventional garments, he was wearing a robe of heavy bronze silk, embroidered with designs I could not quite place. “From Tashkent,” he said, guessing my question. “And the décor is of my own design. I am an aesthete, my lady. I find I cannot write unless I am inspired, and I am not inspired by ugliness.”

  He waved me to a rather bizarre and sinuous chair of various iron bits welded together. I regarded the thing doubtfully, then lowered myself onto it, surprised to find it quite comfortable.

  “I designed the chair to conform to the contours of the female body,” he noted, and although such a remark would have been entirely inappropriate from most gentlemen, from him it was somehow inoffensive. There was something arch and playful about him, by turns challenging and charming. I imagined his conquests were legion.

  “So,” he said, settling into his own chair with an air of mischief, “you are the dashing Lady Julia. I have heard of you.”

  “Have you? From whom?”

  He waved a languid hand, but his gaze was frankly admiring. “Various circles. And I am quite fond of your sister, Portia. If she could bring herself to become attached to a gentleman, I would offer for her tomorrow.”

  I grinned at him. “She is rather wonderful, isn’t she?”

  “A paragon amongst women, although,” he added, skimming my form with a critical eye, “I think you may well be challenging her for the title of most marvelous March. Tell me, my lovely Lady Julia, does your husband know you’ve come to see me?”

  “Do you know Brisbane?”

  He gave me a slanted smile. “Our paths have crossed. I find him quite the most terrifying man I have ever met. And that alone will ensure I treat you with every courtesy whilst you are my guest,” he added with an exaggerated bow from the neck. “I think we ought to be cosy. We must have tea.”

  He clapped his hands and a servant appeared, an East-Indian fellow with a saffron-yellow turban and a tea tray. The cups were Chinese, fashioned of thinnest porcelain and without handles. The tea itself was green and so delicate the flavour of it seemed to dissolve on my tongue into nothingness. To my surprise, the tea caddy was not simply an object of beauty to be admired. Sir Morgan unlocked it with great ceremony and spooned out the fragile green leaves. To complement the tea, there was a plate of dainty little almond biscuits. It made a refreshing change from the usual groaning tea tray laden with sandwiches, tarts, cakes, bread and butter and scones. Sir Morgan poured out and presented me with an almond crescent. I studied him as he moved, his gestures entirely graceful, his manners almost studiedly effete. He worked hard to give the impression of delicacy, but his shoulders were solidly set and there was something resolute about him, something that suggested he was a person who could be trusted.

  As if he sensed my scrutiny, he turned his head so the light fell perfectly upon his profile. It was an excellent profile, I noted, and the dark green of his eyes was arresting.

  His handsomely shaped mouth curved up into a smile, and when he turned to me, I realised he was exerting the full power of his charm quite deliberately for my benefit.

  “So do you see the family resemblance?” he asked.

  I blinked at him. “Family resemblance?”

  The smile deepened. “To you, of course. Didn’t you know I was a March?”

  I gaped at Sir Morgan and in doing so, nearly choked myself on the pretty little almond biscuit. He hurried to refill my cup of tea as he apologised profusely.

  “I am sorry, my dear. I ought not to have sprung it on you so abruptly.”

  I gulped half the cup of steaming green tea while I tried to make sense of it.

  “You are a March. You mean, Father…” I could not bring myself to say the words.

  “Oh, heavens no!” he assured me, waving his hands. “No, no. I am not your brother, dear lady. I am your cousin. Your Uncle Benvolio’s child.”

  “But you are the son of the Earl of Dundrennan,” I protested.

  “Officially,” he corrected. “My dear mother was a bit freer with her charms than she ought to have been. My eldest brother and the second son belong to my father, of course. It would never have done for her to threaten the earldom with illegitimate heirs, but after Lucas and Neddy were born, Mama and Father went their separate ways. They had an understanding of sorts. Mama would not kick up a fuss about Father’s peccadilloes, and he would acknowledge all of her bastards as his own children. Rather tidy.”

  “All of her bastards? How many—” I broke off. There was simply no way to phrase it politely. “Seven, altogether.”

  “Oh, my. And were any of the others Marches, as well?”

  “Goodness, no. Benvolio was simply a passing fancy. They met up just the one time at a house party and nine months later I was born. A bit of bad timing, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully.

  I took a long sip of the tea, composing my thoughts. Sir Morgan wore his bastardy easily, with no sense of shame or impropriety. And why should he? I asked myself. The deeds belonged to his parents. It was really nothing to do with him at all.

  “Did your mother tell you about Uncle Benvolio?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s tradition, you see. On our thirteenth birthdays, Mama takes us for nice luncheon at the Langham Hotel and reveals our real parentage. Mine was a bit of a letdown, if I am honest. My elder sister is the bastard fruit of the Duke of Scilly, and the next child dear Mama got from the Bishop of Barnstaple. Having the younger brother of the Earl March for a father is not quite so impressive.”

  “You seem to know rather a lot about us,” I remarked.

  He smiled again, and I noted that for all his confidence and ease, there was a touch of melancholy to his smile.

  “I used to see the lot of you from time to time in town, and I was so envious of you all. Watching you walk through the park was like watching the circus come to town, a riot of colour and noise and excitement. I felt as if I had my nose pressed to the glass of a sweetshop window, and never got to come in.”

  “You would have been most welcome,” I assured him. “At last count, I have forty-three first cousins. What’s one more?”

  The smile turned arch. “I do not expect you to recognise the connection in society, dear lady.”

  “Does Portia?” I nibbled at the almond biscuit. It was quite tasty now that I was not choking upon it, I thought.

  “No, I haven’t told her.”

  “But you told me. Why?”

  He shrugged. “It amused me. And I know you want to ask me about Madame Séraphine. It seemed best if you understood that I have nothing at all to hide.”

  I smothered the urge to choke again and took another sip of tea. “How do you know I want to ask about Madame?”

  He gave me a pitying look. “My dear lady, your exploits are notorious. You like murder, and the only murder I have been attached to is Madame’s.”

  “Madame’s death was officially ruled an accident,” I reminded him.

  He snorted, a gesture I often made, and I was startled at the resemblance between us. “Officially. But I have my doubts.”

  “Had you attended many of her séances?”

  “Half a dozen,” he replied promptly. “She was a fraud, of course, but a delicious one.”

  “If you thought her a fraud, why did you attend so many?”

  He flicked a glance to the narrow writing desk in the corner. It was littered with sheets of closely scribbled fools-cap.

  “I am writing a novel and the main character is a medium. I was using her for a character study.”

  “Did she know it?”

  “Oh, yes. I was quite honest with her about my intentions. She only laughed. She thought it a very great challenge. She meant to change my mind and make a believer of me. From t
ime to time she invited me up to her boudoir to take tea. She was really quite lovely. The only fly in the ointment was the dragon at the door, Agathe.”

  “Agathe?” I widened my eyes to give him the impression that I was not au courant with the inhabitants of the Spirit Club. It seemed best to conceal what little I did know, although I could not have said precisely why.

  “Madame’s sister, poor drab Agathe LeBrun. Séraphine was a bird of brilliant plumage. Agathe is a wren. She guarded Madame’s privacy most diligently. I think she had an idea that I was a wastrel and only out for what I could get.”

  “Were you?”

  To his eternal credit, Sir Morgan laughed. “Bless you, no. I make a comfortable living from my writing, and dear Mama’s father was the Duke of Esherton. His title was entailed through the direct male line only, and he had no sons after him. He was so furious that none of his daughters’ boys could inherit the title that he left us all of his money. My poor cousin has the dukedom and no means of supporting it, whilst we have all the cash. A pity for him, but there it is.”

  I drew the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Was Madame helpful to you in your work?”

  Sir Morgan fell serious for a moment, and his usual arch, laughing manner sobered. “Not entirely. I am not quite happy with the character I have created based upon her. I needed another month’s study and then I could have really got her. She was an elusive sort, full of secrets and changeable as the very devil. One minute, she would be warm and generous, the next she would pout over something entirely trivial and I would spend the entire evening making amends. Very curious and most vexing,” he informed me.

  Just then a figure moved in the corner, and I started.

  “Good heavens, what a peculiar cat!”

  The feline in question had emerged from a fanciful little house of Chinese design with a fluted pagoda roof and heavily lacquered walls. I had seen such elaborate houses before—Puggy slept in a tiny French château—but I had never seen such a cat. Its fur was short and the colour of Saharan sands, shading to sable-dark paws and a velvety mask surrounding piercing blue eyes. It walked with the haughty grace of an emperor.

  “A Siamese,” Sir Morgan informed me. “They once roamed the sacred temples of Siam.”

  The cat tiptoed near to me, lifting its aristocratic little nose and twitching it in my direction. I noticed then that she—for I could see now that the creature was demonstrably female—had a kink in her tail. She peered up at me with a squint, which I found rather endearing. The flaw seemed to ameliorate her haughtiness a bit.

  “I see you have noticed the idiosyncrasies of the breed,” Sir Morgan observed. “Siamese are particularly prized by the royal family and it is said that the kink is to hold in place the jewelled rings presented them by their royal masters.”

  “And the squint?” She came closer still, touching her nose to the feathered trim of my reticle.

  “Legend says one of the breed was charged with guarding a valuable vase that was of special importance to the king. The cat took the charge to heart and wrapped its tail tightly about the vase and stared at it, peering so closely that every Siamese after was born with a kinked tail and crossed eyes.”

  “A charming story,” I murmured as she lifted a pretty paw to bat at the feathers.

  “The king thought so,” Sir Morgan said with a smile. “The king commissioned me to set the story in verse and was so pleased with the result he made me a gift of her.”

  Deftly, she teased one of the feathers free and darted after it. Sir Morgan gave an exclamation of dismay. “My dear lady, I do apologise. I am afraid peacock feathers are one of her dearest temptations. You must permit me to make reparation for Nin’s larceny.”

  I flapped a hand. “Think nothing of it. I bought armfuls of the stuff in India, and I keep peacocks in the country. I can always replace it.”

  “You are too gracious,” he said. “Not every lady would be quite so tolerant of her misbehaviour.”

  “I have a raven at home, as well as a lurcher. I am quite accustomed to destructive pets,” I assured him. “Her name is lovely. Is it Siamese?”

  “Nin? It is. Her real name is Sin, which is Siamese for ‘money.’ The king thought it a great joke because he gave her to me in lieu of a cash prize for the poem. But I thought Nin had a slightly less alarming sound. It means ‘sapphire.’”

  “After her eyes,” I said, noting again the brilliant blue hue.

  Just then she left off toying with the feather and came near to me again. She sat upon my hem, stretched up on her haunches and put a dainty paw to my lap.

  Sir Morgan sat forward. “Nin, leave off.”

  “It’s quite all right,” I assured him. “She is only being friendly.”

  “But she never does that,” he said with some astonishment. “She is a friendly cat, but her demonstrations of real affection are usually confined to me. I am afraid it seems I have a rival for her regard.”

  I put a fingertip to her paw, stroking the silken fur. She purred then, a loud, rumbling purr that sounded very like the engine of the motorcar Brisbane had been agitating to purchase.

  “Extraordinary,” Sir Morgan said softly.

  I sat back a little, which Nin must have viewed as an invitation, for she leapt up into my lap, as lightly as an acrobat. She straightened, then touched her brow to mine, nuzzling against my face, and just as quickly as she had come she was gone again, leaping off my lap and collecting her feathered trophy. She trotted away, the feather waving over her head like a sultan’s plume.

  Sir Morgan and I exchanged glances of amazement. “I have never known her to do such a thing. She must like you very much indeed.”

  “I am honoured,” I told him, and I was rather surprised to find that I meant it. She was a lovely creature, and the interlude had been well worth the price of a peacock feather.

  I made an effort to retrieve the subject we had been pursuing before Nin’s appearance.

  “Will you be able to finish the book?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a theatrical shrug. “Perhaps. I hope to, but if I cannot, I might turn the subject into an epic poem instead, something Byronic. Pity, really, as I think it would make a far better novel, but if I cannot capture the essence of Madame, I will have no choice.”

  We settled in for a cosy gossip then, consuming two more pots of green tea and several more plates of biscuits. He was charming company, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly until the clock—a pretty affair of quite good chinoiserie—struck the hour.

  “Good Lord,” I cried. “Is it really so late? I must fly.”

  He kissed me on both cheeks and urged me to come again.

  “If only for Nin’s sake. And now that we are known to one another, I will know you better,” he proclaimed. I agreed and took my leave of him, returning to the carriage with a sour Morag.

  “What ails you?” I demanded.

  She pursed her lips. “That heathen fellow served me green tea. Green. As if that’s a proper colour for a person’s tea,” she groused.

  “And did you discover anything of interest from him?”

  She flapped an irritable hand. “He didn’t say two words to me, he didn’t. But there was a charwoman come to clean and she told me plenty.”

  “Go on,” I said, but I dearly wished she would not. I had felt an instant affinity for my newfound cousin, and I would not like to think he had any hand in Madame’s murder.

  “The heathen what wears a turban, he waits upon his master as valet and majordomo,” she informed me. “He brews up the tea on a spirit lamp and the biscuits are brought in, as are all the master’s meals. There’s a charwoman for the heavy work and the valet fellow to look after the master personally. All of the meals are sent in and the laundry sent out. Very economical.”

  “Very economical indeed, for a fellow who claims to have a great deal of money,” I mused. “Brisbane must make enquiries about that and see if he is as solvent as he claims. So that’s the end of it? No
boys kept to run errands or shine shoes?”

  “Not a one. I asked about the errands and the char said the master gives her a coin or two extra to do for him or she finds any passing lad. There’s none attached permanently to the house.”

  “Blast,” I muttered.

  I contemplated the list of séance guests in my notebook. As much as I would have liked to have found a gentleman with a definitive motive and a kitchen boy in service, I had crossed all of the men from my list, even Sir Morgan. Further investigation would be necessary for each of them, but I strongly believed that each of them either would have wished to keep Madame alive or would have been indifferent to her death. None of them had had a sufficient motive to bring it about, including Sir Morgan. His urbane demeanour had slipped momentarily when we had discussed his book, and I had seen real anguish there as he described his efforts to capture Madame’s character in words. More time with her would certainly have suited his purposes, just as it would have the General. Only Sir Henry had been finished with her, but he had been finished with half a dozen other mediums and no one had reported a rash of murders against the mediums of London. No, he had taken his irritability home and exercised it upon his daughters and that had been the end of it, I was certain.

  I clucked my tongue, wondering what I had missed. I put the matter aside and ordered the coach to take us home.

  I did not see Brisbane that evening, for he was still engaged upon the case in Richmond until very early in the morning, and over breakfast I took the opportunity to begin to relate to him my activities of the previous day. I told him about my interviews with the general and Sir Henry, as well as Morag’s discoveries—or lack of. His expression grew blacker and blacker as I spoke, and I hurried the matter along by telling him merely that I had learned nothing of significance from my last call and left it at that.