The Dark Enquiry (A Lady Julia Grey Novel)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Yes, well. We will quarrel about that tomorrow,” Portia said with a gentle smile. She looked to Plum and nodded towards Jane the Younger. The little beauty’s lids were drooping fast, and her pretty rosebud mouth was slack.

  “Give her over, Plum. I must see her to bed.”

  Plum rose and waved Portia off. “I will see her tucked up and tell the upstairs maid to have a listen should she cry out.”

  Felicity jumped to her feet. “Oh, no, let me!” She held out her arms. “I have four younger brothers. I am an old hand at helping with the babies, and I should so like to be helpful whilst I am here.”

  Plum obediently handed over the sleeping child. Felicity turned anxious eyes to Portia. “I hope I have not over-stepped myself. My stepmother always said that small children can be so very demanding, and I want to be able to contribute. You have been so kind.”

  Portia gave her a gracious nod. “Not at all. Plum will show you the way.” She watched them leave with a speculative gleam in her eyes and I waggled a finger at her.

  “You are playing at being Cupid,” I accused.

  “What if I am?” she demanded. “The girl is rather smitten, and so is Plum. If they are thrown together a little, they might come to like each other quite well. Or they will discover that they do not suit. It is always better to know.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “If it came to it, I would have taken her, you know. You needn’t have inconvenienced yourself.”

  “This house is too big,” she said simply. “It echoes sometimes.” I knew she was thinking of her beloved lost companion, Jane, then. I did not press the point.

  A few moments later, Plum returned with the news that Felicity was still with the child, singing lullabies. I suspected she wanted to give us a chance to speak privately, and I commended her discretion. Almost immediately, the four of us fell again to discussing my predicament.

  “I cannot understand why Father is so terribly upset,” Val put in. “Julia engaged in some rather unladylike behaviour in calling upon those gentlemen with only her maid, but that is really quite tame compared to what Marches usually get up to,” he said with a touching display of loyalty to me. I smiled at him fondly.

  “It isn’t what she did,” Portia explained, using her patient elder sister tone. “It is that she was careless enough to do it in front of a reporter. Father has a horror of the sensationalist press, and this Illustrated Daily News is the absolute worst. They always put the most awful construction upon things without ever saying anything truly actionable. Believe me, he would be far less upset if Julia had been written up in the Times.”

  “It is more than that,” Plum offered. “I think he is genuinely quite terrified for her. Dashing about on such escapades leaves her open to assault by any villain. This reporter was bent only on embarrassment, but he was apparently quite close to her for the better part of an entire day. He might have harmed her at any time.”

  A slight shudder ran through me, and for the first time, I began to truly understand the danger I had faced. I felt faintly violated, now I thought about it properly.

  “I think he’s angrier with Brisbane,” Val added. “Feels he ought to have done a better job of protecting her.”

  Plum snorted. “A full regiment of Beefeaters couldn’t protect Julia. She is entirely reckless.”

  “I say, that’s uncalled for,” I said, sulking a little, but Plum was not entirely wrong, although I would never give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Besides, Father is the one who encouraged me to take up a hobby during my widowhood. It is his fault for not specifying what sort of hobby.”

  “I think he meant something along the lines of beekeeping or betting on horses,” Portia offered. “I think I suggested gymnastics to you, did I not?”

  I put out my tongue. “I like investigating. And I am rather good at it.” Although, I reflected darkly, I had not yet managed to extricate our eldest brother from what might prove to be a disastrous situation. I thought of his children then, the pretty Virgilia and dear Orlando, Bellmont’s eldest boy, newly married and made a father just this past winter. Bellmont’s first grandchild had been born in Yorkshire to much merrymaking—a fourth-generation March heir to secure the family name. Yet one more life to be shattered if Bellmont’s liaison came to light, I thought with a pang.

  “You are woolgathering,” Portia said gently. “Where did you go?”

  I summoned a smile. “Nowhere, dearest. Just building castles in Spain and thinking on what a lovely family we have.”

  Portia looked from me to the handsome faces of our two brothers and smiled back. “We do, don’t we?”

  Buoyed by my evening with my family, I was in much better spirits when Brisbane collected me. His evening had proven very satisfactory, as well, ending in the collection of a hefty fee for resolving the matter, and we entered our house to find the telephone ringing away in the cupboard under the stairs.

  Brisbane waved off Aquinas and answered it himself. He summoned me to come to the instrument almost immediately.

  I took it as reluctantly as if it were a snake.

  “Yes? To whom am I speaking?”

  “Who else has a telephone?” my father demanded, apparently still in a prickly mood. “It’s Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “Good evening, Father,” I said as politely as I could manage.

  “Yes, well, I thought you ought to know. There won’t be any more fuss with that Illustrated Daily Dungpile that published that story about you.”

  “Really? How can you be sure?”

  “Because I bought the bloody thing this afternoon.”

  The FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  Choose the darkest part o’ the grove,

  Such as ghosts at noon-day love.

  —“A Spell” John Dryden

  The next day, true to his word, Brisbane took me with him to visit his tailor, a rather sober gentleman called Stokes. Mr. Stokes had personally overseen the cut of Brisbane’s clothes for half a dozen years, and it was a measure of his personal regard for Brisbane that he did so, for Mr. Stokes was a man who could not be bought. In fact, he could very often not even be found. His rooms were on Bond Street, but discreetly situated, with no sign to betray their whereabouts. Like the queen, he flew a standard to indicate when he was in residence, and clients of his establishment knew better than to try the door when the flag was absent. He bestowed his attentions only upon gentlemen he felt were stylish enough to carry off his clothes to their best effect, and no amount of money would induce him to personally fit a gentleman who lacked the necessary aplomb or the required references. I had taken it as a high compliment when he had agreed to make my own riding habit and the masculine disguise I had adopted during my investigation, and as he cast a critical eye over my costume, I was pleased to see approbation along with the appraisal.

  “Well done. The stance of the jacket might be a fraction higher, but the pairing of dove-grey with cerise was an inspired choice and the set of that sleeve is inordinately fine.”

  Brisbane cocked a brow at me. “High praise indeed. I knew Stokes for two years before he complimented me once.”

  “And only then because you were wearing one of my coats,” Mr. Stokes put in with a surprisingly waggish gleam in his eye. For all his soberness, Mr. Stokes was an engaging fellow, and we had a comfortable chat while Brisbane was being fit for a new city suit.

  “He ought to have something for the country whilst we are here,” I observed. “I think that black tweed with the dash of green in the weave is just the thing.”

  Mr. Stokes admired my excellent taste and offered me a glass of carnation ratafia. “It is a very old-fashioned sort of libation, but ladies seem to enjoy it,” he explained. I had not heard of anyone drinking carnation ratafia since my grandmother’s time. It was a pretty concoction—sugared brandy that had been steeped with carnation petals and spices—and for a ladylike drink, it was terribly powerful. It could fell a grown man in three glasses.

  But I was eage
r to enjoy a convivial moment with Mr. Stokes, so I accepted. It soon became apparent that Mr. Stokes enjoyed ratafia as much as the ladies. He went so far as to open a tin of wine biscuits and we chatted and munched as various assistants trotted to and fro with samples and fabrics for Brisbane’s new suits.

  “I wonder,” I said after we had established something of a genial rapport. “I came across a most unusual button, and it occurred to me that you must know all the most exclusive haberdashers in London and perhaps you had seen the like of it before.”

  He preened a little, as I had expected he would, but when I dropped the button into his palm, he took on the serious air of a scholar examining a rare specimen.

  “German, of course, although one ought to be precise and say Prussian,” he murmured. “An hereditary order for members of the Sigmaringen branch of the Hohenzollern dynasty.”

  All of which Brisbane and I already knew. I prodded further. “Is it possible to tell anything else from this button? I wondered if the kaiser might permit members of his household to wear them or perhaps the regiment assigned to his personal service.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Mr. Stokes assured me. “This is most definitely a costly piece with exquisite attention to detail. It would have been made for members of the order itself. Something in a similar style out of stamped metal would have done for the retainers.”

  I thanked him and made to return the button to my reticule, but he hesitated.

  “Yes, Mr. Stokes? Is there something more?”

  He shook his head thoughtfully. “I cannot say. Something about this button disturbs me, but I cannot tell you what it is. May I keep it?”

  I hesitated and he hurried on. “Only for a day or so, and only to discover what else I can tell you about this particular item. I presume the matter touches upon Mr. Brisbane’s work?” he asked, sotto voce.

  I nodded and he laid a finger over his lips. “Fear not, my lady. I am silent as an oyster. A tailor must be, you know.”

  “Really?”

  He gave a short, dry cough that I realised was supposed to be a laugh. “Of course! It would not do at all if I could not keep a confidence. No gentleman wishes it to be known that he pads his shoulders or wears a corset.”

  “You have clients who wear corsets?” I leaned closer, inviting confidences.

  Mr. Stokes, warm and forthcoming as a result of the ratafia, nonetheless retained his discretion. He merely laughed again and wagged his finger at me. “Now, that would be telling!” No amount of coaxing could win even so much as a hint from him, and I felt better about leaving the button in his hands. At least until I told Brisbane once we had settled ourselves into our carriage.

  He stared at me in stupefaction. “You left our one solid clue with my tailor?”

  “He seemed to think he could help.”

  Brisbane thrust his fingers into his hair, disarranging it wildly. “I brought you with me because you cannot be trusted on your own, and in the five minutes I was out of your company, you managed to lose the only clue we had.”

  I flapped a hand at him. “I do not see what the fuss is about. We had deduced as much as we could from the button. Mr. Stokes believes he can discover additional information. Besides, I have not lost the clue,” I corrected. “I put it to work for us.”

  Brisbane subsided against the seat. “I surrender. There is no point in even getting angry anymore.”

  “I am glad you see it,” I returned. “Now, direct the driver to Simpson’s and I will buy you a plate of roast beef to sweeten your temper.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “No, but you are grinding your back teeth together. You at least ought to give them some meat to chew on.”

  A leisurely luncheon did put Brisbane in better spirits. He always enjoyed the quiet luxurious calm of Simpson’s, and we were given our usual table, discreetly hidden from the rest of the room by a large palm. By the time the waiter had rolled up the silver trolley to carve the great haunch of good Scottish roast beef, Brisbane was admitting—albeit grudgingly—that it had been a rather good idea to give the button to Stokes, and as he spooned up the last of the cream from his apple tart, he actually smiled again.

  “Where do we go from here, my lord and master?” I gave him a wide-eyed glance from under my lashes that I hoped would beguile him.

  “Have you something in your eye?” he demanded. “You’re blinking as if you have a cinder.”

  “It was meant to be enchanting,” I told him.

  “Well, it is absurd, and thoroughly unnecessary. You are quite enchanting enough without playing the coquette.”

  “Do you mean that you do not like me tractable and sweet?” I asked, pursing my lips at him.

  “Christ, no. I want you just as you are, maddening and bedevilling and curious as a cat.”

  “I am glad to hear you say it. Sometimes I wonder if you haven’t changed your mind about me. I know I am rather more trouble than I am worth,” I told him.

  He fixed me with a ferocious stare. “Never say that. Haven’t I given you cause enough by now to know that I am completely and irrevocably in love with you?”

  “It is quite nice to hear it, particularly when things have been so disordered as they have been lately.”

  By way of reply, he kissed me. The rest of the patrons could not see us, but the waiter gave a discreet cough, and I pulled away.

  “Brisbane,” I whispered, “I have caused quite enough scandal for one week.”

  He behaved himself then, and over tea he became expansive on the subject of the investigation.

  “I have Monk making enquiries on the financial situation of our gentlemen guests from the séance. I respect your assessment of them,” he hastened to assure me, “but I want to be quite certain that none of them is in dire straits enough to warrant turning to blackmail.”

  “And in the meanwhile?”

  “The blackmail note.”

  “I thought the blackmail note was a nonstarter.”

  He fished into his pocket and retrieved a new note, one I had not yet seen. I caught my breath as I read it. “Five thousand pounds to Highgate Cemetery at midnight.”

  “Suitably theatrical,” Brisbane observed drily.

  “At the Circle of Lebanon,” I continued. My mouth suddenly felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. “The Circle of Lebanon is where Edward is buried.” My first husband had insisted upon the most fashionable address in London even in death.

  “I do not like this, Brisbane. There is no significance to that location for Bellmont. It holds meaning for me. And the note says you are to make the delivery, not Bellmont. Why?”

  Brisbane lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “We are brothers-in-law, and the blackmailer knows—or has at least surmised—that Bellmont has consulted me upon the matter. It makes sense, really. I deal with such things quite regularly in my profession. Bellmont does not. He is far likelier to do something needlessly stupid like try to lie in wait and take the money back. I am a professional.”

  It did make sense, but I would not be persuaded. “I do not like this. There is something quite nasty and quite specifically directed at you, at us.”

  “Precisely. And that is exactly why you are coming with me.”

  “I cannot have heard you correctly. You have preached at me about my safety almost since our first meeting. You cannot seriously mean to take me to a meeting with a blackmailer that seems deliberately designed to make a victim of me.”

  Brisbane sat back in his chair with the air of a man who is deeply satisfied.

  “You are quite correct in your assessment, my love. The blackmailer means to draw me into Bellmont’s business. If he was not certain that Bellmont had consulted me, this would have sealed it. The very pointed reference to the grave of your first husband brings you squarely into the middle of the situation. A normal, rational, sane man who cares about the safety of his wife would lock her in the house before setting off for Highgate Cemetery. But, thanks to my long assoc
iation with you and your family, I am no longer normal or rational or sane. I am composed of desperation and instinct and nothing more,” he finished.

  I narrowed my gaze. “I do not believe it.”

  “Believe what you will, my pet. That note was cleverly crafted to ensure that I leave you safely at home, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me yet. Perhaps the blackmailer seeks to muddy the waters. Perhaps he seeks an opportunity to attack.” I gave a start, but Brisbane continued smoothly on. “In any event, we will not oblige him. You will kit yourself out in that absurd masculine costume and by ten o’clock we will be en route to Highgate to see what may be seen.”

  I sat with my hands folded in my lap, quietly digesting all Brisbane had said. This was precisely what I had wanted for so long, a partnership, real involvement in his investigations. And now that I had it, I was not entirely sure it suited me. What, I wondered, had I got myself into?

  It was a question I was to ask myself a dozen times more before the night was through. According to Brisbane’s instructions, I garbed myself in my suit of men’s clothing, although this time I had no wig. It was only necessary to preserve the illusion from a distance, he assured me, so that anyone who might be watching our house would believe Brisbane had left in the company of a gentleman friend. Plum, who still did not know Bellmont’s troubles, had been dispatched upon an errand connected to another case, and the rest of the household had been sent to bed. Only Aquinas knew what we were about, and he lit us through the morning room to the garden door. In silence, he latched it behind us and left a lamp burning in the window to light our way.

  A faint glimmer of moonlight illuminated our path, and I trailed behind, stepping neatly in Brisbane’s footsteps to make certain I did not stumble over an errant rock or twisting root.

  After a moment, we came to the garden wall and slipped through the gate, closing it noiselessly behind us. It was a mark of his attention to detail that Brisbane kept the gate oiled at all times.