Lady Julia Grey Bundle

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Swallowing hard, I raised my free hand and pushed at his shoulder.

  "Time for sleep, Brisbane."

  His head came up suddenly.

  "Stupid," he said, his voice thick now. "Should not have come, Julia."

  His hand still held mine. His free arm came quickly around my waist. He pulled me hard against him. His eyes were dilated, wide black pupil against black iris, giving him an unearthly look. His breath was coming quickly through parted lips. My spine felt rigid, as though he could crack it in two with his hands if he wished.

  He dipped his head low, close enough for his mouth to touch mine if he turned ever so slightly. I wondered later what would have happened if I had given him the chance. Instead, I lifted my heel and brought it down viciously on the top of his instep. The pain brought him up sharply and he stared at me, never loosening his grasp. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated with a shiver, and then closed it on a deep, resonant groan. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, bearing me down to the floor as he fell.

  We landed heavily, his body pinning mine to the carpet and knocking me nearly breathless. I took a few gasping gulps of air, then pushed at his shoulders to shift his weight. He was completely oblivious, and it was only when Monk burst through the door and hefted him off of me that I was free.

  "How did you get in?" I rubbed at the back of my head. A lump was beginning to form, but it was not as bad as I expected. Thank goodness for the thick carpet and my own strong skull.

  Monk struggled to the bed with Brisbane, a deadweight draped over his shoulders. He laid him down gently and tucked the coverlet around him. He turned back to me. His colour was high, but he seemed otherwise calm and unruffled by the events of the past few minutes. I realized now why Brisbane kept him. A servant with such a cool head was a definite asset in his situation.

  Monk reached down to help me up. "A bit of stiff wire, my lady. I knocked the key out of the keyhole and used my own key to unlock the door."

  He motioned me toward the sitting room and I followed gratefully, noticing that he did not close the door to the bedchamber.

  Monk must have noticed my nervous glance toward the bedchamber door. "In case he needs me," he said simply. "Now, I think a bit of brandy for the shock."

  I agreed and took a deep, choking drink, thinking how much better it would have been if it had been a whiskey.

  "That was most unpleasant for you, my lady. I can only offer my most abject apologies."

  I stared into the depths of my brandy glass, as if scrying for answers. It was a long moment before I answered him, a moment in which he tidied up stray newspapers and poked at the fire. Anyone peering through the windows might have thought it a pleasantly domestic scene. Unless they looked into Brisbane's room.

  "That is not necessary, Monk," I said at length. "It was my own fault for coming. I was stupid. I was impatient to show him something," I finished lamely, patting my pocket to make certain the Psalter was still there. "Tell me, Monk, does he show no improvement? Is there no help for him?"

  Monk ran a hand through his thatch of silvering hair, his expression grieved. "I used to think he was getting better. There were months, several at a stretch sometimes, when he would be free of them. But since we came back to London…he is getting worse. And so are the cures. He used to take absinthe with an equal part of water. Now I count myself lucky if I can persuade him to put a pipette's worth of water in the glass. He will kill himself with it."

  There was acceptance in his voice, but genuine regret as well.

  "How long have you known him?"

  He gave me a wistful smile. "Since he was a boy. He was a student at the school where I was master. Wild as a moorland pony, he was. A wretched student. He never could abide the rules, the discipline. But a fine mind, the best I ever taught. When they finally threw him out, I went with him."

  "Did he have these headaches, even then?"

  Monk hesitated, as if he feared to say too much. But I think he realized we shared a bond of sorts, a bond of knowing too much. "As long as ever I have known him. But they are more frequent now, more painful. His usual methods have begun to fail him. I do not know what will become of him."

  I set the glass down firmly. "Surely something can be done. There are doctors—"

  "He has seen them all. He has been bled and purged like a medieval serf and dosed with things I do not like to think of. They have done things to him that frighten me still, and I am a grown man who has seen two wars. Nothing helps him except oblivion. He tried opium for a while—we had a nasty business getting him off of that. Then he tried morphia, cocaine—every narcotic known to man. We had high hopes for the absinthe, but I think it begins to fail him as well. They all do eventually."

  We were quiet a moment, each of us caught up in our thoughts—mine wholly unpleasant ones. There seemed to be nothing I could do, and the helplessness infuriated me.

  "At least you could have some help with him," I said finally, taking in Monk's lined eyes and pale skin. Caring for Brisbane was taking a toll upon the portly former schoolmaster. "I think you have not slept in days."

  But if Monk was a retired schoolmaster, he was also a former soldier. He raised his chin and shook his head, his spine stiff. "No one sees him when he is like this. Besides, there have been episodes, violent ones. He has never harmed me, but I could not be absolutely certain…"

  His cleared his throat, steeling himself, I thought.

  "I do hope that he did not offer your ladyship any insult?"

  "No. He—he embraced me. I think he was quite delirious. I am afraid that I acted rather stupidly. I stepped on his foot with my heel. That is when he collapsed."

  Monk seemed relieved. "It was not your doing, my lady. The oblivion comes on quickly. The last dose should have affected him by the time you arrived. It was coincidence that he should have collapsed at that moment. You do understand he was not himself?" he asked earnestly. "I have known him from boyhood. He would never force himself on an unwilling lady."

  I pressed my lips together. There seemed no possible comment to that.

  I smoothed my skirts and my thoughts and rose, offering my hand to Monk. "I think you and I must rely upon each other's discretion. If you will gather up the fruit, you may tell him that I sent it with a servant and my compliments. He will never hear from me that I saw him in this state."

  Monk's face was suffused with gratitude as he took my hand.

  "I will say nothing of your visit, I assure you, my lady. And I must apologize for speaking so freely. I am overtired, as you yourself observed. I would not usually confide, but as Mr. Brisbane has himself remarked, you are a most unusual lady."

  Monk pressed my hand. "And thank you for your discretion, my lady. I need not tell you how disastrous it would be if he ever learned you were here."

  "Then we shall not speak of it."

  He bowed me out of the room and closed the door firmly behind me. I heard the locks being turned and the bolt being shot and I wondered if he was locking the world out—or Brisbane in.

  THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

  'Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children.

  —William Shakespeare

  As You Like It

  I left the rooms in Chapel Street in a vile mood—so vile that I elected to walk, hoping that the freshening air would blow some of the confusion from my mind and the heat from my cheeks. But exercise was no balm. Rather than being charmed by the bustle of the streets, I was annoyed at being jostled about. I found myself glaring at people and walking too quickly in my agitation. I arrived at Grey House out of breath and perspiring faintly in spite of the breeze. I was tired and cross, more at myself than anyone else. I should have mastered my impatience and my excitement at finding the Psalter and bided my time until Brisbane sent word he was prepared to see me.Instead I had behaved like a schoolgirl. Brisbane was no performing monkey on display, but I had allowed my own curiosity and excitement to propel me into his sanctum, insulting
his privacy. What was wrong with me that I had forced my way into the rooms of a sick man? Such impetuosity was not even part of my character. It was a March trait, one I deplored. And I had allowed myself to be seduced by the thrill of the investigation into acting like a member of my own family.

  And worse by far, I had taken advantage of Brisbane's indisposition and state of undress to assess his physique. It was shameful, really. Poor Brisbane, racked by pain and half mad with absinthe, and I had actually taken the opportunity to look at his bared chest.

  My only consolation was that I had not enjoyed the experience. Brisbane was not at all the sort of man I admired. He was too dark, too tall, too thickly muscled, altogether too much. I preferred a slender, epicene form, with delicately sketched muscles and golden hair. Graceful, aristocratic, like a Renaissance statue. Like Edward.

  But if Edward was Donatello's David, in fairness, I must concede that Brisbane was more Michelangelo's. It was the difference between Hermes and Hades, really. The slim, glowing youth versus the dark, brooding lord. Grace versus power, although, if I were entirely truthful, Brisbane had his own sort of grace, nothing so effete as Edward's, but graceful just the same. Brisbane put one in mind of wolves and lithe jungle cats, while Edward conjured images of seraphim and slim young saints. It required an entirely different aesthetic altogether to appreciate Brisbane, one that I lacked. Entirely.

  Even so, it was wrong of me even to look at him, especially at so fraught a time. I had acted with a complete lack of decorum and good breeding, and I was thoroughly ashamed of myself.

  In fact, I was so preoccupied with my little bout of self-loathing that I did not see the caller lounging at the front steps of Grey House until I had nearly passed him by. I paused and peered closely.

  "Reddy? Reddy Phillips, is that you?"

  The young man swept off his hat and made me a very pretty bow. "Good afternoon, my lady. I hope that you are keeping quite well."

  I surveyed him from his extremely fashionable hat (surely not yet paid for) to the empty watch chain at his waist (certainly the watch was pawned to pay a debt). He had always been a handsome creature, but I looked at his too-carefully brushed hair and meticulously shot cuffs and found myself growing impatient, my lips thinning in disapproval. Not my most attractive expression, but I could not help it.

  "What brings you to Grey House, Reddy? I am not in the habit of receiving callers in the street."

  He had the grace to blush a little, but it was not as charming as I had once thought.

  "I have come about a matter of honour," he said, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial little smile. He glanced up and down the street, as if to make certain we were not overheard. He needn't have bothered. The only passersby were on the other side of the street and Curzon is wide enough that low voices and clandestine glances are more for effect than necessity.

  "What matter of honour? Are you referring to that ridiculous bird in Val's rooms?"

  He blanched, either at my forthright conversation or the audibility of my tone.

  "Well, Reddy?"

  He smiled again, licking his lips. I noticed that they were peeling. I glanced down at his hands and saw that the nails were bitten to the quick, one thumb bleeding discreetly around the nail. Surely he had not pawned his gloves, as well.

  "My lady, I am certain that you will appreciate the need for discretion in this very delicate situation. Perhaps we could go inside.…"

  He moved toward the door, but I stepped neatly in front of him, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. Really, this was too much. I had complained to Val that the Phillipses were all jumped-up tradesmen and it was only too true. Two generations of money cannot compensate for the complete neglect of a gentleman's social education. No other person of my acquaintance would have presumed to invite himself into my home, particularly when I was still observing my period of mourning. But I was rather relieved at Reddy's pushing rudeness. It absolved me of being nice to him.

  "No, we cannot go inside, Reddy, because it is nearly teatime, as you would know if you still owned a watch, and I have no intention of inviting you to stay."

  Stunned, he opened his mouth, but I put up my hand.

  "Silence, please. Clearly you have come because you think that you can prevail upon me to intercede with Val on your behalf. I can assure you that such efforts on your part would be entirely futile. Do you deny that you put up the bird as a wager?"

  "N-no." I raised an eyebrow at him. He had very nearly insulted me by leaving off my honorific. I was beginning to get annoyed.

  "No, my lady," he amended swiftly.

  "Do you deny that Valerius won the wager fairly?"

  "No, my lady, but the Honourable Mr. March—"

  "There is no but, Reddy. Either Valerius won the bird fairly, in which case you have no business trying to get it back as you well know, or he cheated you of it. Which is it? Is my brother a cheat and a liar or are you just a particularly poor loser?"

  If I had thought him pale before, it was nothing to the colour he faded to now.

  "I had no intention of calling his honour into question," he managed to say, his voice tight with panic. I think he had some dim idea that aristocrats still dueled with swords at dawn. Of course, Marches did still do that sort of thing from time to time, though none within my memory. And for all I knew, Valerius would indeed call him out over the matter if pressed. He was an odd, unpredictable child, even for a March.

  "Good. Because if you did—" I leaned closer to him, lifting my veil so that he could see my eyes clearly "—if you did accuse my brother publicly, I should have to inform the earl at once. And if there is one thing his lordship will not brook, it is the malicious slander of one of his own. He would take action, Reddy, swift and entirely merciless, I assure you."

  I was referring to legal action; Father was nothing if not litigious. But Reddy did not know this. He was doubtless imagining himself shot dead at twenty paces on Hampstead Heath in the faint light of some misty dawn while his seconds looked on. He gulped and I counted silently to ten before I dropped my veil.

  "Now, let us hear no more of this." I moved to enter my house, then turned back.

  "Oh, and Reddy?"

  "Yes, my lady?" He shied like a pony.

  "The word 'Honourable' is never spoken, only written. You would properly refer to my brother simply as Mr. Valerius March."

  His face went a dull, sullen red and I knew that I should have left off toying with him, but I could not. It felt obscenely good to torment him. He had behaved badly, and after my call in Chapel Street I was feeling volcanic. Besides, if I had loosed my anger at my staff, I would have paid for it for the next year with cold meals and poorly laid fires. I could abuse Reddy and send him on his way with a fine story to tell at the gaming tables.

  "And remember, Reddy, if I catch the slightest breath of a rumour about this, I will assume you have been talking indiscreetly. And I will not go to the earl with the matter. I will deal with you myself."

  I would swear the boy actually shivered. I swept into Grey House, feeling powerful and strong and capable of anything.

  Then my hand touched the Psalter in my pocket, and I realized that I was a good deal less capable than I had thought.

  THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

  Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

  —John Donne

  "Song"

  For the next several days I mooned about the house, brooding and regretting my horrid treatment of Reddy Phillips. Everything had seemed rather safe before that fateful visit to Brisbane's rooms. The brief minutes I had spent there seemed to have unbalanced something within me, leaving me unsettled, wobbling like a child's spinning top, and the worst of it was that I did not know why. I had behaved wretchedly, and in consequence found myself rattling around Grey
House, starting every time the bell went, imagining that now Brisbane would write and something resembling normality would resume.But the days stretched on into a week and the bell rang many times, but he did not write. In the end, I found myself in my study, taking up the books I had disarranged the day I found the Psalter. I had it still, locked snugly in a drawer beneath my costliest lace for safekeeping. But the rest of the study was still a wreck and I thought a bit of physical labor was in order. I sorted the books carefully, grouping poetry with poetry and alphabetizing novelists, rather than my usual haphazard method. The books of my childhood I gathered on the last shelf, smiling to myself as I touched them again, these treasured, yellowing friends from my youth.

  Persuasion. Wuthering Heights. Jane Eyre. Pride and Prejudice.

  The rest were much the same, romantic stories with dark, brooding men with mysterious pasts and scornful glances. Some of them were good novels, by proper authors. Much of it was complete rubbish. I groaned as I shoved them back onto the shelf. How many summer days had I whiled away tucked in the apple tree at Bellmont Abbey with one of these books, dreaming of the day when a darkly handsome man would sweep me away to his castle on the moor? How many winter evenings had I huddled in bed, reading by candlelight until my eyes ached just to see if all turned out happily for the beleaguered lovers?