Amos took his leave and shut the door behind him as Portia raised a brow at me. We had seldom been entertained in kitchens. But before we could move, the door opened again, flung hard on its hinges. The moor wind gusted inside, flaring the candles as a man strode over the threshold.
"Brisbane," I said, my voice catching. He saw me then, and I think his expression could not have been more surprised if he had seen a ghost. In fact, he stopped a moment and put out his hand, as if to prove to himself I was no wraith.
"You cannot be here," he said finally. His hair was the longest I had ever seen it, witch-black and tumbled to his shoulders. His eyes, black as his hair, were fixed on mine, and he had gone pale under the olive of his skin. His black greatcoat hung carelessly from his shoulders, and as we stood, staring at one another, it slid unheeded to the floor. He wore neither neckcloth nor waistcoat. His white shirt was open at the neck and tucked loosely into his trousers, but it was not the unseemliness of his attire that made me gasp. His shirt and his bare forearms were streaked with blood.
"Brisbane!" I darted forward. "You are hurt."
He shied, stepping aside sharply. I did not touch him. "It is not mine." His voice was hoarse and strange, and for the space of a heartbeat he seemed utterly unknown to me, a stranger in a familiar person. We were inches apart, yet we did not touch, did not speak for a long moment. He was struggling to say something, or perhaps not to say it. His lips parted, but he held his silence. He snapped his mouth closed again, grinding his teeth hard against each other. Unlike the Brisbane of old, whose emotions had been so carefully in check, this man's face wore a thousand of them, warring with each other until I could not tell if he wished to kiss me or throttle me.
"Will you not bid me welcome?" I asked quietly, lightly, forcing a smile. I put out my hand.
He looked down at it, then at my face, and I saw that the mask had settled into place again. The emotions I had seen, or thought I had seen, were mastered once more.
"Welcome," he said coolly, shaking my hand as a stranger might, barely touching my fingertips. "I hope you enjoy your stay at Grimsgrave."
He nodded formally at Portia and Valerius, but said nothing. He brushed past me, stalking toward the staircase. He did not ascend. There was a door underneath it I had not seen in the dim light. He slammed it behind him as he left me standing in the hall, unwanted as a discarded toy.
I smoothed my skirts and turned to follow Portia, averting my eyes from Valerius'. They had heard, of course, as had Miss Allenby. Our hostess did not look at me as we moved into the kitchen, but I knew from the pained expression of her lovely features she pitied me, and in spite of her elegant manner and her beauty, I decided then, quite deliberately, to dislike her.
THE THIRD CHAPTER
Two women placed together makes cold weather.
—William Shakespeare
Henry VIII
To her credit, Miss Allenby said nothing and schooled her expression to serenity by the time we were seated round the fire. She helped Mrs. Butters in cutting and buttering bread and pouring tea, never hurrying, never moving with anything less than perfect composure. It was oddly soothing to watch her, every gesture carefully chosen. I could not imagine her untidy or rushed. And thinking of Miss Allenby prevented me from thinking of Brisbane. My thoughts were so disordered I could not even manage polite conversation. I signed to Portia behind Miss Allenby's back, and nibbled at my lip.
"You must forgive my confusion, Miss Allenby," Portia said with forced politeness. "I thought there were no more Allenbys at Grimsgrave."
Miss Allenby smiled serenely. "The Allenbys built Grimsgrave. We have lived on this land since the days of the Saxon kings. Now, only my mother and sister and I are left. And Cousin Godwin, although he is not of the family proper."
A thousand questions tumbled in my mind, and doubtless Portia's as well, but she kept her queries courteous.
"Ah, a mother, too?" Portia remarked. "And a sister? When will we have the pleasure of making their acquaintance?"
Miss Allenby laid the slices of bread and butter onto a thick brown plate and placed it on the table. There was no cloth, only smooth, scrubbed wood. "My sister, Hilda, is not yet returned from a walk on the moor."
Portia blinked at her. "She must be a very singular sort of person to walk the moors at night."
Miss Allenby's smile deepened. "We were reared on Grimsgrave Moor. It holds few terrors for us, even in darkness. She is often wakeful, my sister. Walking helps to order her thoughts."
A slight shadow passed over the lovely features, and she hurried to leave off the subject of her sister. "My mother is upstairs, abed with a rheumatism. She will be sorry to have missed your arrival, but we did not expect guests. I am afraid Mr. Brisbane did not mention you." She smiled to take the sting out of her words. It worked—almost. "I am quite certain my mother will be better tomorrow. Perhaps you will meet her then." I heard the hesitation in her voice, and I knew precisely what it meant. She had her doubts whether Portia and I would even last the night under a roof where we were so clearly unwelcome. This last thorn-prick was too much.
I rose and yanked at the strings of my cloak, jerked off my hat and tossed them both at Morag. "See to these."
"But your tea, Lady Julia," Miss Allenby began.
"Tea would be very nice, Miss Allenby, but I have a bit of unfinished business to which I must attend first. Do excuse me."
Valerius rose as if to remonstrate with me, but I gave him a silencing look. He lapsed back into his chair and shrugged. His role had been to offer his sisters protection during the journey. What we did once we arrived in Yorkshire was our affair, and he knew he was powerless to interfere.
I made my way to the door Brisbane had used and knocked soundly, not even pausing to gather my courage. There was no reply, and after a moment, I tried the knob, rather surprised to find that it turned easily in my hand. I had half-expected a barricade.
I pushed through and found myself in a large chamber, crowded with indistinct shapes. The light was poor, and it took a moment for me to realise everything in the room was covered in dustsheets. Packed nearly to the ceiling, the shapes left only a narrow path leading to a door in the wall opposite. This door was slightly ajar, flickering light spilling over the threshold. I threaded my way through the dustsheets, careful to disturb nothing. I hesitated at the door, then pushed it open. I had not troubled to disguise my footsteps; he would have known I was coming.
The door gave onto a smaller room furnished simply with a bed, a small writing table, and a single chair. A second table, tucked into a corner, had been carefully draped with a piece of linen to cover something, but I did not stop then to wonder what. A little fire burned in the hearth, scarcely large enough to drive the chill from the room.
Brisbane was busy at a basin set upon the deep windowsill. He had stripped off his blood-streaked shirt and was naked to the waist, scrubbing at his hands and forearms until the water went quite red. I had first seen him partially undraped in a boxing match on Hampstead Heath. The effect was still rather striking, and I cleared my throat.
"I am glad you are not hurt," I said, motioning to the impressive breadth of his chest. He was muscular as any statue I had seen in my travels in Italy, and yet there was a sleekness to his flesh that no cold marble could hope to match. Black hair spread from his collarbones to his hips, and I put my hands behind my back lest I be tempted to touch it. High on one shoulder there was a round scar, still fresh, from a bullet he had taken quite deliberately to save another. A different man might have worn the scar as a badge of honour. To Brisbane it was simply a mark of his travels, a souvenir of his buccaneer ways.
He reached for a thin linen towel and wiped at his face. "I might have known it would take more than a closed door to keep you out."
"Yes, you might have." I closed the door behind me and moved to the chair. I did not sit, but the back of it was sturdy and gave me something solid to hold.
I waved at him. "Do car
ry on. Nothing I have not seen before," I said brightly.
"Do not remind me," he returned with a touch of asperity. "My conduct toward you has been ungentlemanly in every possible respect," he added, turning away.
I blinked rapidly. "Surely you do not reproach yourself? Brisbane, whatever has happened between us has been as much my doing as yours."
"Has it?" he asked, curling his thin upper lip. He moved to the travelling trunk that sat at the foot of his narrow bed. He threw back the lid and reached for a clean shirt. It was a mark of his fastidious ways that he knew precisely where to find one.
I tipped my head to one side and began to enumerate on my fingers. "You did partially disrobe me to question me about the circumstances at Grey House, although I should add that you asked permission first. You kissed me on Hampstead Heath, but as I kissed you back, you can hardly count that amongst your crimes. You gave me a piece of jewellery, highly inappropriate, but I kept it, which is equally inappropriate. We have been together unchaperoned, both at your lodgings and mine, upon numerous occasions. I have seen you in a state of dishabille more than once, but on none of those occasions was I specifically invited to view your nakedness. If anything, my misbehaviours quite outnumber yours. I would say we have compromised each other thoroughly. Steady, Brisbane," I finished. "You are about to tear that shirt."
He muttered under his breath as he pulled on his shirt, and I looked away to afford him a chance to settle his temper. When I looked back, he was as tidily dressed as any valet could have managed, his cuffs and collar perfectly smooth, a black silk neckcloth tied neatly at his throat.
"You astonish me, Brisbane. I should not have thought you bothered by the conventions of gentlemanly behaviour."
He turned to face me, his expression betraying nothing but deep fatigue. "Every man should have something impossible to which he aspires."
"You look tired, Brisbane. What takes you abroad on windy nights and leaves you covered in blood that is not your own?"
He canted his head, his eyes searching my face.
"Sheep. I was assisting a ewe at a difficult lambing. Quite a comedown, isn't it? I am a sheep farmer now."
He crossed his arms over his chest, immobile as any sculpture of antiquity.
I shrugged. "Any man of property who owns livestock could say the same. It is a very great change from your investigations in London, but I do not see why you think it objectionable."
He gave a short, mirthless laugh, sharp and unpleasant. "You do not see. No, you do not. You will see a great deal more when the sun comes up. Folk in the village say this place is accursed, and I am beginning to wonder if they are right."
"Nonsense," I said briskly. "Of course, it is a little remote—"
He laughed again. "Remote? Julia, I do not want you here, and I cannot even compel you to leave because I have no means of sending you back to the village. No carriage can manage these heights, and there isn't even a farm cart left here. The entire property is in shambles. Only the façade of the east wing remains; the rest of it has crumbled to dust. The gardens are overgrown to wildness. Everything of value has been stripped from the house and sold. There is nothing left here except ruin."
"And you," I said, emboldened by his excuses. Brisbane was more determined and more capable than any man I had ever known. Had he really wanted me to leave, he would have carried me to Lesser Howlett on his back and put me on the first train back to London. His pretexts told me everything I ought to know: Brisbane needed me.
His expression was bitter. "I? I am the most ruined thing of all." He turned to face the fire, and for a long moment I watched the play of light over the sharp planes of his face. There was something new in his expression, something careworn and bedevilled that I did not like.
"How did you come to be here?" I asked at length. "I thought you were to receive the viscountcy of Wargrave from the Prime Minister."
I trembled to hear the answer. I had interfered with Brisbane's investigation at Bellmont—interfered so badly it had taken tremendous work on his part to salvage the situation. He had been engaged in business for the government, and the title had been offered as incentive for his involvement. When the promised viscountcy had not materialised, I had blamed myself.
He rubbed at the dark shadow at his jaw. From the look of it, he had not shaved in some days. "Prime Minister was perfectly willing to give me the viscountcy. Then I discovered this property was available. When the previous owner, Sir Redwall Allenby, died, his mother and sisters were forced to sell. Lord Salisbury pointed out that the income from this estate was not sufficient to support the style of a viscount, but when I offered to take the estate in lieu of the viscountcy, he made the arrangements to purchase the property on my behalf."
"But why would you want this place at the expense of the Wargrave title?"
He gave me a long, level stare. "Because it suited me."
That he was concealing something, I had no doubt. But Brisbane could be solitary as an oyster when it pleased him.
"And the Allenby ladies? I presume you have extended your hospitality to them because they have nowhere else to go?"
"Something like that," he said, his eyes flickering away from mine.
Silence stretched between us and I glanced around, noticing for the first time the delicate frieze painted upon the walls. Stylised palms and lilies reached toward the ceiling, and here and there a bird took flight, its wings gilded with a touch of gold paint.
"It is an interesting room," I offered. "The decoration is most unusual."
"Sir Redwall was an Egyptological scholar. His rooms were decorated to suit his tastes."
"Very pretty," I remarked. I drew in a deep breath and moved closer to him. The firelight flickered over his face, casting shadows and lifting them again, making his expression impossible to read. I could see the lines etched at the corners of his mouth, lines I knew too well. I put out a fingertip to trace one.
"You have been in pain. The migraines?" He did not brush my finger away. He closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head.
"I have kept them at bay, but not for much longer I think. I can feel one circling on wings. There is a blackness at the edge of my vision."
"All the time?"
"Most." This time he did brush my finger away, but gently.
"What do you take? Do you still smoke the hashish?"
He shook his head. "Too much trouble to procure it here. Nothing but a glass of whisky before bed."
I clucked at him. "That will never serve. You require something far stronger than that."
"Don't fuss, Julia," he said, but his tone was soft.
I put out my hand again, cupping his cheek. He exhaled sharply, but did not move.
"Brisbane," I murmured. "If you really want me to leave you, tell me now and I will go and you will never see me again. Just one word, that's all, and I will remove myself. Forever."
I stepped closer still. He closed his eyes again and covered my hand with his own. "You smell of violets. You always smell of violets," he said. "You've no idea how many times I have walked these moors and smelled them and thought you were near. On and on I walked, following the scent of you, and you were never there. When I saw you in the hall tonight, I thought I had finally gone mad."
He opened his eyes, and I saw a world of heartbreak there I had never expected. My own eyes filled with tears, and his image shimmered before me.
"You should leave," he said finally, his voice thick. "It would be so much the better for you if you did." His hand tightened over mine.
"But do you want me to go? Will you send me away?"
"No."
I sagged against him in relief, and his arm came around to catch me close to him. I could feel the beat of his heart under my ear and it was the pulse of all the world to me.
Suddenly, he drew back and slid a finger under the chain at my neck. He tugged gently, and a pendant slid out from under my gown, a coin struck with the head of Medusa and incised with a code Brisb
ane had chosen at the end of our first investigation. Those few strokes of the engraver's steel told me everything about Brisbane's regard for me that the man himself could not. He turned the pendant over in his hand, then slid it back under the neckline of my gown, his finger warm against my flesh.
"You will regret it," he said finally. "You will be sorry you stayed, and you will come to blame me."
I stepped back and shook my head. "You said the last time we met I was more your equal than any woman you had ever known. Whatever is amiss here, I am equal to it as well. Good night, Brisbane."
He did not bid me good-night, but as he turned to the fire, I heard him murmur, "Forgive me."
And I wondered to which of us he was speaking.
THE FOURTH CHAPTER
She speaks, yet she says nothing.
—William Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet
"I am afraid there is no other suitable chamber," Miss Allenby apologised when she showed us up. "I have given you my sister Hilda's room. She can share with me, and there is a little closet where Mr. Valerius can be accommodated."
She meant closet in the medieval sense of the word, a small, panelled room with a narrow bed fitted into the wall and a tiny tiled stove for warmth. Valerius gave me an evil look and slammed the door behind him. He had already shown little grace in carrying up the bags, and I decided to leave him be. Perhaps a good night's sleep would smooth his ruffled temper.
Portia and I demurred politely at Miss Allenby giving up her sister's room to us, but she shook her head. "Oh, but you must have Hilda's room. It has a pretty view over the moor, and the bed is bigger than mine. We have so little, but we must make you as comfortable as possible." There was a gentle dignity about her, even as she admitted that the family had fallen on hard times. She showed us to the room, and I was relieved to see it was passable—more heavy, dark oak panelling with furniture to match, what little of it there was. The room appeared to have been stripped of its furnishings save the bed, an enormous monstrosity far too large to fit through either the door or casement. Some long-ago estate carpenter had doubtless assembled it in situ, never dreaming anyone would wish to remove it. There was a small chest beneath the window, and a handful of books stood propped upon the sill, leaning haphazardly against one another. I brushed a fingertip over the first, a heavy volume of green kid.
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