Читать книгу Silent In The Grave - Deanna Raybourn, Deanna Raybourn - Страница 12

Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables.

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

It does me no credit to admit that I had difficulty in deciding what to wear to call upon Nicholas Brisbane. I had thought myself cool and composed, but I kept hearing Portia’s voice, reminding me that he would not think of me beyond that first call at Grey House. I also kept thinking of Mariah Pilkington’s assessment of him as a lover, but that does me no credit, either.

Portia had been ruthless in her attack upon my wardrobe. Scarcely a garment remained after her onslaught. She began the devastation by throwing out anything she deemed “busy,” discarding everything with ruffles, tassels or fringe.

“And above all, no ruching, unless you want to look like some poor misguided woman’s parlor drapes,” she cautioned.

I gazed mournfully at the heap of clothes I had acquired upon Edward’s death. There was several hundred pounds’ worth of bombazine and velvet and lace tumbled together on the bed, and not a single garment truly flattered me. “Then what shall I wear?”

She cocked her head to the side, considering my figure carefully.

“Simplicity, my darling. Things that are beautifully draped and excellently cut need no embellishment. I shall take you to my dressmakers. They are brothers, trained in Paris as tailors, and no one in London cuts a better line. They are frightfully expensive and rather rude, but they are just the ones to take you in hand. Besides, these frowsy things will not fit you when I’ve had done with you.”

“What do you mean they won’t fit? What do you mean to do with me?”

“I mean,” she said, propelling me toward the cheval glass, “to fatten you up. Look at yourself, Julia. Really look. There’s beauty there, but you are a sack of bones. An extra stone will round out your face and arms, give you curves where you have none. You will be lush and healthy-looking, like Demeter.”

I grimaced at her in the looking glass. “Edward always liked me thin.”

She swung me around to face her. “Edward is gone now. And it is quite time to find out what you like.”

I smiled at her. “Then why am I letting you boss me about?”

“Because I know what is best,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She dropped a quick kiss on my cheek. “Now, pastries for you at teatime, extra gravy on your joints, and as much cream as you like. When you’ve put on a few pounds, we shall take you off to the brothers Riche and my hairdresser and see what they will make of you.”

I agreed because it was simpler and because it seemed to make Portia so happy. Besides, Morag had already spied the discarded clothes and scooped them up to be sold at the stalls in Petticoat Lane. I strongly suspected she would do me some sort of bodily injury if I tried to infringe upon her rights as a lady’s maid to sell my cast-offs.

In the end, I quite liked Portia’s changes. My hair was cropped, baring the length of my neck and the smallness of my ears. It was an immediate success—Morag’s hairdressing skills being fairly nonexistent. Now, rather than struggling to frizz several pounds of stubbornly straight hair, she had only to fluff the little halo of curls that had sprung to life when the length was scissored off.

In the end we compromised on the weight. I gained half a stone, which was entirely ample. For the first time in my life, I had a figure that could be described as feminine, with a soft, curving line I did not recognize. I took to wearing delicate earrings and snug, exquisitely tailored jackets cut like a man’s. Sometimes I looked at myself in the cheval glass and I hardly knew who I was anymore. I did not look like my father’s daughter or Edward’s wife. I was simply Lady Julia Grey now, widow, and she was a person I did not know.

But she was a person who knew how to dress, I thought with some satisfaction as I prepared to call upon Mr. Brisbane. I instructed Morag to button me into my black silk with the swansdown trim. It was a stunning costume, perhaps the most elegant in my wardrobe. It lent me a confidence I did not feel as I drew on my black gloves and motioned for Morag to pin my hat into place. The hat was trimmed with a slender band of swansdown, and there was a muff to match. The afternoon had turned cold and grey and I was glad of my warm finery as Diggory, the coachman, bundled me into the town coach with rugs for my lap and hot bricks for my feet. I had made certain that Simon was napping peacefully and the Ghoul was settled in with a glass of warm gin and a stack of black-bordered correspondence fresh from the post. I felt giddy, like a child let out of school on holiday as the coach drew away from the kerb.

Mercifully, it was a short drive to Chapel Street. I waited while Henry, the footman, jumped down and pulled the bell sharply for me. He stood for a few minutes, preening himself in the glass panel of the door. He was an insufferably vain creature, but there was no denying that he did look rather splendid in his livery. I admired his calves and thought about Portia’s suggestion of taking a lover. There was a family precedent for that sort of thing, my great-aunt had eloped with her second footman, but the idea held little attraction for me. If nothing else, footmen were not noted for their intelligence, and if there was one quality I knew I must have in a lover, it was a quick wit.

There was no reply, and Henry looked to me for instructions, his soulful blue eyes remarkably blank.

“Knock,” I called irritably. “There must be someone at home.” I said this as much for my benefit as for his. I had steeled myself for this errand once. I was not certain I could do so again. At last the door was opened by a small, plump creature liberally dusted with flour. Henry returned to hand me down from the carriage.

“Ooh, I am sorry,” the little woman said, ushering me over the threshold. “I did not hear the bell. I was making a pudding for my gentleman’s dinner, I was. What may I do for you, madam?”

She had taken in the presence of the footman returning to the carriage and eyed my clothes with an accurately appraising glance. Brisbane must have had a number of privileged callers, I surmised.

“I wish to see Mr. Brisbane. I am not expected, but I do hope he can spare me a few moments.”

She bobbed respectfully, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, of course, madam. There is a chair for you. I won’t be but a minute.”

I was relieved that she did not ask for my card, but it occurred to me that many of his visitors would appreciate such discretion. She was back before I had settled myself comfortably.

“He will certainly see you now, madam. May I bring some tea?”

“That will not be necessary, I do not expect to stay long,” I said, rising. The plump little housekeeper escorted me up the stairs and knocked once on the door.

“Come!”

The housekeeper bustled back the way she had come and I was left to open the door myself. I twisted the handle and entered, feeling rather like Stanley beating the bushes for Livingstone.

“Mr. Brisbane?” I called hesitantly, poking my head around the door.

“Come in and close the door. The draught will put these seedlings right off.”

I entered, quickly closing the door behind me. The room was spacious, and thoroughly cluttered, but not fussily so. A sofa and a pair of chairs flanked the fireplace, with a few tables scattered about and several stuffed bookshelves lining the walls. There was a writing table in the corner, with blotter and inkstand and a litter of correspondence. An assortment of boxes and oddments stood on the mantelpiece. There were a few bits of statuary, not the usual Dresden shepherdesses, but strange, foreign pieces from faraway lands, medieval ivories and bronze bells, jostling with fossils under glass and something that looked horribly like a bit of dried mummy.

A collection of swords and daggers was hung on one wall, and over the fireplace was a small tapestry or carpet with an intricate geometric pattern worked in vivid colours. There were a few pieces of interesting glass, sets of scientific instruments, and even something that I decided must be a camel saddle. In all, the room was fascinating, like a tiny museum storehousing the most interesting bits of a traveler’s collection. I longed to poke about, examining everything, ferreting out the secrets this room held.

But I could not. Instead, I turned my attention to the largest item in the room, the long table situated between the large window and the fireplace. It was fitted up as a sort of potting table, and Brisbane was busily engaged with some sort of botanical activity. He was standing in his shirtsleeves, tending a row of little pots tucked under bell jars. He put the last cloche in place and turned, rolling his cuffs back into place.

“What can I do—” He broke off as soon as he caught sight of me. His expression changed, but I could not read it. “Lady Julia Grey. Mrs. Lawson said only that I had a lady caller. She did not tell me your name.”

“I did not send it.”

He continued to neaten his cuffs, pinning his sleeve links into place and donning his coat, but all of this he did without taking his eyes from me—a curious habit I remembered from our first interview. It was frankly disconcerting, and I suddenly longed to confess that I had stolen my sister’s favorite doll for a day when I was eight. I made a note to employ the technique myself the next time I interrogated Cook about the accounts.

“Why have you come?” he asked finally.

I had expected frankness and had decided to answer him in kind.

“Because I need your help. I have discovered that I was very possibly wrong about my husband’s death. And to apologize,” I went on, my mouth feeling dry and thick. “I was quite rude to you when we last met and I do not blame you if you refuse me.”

To my surprise, a smile flickered over his features. “As I recall I threatened to horsewhip you the last time we met,” he said evenly. “I can forgive your rudeness if you can forgive mine.”

I extended my hand to him without thinking. It was a gesture my brothers and I had always used to seal our differences after a quarrel. He took it, and I felt the warmth of his palm through my glove.

“Sit.” He indicated the chair nearest the fire, but I was feeling warm and flushed from the closeness of the room already. I laid aside my muff and removed my gloves.

He watched as I stripped off the kidskin, and I felt as bare as if I had removed my gown. I folded my hands carefully in my lap and he lifted his eyes to my face.

“Why did you change your mind?”

I described the scene in the study that morning, my determination to clear out the detritus, the little wedge of paper caught at the back of the drawer. I removed it from my reticule and passed it to him.

His brow furrowed as he looked it over. He rose and returned with a small magnifying glass, examining every inch of the paper. He was wrapped in concentration, ignoring me completely for the moment. Free from his scrutiny, I scrutinized him.

The past year had left little mark upon him. His hair was longer than I had remembered, with a thread or two of silver that might not have been there before. It was tumbled now, as if he had thrust his hands through it while working over his plants. His clothes, something I should not have noticed before the tuition of the Riche brothers, were beautifully cut, though I noticed his coat strained ever so slightly through the shoulders. In some men this might have exposed a fault; in his case it only emphasized his breadth.

His mouth, which I had entirely failed to notice during our previous meetings, was quite a handsome feature, with a slight fullness to the underlip that lent a sensuality to the slim, purposeful upper lip and hard jaw. There was a small scar, high on his cheekbone, that I had not noticed before, an old one that I only saw now because it was thrown into relief by the firelight. It was shaped like a crescent moon. I wondered how he had gotten it.

He looked up sharply and I felt my face grow hot.

“This looks to be sent by the same hand as the others.”

“Looks to be? Can you not be certain?”

He shrugged. “I have not seen the notes in a year, my lady. But the evening of Sir Edward’s collapse, he told me that he had received another. He planned to show it to me that night. He was rather agitated about it. I suspect he put it into his desk and died before he had the chance to retrieve it. The typeface from the scissored bit seems to match what I remember of the earlier notes.”

He handed it back and I waved it away with a shudder. “I do not want it. What do we do now?”

His expression was incredulous. “We? Now? You will return to Grey House and I will get on with my experiment. Unless you would care for some tea. I am sure Mrs. Lawson would be only too happy—”

“About that!” I interjected, pointing to the note. “What do we do about that?”

He shrugged again, a peculiarly Gallic gesture that, coupled with his dark colouring, made me wonder if he was entirely English. Perhaps Portia’s speculations about his parentage were not so preposterous after all. Naturally I did not credit the story of imperial Bonaparte blood, but there was a foreignness to him that I could not identify.

“There is nothing to be done. Sir Edward is dead, the certificate says by natural causes, and you were content to let him rest in peace a year ago. Let him do so now.”

I stared at him. “But surely you can see that there has been some injustice done here. You were the one who urged me to have his death investigated. You were the one who first raised the question of murder.”

The table at his elbow was layered with objects, a small stack of books, some marked with playing cards to hold his place, a bowl that looked like a solid piece of amber, full of coins and pen nibs and a knot of faded calico. There was a Chinese cricket cage, empty but for a tiny stone statue, and a basket of apples, surprisingly bright and crisp for this time of year. He picked an apple from the basket and began to twist the stem. “It was relevant a year ago, my lady, to an investigation upon which I was engaged. My client died, his widow did not wish to pursue the matter, ergo the case is closed.”

The stem snapped and so did my fraying temper. “Ergo the case is not closed. You were the one who preached to me of integrity and probity last year. What was it you said? Something about justice being meted out to the guilty?”

He took a healthy bite out of the apple, chewing it thoughtfully. “My lady, what is justice at this point? The trail is cold, clues will have been destroyed or thrown out. You yourself nearly consigned this to the wastepaper basket,” he reminded me, flourishing the note. “What do you expect me to do now?”

“I expect you to find my husband’s murderer.”

He shook his dark head, tumbling his hair further. “Be reasonable, my lady. There was a chance a year ago. Now it is little better than hopeless.”

“Little better, but not entirely,” I said, rising and taking up my muff and gloves. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Brisbane.”

He rose as well, still holding his apple. “What do you mean to do?”

I faced him squarely. “I mean to find Edward’s murderer.” I think I would have struck him if he smiled, but he did not. His expression was curiously grave. “Alone?”

“If needs be. I was wrong not to believe you last year. I wasted a valuable opportunity, and I am sorry for that. But I learn from my mistakes, Mr. Brisbane.” I took the note from his fingers. “I will not make another.”

I crossed to the door, but he moved quickly, reaching it before I did. His features were set in resignation. “Very well. I will do what I can.”

I looked up at him. “Why?”

He leaned a little closer and I felt his breath against my face, smelling sweetly of apple. His eyes, wide and deeply black, were fixed on mine, and I could see myself reflected in them. My breath came quite quickly and I was conscious of how very large he was and that I was alone with a man for the first time in a year. I thought wildly that he might try to kiss me and I knew that I would not stop him. In fact, I think my lips may have parted as he leaned closer still.

“Because I am a professional, my lady. And I will not have an amateur bungling about in one of my cases.”

He smiled and bit firmly into his apple.