With degrees in English and History and a particular love of Regency and Victorian times, Deanna Raybourn is a committed anglophile, who, at her husband’s insistence, gave up teaching to devote her energies to writing. Clearly her husband knew what he was doing.

Silent in the Sanctuary is Deanna’s second novel in the Silent series featuring the effervescent Lady Julia Grey and the enigmatic private investigator Nicholas Brisbane.

Deanna is currently hard at work on her next book, Silent on the Moor, which will be available soon from MIRA Books.

Find out more online at www.mirabooks.co.uk/ deannaraybourn

Also by Deanna Raybourn

SILENT IN THE GRAVE

A Lady Julia Grey Mystery

SILENT in the SANCTUARY

Deanna Raybourn

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As ever, many thanks to my esteemed agent, Pam Hopkins, for all her hard work and support, for her unflagging optimism and for her ferocious devotion. Many thanks as well to my editor, the elegantly tenacious Valerie Gray, whose commitment to my writing has been truly humbling in the best possible way. My life and my work are the better for knowing both of you.

I am incredibly grateful to the MIRA editorial, marketing and PR teams for their enthusiasm and the exquisite care they have lavished on my novels. Particular debts of gratitude are owed to Cris Jaw and Julianna Kolesova for their stylish artistic contributions to this series. And many, many thanks to the unseen hands whose work is often unremarked, but so very essential and much appreciated – the proofreading, production and sales departments.

Thanks also to my Jackson girls, as always, for all their love and support. Particular thanks to Kim Taylor, for going above and beyond the call of friendship, and all of those who have done more than I could ever have asked. It is a gift to know you and to call you friends.

And thanks most of all to my family; thanks to my daughter and my father for their many little kindnesses, and to my husband, for everything. As ever.

This book is dedicated to my mother,

Barbara Russell Jones, who has read every word I have

ever written and loved them all.

SILENT in the SANCTUARY

THE FIRST CHAPTER

Italy, 1887

Travelers must be content. —AS YOU LIKE IT

“Well, I suppose that settles it. Either we all go home to England for Christmas or we hurl ourselves into Lake Como to atone for our sins.”

I threw my elder brother a repressive look. “Do not be so morose, Plum. Father’s only really angry with Lysander,” I pointed out, brandishing the letter from England with my fingertips. The paper fairly scorched my skin. Father’s temper was a force of nature. Unable to rant at Lysander directly, he had applied himself to written chastisement with great vigour.

“The rest of us can go home easily enough,” I said. “Just think of it—Christmas in England! Plum pudding and snapdragon, mistletoe and wassail—”

“Chilblains and damp beds, fogs so thick you cannot set foot out of doors,” Plum put in, his expression sour. “Someone sobbing in the linen cupboard, Father locking himself in the study after threatening to drown the lot of us in the moat.”

“I know,” I said, my excitement rising. “Won’t it be wonderful?”

Plum’s face cracked into a thin, wistful smile. “It will, actually. I have rather missed the old pile—and the family, as well. But I shall be sorry to leave Italy. It has been an adventure I shall not soon forget.”

On that point we were in complete agreement. Italy had been a balm to me, soothing and stimulating at once. I had joined two of my brothers, Lysander and Eglamour—Plum to the family—after suffering the loss of my husband and later my home, and very nearly my own life. I had arrived in Italy with my health almost broken and my spirit in a sorrier state. Four months in a warm, sunny clime with the company of my brothers had restored me. And though the weather had lately grown chill and the seasons were turning inward, I had no wish to leave Italy yet. Still, the lure of family and home, particularly at Christmas, was strong.

“Well, who is to say we must return permanently? Italy shall always be here. We can go to England for Christmas and still be back in Venice in time for Carnevale.”

Plum’s smile deepened. “That is terribly cunning of you, Julia. I think living among Italians has developed a latent talent in you for intrigue.”

It was a jest, but the barb struck too close to home, and I lowered my head over my needlework. I had engaged in an intrigue in England although I had never discussed it with my brothers. There had been an investigation into my husband’s death, a private investigation conducted by an inquiry agent. I had assisted him and unmasked the killer myself. It had been dangerous, nasty work, and I told myself I was happy to be done with it.

But even as I plunged my needle into the canvas, trailing a train of luscious scarlet silk behind it, I felt a pang of regret—regret that my days were occupied with nothing more purposeful than those of any other lady of society. I had had a glimpse of what it meant to be useful, and it stung now to be merely decorative. I longed for something more important than the embroidering of cushions or the pouring of tea to sustain me.

Of my other regrets, I would not let myself think. I yanked at the needle, snarling the thread.

“Blast,” I muttered, rummaging in my work basket for my scissors.

“We are a deceptively domestic pair,” Plum said suddenly.

I snapped the threads loose and peered at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

He waved a hand. “This lovely villa, the fireside, both of us in slippers. I, reading my paper from England whilst you ply your needle. We might be any couple, by any fireside, placidly whiling away the darkening hours of an autumn eve.”

I glanced about. The rented villa was comfortably, even luxuriously appointed. The long windows of the drawing room overlooked Lake Como, although the heavy velvet draperies had long since been drawn against the gathering dark. “I suppose, but—”

What I had been about to say next was lost. Morag, my maid, entered the drawing room to announce a visitor.

“The Count of Four-not-cheese.”

I gave her an evil look and tossed my needlework aside. Plum dashed his newspaper to the floor and jumped to his feet.

“Alessandro!” he cried. “You are a welcome sight! We did not expect you until Saturday.”

Morag did not move, and our visitor stepped neatly around her, doffing his hat and cape. They were speckled with raindrops that glittered in the firelight. He held them out to Morag who looked at him as though he had just offered her a dead animal. I rushed to take them.

“Alessandro, how lovely to see you.” I thrust the cape and hat at Morag. “Take these and brush them well,” I instructed. “And his name is Fornacci,” I hissed at her.

She gave me a shrug and a curl of the lip and departed, dragging the tail of Alessandro’s beautiful coat on the marble floor as she went.

I turned to him, smiling brightly. “Do come in and get warm by the fire. It has turned beastly out there and you must be chilled to the bone.”

He gave me a look rich with gratitude, and something rather more as well. Plum and I bustled about, plumping cushions and making him comfortable with a chair by the fire and a glass of good Irish whiskey. Alessandro had never tasted whiskey until making the acquaintance of my brothers, but had become something of a connoisseur in the months he had known them. To begin with, he no longer made the mistake of tossing his head back and drinking the entire glass at one gulp.

After a few minutes by the fire he had thawed sufficiently to speak. “It is so good to see you again,” he said, careful to look at Plum as well as myself when he spoke. “I am very much looking forward to spending Christmas with you here.” His English was terribly fluent, very much better than my Italian, but there was a formality that lingered in his speech. I found it charming.

Plum, who had poured himself a steady glass of spirits, took a deep draught. “I am afraid there has been a change in plans, old man.”

“Old man” was his favourite nickname for Alessandro, no doubt for its incongruity. Alessandro was younger than either of us by some years.

The young man’s face clouded a little and he looked from Plum to me, his silky dark brows knitting in concern. “I am not invited for Christmas? Shall I return to Firenze then?”

I slapped Plum lightly on the knee. “Don’t be vile. You have made Alessandro feel unwelcome.” It had been arranged that Alessandro would come to us in November, and we would all spend the holiday together before making a leisurely journey to Venice in time for Carnevale. There was no hope of such a scheme now. I turned to Alessandro, admiring for a moment the way the firelight licked at his hair. I had thought it black, but his curls shone amber and copper in their depths. I wondered how difficult it would be to persuade Plum to paint him.

“You see, Alessandro,” I explained, “we have received a letter from our father, the Earl March. He is displeased with our brother Lysander and wishes us all to return to England at once. We shall spend Christmas there.”

“Ah. How can one argue with the call of family? If you must return, my friends, you must return. But know that you will always carry with you the highest regard of Alessandro Fornacci.”

This handsome speech was accompanied by a courtly little bow from the neck and a noble, if pained, expression that would have done a Caesar proud.

“I have a better idea, and a very good notion it is,” Plum said slowly. “What if we bring Alessandro with us?”

I had just taken a sip of my own whiskey and I choked lightly. “I beg your pardon, Plum?”

Alessandro raised his hands in a gesture I had seen many Italians employ, as if warding something off. “No, my friend, I must not. If your father is truly angry, he will not welcome an intruder at this time.”

“Are you mad? This is precisely the time to bring someone outside the family into the fold. It will keep him from killing Lysander outright. He will behave himself if we cart you back to England with us. The old man has peculiar ideas, but he is appallingly hospitable.”

“Plum, kindly do not refer to Father as ‘the old man’. It is disrespectful,” I admonished.

Alessandro was shaking his head. “But I have not been invited. It would be a great discourtesy.”

“It would be a far greater discourtesy for Father to kill his own son,” Plum pointed out tartly. “And you have been invited. By us. Now I must warn you, the family seat is rather old-fashioned. Father doesn’t hold with new ideas, at least not for country houses. You’ll find no steam heat or even gaslights. I’m afraid it’s all coal fires and candles, but it really is a rather special old place. You always said you wanted to see England, and Bellmont Abbey is as English as it gets, dear boy.”

Alessandro hesitated. “If I may be so bold, why is his lordship so angry with Lysander? Surely it is not—”

“It is,” Plum and I chorused.

Just at that moment, sounds of a quarrel began to echo from upstairs. There was a shout and the unmistakable crash of breaking crockery.

“But the earl, he cannot object to Lysander’s marriage to so noble and lovely a lady as Violante,” Alessandro put in, quite diplomatically I thought.

Something landed with a great thud on the floor, shivering the ceiling and causing the chandelier above our heads to sway gently.

“Do you suppose that was one of them?” Plum inquired lightly.

“Don’t jest. If it was, we shall have to deal with the body,” I reminded him. Violante began to shriek, punctuating her words with tiny stamps of her heel from the sound of it.

“I wonder what she is calling him. It cannot be very nice,” I mused.

Alessandro gave an elegant shrug. “I regret, my understanding of Napolitana, it is imperfect.” He dropped his eyes, and I wondered if he understood more than politeness would allow him to admit.

“Probably for the best,” Plum remarked, draining the last of his whiskey.

“Do not finish off the decanter,” I warned him. “Lysander will want a glass or two when they have finished for the evening.”

“Or seven,” Plum countered with a twitch of his lip. I gave him a disapproving look. Lysander’s marital woes were not a source of amusement to me. I had endured enough of my own connubial difficulties to be sympathetic. Plum, however, wore a bachelor’s indifference. He had never said so, but I suspected his favourite brother’s defection to the married state had rankled him. They had travelled the Continent together for years, roaming wherever their interests and their acquaintance had directed them, exploring museums and opera houses and ruined castles. They wrote poetry and concertos and painted murals on the walls of ancient abbeys. They had been the staunchest companions until Lysander, having left his thirtieth birthday some years past, had spotted Violante sitting serenely in her uncle’s box at La Fenice. It was, as the Tuscans say, un colpo di fulmine, a bolt of lightning.

It was also a bit misleading. Upon further investigation, Lysander discovered Violante was Neapolitan, not Venetian, and there was quite simply nothing about her that was serene. She carried in her blood all the warmth and passion and raw-boned energy of her native city. Violante was Naples, and for a cool-blooded, cool-headed Englishman like Lysander the effect was intoxicating. He married her within a month, and presented Plum and me with a fait accompli, a sister-in-law who smothered us in kisses and heady jasmine perfumes. For my part, I found her charming, wholly unaffected if somewhat exhausting. Plum, on the other hand, was perfectly cordial and cordially perfect. Whenever Violante stepped from a carriage or shivered from the cold, Plum would offer her a hand or his greatcoat, bowing and murmuring a graciously phrased response to her effusive thanks. And yet always he watched her with the cool detachment one usually reserves for specimens at the zoological garden. I often thought there might be real fondness there if he could unbend a little and forgive her for coming so precipitously into our lives.

But Plum was nothing if not stubborn, and I knew a straightforward approach would only cause him to dig his heels into the ground like a recalcitrant pony. So I endeavoured to distract him with little whims and treats, cajoling him into good temper in spite of himself.

And then we met Alessandro, or to be accurate, I met Alessandro, for he was a friend of my brothers of some years’ duration. Rome had been too hot, too noisy, altogether too much for my delicate state when I first arrived in Italy. My brothers immediately decided to quit the city and embark on a leisurely tour to the north, lingering for a few days or even weeks in any particularly engaging spot, but always pushing on toward Florence. We settled comfortably in a tiny palazzo there, and I began to recover. My fire-roughened voice smoothed again, never quite as it had been, but not noticeably damaged. My lungs were strengthened and my spirits raised. Lysander felt comfortable enough to leave us to accept an invitation for a brief trip to Venice to celebrate the private debut of a friend’s opera. Plum pledged to watch over me, and Lysander departed, to return a month later after endless delays and a secret wedding, his voluble bride in tow.

Alessandro had kept us company while Lysander was away, guiding us to hidden piazze, revealing secret gardens and galleries no tourists ever crowded. He drove us to Fiesole in a beribboned pony cart, stopping to point out the most breathtaking views in that enchanted hilltop town, and introduced us to inns in whose flower-drenched courtyards we were served food so delicious it must have been bewitched. Plum always seemed to wander off, sketchbook in hand to capture a row of cypresses, stalwart and straight as a regiment, or the elegant curve of a signorina’s cheek, distinctive as a goddess out of myth. Alessandro did not seem to mind. He talked to me of history and culture and we practiced our languages with each other, learning to speak of everything and nothing at all.

They were the most peaceful and serene weeks of my life, and they ended only when Lysander returned with Violante, bursting with pride, his chin held a trifle higher from defiance as much as happiness. With his native courtesy, Alessandro withdrew at once, leaving us to our privacy as a newly re-formed family. There were flinty discussions verging on quarrels, where we all went quite white about the lips and I could feel the heat rising in my face. Lysander had no wish to inform Father of his marriage, thinking instead to make a trip to England sometime in the summer, bringing his surprise bride with him then. Plum and I argued forcefully against this, reminding him of his duty, his obligation, his name. And more to the point, his allowance. If Father was made to look foolish, angered too far, he could easily slash Ly’s allowance to ribbons or halt it altogether. Lysander was an accomplished musician, but he was a conductor manqué, a dabbler. He had no serious reputation upon which to build a career, and without a formal education, without proper connections, his situation was impossible. He relented finally, with bad grace, and Plum penned the letter to Father, writing in Lysander’s name to tell him there was a new addition to the family.

The reaction had been swift—a summons to Lysander to bring his bride home at once. Lysander, in a too-typical gambit of avoidance, rented the villa at Lake Como, insisting we could not go home before Carnevale season and that we might as well spend Christmas in the lake country. But he had underestimated Father. The second letter had been forceful, specific, and brutal. We were expected, all of us now, to return home immediately. Lysander had masked his dread with defiance, dropping the letter on the mantelpiece and shrugging before stalking from the room. Violante had followed him, accusing him of being embarrassed of her, if I translated correctly. The Napolitana dialect had defeated me almost entirely from the beginning, and I think our inability to understand one another most of the time explained why Violante and I had learned to get on so well.

Suddenly, Plum cocked his head. “Listen to the silence. Do you suppose one of them has finally done the other a mischief?”

“Your slang is appalling,” I told him, taking up my needlework again. “And no, I do not think one of them has done murder. I think they have decided to discuss the matter rationally, in a mature, adult fashion.”

Plum snorted, and Alessandro pretended not to notice, sipping quietly at his whiskey. “Adult? Mature? My dear girl, you have lived with them some weeks now. Have you ever seen them discuss anything in a mature, adult fashion? No, and they will not, not so long as they both enjoy the fillip of excitement that a brisk argument lends to a marriage.”

I blinked at him. “They are newlyweds. They are in love. I hardly think they need to hurl plates at one another’s heads to enjoy themselves.”

“Don’t you? Our dear Violante is a southerner, who doubtless took in screaming with her mother’s milk. And Lysander is a fool who has read too much poetry. He mistakes the volume of a raised voice for true depth of feeling. I despair of him.”

“Do not worry, Lady Julia,” Alessandro put in gently. Giulia, he said, drawing out the syllables like poetry. “To speak loudly, it is simply the way of the southerners. They are very different from those of us bred in the north. We are cooler and more temperate, like the climate.”

He flashed me a dazzling smile, and I made a feeble effort to return it. “Still, it has gone too quiet,” I commented. “Do you suppose they have made it up?”

“They have not,” came Ly’s voice, thick with bitterness. He was standing in the doorway, his hair untidy, his colour high with righteous anger, his back stiff with resentment. It was a familiar posture for him these days. “Violante is insisting we obey Father’s summons. She wants to see England and to ‘meet her dear papa’, she says.” He flung himself into the chair next to Plum’s, his expression sour. “Hullo, Alessandro. Sorry you had to hear all of that,” he added with a glance toward the ceiling.

Alessandro murmured a greeting in return as I studied my brothers, feeling a sudden rush of emotion for the pair of them. Handsome and feckless, they were remarkably similar in appearance, sharing both the striking green eyes of the Marches and the dark hair and pale complexion that had marked our family for centuries. But although their features were similar, their clothes stamped them as very different men. Plum took great pains to search out the most outlandish costumes he could find, outfitting himself in velvet frock coats a hundred years out of fashion, or silk caps that made him look like a rather dashing mushroom.

Lysander, on the other hand, was a devotee of the spare elegance of Brummell. He never wore any colours other than white or black, and every garment he owned had been fitted a dozen times. He was particular as a pasha, and carried himself with imperious grace. When the pair of them went out together they always attracted attention, doubtless the effect they hoped for. They had a gift for making friends easily, and more times than I could count since my arrival in Italy, we had entered a restaurant or hotel or theatre box only to have my brothers greeted by name and kissed heartily, food and drink pressed upon us as though we were minor royalty. They could be puckishly charming when they wished, and delightful company. Until they were bored or thwarted. Then they were capable of horrifying mischief, although they had behaved themselves well enough since I had joined them.

I flicked a glance at Alessandro from under my lashes. He was still placidly sipping his drink, savoring it slowly, his trousers perfectly creased in spite of the filthy weather. He was an elegant, composed young gentleman, and I thought that with a little more time he might have been a noble influence on my scapegrace brothers.

I smoothed my skirts and cleared my throat.

“My dear,” I told Lysander, “I think it is quite clear we must return to England, and you must face Father. Now, we can sit up half the night and argue like thieves, but we will talk you round eventually, so you might as well capitulate now and let us get on with planning our journey.”

Lysander looked wonderingly from me to Plum. “When did Julia become brisk? She has never been brisk. Or bossy. Julia, I do not think I much care for this new side of you. You are beginning to sound like our sisters, and I do not like our sisters.”

I said nothing, but fixed him with a patient, pleasant look of expectation. After a long moment, he groaned. “Pax, I beg you. I am powerless against a determined woman.” I thought of his tempestuous bride, and wondered if I ought to share with her the power of a few minutes of very pregnant silence. But there was work at hand, and I made a note to myself to speak with Violante later.

“Then we are agreed,” I said. I rose and went to the desk, seating myself and arranging writing materials. There was a portfolio of scarlet morocco, stamped in gold with my initials, and filled with the creamiest Florentine writing-paper. I dipped my pen and gave my brothers a purposeful look, the tip of my pen poised over the luscious paper. “Now, we have also had a letter from Aunt Hermia, and I have managed to make out that she is intending to hold a sort of house party over Christmas. We must not arrive without gifts.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lysander muttered. Plum had brightened considerably, thoroughly enjoying our brother’s discomfiture. Clearly the return of the prodigal son as bridegroom was not going to be a quiet affair. Knowing Aunt Hermia, I suspected she had invited the entire family—a not-inconsequential thing in a family of ten children—and half the village of Blessingstoke as well.

“Come on, old thing,” Plum said. “It won’t be so bad. The more people there, gobbling the food and drinking the wine, the less likely Father is to cut off your allowance. You know how much he loves to play lord of the manor.”

“He is the lord of the manor,” I reminded Plum. “Now, I thought some of that lovely marzipan. A selection of the sweetest little fruits and birds, boxed up and tied with ribbons. I saw just the thing in Milan, and we can stop en route to the train station. That will do nicely for the ladies. And those darling little bottles of rosewater. I bought dozens of them in Florence.”

I scribbled a few notes, including a reminder to instruct Morag to find the engraving of Byron I had purchased in Siena. It would make a perfect Christmas present for Father. He would enjoy throwing darts at it immensely.

Suddenly, I looked up to find my brothers staring at me with identical expressions of bemusement.

“What?” I demanded. “Have you thought of something I ought to have?”

“You have become efficient,” Lysander said brutally. “You are making a list. I always thought you the most normal of my sisters, and yet here you are, organising, just like the rest of them. I wager you could arrange a military campaign to shame Napoléon if you had a mind to.”

I shrugged. “At least I would not have forgotten the greatcoats on the Russian front. Now, Plum has proposed Alessandro join us in England.”

Lysander sat bolt upright, grasping Alessandro’s hand in his own. “My friend, is this true? You would come to England with us?”

Alessandro looked from Lysander to me, his expression nonplussed. “As I already expressed to your kind brother and sister, I am reluctant, my friend. Your father, the Lord March, he has not invited me himself. And this is a time of great delicacy.”

“There is no better time,” Lysander insisted. “You heard Julia. Father and Aunt Hermia are planning some bloody great house party.”

“Language, Lysander,” I murmured.

Naturally he ignored me. “Alessandro, our family home is a converted abbey. There is room for a dozen regiments if we wished to invite them. And do not trouble yourself about Father. Plum has invited you, and so have I. And I am sure Julia wishes it as well.”

Alessandro looked past Lysander to where I sat, his gaze, warm and dark as chestnut honey, catching my own. “This is true, my lady? You wish me to come also?”

I thought of the weeks I had spent in Alessandro’s company, long sunlit days perfumed with the heady scent of rosemary and punctuated with serene silences broken only by the sleepy drone of bees. I thought of his hand, warm on the curve of my back as he helped me scramble over stone walls to a field where we picnicked on cold slices of chicken and drank sharp white wine so icy it numbed my cheeks. And I thought of what he had told me about his longing to travel, to see something of the world before he grew too comfortable, too settled to leave Florence.

“Of course,” I said, with a firmness that surprised me. “I think you would like England very much, Alessandro. And you would be very welcome at Bellmont Abbey.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I come,” he said at last, his eyes lingering on me.

Lysander whooped and Plum poured out another splash of whiskey into their glasses, calling for a toast to our travels. I returned to my notes, penning a reminder to myself to send out for a timetable. As my hand moved across the page, it shivered a little, marring the creamy expanse with a spot of ink. I drew a deep breath and blotted it, writing on until the page was filled and I reached for another.

At length, the gentlemen left me, Plum to show Alessandro to his room, Lysander to tell Violante the news of our imminent departure. I was alone with the slow ticking of the mantel clock and the crisp, rustling taffeta sounds of the fire as it burned down to ash. My pen scratched away the minutes, jotting notes to extend our regrets to invitations, requests for accommodation, orders for hampers to be filled with provisions for the journey.

So immersed was I in my task, I did not hear Morag’s approach—a sure sign of my preoccupation for Morag moves with all the grace of a draught horse.

“So, we’re for England then,” she said, her chin tipped up smugly.

“Yes, we are,” I returned, not looking up from my writing paper. “And knowing how little love you have for Italy, I suppose you are pleased at the prospect.”

She snorted. “I am pleased at the prospect of a decent meal, I am. There is no finer kitchen in England than that at Bellmont Abbey,” she finished loyally.

“I would not put the matter so strongly, but the food is good,” I conceded. It was plain cooking, for Father refused to employ a French chef. But the food was hearty and well prepared and one never went hungry at the Abbey. Unlike Italy. While I had revelled in the rich, exotic new flavors, Morag had barely subsisted on boiled chicken and rice.

I returned to my writing and she idled about the room, poking up the fire and plumping the occasional cushion. Finally, I threw down my pen.

“What do you wish to say, Morag? I can hear you thinking.”

She looked at me with an affectedly wounded expression. “I was merely being helpful. The drawing room is untidy.”

“We have maids for that,” I reminded her. “And a porter to answer the door. Why did you admit Count Fornacci this evening?”

“I was at hand,” she said loftily.

“Ha. At hand because you strong-armed the porter, I’ll warrant. Whatever you are contemplating, do not. I will not tolerate your meddling.”

Morag drew herself up to her rather impressively bony height. “I was at hand.” She could be a stubborn creature, as I had often had occasion to notice. I sighed and waved her away, taking up my pen again.

“Of course,” she said slowly, “I could not help but notice that his excellency, Count Four-not-cheese, is coming back to England with us.”

“Fornacci, Fornacci,” I told her again, knowing even as I did so I might as well try to teach a dog to sing. “And yes, he is coming to England with us. He wishes to travel, and it is a perfect opportunity for him to spend time in a proper English home. My brothers invited him.”

“And you did not encourage him?” she demanded, her eyes slyly triumphant.

“Well, naturally I had to approve the invitation, as it were. It would have been rude not to do so.”

I scrawled out a list of details that must not be forgotten before our departure. The heel of my scarlet evening slipper required mending, and I had left Plum’s favourite little travelling clock with the watchmaker to have the hour hand repaired and the glass replaced. Violante had thrown it at Lysander and dented the hands badly.

Morag continued to loom over the desk, contented as a cat. I could almost see the canary feathers trailing from her lips.

“Morag, if you have something to say, do so. If not, leave me in peace. I am in no mood to be trifled with.”

“I have nothing to say, nothing to say at all,” she said, moving slowly to the door. She paused, her hand on the knob. “Although, if I were to say something, I would probably ask you how you think Mr. Brisbane will like the notion of you coming home with that young man.”

A pause, no longer than a quickened heartbeat.

“Morag, Mr. Brisbane’s feelings are no concern of mine, nor of yours. I shall retire in a quarter of an hour. See that the bed is warmed. It was chilly last night, and I shall blame you if I take a cold.”

She made a harrumphing noise and left me then, thudding along the marble floors in her heavily soled shoes. I waited until she was out of earshot before folding my arms on the desk and dropping my head onto them. Nicholas Brisbane. The private inquiry agent who had investigated my husband’s death. I had not thought of him in months.

Or, to be entirely accurate, I had suppressed any thought of him ruthlessly. I had smothered any thoughts of him stillborn, not permitting myself the indulgence of even the memory of him. There had been something between us, something indefinable, but there, I had been certain of it. But nearly five months had passed without word from him, and I had begun to think I had imagined it, had imagined the moments that had flashed between us like an electrical current, had imagined the one searing moment on Hampstead Heath when we had both of us reached beyond ourselves and clung to one another feverishly. There was only the memory of that endless kiss to comfort me, and the pendant coin he had sent me by messenger the day I had left England.

I drew the pendant from the depths of my gown, turning it over in my palm, firelight burnishing the silver to something altogether richer. It was warm from where it had lain against my skin all these months, a talisman against loneliness. I ran a finger over the head of Medusa and her serpent locks, marvelling at the elegance of the workmanship. The coin was old and thin, but the engraving was sharp, so sharp I could imagine her about to speak from those rounded lips. I turned it over and touched the row of letters and numbers he had had incised as a code only I would decipher. I had felt a rush of emotion when I had first read it, certain then that someday, in some fashion I could not yet predict, we would find our way back to each other. For where thou art, there is the world itself.

And yet. Here I was, five months on, without a single word from him, his pendant now cold comfort for his indifference. I laid my head back down on my arms and gave one, great, shuddering sob. Then I rose and carefully placed the pen into its holder and closed the inkwell. I tamped the pages of my notes together and laid them on the blotter. I opened the morocco portfolio and dropped the pendant into it. Medusa stared up at me, expectant and poised to speak. I closed the portfolio, snapping the closure with all the finality of graveyard dirt being shoveled onto a coffin. Whatever had sparked between Nicholas Brisbane and I was over; a quick, ephemeral thing, it had not lasted out the year.

No matter, I told myself firmly. I was going home. And I was not going alone.

THE SECOND CHAPTER

Britain’s a world by itself.

—CYMBELINE

There are few undertakings more challenging than planning a journey for one’s family. It is a testimony to my good nature and sound common sense that I arranged our return to England without resorting to physical violence. Violante, who had raged and howled against not being taken to England to meet her new family, decided she had no wish to leave the land of her birth and commenced to weeping loudly over each meal, watering her uneaten food with her tears. Lysander, always the softest and most malleable of my brothers, persuaded by a sister’s single shimmering tear or outthrust lip, had grown a carapace of indifference and simply went about the business of eating, paying no more attention to Violante than he did the dozen cats who prowled about our loggia, purring for scraps.

Although Plum had joined enthusiastically into the scheme of Christmas at the Abbey, it suddenly occurred to him that he was leaving the fine northern Italian light indefinitely. He spent most of his time in the salon, painting feverishly and ignoring the summonses to meals, contenting himself with a handful of spicy meats tucked sloppily into a hunk of bread and a bottle of wine filched from the cellars. It was left to me to organise our departure with Alessandro’s help. He was invaluable, cheerfully dashing off to deliver a message or secure another cart for our baggage. No task was too menial for him. He wrapped books and tied parcels with as much good humour as he had shown introducing us to the delights of Florence. I sorely missed him when he left us the day before our departure, promising to meet us at the train station in Milan. He was secretive and a little quiet, I thought, but he smiled and kissed my hand, brushing his lips not over my fingers, but across the pulse at my wrist. Before I could reply, Morag managed to drop an expensive piece of porcelain that belonged to the owner of the villa, and by the time I had sorted out whether or not it could be repaired, Alessandro was gone.

The next day we rose early and made the trip into Milan, Plum resplendent in a garish tasselled red fez he had purchased on his travels. Violante sobbed quietly into her handkerchief, blowing her nose every minute or so, and Lysander was busily tapping his fingers on the window, beating out the measures of a new concerto. The morning was brilliant, the rich white-gold light of Lombardy rolling over the landscape, gilding the scene in the style of a Renaissance masterpiece. Even the smallest detail seemed touched with magic. The humblest peasant on the road was magnificent, a gift to commit to memory and treasure on a bleak grey day in England. I sighed, wishing Italy had seen fit to give us a kinder farewell. It would have been easier to leave her in a rainstorm.

Milan at least blunted the edge of my regret. The railway station was thronged with people speaking dozens of dialects in four languages, and I knew I would not miss the chaos of Italian cities. There was something to be said for the orderliness of English society, I reflected, looking for the fourth time to the station clock. Alessandro had scant minutes to find us, I realised. I scanned the crowd anxiously for his tall, elegant figure.

“Perhaps he’s been run over by a carriage,” Morag put in helpfully. I fished in my reticule and extracted her ticket.

“Board the train, Morag. Your seat is in third class. I will see you in Paris.”

She took the ticket, muttering in Gaelic under her breath. I pretended not to hear her and turned away, just in time to see Alessandro approaching. He was hurrying, as much as Alessandro ever hurried anywhere. His clothes were perfectly ordered, but his hair was slightly tumbled, and when he spoke his voice was faintly breathless.

“Ah! I have found you at last.” He greeted my brothers and Violante, who wailed louder and waved her handkerchief at him.

“Come along, Alessandro,” I told him. “We’ve only a moment or so to board.”

“Then let us embark,” he said, bowing from the neck. He offered his arm, and I noticed his other was carefully holding a basket covered with a damask cloth. Luncheon, I thought happily.

We were seated quickly in a surprisingly comfortable compartment. Violante and Lysander had begun an argument and were quietly hissing at one another. Plum took out his sketchbook to record a face he had seen on the platform. Only Alessandro seemed excited by the journey, his dark eyes flashing as they met mine.

“I have brought you a gift, a souvenir of my country,” he said softly, placing the basket on my knees. I stared at it.

“I had thought it was luncheon, but as the basket has just moved on its own, I rather hope it isn’t,” I told him.

He laughed, a courteously modulated sound. Florentines, I had observed, loved to laugh but only modestly.

At his urging I lifted the damask cloth and peered into the basket.

“How very unexpected,” I murmured. “And how kind of you, Alessandro. I don’t suppose you would mind telling me what it is, exactly?”

This time he laughed fully, throwing back his head and revealing a delightful dimple in his cheek. “Ah, Lady Julia, always you enchant me. It is a dog, what you call in your country an Italian greyhound. Surely you recognise her. Her breed has been painted for centuries.”

I peered again at the trembling creature nestled against a cushion. She was black and white, large patches, with a wet black nose and eyes like two bits of polished Whitby jet. She lifted her nose out of the basket and sniffed me deeply, then sighed and laid her head back onto her paws.

“Of course. I see the resemblance now,” I told him, wondering how this frail, ratlike creature could possibly be related to the cosseted pets I had seen gracing the laps of principesse in gilded frames.

“È ammalata,” Alessandro said apologetically. “She is a little unwell. She does not like the travelling. I put her yesterday into her little basket, and she does not like to come out.”

“Oh, that is quite all right,” I said, hastily pulling the damask over her nose. “Perhaps she just needs a bit of rest. What is she called?”

“That is for you to decide.”

I did not hesitate. “Then I shall call her after my favorite place in all of Italy. I shall call her Florence.”

Alessandro smiled, a smile a nymph would envy, beautiful curved lips and even white teeth. “You pay the greatest honour to my city, my Firenze. I am glad that you like her. I wanted you to have some token of my appreciation for this kind invitation to your family’s home.”

Strictly speaking, the invitation had been Plum’s and I noticed that there was no shivering, pointy-faced puppy for him. And as I clutched the basket and looked out of the window, saying my silent farewells to this country I had grown to love so well, I wondered what significance this present carried with it. Alessandro had implied it was a sort of hospitality gift, a way of thanking one’s hosts for opening their home. Still, I could not help but think there was something more pointed in his intentions. And I was not entirely displeased.

Paris was grey and gloomy, sulking under lowering skies like a petulant schoolgirl. We had tarried a few days to shop and show Alessandro the sights, but none of us forgot for long we were being called home in disgrace. Lysander and Violante had made up their quarrel and spent most of their time cooing and making revoltingly sweet faces at one another. Plum, doubtless irritated at their good humour, sulked until I bought him the most outrageously ugly waistcoat I could find—violet taffeta splashed with orange poppies. He insisted upon wearing it with his fez, and wherever we went, Parisians simply stopped and stared. For his part, Alessandro was subdued. I had thought the glories of Paris would enchant him, but he merely regarded them and made notes in his guidebook. It was not until I found him murmuring Italian endearments to Florence that I realised the poor boy must be homesick. He had never left Italy before, and this trip had been a sudden, wrenching thing. There had been no pleasurable time of anticipation, no peaceful evenings by the fire with maps and guidebooks and lists at hand, no chance to dream of it. I think the reality of the cold grey monuments and the wet streets dampened his spirits as thoroughly as they dampened our hems. I promised myself that he would enjoy Bellmont Abbey and our proper English Christmas, even if it killed me. Of course, I had no way of knowing then that it would indeed kill someone else.

As a contrast to the dripping skies of Paris, London was lit with sunset when we arrived, the great gold light burnishing the dome of St. Paul’s and lending a kindly glow to the chimney pots and brick houses stacked against each other like so many books in a shop. Even the air smelled sweeter to me here, a sure sign of my besotted state, for London’s air has never been salubrious. I pointed out the important landmarks to Alessandro, promising him we would return after Christmas for a thorough tour. He sat forward in his seat, eagerly pressing his hands to the window, taking in the great city.

“It is so big,” he said softly. “I never thought to see a city so large.”

“Yes, it is. And filthy besides, but I love it dearly. Now, we will make our way to the Grand Hotel for the night, and tomorrow we will embark for Blessingstoke. The train journey is not long. Blessingstoke is in Sussex, and the Abbey is quite near to the village proper.”

Plum leaned across Alessandro to take in the view. “God’s teeth, it hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Plum, it may be Shakespearean, but it is still an oath. You know how Aunt Hermia feels about profanity.”

He waved me off with a charcoal-smudged hand. “Auntie Hermia will be so happy to see her prodigal boys, she won’t care if I come draped in rags and swearing like a sailor. I’ll wager the fatted calf is being roasted as we speak.”

On that point I was forced to agree. Our Aunt Hermia, Father’s youngest sister, had come to live at the Abbey when our mother died from exhaustion. Ten children in sixteen years had been too much for her slight, graceful shape. Aunt Hermia had done her best to instill proper manners and a sense of decorum, but seven hundred years of March eccentricity was too much, even for her iron will. We were civilized, but the veneer was a thin one. In her later years, Aunt Hermia had even come to embrace her own peculiarities, and it was true that her drawing room was the only room in England where ladies were invited to smoke after dinner. Needless to say, Marches were seldom invited to Court.

“Speaking of returning home,” Plum said, his expression a trifle pained, “I don’t suppose we could stay at March House instead of the Grand Hotel?”

I blinked at him. “Plum, the arrangements have already been made at the hotel. I hardly think it would be fair to disappoint their expectations. Besides, Father is in Sussex. The house would have been closed up months ago, and I am certainly not going to simply turn up and expect the staff to scurry around, yanking off dust sheets and preparing meals with no warning.”

“They are servants, Julia,” Plum pointed out with a touch of exasperation. “They will be perfectly content to do whatever is expected of them.”

I looked at him closely, scrutinising his garments. His coat buttons were loose, a sure sign he had been tugging at them in distraction. It was a nervous habit from boyhood. He dropped buttons in his wake as a May Queen dropped flowers. The maids had long since given up stitching them back on, and he usually went about with his coat flapping loosely around him. Yes, something was clearly troubling him, and I did not think that it was solely his irritation at Lysander’s marriage. I suspected his pockets were thin—Plum’s tastes were expensive, and even Father’s liberal allowances only stretched so far.

Still, even if Plum was flirting with insolvency, there were other considerations. “It is impolite, both to the staff of March House, and the hotel,” I told him. “Besides, I hardly think that it will help our cause with Father to have descended on March House with no warning and inconvenienced his staff and eaten his food. You know they will send the bills to him. Under other circumstances, I might well agree with you, but I think a little prudence on our part might go some distance toward smoothing matters for Ly,” I finished.

Plum darted a look to the other part of the compartment where Lysander and Violante were huddled together, heads nearly touching as they whispered endearments.

“And we must do whatever we can for Lysander,” Plum added, his handsome mouth curved into a mocking smile. He left as quickly as he had come, settling himself some distance away behind a newspaper. I turned with an apologetic glance to Alessandro, but he was staring out the window, his expression deeply troubled and far away. I did not interrupt him, and the rest of the journey into London was accomplished in silence.

The manager of the Grand Hotel, in an act of unprecedented kindness, assigned me a suite on a different floor from my family. There had been some difficulty with the arrangements, he said, fluttering his hands in apology, our letter had come so late, it was such a busy season with the holiday fast approaching. I reassured him and took the key, grateful for the distance from the rest of the party. Violante and Lysander had broken out in a quarrel again on the station platform, Plum was sulking openly, and Alessandro was by now visibly distressed. He only smiled when he noticed my trouble in coaxing Florence from her basket. She remained curled on her cushion, staring at me with the lofty disdain of a Russian czarina.

“Florence, come out at once. This is unacceptable,” I told her. Alessandro smiled at me, a smile that did not touch the sadness in his eyes.

“Ah, my dear lady. She does not understand you. She is an Italian dog, you must speak Italian to her.”

I stared at him, but there was no sign of jocularity in him. “You are not joking? I must speak Italian to her?”

“But of course, my lady. Do as I do.” He bent swiftly and pitched his voice low and seductive. “Dai, Firenze.”

The little dog leaped up at once and waited patiently at his heel. “You see? Very easy. She wants to please you.”

The dog and I regarded each other. I had my doubts that she wished to please me, but I thanked Alessandro just the same and turned to make my way into the hotel. Florence sat, staring down her long nose at me.

I sighed. “Andiamo, Firenze. Come along.” She trotted up and gave my skirt hem a deep sniff. Then she gave a deep, disappointed sigh.

“I know precisely how you feel.”

The next morning I made my way down to breakfast in the hotel’s elegant dining room, feeling buoyant with good cheer and a good night’s sleep. Something about being on English soil again had soothed me, and I had slept deeply and dreamlessly, waking only when Florence barked out an order to be taken for a walk. I handed her off to a grumbling Morag with a few simple words of Italian, although I had little doubt Morag would simply bark back at her in Gaelic. But even Morag’s sullenness was no match for my cheerful mood as I entered the dining room. I might have known that it would not last.

Resting against my plate was a hastily scrawled note from Lysander explaining that he and Violante had chosen to have a lie-in and would take the later conveyance instead of the morning train as we had planned. I wrinkled my nose at the note and crumpled it into my butter dish. A lie-in indeed. More like an attack of the cowardy-cowardy custards. Ly was nervous at the prospect of facing Father. The possibility of losing his considerable allowance, particularly with a wife to maintain, was a grim one. The notion of keeping Violante on the proceeds of his musical compositions was laughable, but also frighteningly real. Ly was simply playing for time, expecting the rest of us to journey down to Bellmont Abbey and smooth the way for him, soothing Father out of his black mood and making him amenable to meeting Lysander under happier terms.

It simply would not do. I applied myself to a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, porridge, toast, stewed fruit, and a very nice pot of tea. I enjoyed it thoroughly. The Italians, for all their vaunted cookery skills, cannot do a proper breakfast. A bit of bread and a cup of milky coffee is a parsimonious way to begin one’s day. When I was well fortified, I had a quick word with the waiter and made my way to Lysander and Violante’s rooms and tapped sharply on the door.

There was a sleepy mumble from within, but I simply rapped again, more loudly this time, and after a long moment, Lysander answered the door, wrapping a dressing gown around himself, his expression thunderous.

“Julia, what the devil do you want? Did you not get my note?”

I smiled at him sweetly. “I did, in fact. And I am afraid it will not serve, Lysander. We must be at the train station in a little more than an hour. I have ordered your breakfast to be sent up. I am afraid there will not be time for you to have more than rolls and coffee, but the hotel is packing a hamper for the train.”

He gaped at me. “Julia, really. I do not see why—”

Violante appeared then, clutching a lacy garment about her shoulders and yawning broadly, her black hair plaited in ribbons like a schoolgirl’s. She looked pale and tired, plum-purple crescents shadowing her eyes. I greeted her cordially.

“Good morning, Violante. I do hope you slept well. There has been a slight change in plans, my dear. We are all travelling down together this morning. Morag will help you dress. She is quite efficient, for all her sins, and the hotel maids are dreadfully slow.”

“Si, Giulia. Grazie.” She nodded obediently, but Lysander stood his ground, squaring his shoulders.

“Now, see here, Julia. I will not be organised by you as though I were a child and you were my nanny. I am your brother, your elder brother, a fact I think you have rather forgotten. Now, my wife and I will travel down to Blessingstoke when it suits us, not when you command.”

I stared at him, eyebrows slightly raised, saying nothing. After a moment he groaned, his shoulders drooping in defeat.

“Why, why am I plagued by bossy women?”

I smiled at him to show that I bore no grudge. “I am sure I could not say, Lysander. I will see you shortly.”

I turned to Violante who had watched our exchange speculatively. “Remind me to have a little chat with you when we reach the Abbey, my dear.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Lysander pulled her back into their room and banged the door closed. I shrugged and turned on my heel to find Plum lingering in his doorway, doing his best to smother a laugh. I fixed him with a warning look and he raised his hands.

“I am already dressed and the hotel’s valet is packing my portmanteau as we speak. I was just going downstairs for some breakfast.”

I gave him a cordial nod and proceeded to my suite, feeling rather pleased with myself. An hour later the feeling had faded. Despite my best efforts, it had taken every spare minute and quite a few members of the hotel staff to ensure the Marches were ready to depart. Alessandro was ready, neatly attired and waiting patiently at the appointed hour, but two valets, three maids, and Morag were required to pack the others’ trunks and train cases. A Wellington boot, Violante’s prayer book and Plum’s favourite coat—a revolting puce affair trimmed with coffee lace—had all gone missing and had to be located before we could leave. I had considered bribing the valet not to find Plum’s coat, but it seemed unkind, so I left well enough alone. In the end, four umbrellas, two travelling rugs, and a strap of books could not be stuffed into the cases. We made our way to the carriages trailing maids, sweet wrappers, and newspapers in our wake. I am not entirely certain, but I think I saw the hotel manager give a heartfelt sigh of relief when our party pulled away from the kerb.

Traffic, as is so often the case in London, was dreadful. We arrived at the station with mere minutes to spare. A fleet of porters navigated us swiftly to the platform, grumbling good-naturedly about the strain on their backs. I had just turned to answer the sauciest of them when I heard my name called above the din of the crowded platform.

“Julia Grey! What on earth do you mean loading down honest Englishmen like native bearers? Have you no shame?”

I swung round to see my favourite sister bearing down on me with a porter staggering behind her. He was gasping, his complexion very nearly the colour of Plum’s disgusting coat.

“Portia!” I embraced her, blinking hard against a sudden rush of emotion. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I am travelling down to the Abbey, same as you. I had not planned to go down for another week or two, but Father is rather desperate. He has a houseful of guests already and no one to play hostess.”

“Christmas is almost a month away. Why does he have guests already? And what of Aunt Hermia? We had a letter from her.”

Portia shook her head. “Father is up to some mischief. There are surprises in store for us, that is all I have been told. As for Auntie Hermia, she is here in London. She came up to have a tooth pulled, and is still too uncomfortable to travel. Jane is looking after her until she feels well enough, then they will come down together. In the meantime, Father sent for me. You know the poor old dear is hopeless when it comes to place cards and menus.”

She cast a glance over my shoulder. “Ah, I see Ly is here after all. I wagered Jane five pounds he would hide out until someone else softened Father up for him. Hullo, Plum! I did not see you there, skulking behind Julia. Come and give me a kiss. I have rather missed you, you know.”

Plum came forward and kissed her affectionately. They had always been great friends and partners in terrible escapades, though they had not seen much of one another in recent years. Plum had travelled too much, and was faintly disapproving of Portia’s lifestyle. For her part, Portia had embraced a flamboyant widowhood. She habitually dressed in a single colour from head to toe, and her establishment included a lover—her late husband’s cousin as it were. His female cousin, much to the shock of society.

Today she was dressed all in green, a luscious colour with her eyes, but her beloved Jane was not in evidence. Plum kissed her soundly on the cheek.

“That’s better,” she said, releasing Plum from a smothering embrace. “How do you like Lysander’s bride? She’s a pretty little thing, but I fancy she keeps him on his toes. She is a Latin, after all. And who is this?” she asked, fixing her gaze on Alessandro. He had been standing a small, tactful distance apart, but he obeyed Portia’s crooked finger, doffing his hat and sweeping her as elegant a bow as the crowded platform would permit.

“Alessandro Fornacci. Your servant, my lady.”

Portia regarded him with unmitigated delight, and I could see her mouth opening—to say something wildly inappropriate, I had no doubt. I hurried to divert her.

“Alessandro, this is our sister, Lady Bettiscombe. Portia, my darling, I think we must board now before the train departs without us. The station master looks very cross indeed.”

I looped my arm through hers and she permitted me to steer her onto the train. She said nothing, asked no questions, which made me nervous. A quiet Portia was a dangerous Portia, and it was not until we were comfortably seated and the train had eased out of the station that I permitted myself to relax a little. Alessandro and Plum had taken seats a little distance apart, and Lysander and Violante, after exchanging hasty greetings with Portia had moved even farther away. Lysander was still sulking over his enforced departure, and Violante was too indolent to care where they sat. A foul smell emanated from the basket at Portia’s feet, and I sighed, burying my nose in my handkerchief. If I sniffed very deeply, I could almost forget the odor.

“I cannot believe you brought that monstrosity,” I told her.

Portia gave me a severe look. “You are very cold toward Mr. Pugglesworth, Julia, and I cannot think why. Puggy loves you.”

“Puggy loves no one but you, besides which he is half decayed.”

“He is distinguished,” she corrected. “Besides, I note that you have a similar basket. Have you acquired a souvenir on your travels?”

“Yes. A creature almost as vile as Puggy. She is temperamental and hateful and she loathes me. Yesterday she gnawed the heel from my favorite boot simply because she could.” I nudged her basket with my toe and she snarled in response. “She only understands Italian, so I am trying to teach her English. Quiet, Florence. Tranquillamente.”

“What on earth possessed you to buy her if you hate her so much?” Portia demanded, peering through the wickets of the basket. “All I can see are two eyes that seem to be glowing red. I should be very frightened if I were you, Julia. Sleep with one eye open.”

“I did not buy her,” I told her softly. “She was a gift.”

Portia’s eyes flew to Alessandro’s dark, silken head, thrown back as he laughed at some remark of Plum’s. “Ah. From the enchanting young man. I understand. Tell me, how old is he?”

“Twenty-five.”

She nodded. “Perfect. I could not have chosen better for you myself.”

I set my mouth primly. “I do not know what you are talking about. Alessandro is a friend. The boys have known him for ages. He wanted to see England, and Lysander is too much of a custard to face Father without some distraction. That is all.”

“Indeed?” Portia tipped her head to the side, studying my face. “You know, dearest, even under that delicious veil, I can see your blushes. You have gone quite pink about the nose and ears, like a rabbit. I think that boy likes you. And what’s more, I think you like him, too.”

“Then you are a very silly woman and there is nothing else to say. It is overwarm in here. That is all.”

Portia smiled and patted my arm. “If you say so, my love. If you say so. Now, what news have you had of Brisbane? I saw him last month and I know he has been a frequent guest at Father’s Shakespearean society of late, but I haven’t any recent news of him.”

“You saw him last month?” I picked at the stitching on my glove, careful to keep my voice neutral. “Then you know more of him than I. How did he seem?”

“Very fond of the Oysters Daphne,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief. “He made me send along the receipt for his housekeeper. Julia, mind what you’re doing. You’ve jerked so hard at that thread, you’ve torn the fur right off the cuff.”

I swore under my breath and tucked the ragged edge of the fur into my glove. “You mean you had him to dinner? At your house?”

“Where else would I entertain a friend? Honestly, Julia.”

“Did you dine alone?”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Don’t be feeble. Of course not. Jane was there, and Valerius as well,” she said. I relaxed a little. Valerius was our youngest brother and a passionate student of medicine. His favourite pastime was telling gruesome tales at the dinner table, not exactly an inducement to romance.

Portia poked me suddenly. “You little green-eyed monster,” she whispered. “You’re jealous!”

“Well, of course I am,” I said, sliding my gaze away from hers. “I adore your cook’s Oysters Daphne. I am sorry to have missed them.”

She snorted. “Oh, this has less to do with oysters than with the haunch of a handsome man.” She started laughing then, great cackling peals of laughter. I reached out and twisted a lock of her hair around my finger and jerked sharply.

“Leave it be, Portia.”

She yanked her hair out of my grip and edged aside, a wicked smile still playing about her mouth. “You daft girl, you cannot possibly imagine I want him for myself.”

I shrugged and said nothing.

“Or that he wants me,” she persisted. Still I said nothing. “Oh, I give up. Very well, think what you like. Go on and torture yourself since you seem to enjoy it so. But tell me this, have you had a letter from him since you went away?”

I looked out of the window, staring at the houses whose back gardens ran down to the rail line. “How curious. Someone has pegged out their washing. See the petticoats there? She ought to have hung them inside by the fire. They’ll never dry in this weather.”

Portia pinched my arm. “Avoidance is a coward’s tactic. Tell me all.”

I turned back to her and lifted the veil of my travelling costume, tucking it atop my hat. “Nothing. I know nothing because he has not written. Not a word in five months.”

My sister pursed her lips. “Not a word? Even after he kissed you? That is a shabby way to use a person.”

I waved a hand. “It is all water down the stream now. I have done with him. I doubt I shall meet him again in any case. Our paths are not likely to cross. We have no need of an inquiry agent, and the only relation of his who moves in society is the Duke of Aberdour. And Brisbane has little enough liking for his great-uncle’s company.”

“True enough, I suppose.”

I looked at her closely. “Do not think on it, Portia. It was foolish of me to imagine there was something there. I want only to put it behind me now.”

Portia smiled, a smile that did not touch her eyes. She was speculating. “Of course, my love,” she said finally. “Now I am more convinced than ever that you did a very wise thing.”

“When?”

Portia nodded toward Alessandro. “When you decided to bring home that most delightful souvenir.”

I slapped lightly at her arm. “Stop that at once. He will hear you.”

She shrugged. “And what if he does? I told you before, a lover is precisely the tonic you need. Julia, I was gravely worried about you when you left England. You were ailing after the fire, and I believed very strongly that it was possible you might not ever recover—not physically, but from the trauma your spirit had suffered. You learned some awful truths during that investigation, truths no woman should ever have to learn.” She paused and put a hand over mine. “But you did recover. You are blooming again. You were a sack of bones when you left and pale as new milk. But now—” she ran her eyes over my figure “—now you are buxom and bonny, as the lads like to say. You have your colour back, and your spirit. So, I say, complete the cure, and make that luscious young man your lover.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “I am five years his elder.”

“And very nearly a virgin in spite of your marriage,” she retorted. I poked a finger hard into her ribs and she collapsed again into peals of merry laughter.

“Good God, what are the two of you on about?” Plum demanded from across the compartment.

Portia sobered slightly. “We were wondering what Father has bought us for Christmas.”

Plum regarded her gloomily. “Stockings of coal and switches, I’ll warrant.”

Portia shot me an impish look. “Well, perhaps there will be other goodies to open instead.”

This time I did not bother to pinch her. I merely opened my book and pretended to read.

THE THIRD CHAPTER

How like a winter hath my absence been from thee. —SONNET 97

The journey to Blessingstoke was quickly accomplished. The tiny station was nearly deserted. As it was a Monday, and still nearly four weeks before Christmas, the village folk were about their business, although a peculiarly spicy smell hung in the air, the promise of holiday preparations already begun.

Father had sent a pair of carriages for our party, and a baggage wagon besides. There was a brief tussle over who should have custody of the hamper of food, but Portia prevailed, and I made certain to find a seat in her carriage. Somehow she managed to maneuver Alessandro into our small party, and Plum as well, leaving the newlyweds with the maids and the dogs. When Morag let her out of her basket, Florence perpetrated a small crime against Lysander’s shoe, and I made a mental note to ask Cook to find her a nice marrow bone when we arrived at the Abbey.

No sooner had we left the station than word spread we had arrived. It was possible to watch the news travel down the road, just ahead of the carriages, for as we bowled past, villagers emerged from their cottages to wave. The blacksmith raised a glowing red poker in greeting, and Uncle Fly—the vicar and a very great friend of Father’s—lifted his hat and bellowed his regards. There was a stranger with him, a handsome, well-groomed gentleman who eyed us with interest as we passed. He was soberly but beautifully dressed, and he swept off his hat, making us a pretty little courtesy. His eyes caught mine and I noticed a small smile, only slightly mocking, playing over his lips. His expression was merry, comfortably so, as if laughter was his habit.

“That is not a serious sort of person,” I observed as we rounded the bend in the road, leaving Uncle Fly and his jocular stranger.

Portia snorted. “That is Lucian Snow, Uncle Fly’s new curate. I made his acquaintance when Jane and I were down this summer.”

“Surely you jest. I would never have taken him for a churchman.”

“Father says Uncle Fly is having the devil’s own time with him. He is always haring off to one of the other villages to ‘minister to the flock’.”

“Oh, dear,” I murmured. “I do hope that is not the phrase he uses. How terribly earnest of him.”

“Indeed. I imagine Father will have him to dinner whilst we are in residence. He will certainly invite Uncle Fly, and he can hardly fail to include the curate. Plum, I know you are an atheist, dearest, but do mind your manners and try to be civil, won’t you?”

Plum, whose only interest in Italian churches had been the artworks they so often housed, gave a scornful look. “If Father is kind enough to supply me with game, it would be churlish of me not to join the hunt.”

“That is a terrible metaphor. Mark what I said and behave yourself. Oh, look there. I see the Gypsies are in residence, just in time for the holiday.”

Portia pointed to a cluster of brightly painted caravans in the distance. Tents had been pitched and cooking fires kindled, and at the edge of the encampment a bit of rope had been strung around to keep the horses penned. I imagined the men, sitting comfortably in their shirtsleeves in spite of the crisp air, mending harnesses or patching a bit of tin, while the women tended the children and the simmering pots. As a child I had joined them often, letting them plait flowers into my hair or read my fortune in the dregs of a teacup. But now the sight of the camp brought back other memories, bitter ones I wanted only to forget.

Deliberately, I turned from the window. “Alessandro, tell me how you like England thus far.”

The rest of the drive was spent pleasurably. We pointed out local landmarks to Alessandro, and he admired them enthusiastically. It is always pleasant to hear one’s home praised, but it is particularly gratifying from one whose own home is crowned with such delights as the Duomo, the Uffizi, and of course, David.

Our points of interest were somewhat more modest. We showed Alessandro the edge of the Downs, rolling away in the distance like a pillowy green coverlet coming gently to rest after being shaken by a giant’s hand. We guided his gaze to a bit of Roman road which he complimented effusively—a bit disingenuous on his part, considering that Florence was founded as a siege camp for Caesar’s army. We pointed out the woods—a royal hunting preserve for ten centuries—that stretched to the edge of the formal gardens of Bellmont Abbey.

Just past the gatehouse, the drive turned flat and smooth and I explained to Alessandro that this was where, as children, we had raced pony carts.

“All of you? The Lord March must have owned a herd of ponies for so many children,” he teased.

“No, my dear signore,” Portia corrected, “you misunderstand. We were hitched to the pony carts. Father thought it a very great joke when we were behaving like savages to harness us up and have us race one another down the drive. It worked beautifully, you know. We always slept like babies afterwards.”

Alessandro blinked at her. “I believe you are making a joke to me, Lady Bettiscombe.” He looked at me doubtfully. I shook my head.

“No, I’m afraid she isn’t. Father actually did that. Not all the time, you understand. Only when we were very, very naughty. Ah, here is the Rookery. This dear little house was originally built in the eighteenth century as an hermitage. Unfortunately, the sitting earl at the time quarrelled with his hermit, and the house was left empty for ages. Eventually, it was made into a sort of dower house.”

“It is where we keep the old and decrepit members of the family,” Portia put in helpfully. “We send them there and after a while they die.”

“Portia,” I said, giving her a warning look. Alessandro was beginning to look a bit hunted. She took my meaning at once and hastened to reassure him.

“Oh, it is a very peaceful place. I cannot think of any place I would rather die.” She smiled broadly, baring her pretty, white teeth, and Alessandro returned the smile, still looking a trifle hesitant.

“There,” I said, nodding to a bit of grey stone soaring above the trees. “There is Bellmont Abbey.”

The drive curved then and the trees parted to give a magnificent view of the old place. Seven hundred years earlier, Cistercians had built it as a monument to their order. Austere and simple, it was an elegant complex of buildings, exquisitely framed by the landscape and bordered by a wide moat, carp ponds, and verdant fields beyond. The monks and lay brothers had laboured there for four hundred years, communing with God in peace and tranquillity. Then Henry VIII had come, stomping across England like a petulant child.

“King Henry VIII acquired the Abbey during the Dissolution,” I told Alessandro. “He gave it to the seventh Earl March, who mercifully altered the structure very little. You’ll notice some very fine stained glass in the great tracery windows. The Cistercians had only plain glass, but the earl wanted something a bit grander. And he ordered some interior walls put up to create smaller apartments inside the sanctuary.”

Alessandro, a devout Catholic, looked pained. “The church itself, it was unconsecrated?”

“Well, naturally. It was a very great space, after all. The Chapel of the Nine Altars was made into a sort of great hall. You will see it later. That is where the family gathers with guests before dinner. Many of the other rooms were left untouched, but I’m afraid the transepts and the chapels were all converted for family use.”

Alessandro said nothing, but his expression was still aggrieved. I patted his hand. “There is still much to see of the original structure. The nave was kept as a sort of hall. It runs the length of the Abbey and many of the rooms open off of it. And the original Galilee Tower on the west side is still intact. There is even a guest room just above. Perhaps we can arrange to have you lodged there.”

Alessandro smiled thinly and looked back at the towering arches, pointing the way to heaven.

“How wonderful it looks,” I breathed.

“That it does,” Plum echoed. He looked rather moved to be home again, and I remembered then it had been nearly five years since he had seen the place.

“È una casa molto impressionante,” Alessandro murmured.

The great gate was open, beckoning us into the outer ward. A long boundary wall ran around the perimeter. Original to the Abbey, it was dotted with watchtowers, some crumbling to ruin. Just across the bridge and through the outer ward was the second gate, this one offering access to the inner ward and the Abbey proper. The horses clattered over the bridge, rocking the carriage from side to side. Overhead, emblazoned on the great stone lintel was a banner struck with the March family motto, Quod habeo habeo, held aloft by a pair of enormous chiselled rabbits.

“‘What I have, I hold’,” translated Alessandro. “What do they signify, the great rabbits?”

“Our family badge,” Plum informed him. “There is a saying in England, a very old one, ‘mad as a March hare’. Some folk say it is because rabbits are sprightly and full of whimsy in the spring. Others maintain the saying was born from some poor soul who spent too much time in the company of our family.”

I clucked my tongue at my brother. “Stop it, Plum. You will frighten Alessandro so he will not dare stay with us.”

Alessandro flashed me a brilliant smile. “I do not frighten so easily as that, dear lady.”

Portia coughed significantly, and I trod on her foot. We passed through the second gate then to find the inner ward ablaze with the reflected light of a hundred torchlit windows. “Ah, look! Aquinas is here.”

The carriage drew to a stop in the inner ward just as the great wooden doors swung back. Led by my butler, Aquinas, a pack of footmen and dogs swarmed out, all of them underfoot as we descended from the carriage. Aquinas had accompanied me to Italy but had returned to England as soon as he had delivered me safely into the care of my brothers. I had missed him sorely.

“My lady,” he said, bowing deeply. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Aquinas. How good it is to see you! But I am surprised. I thought Aunt Hermia wanted you to tend to the London house while they were in the country. I cannot imagine Hoots has been very welcoming.” The butler at Bellmont Abbey was a proprietary old soul. He knew every stick of furniture, every stone, every painting and tapestry, and cared for them all as if they were his children. He was jealous as a mistress of anyone’s interference in what he regarded as his domain.

“Hoots is incapacitated, my lady. The gout. His lordship has sent him to Cheltenham to take the waters.”

“Oh, well, very good. He wouldn’t be much use here, barking orders from his bed. I suppose you’ve everything well in hand?”

“Need your ladyship ask?” His tone was neutral, but I knew it for a reproach.

“I am sorry. Of course you do. Now tell us all where we are to be lodged. I am perished from thirst. A cup of tea and a hot bath would be just the thing.”

“Of course, my lady.”

The second carriage arrived then, followed hard by the baggage cart. There was a flurry of activity as I made the introductions. Plum and Lysander had met Aquinas in Rome, and Portia was a favourite of his of long-standing. But he seemed particularly pleased to meet his compatriots. He offered a gracious greeting to Alessandro and advised him that he had been assigned to the Maze Room, one of the best of the bachelor rooms.

“Oh,” I said, turning to Aquinas, pulling a face in disappointment. “I thought Count Fornacci might have the room in the Galilee Tower. Quite a treat for a guest, what with the bell just overhead.”

Alessandro shied and I gave him a soothing smile. “It never rings, I promise. It’s just an old relic from the days of the monks, and no one has bothered to take it down.”

Aquinas cut in smoothly. “I regret that one of his lordship’s guests is already in residence in the Tower Room, my lady. I believe Count Fornacci will be very comfortable in the Maze Room.”

I sighed. “Perhaps you are right. It’s warmer at least.”

Aquinas bowed to Alessandro. To Violante he was exquisitely courteous, and upon hearing his flawless Napolitana dialect, my sister-in-law embraced him, kissing him soundly on both cheeks.

“That will do, Violante,” Lysander said coldly. She ignored him, kissing Aquinas again and chattering with him in Italian. Aquinas replied, then bowed to her and addressed his remarks to Lysander.

“Mr. Lysander, I have put you and Mrs. Lysander in the Flanders Suite. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction.”

Lysander gave him a sour look, collected his wife, and disappeared into the Abbey. Aquinas turned back to the assembled party. “Lady Bettiscombe, you are in the Rose Room, and Lady Julia is next door in the Red Room. Mr. Plum, you are in the Highland Room in the bachelors’ wing. Signore Fornacci, if you will follow me, I will make certain the Maze Room is in perfect readiness for guests.”

That was as close as Aquinas would ever come to admit to being unprepared. We had arrived with an unexpected guest, but Aquinas would forgo his own supper before he let it be known that all was not completely in order. We trooped into the hallway and Aquinas turned. “His lordship is in his study. He asked not to be disturbed and said he would see all of you at dinner. The dressing bell will sound in an hour and a half. I shall order tea and baths for your rooms. I hope that these arrangements are satisfactory.”

He bowed low and turned to unleash a torrent of orders upon the footmen. In a matter of minutes we were whisked upstairs, separated according to our gender and marital status. Portia and I were in the wing reserved for single ladies and widows. Formerly the monks’ dorter, it was now the great picture gallery, with our rooms opening off of it. Dozens of March ancestors gazed down at us from their gilded frames, punctuated by enormous, extravagant candelabra and a number of antiquities, some good, some of doubtful provenance. There were statues and urns, one or two amphorae, an appalling number of simpering nymphs, and even a harp of dubious origin. No weapons though. Those were reserved for the bachelors’ wing in the former lay brothers’ dormitory. Their paintings were all martial in subject, with the occasional seascape or Constable horse to provide a respite from the bloodshed. Between them hung arquebuses and crossbows, great swords and axes for cleaving, and in between perched suits of armour, some a bit rustier and more dented than others. I preferred the ladies’ wing, for all its silly nymphs.

Some time later, after I had enjoyed a hot bath and a pot of scalding sweet tea, I was sitting in front of a roaring fire, enjoying the solitude, too drowsy to rouse myself. Morag had gone to her room to whip the fur back onto my glove. I had bribed her with a plate of fruitcake to take Florence with her, and I was very near to dozing off when there was a scratch at the door. Portia entered, already dressed in a magnificent gown of heavy oyster satin trimmed in puffs of sable.

“Portia! You do look spectacular. You will put us all to shame as country mice. What is the occasion, pray tell?”

She flopped as far as her corset would permit into a velvet gilt armchair and pulled a face. “I am meant to be the hostess, remember? I have to look the part, and make certain I am the first one in the drawing room to welcome our guests.”

“Thank heaven for that. I thought I had dozed off and slept through the dressing bell.”

Portia waved a lazy hand. “You’ve ages yet. So, what do you think of our new sister-in-law? I think she is just what Lysander needed,” she said, a trifle smugly. Lysander had been rather brutal in his criticism of Portia’s marriage to Bettiscombe, a sweet hypochondriac nearly thirty years her senior. No doubt watching Lysander and Violante bicker from London down to Blessingstoke had been rather deliciously gratifying for Portia.

“Don’t be so cattiva,” I warned her. “We have all made mistakes.” We were silent a moment—both of us, I imagine, thinking of our marital woes.

“I am rather surprised Father wasn’t present to greet us,” I put in finally, breaking the somber mood that had befallen us.

Portia shrugged. “You heard Aquinas. He is doubtless up to some mischief. I had a guest list from him in my room, so at least I know the names. Aquinas, bless him, had already ordered the meal and prepared the seating arrangements, so there was nothing for me to do but approve them.”

“And with whom shall we be dining?” I asked, yawning broadly.

“Heavens, I do not know half of them. Uncle Fly, of course, and Snow, the curate. Oh, and Father has apparently decided to begin his Christmas charity early—Emma and Lucy Phipps are here.”

“You are in a foul mood, dearest. Perhaps you’d better have some whiskey before you go down.”

She tossed a cushion at me and I caught it neatly, tucking it behind my head. “Besides, I always liked Emma and Lucy. They were nice-enough girls.”

“But so desperately poor, Julia. Did it never trouble you, the way they would simply stare into our wardrobes and fondle our clothes? And Emma always read my books without asking leave. It was rude.”

“She is our cousin! And she was our guest, in case you have forgotten.”

Portia gave a little snort. “I was never permitted to. Every Easter for a fortnight. The dreadful orphans come to gape at the earl’s children like monkeys in the zoo.”

“You are a dreadful snob. Their lives were appalling. Can you imagine what it must have been like to live with those terrible old hags?”

She shivered, and we fell silent again. Emma and Lucy’s history was not a happy one. Father’s youngest aunt, Rosalind, had been a great beauty, the toast of Regency London, showered with a hundred proposals of marriage during her season. But she had scorned them all, eloping in the dead of night with a footman. Proud as a Roman empress, she took nothing from her family, and suffered as a result. They were desperately poor, and a series of miscarriages left Rosalind in poor health, her body ailing and her beauty wrecked on the shoals of her pride. At last she had a healthy child, but poor Rosalind did not live to see it draw breath. Her three sisters swooped in and took the infant from its father, or to be entirely accurate, bought the child, for ten pounds and a good horse. They called her Silvia and raised her in seclusion, as they believed befitted the issue of such a scandalous marriage, and it was no great surprise to anyone when Silvia went the way of her mother. She married a poor man without the blessing of her family, and lived to regret it. Silvia, too, bore half a dozen dead children, with only Emma to show for it. Ten years later, Lucy was born, and Silvia was buried by her aunts who clucked sorrowfully and gathered up the motherless girls and took them home. Their father vanished from the story, although Emma, an inveterate teller of tales, claimed he was a pirate prince, sailing the seas until he had amassed enough treasure to bring his daughters home. I never had the heart to scorn her for the lie. The aunts took the girls in their turn, sending them to the Abbey every Easter, for what they called “their respite”. I had had some idea that they had been educated for governessing or work as ladies’ companions. I had not seen either of them in years, and I was curious as to what had become of them.

“What have they been doing these last years? I have not had news of them.”

Portia shrugged. “Emma took a post some years ago as a governess. She has been with a family in Northumberland.”

“Good gracious,” I murmured. “One must pity her that.”

“Indeed. And Lucy has been in Norfolk, looking after Aunt Dorcas.”

I pulled a face. Aunt Dorcas was, in fact, Father’s aunt, which made her only slightly younger than God Himself. She was one of the trio of frightening old aunts Father called the Weird Sisters. These were the aunts that had had the raising of Emma and Lucy, and apparently Lucy had not yet managed to effect her escape.

“Poor child. Not much of a life for either of them, is it? Emma bossing other people’s children about, and Lucy tending to that horrid old woman. I can’t imagine which of them has the worst of it.”

Portia arched a brow at me. “There but for the grace of God, dearest.”

I nodded. “We are indeed the lucky ones. Now who else has been invited?” I asked Portia, stretching out my foot toward the fire.

“A pack of gentlemen I do not know, including Sir Cedric Eastley—I believe I have heard Father mention him, though I cannot recollect why—and a Viscount Wargrave, whoever he may be. Doubtless he will be a thousand years old and spend all of dinner leering down my décolletage. Then there is a fellow called Ludlow, and a Mrs. King, some relic of Aunt Hermia’s, I’m sure. And of course, Aunt Dorcas.”

I blinked at her. “You are joking. She must be nearly ninety.”

“Nearer eighty,” Portia corrected, “and with a host of indelicate habits, the likes of which I shall not alarm you with.” She paused and her expression turned thoughtful. “Hortense is here.”

“Is she? How lovely! She wrote the most delightful letters when I was abroad. I shall be exceedingly pleased to see her.”

Portia’s eyes narrowed. “You are a singular woman, Julia. I would have thought, given her notoriety, you might have found it a bit much that Father invited her.”

“It seems a curious sort of hypocrisy to object to Hortense on the grounds that she was once a courtesan. Aunt Hermia has been rescuing prostitutes for years and forcing them on us as maids. Consider Morag,” I reminded her. Morag had been one of Aunt Hermia’s most doubtful successes. She was skilled enough, but entirely incapable of keeping a position with anyone who expected a conventional maid.

“Yes, but Father. He seems quite smitten with her. What if he marries her?”

“Then I shall give them a nice present and ask if I may be a bridesmaid.”

“Ass. You are not taking this at all seriously.”

“Because it is ridiculous. Father is nearly seventy, Hortense will not see sixty again. And she is delightful besides. Who are we to thwart their happiness?”

Portia nodded slowly. “I suppose you are right. Still, I would have thought you would have minded about her. Because of Brisbane.”

She was watching me closely, and with some effort, I forced my voice to casualness. “The fact that she was Brisbane’s mistress twenty years ago is no concern of mine. Their liaison ended decades ago. Besides, his affairs are his own business. I told you that on the train.”

“I know what you said, Julia, but that is not necessarily what you believe. You are a faithful creature. I would be quite surprised if you were not still harbouring a tendresse for him.”

“I thought you were the one encouraging me to molest our young houseguest with unwelcome attentions.”

She snorted. “If you believe your attentions would be unwelcome, you are dafter than I thought. Do not think I failed to notice, dearest, you did not deny you still have feelings for Brisbane.”

“Then let me do so now. Nicholas Brisbane is a person I will always think of with affection, for more reasons than I can enumerate. But as for any sort of future with him—”

The dressing bell sounded before I could finish, for which I was rather grateful.

Morag appeared then, and Portia tarried a few moments longer, bullying Morag into piling my hair onto my head. I had cropped it some months before, but had let it grow during my travels, and with a bit of artful pinning it looked quite becoming. Portia left as Morag was buttoning me into a severe crimson satin gown. There was not a ruffle or furbelow to be found on it, not the merest scrap of lace or tiniest frill. The simplicity was startling. I powdered my nose lightly and daubed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks, touching my lips with a rosy salve I had purchased in Paris. Morag grumbled about whorishness—a bit of duplicity, I thought, given her own past—but I ignored her and motioned for her to fix my earrings to my lobes. They were delicate things of twisted wires set with tiny seed pearls and bits of garnet. They were not costly, but they were very pretty and whenever I moved my head they glittered in the candlelight. I rose and instructed Morag to keep the fire hot to make plenty of coals for the bedwarmers. She trudged out, grumbling again, and again I ignored her.

I started from the room, then as an afterthought, Portia’s words ringing in my ears, I hurried to my writing table instead. My morocco portfolio lay atop it, still clasped since I had last seen it in Italy. I snapped it open and scooped up the pendant Brisbane had given me. It took but a moment to secure it at the base of my throat. I paused to look at my reflection, surprised to see my colour was high. I must have over-rouged, I thought, wiping at my face with a handkerchief. I told myself I needed the pendant because the neckline of my gown was too revealing for a family dinner, but the truth was I had a dozen pendants more suitable, and scores of fichus and scarves that would have served just as well. If I had stopped to consider the matter, I might have realised I had put it on because now I was back in England what I longed for most was to see Brisbane again.

But I did not consider. I wore it as a curiosity instead, a piece of interest I might have bought in Italy. I could wear it among my family and no one save Portia would know it had been given to me by a man who had caused me more disappointment and more elation than any other I had ever known.

The dinner bell sounded as I left the room, and I hastened down the gallery. For all his eccentricities, Father disapproved of tardiness. I fairly flew down the staircase and along the corridor to the nave. From there it was some distance to the hall, but I could see the great wooden doors, fifteen feet high and propped open, light spilling over the great stones of the floor. Just outside the doors, in what had been one of the tiniest chapels, stood Maurice, the enormous stuffed bear one of our great-uncles had brought home as a trophy from a hunting expedition to Canada. He was a frightful old thing, with huge, sharp yellow teeth and claws that had terrified me as a child, and the bear bore him a striking resemblance. But now the bear was moth-eaten, and looked slightly embarrassed at the bald patches where we children had rubbed off his fur from too many games of sardines. I lurked behind him for a moment to catch my breath. The nave was deserted, the long shadows stretching empty up to the webbed hammerbeams of the ceiling. It appeared everyone else had already arrived. I took a slow, calming breath, then slipped through the doors.

As the Chapel of the Nine Altars, the hall had been built on mammoth proportions, and it had not been altered much over the years. A massive space, its walls were punctuated with nine curved bays that had once housed the altars of the most sacred place of the Abbey. The original stone had not been panelled, and the effect was impressively medieval. Tapestries warmed the stones instead—great, heavy things that told the story of a boar hunt in exquisite detail and rich colours that had grown gently muted over the centuries. Two of the bays had been converted to monolithic fireplaces, and in front of them wide Turkey carpets had been laid, although their silken pile did little to drive out the chill of the floors. Sofas and chairs were huddled near the hearths where fires blasted up the chimneys. In summer, lit with sunlight from the enormous tracery windows, the room was beautiful. On a cold winter’s night, it was just this side of miserable. The other guests had already assembled, gentlemen doubtless grateful for their elegant coats of superfine, while the ladies shivered with bare shoulders. They were gathered near the hearths like wintering animals, and I saw Alessandro in particular looking rather pinched about the face. I noticed that Aquinas was moving about, pouring hearty measures of whiskey to ward off the cold. Portia’s doing, no doubt.

She came toward me, her colour high and her eyes bright. “Dearest, where have you been? You’ve been an age. I was just about to go and look for you.”

“The bell just rang,” I began, but she was already towing me across the room to where Father stood in conversation with another gentleman whose back, in beautifully tailored black, was facing me.

“Julia!” my father boomed, in delight, I think. I kissed him, breathing him in as I did so. Father always smelled of books and sweet tobacco, a receipt for comfort.

“Good evening, Father. I was terribly slighted that you were not available to welcome me, you know,” I teased him, smoothing his wayward white hair. “I might think you had forgotten I am your favourite.” It was a joke of long-standing among us children to make him admit he loved one of us best. None of us had ever caught him out yet.

Father smiled, but I sensed somehow it was not at my little jest. There was something more there, some greater mischief, and I knew, even before the gentleman turned to face me, that I was the hare in the snare.

“Julia, my dear, I believe you already know Lord Wargrave.”

And there in front of me stood Nicholas Brisbane.

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt. —JULIUS CAESAR

I stood motionless for a lifetime it seemed, although I know it cannot have been more than a few seconds. I summoned a deliberate smile and extended my hand, forcing my voice to lightness. Rather unexpectedly, both were steady.

“Brisbane, what a surprise to see you. Welcome to Bellmont Abbey.”

He shook my hand as briefly as courtesy would permit, bowing from the neck, his face coolly impassive as Plum’s beloved Carrara marble. He was exquisitely dressed in evening clothes even Ly would approve, all black-and-white elegance, down to the silken sling that held his left arm immobile just above his waist.

“My lady. Welcome home from your travels.”

My smile was polite, wintry, nothing more. Any observer might have thought us the most casual of acquaintances. But I was deeply conscious of Father and Portia watching us intently.

“Thank you. Did I understand Father correctly? Are congratulations in order?”

“The elevation is a very recent one. In fact the letters patent have not yet been read. His lordship is overhasty in his compliments,” he said mildly, but I knew him well enough to know this was no façade of modesty. Brisbane himself would not care about titles, and I could only imagine he would accept one because it ensured his entrée into the highest circles of society—a useful privilege for someone in his profession.

For my part, I was impressed in spite of myself. I was one of the few people who knew the truth of Brisbane’s parentage and upbringing. To rise from that to a viscountcy was little more than miraculous. It meant whilst I had been sunning myself in Italy, Brisbane had busied himself investigating something very delicate and probably very nasty for someone very highly placed.

“I did not realise you were staying at the Abbey, my lord. I confess I am surprised to see you here.”

Brisbane’s eyes flickered toward my father. “I might say the same of you, my lady. His lordship declined to mention you were expected to return home before next summer.”

Father’s eyes were open very wide, a sure sign he had been up to mischief. He was incapable of feigning innocence. I looked from him to Brisbane, fitting the pieces together swiftly. My appearance was as much of a surprise to Brisbane as his was to me. He was pale under the olive of his complexion, and I realised he was attempting to compose himself. Whatever he had expected of his visit to Bellmont Abbey, a reunion with me was no part of it.

I had just opened my mouth to tease him when he looked past me and beckoned sharply to a lady hesitating shyly on the edge of our circle. I had not noticed her before, but now I wondered how that was possible.

“My lady,” Brisbane said smoothly, “I should like to present to you my fiancée, Mrs. King. Charlotte, Lady Julia Grey.”

I know that I put out my hand, and that she took it, because I looked down to see my fingers grasped warmly in hers, but I felt nothing. I had gone quite numb as I took in the implication of what Brisbane had just said.

“Mrs. King,” I murmured. Recovering myself quickly, I fixed a smile on my lips and repeated the greeting I had given Brisbane. “Welcome to the Abbey.”

“And welcome back to England, my lady,” she said breathlessly.

She was a truly lovely creature, all chocolate-box sweetness with a round, dimpled face and luscious colouring. She had clouds of hair the same honeyed red-blond I had admired on a Titian Madonna. Her eyes were wide and almost indescribably blue. She had a plump, rosebud mouth and an adorably tiny nose unadorned by even a single freckle. Only the chin, small and pointed like a cat’s, belied the sweetness of her expression. There was firmness there, perhaps even stubbornness, although now she was smiling at me in mute invitation to befriend her. Unlike me, she wore widow’s weeds, although touches of purple indicated her loss was not a recent one. The black suited her though, highlighting a certain fragile delicacy of complexion no cosmetic could ever hope to simulate. She was a Fragonard milkmaid, a Botticelli nymph. I hated her instantly.

“I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady,” she was saying. “Lord Wargrave has told me simply everything about you. I know we are going to be very great friends.” She was earnest as a puppy, and I had little doubt most people found her charming.

“Has he indeed? How very kind you are,” I said, fingering the pendant at my throat. It had been an involuntary action, and I realised as soon as my fingers touched the cool silver it was a mistake. Mrs. King’s bright blue gaze fixed on the piece at once.

“What an unusual pendant. Did you acquire it on your travels?” she asked, peering closely at the coin.

“No. It was a gift,” I said, covering its face with a finger. I turned to Brisbane, who was watching our exchange closely. I nodded toward the sling. “I see you have managed to injure yourself, my lord. Nothing serious, I hope.”

He lifted a brow. “Not at all. A nasty spill from a horse a fortnight ago, nothing more. His lordship was kind enough to invite me to recuperate here away from the bustle of the city.”

“And you will be here for Christmas as well?” I asked, forcing my tone to brightness.

“As will my fiancée,” he replied coolly, locking those witch-black eyes onto mine.

I did not blink. “Excellent. I shall look forward to getting to know her intimately.” The words were blandly spoken, but Brisbane knew me well enough to hear the threat implicit within them.

His gaze wavered slightly, and I inclined my head. “I do hope you will excuse me. I must greet the other guests. Mrs. King, a pleasure,” I said, withdrawing from the group. Father caught my eye, his own eyes bright with mischief. I turned my head, not sur prised to find Portia at my elbow.

“Well done, dearest,” she whispered.

“Whiskey,” I hissed. “Now.”

In another of the little altar alcoves a sideboard had been arranged with spirits of every variety. We made our way to the whiskey decanter and stood with our backs to the room. Portia poured out a generous measure for both of us and we each took a healthy, choking sip. I swallowed hard and fixed her with an Inquisitor’s stare.

“I shall only ask you once. Did you know?”

She paled, then took another sip of her whiskey, colour flooding her cheeks instantly. “Of course not. I knew Father meant to invite him down for Christmas. I thought it might be a nice surprise for you. But I had no idea he was being elevated, nor that he had that…that creature with him. How could he?”

Portia shot Brisbane a dark look over her shoulder. “He kissed you. He gave you that pendant. I thought that meant something.”

“Then you are as daft as I. Drink up. We cannot hover over the spirits all evening. We must mingle with the other guests.”

She stared at me as though I had lost my senses. “But are you not—”

“Of course, dearest. I am entirely shattered. Now finish your whiskey. I see Aunt Dorcas mouldering in an armchair by the fire and I must say hello to her before she decays completely.”

Portia’s eyes narrowed. “You are not shattered. You are smiling. What are you about?”

“Nothing,” I told her firmly. “But I have my pride. And as you pointed out,” I said with a nod toward Alessandro, “I have alternatives.”

Alessandro smiled back at me, shyly, his colour rising a little.

Portia poked me. “What are you thinking?”

I put our glasses on the table and looped my arm through hers, pulling her toward Aunt Dorcas.

“I was simply thinking what a delight it will be to introduce Alessandro to Brisbane.”

Aunt Dorcas had established herself in the armchair nearest the fire, and it looked as though it would take all of the Queen’s army to roust her out of it. No one would call her plump, for plumpness implies something jolly or pleasant, and Aunt Dorcas was neither of those. She was solid, with a sense of permanence about her, as though she had always existed and meant to go on doing so forever. Disturbingly for a woman of her size and age, she had a penchant for girlish ruffles and bows. She was draped in endless layers of pink silk and wrapped in an assortment of lace shawls, with lace mitts on her hands and an enormous lace cap atop her thinning hair. She wore only pearls, yards of them, dripping from her décolletage and drawing the eye to her wrinkled skin. She had gone yellow with age, like vellum, and every bit of her was the colour of stained ivory—teeth, hair, skin, and the long nails that tapped out a tuneless melody on the arm of her chair. But her eyesight was sharp, and her hearing even better. She was talking to, or rather at, Hortense de Bellefleur, Father’s particular friend. Hortense was stitching placidly at a bit of luscious violet silk. She was dressed with a Frenchwoman’s natural elegance in a simple gown of biscuit silk, an excellent choice for a lady of her years. She looked up as we approached, smiling a welcome. Aunt Dorcas simply raised her cane to poke my stomach.

“Stop there. I don’t need you breathing all over me. Where have you been, Julia Grey? Gallivanting about Europe with all those filthy Continentals?”

Her voice carried, and I darted a quick glance at Hortense, but she seemed entirely unperturbed. Then again, very little ever perturbed Hortense.

“Xenophobic as ever, I see, Aunt Dorcas,” I said brightly.

“Eh? Well, never mind. You’ve put on a bit of weight you have, and lost that scrawny look. You were a most unpromising child, but you have turned out better than I would have thought.”

The praise was grudging, but extremely complimentary coming from Aunt Dorcas. She turned to Hortense.

“Julia was always plain, not like Portia there. Portia has always been the one to turn men’s heads, haven’t you, poppet?”

“And some ladies’,” I murmured. Portia smothered a cough, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Yes, Aunt Dorcas, but you must agree Julia is quite the beauty now,” my sister put in loyally.

“She will do,” Aunt Dorcas said, a trifle unwillingly, I thought.

I bent swiftly to kiss Hortense’s cheek. “Welcome home, chérie,” she whispered. “It is good to see you.”

Simple words, but they had the whole world in them, and I squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “And you.”

“Come to my boudoir tomorrow. We will have a pot of chocolate and you will tell me everything,” she said softly, with a knowing wink toward Alessandro.

Before I could reply, Aunt Dorcas poked me again with her cane. “You are too close.”

I obeyed, moving to stand near Portia. “Portia tells me you have been staying here. I hope you find it comfortable.”

Aunt Dorcas puffed out her lips in a gesture of disgust. “This old barn? It is draughty, and I suspect haunted besides. All the same, I think it very mean of Hector not to invite me more often. I am family after all.”

I thought of poor Father, forced to face the old horror for months on end, and I hurried to dissuade her. “You would be terribly bored here. Father spends all his time in his study, working on papers for the Shakespearean Society.”

“The Abbey is indeed draughty,” Portia put in quickly. “And we do have ghosts. At least seven. Most of them monks, you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if one walked abroad tonight, what with all of the excitement of the house party. They get very agitated with new people about. Do let us know if you see a holy brother robed in white.”

Portia’s expression was deadly earnest and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. But Aunt Dorcas was perfectly serious.

“Then we must have a séance. I shall organise one myself. I have some experience as a medium, you know. I have most considerable gifts of a psychic nature.”

“I have no doubt,” I told her, shooting Portia a meaningful look.

Portia put an arm about my waist. “Aunt Dorcas, it has been lovely seeing you, but I simply must tear Julia away. She hasn’t spoken to half the room yet, and I am worried she might give offense.”

Aunt Dorcas waved one of her lace scarves at us, shooing us away, and I threw Hortense an apologetic glance over my shoulder.

“I do feel sorry for dear Hortense. However did she get landed with the old monstrosity?”

Portia shrugged. “We have suffered with Aunt Dorcas for the whole of our lives. Hortense is fresh blood. Let her have a turn. Ah, here is someone who is anxious to see you.”

She directed me toward a small knot of guests gathered around a globe, two ladies and two gentlemen. As we drew near, one of the ladies spun round and shrieked.

“Julia!” She threw her arms about me, embracing me soundly.

I patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Hello, Lucy. How lovely to see you.” She drew back, but kept my hands firmly in her own.

“Oh, I am so pleased you have arrived. I’ve been fairly bursting to tell you my news!”

“Dear me, for the carpet’s sake, I hope not. What news, my dear?”

She tittered at the joke and gave me a playful slap.

“Oh, you always were so silly! I am to be married. Here, at the Abbey. In less than a week. What do you make of that?”

She was fairly vibrating with excitement, and I realised I was actually rather pleased to see her. Lucy was one of the most conventional of my relations, a welcome breath of normality in a family notorious for its eccentricity. To my knowledge, Lucy was one of the few members of our family never to have been written up in the newspapers for some scandal or other. We exchanged occasional holiday letters, nothing more. I had not seen her in years, but I was astonished at how little she had changed. Her hair was still the same rich red, the colour of winter apples, and springing with life. And her expression, one of perpetual good humour, was unaltered.

“My heartiest good wishes,” I told her. I glanced behind her to where the other lady stood, a quiet figure, her poise all the more noticeable against Lucy’s ebullience.

“Emma!” I said, moving forward to embrace her. “I am happy to see you.”

Emma was wearing a particularly trying shade of green that did nothing for her soft, doe-brown eyes, her one good feature. Her hair was unfashionably red, like Lucy’s, but where Lucy’s was curly and vibrant with colour, Emma’s was straight and so dull as to be almost brown. She wore it in a severe plait that she wound about her head, pinned tightly. Her face was unremarkable; her features would have suited the muslin wimple of a cloistered sister. But she smiled at me, a warm, genuine smile, and for a moment I forgot her plainness.

“Julia, you must tell us all about your travels. We have just been discussing Lucy’s wedding trip,” she told me, motioning with one small, lily-white hand toward the globe. Flanking it were the two gentlemen, one the elder by some two decades, and clearly the other’s superior in rank and wealth. His evening clothes were expensively made and the jewel in his cravat was an impressive sapphire. Lucy went to him and put her arm shyly in his.

“Julia, I should like to present my fiancé, Sir Cedric Eastley.”

If I was startled, I endeavoured not to show it. Had I been asked to choose, I would have picked the younger man for Lucy’s betrothed. He looked only a handful of years her elder, while Sir Cedric might well have been her father.

“Cedric, this is my cousin, Lady Julia Grey.”

He took the hand I offered, his manners carefully correct, although not from the schoolroom, I fancied. There was the slightest hesitation in his gestures, as though he were taking a fleeting second to remember a lesson he had only recently been taught. He performed flawlessly, but not naturally, and it occurred to me this was a man who had brought himself up in the world, by his own efforts, and his baronetcy had been his reward.

Lucy gestured toward the younger man, a tall, slightly built fellow with a pleasant expression and quite beautiful eyes.

“And this is Sir Cedric’s cousin and secretary, Henry Ludlow.”

Unlike Sir Cedric’s very new, very costly clothing, Ludlow’s attire spoke of genteel poverty, but excellent make. Clearly he had come down in the world to accept a post in his cousin’s employ, and I wondered at the vagaries of fate that had clearly elevated the one while casting the other down. I thought they should prove interesting guests and I turned to Lucy to inquire how long they would be with us at the Abbey.

“Until the new year,” she announced. “Cedric and I will be married here in the Abbey on Saturday by the vicar. Then we mean to stay through Christmas. It will be like the old times again, with all of the Marches together,” she said, her eyes glowing with excitement. It seemed needlessly cruel to point out that her surname was not March and that she had in fact never spent a Christmas at the Abbey. I suspected she and Emma had yearned to belong to our family in a way that an Easter fortnight each year could simply not accomplish. Perhaps being married among us and spending her first Christmas in our midst would assuage some of that childhood hunger.

“Emma mentioned a wedding trip,” I said, gesturing toward the globe. It was a sad affair, much mauled by us as children and by Crab, Father’s beloved mastiff. She had taken to carrying it around with her as a pup, and by the time Father had trained her not to do so, the globe was beyond salvation.

Sir Cedric pointed to Italy. “We were thinking of Florence. And perhaps Venice as well, with a bit of time spent by the Tyrrhenian Sea in the summer. I know the loveliest spot, just here, below this fang mark.”

I nodded. “Italy is a perfect choice. I understand the winters are not too brutal, and the scenery is quite breathtaking.” I said nothing of the people, but I made the mistake of catching Portia’s eye just as she was raising an eyebrow meaningfully toward Alessandro. I straightened at once.

Portia commandeered me again, excusing us from the little group and guiding me to where Violante and Lysander were standing with Alessandro. Violante was resplendent in a flame-coloured gown, her expression sedate. Father had given her a noticeably wide berth, and I wondered if he had spoken to her at all. I imagined he had given her a cursory welcome and then excused himself to speak with anyone else. To make up for his neglect, I addressed her with deliberate warmth.

“Violante, how lovely you look. That gown suits you. You look like sunset over the Mediterranean.”

She smiled, her slow, lazy smile. “Grazie, Giulia.” She waved her glass at me. “What am I drinking? It is very good.”

I looked at her glass and grimaced. “That is Aunt Dorcas’ frightful elderberry cordial. I am surprised at Aquinas pouring it for you before dinner.”

“Plum, he brought it. I tell him I want something English to drink. Lysander, he has the whiskey, but I am given this. It is very nice.”

Well, Plum might have found her something more suitable, but I was pleased he was making an effort to get on with Violante at all. “Mind you don’t drink too much of it,” I warned her. “It is an excellent cure for insomnia or incipient cold, but more than a tiny glass will bring on the sweats.”

She blinked at me. “Che cosa?”

I searched for the word, but Alessandro stepped in smoothly. “La suda,” he said softly. She looked at him a moment, then shrugged.

Portia elbowed me gently aside. “Alessandro, have you met my father yet?”

Alessandro shook his head. “I regret, no, my lady. His lordship has been very busy with his other guests.”

Even before she spoke the words aloud, I knew what she was about. “In that case, Julia, you must perform the introductions. I know Father must be simply perishing to meet your friend.”

I glanced over to where Father stood, still in conversation with Brisbane, then back to Portia. Her eyes were alight with mischief. Alessandro was regarding me with his customary Florentine dignity. “Ah, yes. I would very much like to pay my respects to his lordship, and thank him for his hospitality.”

“Of course,” I said faintly. “Portia, are you coming, dearest?”

“Oh, I thought I would get to know our delightful new sister-in-law,” she said, delivering the coup de grâce. “But do not let me keep you.”

“Come along, Alessandro,” I said through gritted teeth. He cupped my elbow in his hand, guiding me gently—a wholly pleasant sensation, but I was still annoyed. I should not have been the one to make the introductions. He had been Plum’s friend, and Ly’s as well, before he had been mine. It had been their inspiration to bring him to England, but now that Father had to be dealt with, they were perfectly content to let me brave the lion’s den on my own. Plum had made the acquaintance of Mrs. King and was busy giving her a tour of the room’s beauties, and Lysander was too consumed with his bride to have a thought for anyone else.

And Portia was determined to stir the pot with Brisbane. I noticed his eyes sharpening as we approached, nothing more. There was no raising of his expressive brows, no naked curiosity, only the intense watchfulness of a lion lazing in the shade by a pond where the gazelle will drink.

“Father,” I said, my voice a trifle thin, “I should like you to meet our friend, Alessandro. He came with us from Italy. Count Alessandro Fornacci. Alessandro, my father, Lord March.”

Father turned to greet Alessandro, welcoming him with more warmth than I would have imagined. Alessandro accepted his welcome with exquisite courtesy, expressing his rapture at being in England and his extreme pleasure in sharing this most English of holidays.

“Hmm, yes,” Father said, his eyes moving swiftly between us. Alessandro’s hand had lingered a moment too long at my elbow, and Father had not missed it. “Your room is satisfactory?”

I suppressed a sigh. Father would not have cared if Alessandro had been lodged in the dovecote with only a blanket to cover him and a stray cat for conversation. He meant to detain him, to take the measure of him, and perhaps to let Brisbane do so, as well.

“My room is very nice. It overlooks a maze, very lovely.”

“Excellent. You will want to see the maze up close, I’m sure. Mind you take a guide. Devilish tricky to get out of,” Father said, laughing heartily. I stared at him. Father was never jolly. He was putting on dreadfully for Alessandro, and I was just about to send manners to the devil and lead Alessandro away when Brisbane put out his hand.

“Nicholas Brisbane.”

Alessandro clasped his hand and bowed formally. “Mr. Brisbane.” Father gave a guffaw. “Not just Brisbane anymore. He’s a viscount any day now, my lad. Lord Wargrave.”

“Milord,” Alessandro amended.

Brisbane waved a careless hand. “No need to stand on ceremony. We are among friends here. Very good friends, I should think,” he finished with a flick of his gaze toward me.

“Quite,” I said sharply. “Ah, I see Uncle Fly and his curate have finally arrived. Come along, Alessandro. I should like to introduce you to my godfather.”

Before I could manage our escape, Father caught sight of Uncle Fly and bellowed out, “What kept you, Fly? Damned inconsiderate to make me wait for my dinner.”

Uncle Fly laughed and clapped a hand to Lucian Snow’s shoulder. “Blame the lad. He was an hour tying his cravat. Doubtless to impress the ladies.”

Father and Uncle Fly chuckled like schoolboys, and Lucian Snow smiled good-naturedly. “Well, with such lovely company a gentleman must trouble himself to look his best,” he said, sweeping the room with a gallant nod. A few ladies tittered, but I realised Portia was not among them. She had taken herself off, and I cursed her for a traitor that she had dropped me in it so neatly and then fled.

But I had no time to consider her whereabouts. Uncle Fly had made a beeline for me, Snow following in his wake. My godfather smothered me in an embrace that smelled of cherry brandy and something more—earth, no doubt. Uncle Fly was an inveterate gardener and spent most of his time puttering in his gardens and conservatory. No matter how often he scrubbed them, his hands were always marked with tiny lines dark with soil, like rivers on an ancient map. His fingertips were stained green, his lapels dusted with velvety yellow pollen. And his hair, tufts of fluffy white cotton that stood out about his head where he had tugged at it in distraction, was usually ornamented with a leaf or petal, and on one memorable occasion, a grasshopper.

His curate could not have cut a more opposite figure. He was taller than the diminutive Fly by half a foot, and more slender, although one would never think him slight. His posture was impeccable; he was straight as a lance, with a slight lift of the chin that made it seem as if he were gazing at some distant horizon. But when the introductions were made and he bowed over my hand, his eyes were fixed firmly on mine. They were warm, melting brown, like a spaniel’s, and they were merry. He twinkled at me like a practised rogue, and I found myself wondering how a man like him had come to hold the post of curate in an obscure country village. I introduced him to Alessandro, and Snow gamely attempted to greet him in Italian. It was laboured and wildly ungrammatical, but he laughed at his own mistakes, and Alessandro tactfully pretended not to notice.

Just then I saw Portia slip in, her expression smug. Before I could accost her, Aquinas entered and announced dinner. There was a bit of a scramble for partners, but since we were an odd number with more gentlemen than ladies, Portia insisted we dispense with etiquette and instructed each gentleman to choose the lady he wished to lead in.

To my surprise, Lucian Snow offered me his arm. “My lady, I hope you will do me the honour?”

I hesitated. Alessandro was hovering near, too polite to dispute with Snow, but a little dejected, I think. Just then Portia glided over, and slid her arm through Alessandro’s.

“I do hope you will escort me, Alessandro. I simply couldn’t bear to walk in on the arm of one of my brothers.”

That was a bit thick, I thought. Lysander was already steering Violante to the door, and Plum was busy trying to lever Aunt Dorcas out of her chair. But Alessandro was too well bred to point this out. He merely bowed and smiled graciously at her.

“It would be my honour, Lady Bettiscombe.”

I turned to Lucian Snow with a smile. “Certainly.”

I took his arm, and he favoured me with a smile in return, a charming, dimpled smile that doubtless made him a great pet of the ladies. His features were so regular, so beautifully proportioned, he might have been an artist’s model. One could easily fancy him posed in a suit of polished armour, light burnishing his golden hair, his spear poised over a rampant dragon. St. George, captured in oils at his moment of triumph.

“I must tell you, Lady Julia, I was not at all pleased at being invited here tonight,” he said as we passed through the great double doors. Those warm spaniel eyes were twinkling again.

“Oh? And why not? Are we as fearsome as all that?”

“Not at all. But his lordship has been gracious enough to invite me to dine at least once a fortnight since I came to Blessingstoke, and I have gained half a stone. Another few weeks and I shall not be able to fit through that door,” he said, his expression one of mock horror.

My gaze skimmed his athletic figure. “Mr. Snow, you are baiting me to admire your physique. It will not serve. I am an honest widow, and you, sir, I suspect are an outrageous flirt.”

He laughed and gave my arm a friendly squeeze. “I know it is entirely presumptuous of me, Lady Julia, but I think we are going to be very great friends.”

I raised a brow at him. Curates in country villages were not often befriended by the daughters of earls. But our village was a small one, and Father rarely stood on his dignity. He preferred the company of interesting people, and would happily speak with a footman over a bishop if the footman had better conversation. He must have made something of Snow for the curate to have been invited to dinner so often, and Snow seemed to be preening a bit under his favour.

The curate leaned closer, his expression mockingly serious. “I have offended you by my plain speaking. I am struck to the heart with contrition.” He rolled his eyes heavenward, and thumped his chest with a closed fist.

“Gracious, Mr. Snow, are you ever serious?”

He rolled his eyes down to look at me. “On a very few subjects, on a very few occasions. I shall leave it to you to find them out, my lady.”

He was an ass, but an amusing one. I primmed my mouth against the smile that twitched there.

“I shall look forward to the discovery,” I said solemnly. We exchanged a smile, and I thought then that this might very well be the most interesting house party that Bellmont Abbey had seen since Shakespeare had spent a fortnight here, confined to bed with a spring cold. Of course, I was entirely correct about that, but for reasons I could never have imagined.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

Let it serve for table-talk; Then, howsoe’er thou speak’st,’ mong other things, I shall digest it. —THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

The dining hall was an impressive, handsome chamber carved out of the space of the north transept. It had been fitted with a tremendous fireplace and a table long enough to seat forty. We entered to find the seating arrangements at sixes and sevens. I blamed Portia. Aquinas, if left to his own devices, would have manfully struggled to create some order out of our uneven family party. But Portia had absented herself just before dinner, and the organisation of the place cards demonstrated a wicked sense of mischief afoot. Aunt Dorcas had been slotted between Plum and Ly, a move calculated to unnerve both of my brothers. Hortense was flanked by Father and Fly, both of whom doted on her outrageously. And I had been bookended by Alessandro and Lucian Snow, the two most eligible gentlemen present. In a final masterstroke, Portia had placed Brisbane squarely opposite me, where he could not fail to notice their attentions. Portia herself took a chair on the other side of Alessandro, doubtless with an aim to directing his focus wherever she fancied. It was Machiavellian, and had I not been at the locus of it, I should have admired it greatly.

As soon as we were arranged, Father took up his glass and the company did likewise. He raised his high in a patently theatrical gesture, and proclaimed in a resonant voice, “‘Now good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!’”

There was a chorus of “Hear, hear!”, but as we drank deeply, I remembered that quote. It was from Macbeth, and I wondered with a shiver if that bloody play was an omen of things to come.

Just then Father’s mastiff, Crab, pushed her way under the table, followed by her pack of pups. Mrs. King squealed—at a wet nose thrust under her petticoat to sniff her ankle, no doubt.

Father lifted the tablecloth, upsetting a few goblets and overturning a cruet of vinegar. “Down, you lot!” he thundered, and the dogs obeyed, settling themselves under chairs and onto feet, waiting docilely for a few titbits to be dropped. I smiled at how normal it all seemed. Well, normal for us in any event. I persuaded myself that I was being fanciful with my thoughts of omens, and I slipped a bit of lobster patty to one of the pups.

As we were finishing the fish course, talk turned to the wedding, and I heard Lucy chattering happily about the arrangements.

“Aunt Hermia has been an utter lamb. Before she left for London, she took me up to the lumber rooms to pillage the things that have been packed away. All the ladies came. We were the merriest party! Would you believe we found the most beautiful gown? Lyons silk, she told me. It must be quite seventy years old, but it is in very good condition. I imagine your mama must have worn it, Uncle March.” Father lifted a brow at her, but merely continued eating his lobster patty. “And there was a bit of veiling from another bride, and a tiny wreath of orange blossom, fashioned out of silk. We took the things out for a good airing. Of course, there will not be flowers in the church. One forgets that an Advent wedding forbids it. I should have so loved to have carried even a bit of greenery, some holly, perhaps, tied with ribbons, with a few great buckets of it on the altar.”

She was wistful, and Uncle Fly, who took a rather liberal view on church matters, waved his fish fork at her. “My dear girl, if you want flowers, have them. With the wedding here in the Abbey chapel and not at St. Barnabas in the village, no one is to know or care if you put a bit of nonsense here and there.”

Lucy clasped her hands, her face alight with pleasure. “Do you mean it? Really? Oh, I should love that!”

Uncle Fly shrugged. “If you will come to the vicarage tomorrow, I will show you what I have in the conservatory just now. We can do better than a bit of holly, I’ll warrant.”

She was effusive in her thanks, but Uncle Fly merely nodded and applied himself to his fish. He was a great trencherman, and nothing pleased him more than a hearty meal from the Abbey kitchens.

“The pudding!” I said suddenly, and rather more loudly than I had intended. Conversation around the table stuttered to a halt, and everyone’s eyes fixed on me curiously. “Yesterday. It was Stir-up Sunday, and Aunt Hermia was not here to make certain the puddings were stirred. And we were not here to make our wishes.”

This was a calamity indeed. As long as Christmas had been celebrated at Bellmont Abbey, the family had gathered in the kitchens after church on Stir-up Sunday to give the Christmas puddings a stir and make a wish. Traditionally, there had been one great pudding for the entire household, but with ten children, Father had quickly seen the wisdom in having Cook prepare a small pudding for each of us. We would stand in a row, swathed in aprons, some of us tottering on stools as we dragged the long wooden spoons through the heavy batter, chanting together the traditional rhyme:

Stir up, we beseech thee,

The pudding in the pot;

And when we get home

We’ll eat the lot.

As we stirred, Aunt Hermia would peer over our shoulders, reminding us to make our wishes, and to stir from east to west in honour of the Three Kings. Then she would flap her hands, turning us from the room so she might add the charms to the puddings, a thimble for a lucky life, a ring to foretell marriage, a silver sixpence to betoken wealth to come. It was one of my favourite customs of the holiday, and not just for the festivity of the stirring-up. The puddings were heavenly, richly spiced and studded with golden raisins and currants and all manner of good things. But with Aunt Hermia in London, there was little chance the puddings had been made, and the notion of Christmas without our beloved puddings was unthinkable.

“Do not fret,” Father said with a benevolent smile. “We have had a saviour in the shape of Mrs. King. She organised the stirring-up yesterday. She even made certain there would be extra puddings for those of you come lately.”

I looked at Mrs. King who had coloured delicately, a light stain of rose across her round cheeks.

“You are too generous with your praise, my lord,” she said. But for all her modesty, it was apparent she was quite pleased to be singled out for such approbation.

“How very kind of you,” I said with deliberate sweetness, “to put yourself to so much trouble for strangers.”

If she felt the barb, she did not show it. She merely shook her head emphatically.

“Not at all, my lady. His lordship has been so kind to me, and so very good to Lord Wargrave.” She hesitated, darting a bashful gaze at her fiancé. “It was the very least I could do. The very least.”

I gave her a bland smile and was greatly relieved when the footmen stepped forward to remove the fish plates. We moved on to the next course, and the conversation turned as well. I never knew who introduced the subject, but after a moment I realised Father and Mr. Snow were engaged in a rather brisk discussion of the Gypsies.

“But surely you must see, my lord, that permitting them to camp on your land only encourages their lifestyle,” Lucian Snow was saying to Father.

Father regarded him with something akin to amusement. Father loves nothing better than a spirited debate, and I have often seen him adopt a contrary opinion in the company of like-minded people, simply for the sport of disputing with them. But on this issue, I knew his mind. He was not sporting with Mr. Snow; he was completely in opposition, and it was a position he would defend to the death, regardless of the rules of hospitality.

“Mr. Snow, are we not enjoined by the Holy Scriptures themselves to aid our brethren? Surely providing a bit of ground for their camp and a stick of wood for a fire to warm them is an act of charity.”

“A misplaced charity,” Snow replied earnestly, “for which the rest of the village will have to pay. Will you be responsible, my lord, when the shops are victims of thievery, when the farmers are victims of pilfering, when women are victims of—”

Emma gave a soft little shriek and raised her napkin to her lips. Father held up a hand. “That is enough, Snow. The Romany have camped on my lands as long as I have been lord of this manor. Never once have they repaid my hospitality with the ingratitude you have suggested.”

“Nor would they,” I put in swiftly. “To steal from their host would violate the very code by which they live their lives.”

Mr. Snow turned to me, his expression sorrowful. “Your womanly compassion does you great credit, my lady, but I am certain you would share my opinion if you understood the depths of degradation to which these poor souls must sink. But I cannot bring myself to speak of such grim particulars to a lady.”

Across from me, Brisbane continued to consume his dinner, looking supremely bored with the entire discussion. He seemed to be managing quite nicely in spite of his injury, and I wondered nastily if Mrs. King had cut his meat for him.

“What do you propose, Mr. Snow?” I asked him plainly.

Lucian Snow laid down his fork, clearly more enthused about the topic at hand than his dinner. It was a pity really. Cook had outdone herself with port sauce for the venison.

“There are those who believe that the children may be saved, my lady, if only they are removed from the influence of their parents’ savagery at a sufficiently youthful age. I am one of those. I think if the children can be taken into good Christian homes, educated, taught their letters and numbers and basic hygiene, a skill or craft by which they may earn an honest wage, their lives may be immeasurably enriched. The poverty of their vagabond lifestyle is so wrenching, so contrary to morality and civility, that a complete break is the only way to save these poor lost children.”

I blinked at him and laid down my own fork. “You advocate taking children away from their natural mothers? Away from the only family they have ever known? Mr. Snow, I cannot think that is the foundation of any useful programme.”

I was deeply conscious of the rest of the party listening to our exchange. My family were accustomed to sparring with guests; debate had always been a bit of a blood sport for Marches, and Brisbane had never turned a hair at our escapades. But I noticed out of the tail of my eye the wide-eyed curiosity of Mrs. King, and the slightly shocked expressions of Sir Cedric and his young cousin. Alessandro was diplomatically quiet, doubtless wondering if it was the habit of English ladies to brawl with their guests at table.

“My dear lady,” Snow was saying, “how can we possibly persuade them there is a better way unless they are given no opportunity to fall back on their own vile habits? I believe your own aunt, Lady Hermia, embraces a similar philosophy at her refuge in Whitechapel.”

Hoist with my own petard. It was true Aunt Hermia kept the prostitutes secluded on the premises of her reformatory until they were well on the path to decency. She feared the lure of easy money would be too strong for them when they were first applying themselves to their new way of life. But I was not about to concede the point to Snow.

“Those women are adults, sir. They choose freely to come to the reformatory. It is only in the difficult first weeks, when they are being weaned off drink and a host of other vices, that she restricts their freedoms. And they are free to leave at any time and never return.”

“My lady,” Mr. Snow replied, “I can only put to you this question—what sort of monsters must these people be to deny their children a warm and safe home, without security, without education, without Christian principles?”

“In that case, why don’t you just have done with it and drown the lot like kittens?” Plum put in. His face had gone a dull, angry red, and a lock of his hair fell over his brow. He was mightily outraged, and rather attractive with it. Mrs. King was staring at him, her expression rapt, her lips slightly parted. I could understand the allure. Plum was a very personable man, and in defence of his views, he could be as deliciously ruthless as any buccaneer. In spite of his waistcoat—turquoise-blue taffeta splashed with pink peonies—he looked rather rakish as he turned the brunt of his wrath on Mr. Snow.

I opened my mouth to intervene with some inane, harmless remark, but Mr. Snow had the situation well in hand. He gave a quick laugh and flashed Plum a charming smile.

“Ah, you have been in Italy, Mr. Eglamour, where I will wager you learned a philosophy or two.”

“Indeed not,” Plum returned, his handsome mouth twisted with sarcasm. “I think little of a man whose morality may be swayed by his company. A man ought to think for himself and know what is right, and what I know to be right, Mr. Snow,” he added with deadly precision, “is that those Roma have as much right as you or I to rear their families as they see fit.”

I sighed. I had forgotten how rabid Plum could be on the subject of the Gypsies. He simply adored them. Once, when he was eight or so, and Father had confined him to his room for some transgression, he had packed his most treasured possessions into a tiny bundle and slipped out, scaling the Abbey walls with the aid of some helpful ivy. He had turned up at the Gypsy camp, thoroughly soaked from swimming the moat, and insisting defiantly that he would never go back.

The Gypsies dried his clothes and fed him, and when he was full and content, they brought him home, explaining patiently that if a lord’s son was found among them, they would be taken in for kidnapping. Plum was an impetuous boy, but not a vicious one. He saw at once his new friends would suffer if he insisted upon staying. Reluctantly, squelching water out of his sodden shoes with every step, Plum returned. But he never forgot the kindness they had shown him, and whenever a question of Gypsy rights was raised, he was passionate in their defence. He made Father promise always to let them camp in the river meadow, and insisted the rest of us call them by their proper name, Roma. More than once as a lad he had engaged in fisticuffs when one of the village boys had taunted the Gypsies or thrown stones at them. I only prayed he would not brawl with the curate over the dinner table.

But Mr. Snow was determined to avoid a quarrel. He raised a hand, his expression genial. “Peace, Mr. Eglamour! I would no more spar with you than with your lovely sister. And indeed, who could be at odds when we have such good food, such fine company, and such a festive occasion?”

He raised his glass to us then, and we responded in kind, although I noticed Plum still looked faintly murderous.

Father settled back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “I propose a visit then. Tomorrow. We shall gather our party together and go to Blessingstoke. Fly can show off his church and his vicarage garden, what’s left of it at this time of year at least. And we can call on the Romanies as well. The gentlemen can look over the horses, and what lady does not like to have her fortune told?”

There was a flash of excitement, murmurs from every quarter. Only Aunt Dorcas spoke audibly. “You oughtn’t mix with them, Hector,” she said to Father. “Some here might be unbelievers, and the presence of sceptics will disrupt the vibrations of their psychic gifts.”

“For God’s sake,” I heard Lysander mutter, “has she been at the whiskey again?”

“Gin,” Plum murmured back. “That was always her drink.”

Unfortunately, Aunt Dorcas, like most of the aunts, had a tendency to tipple. None of them admitted to it, of course. Most of them sipped whiskey genteelly by the spoonful, claiming it was medicinal. Aunt Dorcas took a more forthright approach. She carried a flask, filled every morning by her devoted maid. For many years, the flask was tucked into her knitting bag, but when Plum was a boy he had poured out her gin and substituted vinegar instead. After that, she took to carrying it in her garters.

Aunt Dorcas opened her mouth again, but Father was too quick for her. “We shall make an outing of it. Any who do not wish to go may stay here, of course, but the rest of us mean to enjoy ourselves, vibrations be damned. Now, let us speak of something else. I am thoroughly bored with this subject. Mrs. King, have you read Lord Dalkeith’s paper on the use of classical allusion in the sonnets of Shakespeare? It’s rubbish of course, but I wondered what you thought of it.”

Aunt Dorcas lapsed into furious silence, or rather into furiously muttering at her vegetables. But as her complaints were not audible to the rest of the company, we ignored her and turned our attention to Mrs. King.

She had ducked her head at Father’s question and was blushing furiously, darting little glances from under her lashes. “Oh, your lordship, I hardly think I possess either the education or the natural intelligence to speak on such matters in such company. But I did think Lord Dalkeith’s point about the Parthenon to be very well-argued, did you not, my lord?” she asked, turning to Brisbane.

Brisbane, in the middle of a very fine gâteau, paused. “Naturally I would defer to Lord March’s opinion. I believe he has already questioned Lord Dalkeith’s sources, is that not correct, my lord?” he asked, returning the question neatly to Father. Portia had mentioned his recent attendance at Father’s society meetings, but to my knowledge Brisbane had no great love of literature. The only books I had seen in his rooms had been of an eclectic and scholarly bent. There were volumes on the natural sciences, history, warfare, and—oddly enough—lives of the mystic saints, but no plays, no poetry, no novels. Why then this sudden attachment to Shakespeare?

I looked from Brisbane, newly enthusiastic on the scriptures of the Bard, to my father, their greatest prophet. And in between them sat Mrs. King, a picture of pink-and-white innocence, wearing a betrothal ring from Brisbane on her left hand and chattering happily with both of them.

And I wondered precisely what my father had been doing while I was away.

After the conversation about Shakespeare had wound to a close and the gâteau was thoroughly savoured, Portia rose and gestured for the ladies to follow. At Bellmont Abbey, ladies withdrew, but not in quite the same fashion as in other great houses. Here, ladies were taken to the lesser drawing room to drink their own spirits and smoke a bit of tobacco without the gentlemen present. Hoots always fussed about the smell getting into the draperies, but Aunt Hermia just told him to open the windows and sweep the carpets, that the dogs were worse. Usually, the ladies greatly enjoyed a chance to “let down their back hair”, and even the primmest of women was seduced into conviviality by our habits. Confidences were exchanged, little jokes made, and many ladies later claimed that the evenings they spent at Bellmont Abbey were among the most amiable of their lives.

I, however, was in no mood to be amiable. I was tired from the journey, and more than a little eager to gain the privacy of my room and turn over the many questions that had been puzzling me all evening. But I did not have the energy to make my excuses to Portia. She could have taught Torquemada a thing or two about extracting information, and I knew I would not escape her without endless questions. It seemed simpler just to follow along and endure.

As we withdrew, I noticed Violante, lagging behind, her hand pressed to her stomach. I slowed my steps to match hers.

“Violante, are you quite all right?”

She nodded. “The English food. It is not very good. Heavy. Like rocks.”

I bristled, but did not mention how perfectly inedible I had found gnocchi. “I am sorry you are unwell. Won’t you join us for a little while? I can have Aquinas brew up a tisane for you.”

She shook her head. “I have the fennel pastilles in my room. They make me right. Buona notte, Giulia.”

I kissed her cheek and sent her on her way, envying her a little. The poor girl looked every bit as exhausted as I felt. But as I entered the lesser drawing room, I noticed an undercurrent that immediately piqued my interest. Lucy and Emma were seated on a sofa, their heads close together as they darted glances about the room and murmured softly. Portia was busy fussing with decanters and glasses, and Aunt Dorcas had entrenched herself firmly in the best armchair. Hortense had taken up a book and was reading placidly. It was left to me to entertain Brisbane’s fiancée. I turned to her, fixing what I hoped was a pleasant expression on my face.

“And how are you enjoying your stay at the Abbey, Mrs. King?”

“Oh, it is an extraordinary place, my lady.” She spread her hands, gesturing toward the single great column standing stalwartly in the centre of the room and the tapestries, older and smaller than those in the great drawing room, but depicting the same subject, a boar hunt. “This room alone quite takes my breath away.”

I shrugged. “I suppose it is impressive enough on first viewing. This room used to be the chapter house, where the monks gathered for the abbot to read the Rule of the Order. The vaulting of the ceiling is quite remarkable, although in the family we think it’s frightfully inconvenient. That central column is necessary for support, but it makes it devilishly difficult to arrange the furniture properly. Besides which, the room is draughty and the chimney never draws properly.”

As if to prove my point, a gust of wind roared down the chimney, scattering sparks and ash on the hearth and a few bits of soot on Aunt Dorcas. If the night grew any windier, we should have to dust her.

“Well, perhaps it is not the most convenient of rooms,” she temporised, “but the history, the very ancientness of the stones. I cannot imagine what they have seen. And the tapestries,” she added, nodding toward the stitched panels. “They are enough to rival anything in a museum, I should think.”

Portia joined us then, passing tiny glasses of port that shimmered like jewels in the candlelight.

“If you like the tapestries, you must ask Emma to tell you the story behind them. No one can spin a tale like Emma,” Portia advised Mrs. King, gesturing with her glass to our cousin. “Emma, pay attention, my dear. I am telling tales out of school about you.”

Emma started like a frightened pony, then relaxed, smiling at Portia. “What have you been saying to Mrs. King?”

“That you are a splendid spinner of stories, actually,” I put in. “Mrs. King was admiring the tapestries, and Portia suggested you tell her the story behind them. She is quite right. No one does it as you do.” I thought to raise her confidence a little. She had always been quiet, but there was a new shyness in her that troubled me. I felt Emma was in danger of becoming a sort of recluse, particularly now that Lucy was marrying. Emma had always lavished all of her attention on Lucy, and I wondered what would become of her once Lucy became Lady Eastley. It was to be hoped Lucy would repay her many kindnesses with a home when it was in her power to provide it. Emma could not be happy governessing in the wilds of Northumberland. It would be a poor showing on Lucy’s part to leave her there.

“Come, Scheherezade, tell us a tale,” I coaxed.

Emma flushed a little, not prettily as Mrs. King did, but a harsh red stain that tipped her nose and ears.

“If you really think that I should,” she said, looking hesitantly at Lucy.

“You must,” Lucy said firmly, and we added our voices to the chorus, insisting she take a chair nearer to the fire. She seated herself, turning so the light threw her face in sharp relief as she began to speak.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in a woman. —KING LEAR

“The story begins long ago,” Emma related, her voice soft. We gathered around her, skirts billowing over each other like blowsy roses in a country garden. Aunt Dorcas had nodded off in her chair, and her little snores punctuated the tale. Emma paused and took a breath, heightening our anticipation.

“This abbey was once the home of an order of monks, holy men who passed their lives in contemplation and good works. They tended the crops and the flocks, minding both the animals and the souls of men, and they were much loved. But then Henry VIII directed his lustful gaze at Anne Boleyn, and the monks were doomed. During the Dissolution, these lands were taken from them, and they were cast out of this holy place to make their way in the world, penniless and without friends. One of them, the elderly abbot, who had known only this place as his home since boyhood, cursed it as he left, calling upon the very stones them selves to witness the injustice visited upon his order. He conjured a curse against the new owner, a courtier of the king’s, crying out that the man should not live out a year in his ill-gotten home.”

She paused again and I glanced at Mrs. King, not surprised to see her spellbound expression. Emma had always been an excellent storyteller. During their Easter visits we frequently abandoned our books and games and insisted she spin us tales instead. She always demanded a trinket for her troubles, but her stories were so enthralling we never minded parting with a doll or pair of shoes as the price of an afternoon’s entertainment. I turned back to her, noticing that her eyes were shining now, brightened by her enthusiasm for her story. She would indeed have made a fitting bride for Shahriar, I thought as she picked up her tale.

“The new owner, the Earl March, laughed at the old man, and swept into the Abbey with his young countess. But his bride, a girl of seventeen, was not so insouciant as her lord and master. She feared the old abbot, for she had seen that he was touched with holiness, and every night when she made her prayers she begged God to spare her husband, for theirs was a love match.

“The months stretched on, and the seasons turned, and the young countess began to hope her husband would survive the curse. She doubled her prayers, and spent so much time on her knees that she wore holes into the silk of her gowns. Her husband mocked her, but still she would not cease praying for his deliverance. Until one day, when he grew impatient with her piety, and they quarrelled. To calm his temper he whistled for his horse and his hounds and he rode out to hunt boar. The countess fell to her knees in the chapel, vowing not to rise until her lord returned.”

Emma paused and leaned very slightly closer. “They brought him home the next day, carrying him on a door, broken and bleeding from the tusks of his quarry. He died that night, in agony. His countess, fearing her husband’s spirit could never rest in this place, raised a crypt in the village churchyard and buried him there. And after his funeral, she withdrew to the chapel and began to stitch. For nine years she worked, her fingers bleeding, her hands stiffening until she grew so withered she could no longer put down her needle. She told the story of that fateful hunt in silk and wool, stitching her grief until at last the story was complete.”

Emma raised her eyes to the tapestries, nodding toward the last, a magnificent piece that depicted the broken earl being carried home, his hunter and dogs trailing sadly behind.

“In all those nine years, not a morsel of food passed her lips. Village folk said it was a miracle, that she lived on her grief and her tears, nourishing herself with pain until her task was complete. And as soon as the last stitch was set, she lay down on the floor of the chapel and died. She was buried next to her lord in the crypt, but the tapestries survive to tell us the story. And somewhere in the Abbey, there is still a door, stained with the blood of a proud young nobleman, and no matter how many times the wood is sanded or scrubbed, the blood remains.”

Emma sighed, and in an instant, Scheherezade was gone, and she was my plain little cousin again, her hair too severe, her complexion too sallow for prettiness.

“That was beautiful,” Mrs. King breathed. “What a tragic story, and how wonderfully you tell it.”

Emma smiled. “Words are a cheap entertainment,” she said softly, catching Lucy’s gaze. The two of them exchanged a knowing look, and I wondered how many times Emma’s stories had kept them from despairing. I could well picture them, approaching yet another aunt’s door, hand-in-hand, ready to be taken in with little grace and no warmth. Perhaps Emma’s imagination had warmed them when they were cold, and comforted them when they were sent to bed in strange new rooms, where unfamiliar noises could seem like spectres, and shadows could be goblins.

“Emma, you have always had a great talent, you ought to write a book. Heaven knows I’ve seen people with far less ability make a success of it,” Portia suggested.

Emma shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t. The notoriety, the attention, I could not bear to be looked at like that, as if I were a circus animal. No, I should far rather keep a little cottage and a flock of chickens. That would suit me quite well.”

“Besides, I mean to keep her quite busy with nieces and nephews very soon,” Lucy put in, bouncing up to embrace her sister. “Cedric has said that I may have Emma with me, to act as my companion, and later as governess to our children. We need never be parted again.” Emma put an arm around her sister and hid her face in Lucy’s neck.

I avoided Portia’s eyes, but I could guess her thoughts well enough. Sir Cedric, a wealthy and important man, had offered his impecunious sister-in-law a post, not a home. It spoke of a meanness in his spirit I could not like. It would have cost him little to keep Emma simply out of kindness. But she would work for her bread.

“To your very fecund future in that case,” Portia proclaimed, raising her glass to Lucy and tactfully ignoring the subject of Emma’s employment. We toasted the bride and spent a pleasant half hour discussing plans for the wedding. Lucy was a happy bride, thrilled with her betrothed, and content to hear our ideas for her nuptials. Our suggestions grew more and more outlandish as the port decanter emptied.

Finally, I rose and stretched and made my excuses. Portia put out her tongue at me.

“You know you are not supposed to retire until the gentlemen have joined us. It is rude to our guests,” she said, putting on her severe elder-sister voice.

I covered my mouth, smothering a yawn. “Would you have me dozing on the sofa in front of them? I think that would be far more uncivil. Besides, poor Mrs. King is drooping in that chair. I think she would like to retire as well, only she is too polite to say it. Is it our fault the gentlemen have clearly lost sight of the time? Mind you poke Aunt Dorcas awake before you retire,” I said with a nod toward the old woman.

Mrs. King protested genteelly, but I bullied her, and I fancied she looked a bit relieved as we quit the drawing room. Aquinas had anticipated me and was lighting chambersticks in the hall.

“My lady,” he said, offering me one. “Mrs. King.”

“Thank you, Aquinas. Good evening.”

He bowed and wished us both a good evening. As we moved toward the great staircase, I caught Mrs. King hiding a yawn behind her hand.

“I do apologise,” she said. “I am simply not accustomed to keeping late hours. It is silly, I know. I live in London and keep city hours. One would have thought coming to the country would mean early to bed and early to rise.”

I gave a little snort of laughter as we started up the staircase. There were great carved panels of wood at the foot to keep the dogs out, or would have done if anyone had ever bothered to close them. A few of the puppies followed us up the stairs, lumbering along sleepily.

“You would do well to take one of the little brutes into bed with you. They haven’t fleas, and the pups will be far cosier than any warming pan,” I advised her.

She nodded, and for an instant her expression clouded.

“Mrs. King? Is everything quite all right?”

She hesitated, her pretty face drawn a little with an emotion I could not identify. Fear, perhaps? “Lady Julia, I do hope you will not think me terribly foolish, but—are there ghosts at the Abbey? I did not like to ask one of the gentlemen, they are so prone to think us ladies silly when we say such things.” She gave me an apologetic little smile, but her lips trembled. “I just thought perhaps if I knew…”

I stroked a wriggling pup. “Well, I suppose there are a few old ghouls running about, and the odd monk here and there, but nothing you need trouble yourself with, my dear. Particularly the monks. Cistercians took vows of silence, you know. Our monks would likely just wave at you. Besides, these stones have been standing for more than seven hundred years. Naturally they would have acquired a spectre or two.”

Her face fell, and for a moment I thought I saw moisture shimmering in her eyes. I would not have thought her so sensitive. I felt a stab of unwilling pity. “You must not worry about such things. I have lived here most of my life, and I have never seen a ghost. I do not think anyone has, not for ages.” I was struck by a sudden thought. “But you have been here for some days. Why does this weigh on you now? Have you seen something?”

She bit her lip and darted a glance around, peering into the shadows at the end of the hall. “Last night,” she whispered. “It was very late, but I was wakeful. I thought I heard a footstep, and yet not a footstep. It seemed to slither past my door. I could not move for a moment, I was quite paralysed with fear. And then, I do not know how I managed it, but I found the courage to open the door.”

She paused, her eyes round. I realised my own heart was beating very fast. Even the puppy had gone quite still under my hand, as if hanging on her every word. “And then I saw it. Or rather the faintest impression of it. A swirl of grey and white, not quite a figure, and yet it was more than just a bit of mist. There was a shape to it. My breath caught in my throat, and it turned then, turned and looked at me, although it had no face.”

“Good God!” I cried. “What did you do then?”

She shrugged. “What could I do? I slammed my door and locked it tightly. I burrowed under the bedclothes until morning. I did not dare to come out until the sun was up. I shall never forget the way it looked right through me.”

I hastened to reassure her. “Mrs. King, I am so very sorry you were frightened. I can only tell you I have never heard of anyone in this house encountering a phantom in the whole of my life. And I have every expectation it will not happen again.”

She smiled, and this time her mouth was firm. “You are very kind to reassure me. I know you will not mention this bit of foolishness to the gentlemen. I should so hate for them to think me foolish.”

“Of course not. If anything else distresses you, you must come to me immediately. I insist. Now, I will wait here while you go to your room to make sure you are comfortably settled. If you require anything at all, just ring the bell. One of the maids will see to it, and I am but a few steps down the corridor in the Red Room. I will see you at breakfast, my dear,” I said.

She bade me good night, and ducked her head shyly, as if embarrassed at her nerves. She clucked at one of the pups to follow her into her room and he did, waving his tail like a jaunty plume. My own puppy started to wriggle, and I gave him a little pat on the bottom to send him on his way. I stared at Mrs. King’s closed door for a long moment, then passed to my room, humming a tuneless song as I went.

Once in my room, I disrobed quickly and attempted with no success to persuade Morag to take Florence again.

“I will not,” she said, tucking my gown into the wardrobe. “She shakes like a poplar.”

“That means she is cold,” I told her in some exasperation. “She wants a little coat.”

“She wants an exorcism,” Morag muttered, slamming the wardrobe door. “If you don’t want nothing else, good night.”

I knew that tone well. It meant that I daren’t want anything else. I climbed up into the bed, stretching my toes toward the warming pan, careful not to touch it.

“Remind me to have a word with Aunt Hermia about your grammar. It is a disgrace.”

She said nothing, but poked up the fire and bobbed an exaggerated curtsey before taking her leave. I regretted my flippancy. Morag might be a creature of the streets, but she had her dignity, and she had worked terribly hard to raise herself from the squalor of her previous life. Her grammar had progressed substantially, and the worst of her brogue had been smoothed into something I could actually understand. It was wrong of me to needle her about it, and I made a mental note to apologise to her in the morning. I was far too cosy to leave my bed to deal with her at present. She had done a masterful job of warming the bed, and from the way Florence was snuggled into her basket, I suspected Morag had lined it with warmed towels. For all her sins, she was a thoughtful creature at times.

“Buone notte, Firenze,” I said, with a nod toward the basket on the hearth. “Good night, Florence.”

Florence growled in return, and I took up a book from the night table, determined to finish it. It was a rather spicy little novel Portia had given me, and I was in agonies of suspense as to whether the beautiful English captive would choose to stay in the harim of the sensual sultan or make her escape with the dashing Spanish buccaneer.

I must have dozed, for when I opened my eyes, the fire had burned down and the book had slipped to the floor. I blinked for a moment, uncertain why I had awakened. Then I heard it, a soft slithering footstep just outside my door. I glanced to the hearth and saw Florence, sitting up in her basket, ears pricked up, lips drawn back.

“Shh,” I soothed her softly. The hands of the clock on the mantel read two minutes past two. I considered the matter carefully. Violante and Charlotte had both been abed by the time I had retired. Portia would have rousted the ladies out of the drawing room and to their beds no later than midnight. I had heard a flurry of doors closing just about that time. So the ladies were accounted for, and even if the gentlemen had decided to play a game of billiards or retire to the smoking room, those rooms were on the opposite side of the Abbey. I thought of Mrs. King, her lips trembling as she spoke of what she had seen.

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