New York Times bestselling author Deanna Raybourn returns with a brand-new novella starring her beloved heroine, the intrepid Lady Julia Grey

To mark the passing of another decade, the esteemed—and eccentric—March family have assembled at Bellmont Abbey to perform the Twelfth Night Revels for their sleepy English village. But before Lady Julia and her handsome, sleuthing husband, Nicolas Brisbane, can take to the stage, a ruckus in the stable yard demands their attention. An abandoned infant is found nestled in the steel helm of St. George. What’s more, their only lead is the local legend of a haunted cottage and its ghastly inhabitant—who seems to have returned.

Once again, Lady Julia and Nicholas take up the challenge to investigate, and when the source of the mystery is revealed, they’ll be faced with an impossible choice—one that will alter the course of their lives…forever.

Twelfth Night
Deanna Raybourn

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.

—Othello, II, iii, 31

January 2, 1890

“Julia, I shall count to ten. If you aren’t thoroughly awake by then, I am going to dash the contents of this pitcher into your face, and I warn you, I’ve only just cracked the ice on the surface of it.”

My sister’s voice pierced the lovely morning hush of the bedchamber with all the delicacy of a gong. I reached out one finger to poke my husband’s naked shoulder.

“Brisbane. Portia is here.”

He heaved a sigh into the eiderdown. “You’re dreaming. Portia wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” she asked. “And, Julia, this is the first time I’ve seen your husband entirely unclothed. May I offer my congratulations?”

With a violent oath, Brisbane flung himself under the bedclothes.

“Modest as a virgin, I see,” Portia remarked. “Julia, I’m still counting. Silently. I’ve reached seven. Are you awake yet?”

I flapped a hand at her but didn’t raise my head.

“Eight.”

Brisbane’s voice was muffled but distinct. “If you don’t leave this room, Portia, I will toss you out the nearest window. If memory serves, it’s forty feet down, and I won’t be gentle.”

Portia clucked her tongue. “How high will you count?”

“I won’t,” he told her flatly.

He sat up, bedclothes pooling about his waist, grim determination etched on his face.

Portia backed up swiftly. “Very well. But do hurry, both of you. You’re terribly late for the Revels rehearsal and two of our sisters have resorted to fisticuffs. Oddly, not the two you would think.”

I sat bolt upright, and Portia winced. “For God’s sake, Julia, have a little shame and put your breasts away.”

I scrabbled for a sheet, regarding her through gritted eyes. “We have four days to perfect the Revels for Twelfth Night, and it isn’t as though we’ve never done them before, is it? Thirty times in the last three centuries, Portia. I rather think the family have the hang of it.”

“But Brisbane has never played St. George before, and he is the centre-piece of the entire Revels. Now, get up and put on clothes, you disgusting hedonists, and come down at once. Father’s threatened to come himself if you aren’t there in a quarter of an hour.”

She turned on her heel and made for the door. “Oh, and there’s an abandoned baby in the stables. Father expects you to find out from whence it came.”

She slammed the door behind her, and I winced. “What day is it?”

Brisbane’s expression was thoughtful. “Second of January. Do you need the year, as well?” he asked sweetly.

I put out my tongue at him. “Surely I wasn’t that intoxicated.”

He snorted. “You started in on your brother’s punch on New Year’s Eve and carried on right through the first. No wonder you’re the worse for it today.”

I turned my head very slowly and blinked as he came in and out of focus. “When did you get a twin?”

His mouth curved into a smile. “Have a wash in cold water and some strong coffee with a big breakfast. You’ll feel right as rain.”

The notion of food made my stomach heave, but I did as he instructed, eating everything my maid, Morag, carried up on a tray. She helped me to wash and dress, slamming hairbrushes and powder boxes with unmistakable relish.

“Morag, you are a fiend from the bowels of hell,” I told her flatly.

She gave me a look of reproof. “And no lady drinks to excess.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but waved a hand at her instead. “Oh, God, I haven’t the strength to argue. Fine. I’m a disgrace. Just make me look presentable so the rest of the family do not suspect what wretched shape I’m in.”

She did her best, wrestling me into my corset and a pink morning gown that brought a little colour to my bilious cheeks. She rouged me lightly and stepped back. “It’s the best I can do with what I had to work with,” she remarked.

Brisbane, who had washed and dressed himself swiftly, was immaculate as ever, beautifully groomed, and had not a crease to be seen.

I shook my head, regretting it instantly. “It isn’t fair, you know.”

“What?” he asked, shooting his pristine cuffs.

“We drank the same amount, and yet you look fresh as a May morning, while I—”

“Look like something the cat sicked up,” Morag supplied helpfully.

Brisbane brushed a kiss to my cheek, pitching his voice low so that only I could hear. “You look ravishing. Which reminds me of what I intend to do later.”

I eluded his grasping hand but paused at the door. “Wait, did Portia say there was an abandoned baby in the stables?”

He furrowed his brow. “She might have done. Things were rather muffled once I pulled the eiderdown over my head.”

He slapped my bottom briskly. “On you go, before they send up a search party. I’ve thrown your sister out this morning. I’d rather not have to take on all of your brothers at once.”

Chapter Two

Thou met’st with things dying, I with things new born.

—The Winter’s Tale, III, iii, 112

The family had assembled upon Father’s orders in the stable yard, now clear of the Christmas frost, the sun almost balmy as it shone down on the stone court. I glanced about, feeling absurdly pleased. For the first time in a decade, we were all gathered for the Twelfth Night Revels. Most years the villagers in our little hamlet of Blessingstoke performed the play, but to mark the turning of each new decade, the family took its turn playing the parts. It followed the form of many mummers’ plays, with St. George and his battles against the Turkish Knight and the dragon forming the main bit of the action, the same as one might find in any Sussex village. But ours boasted a fine mechanical dragon requiring three men to operate as well as a script straight from the pen of Shakespeare himself. The result was that folk came from miles away, stuffed into wagons and perched on horseback, to see the spectacle. The years when the family performed were particularly rowdy, and it took all hands to the wheel to bring it off. The maids were put to work repairing costumes while footmen polished armour and boots, and the kitchens were busy from morning ’til night with the saffron-spiked aroma of Revel cakes baked to give by the dozen to the folk who came to celebrate with us. Father, ever a generous landowner, threw open the gates of Bellmont Abbey to any who cared to come, tenant or farmer, artisan or tradesman. He welcomed them all, and every time he took charge of the decade Revels, the affair saw some new addition. This year he put my brother Benedick to the task of creating a fireworks display to mark the resurrection of St. George after his death at the dragon’s scaly feet. It promised to be spectacular, and the fact that the rest of the men had been going around with Cheshire cat smiles meant there was another surprise or two as yet unguessed.

But an infant in the stable was not amongst them. We hurried to where the family gathered around the great helm of St. George, upended now and resting in my father’s arms. Portia lifted a brow as Brisbane and I came near, and my brother Bellmont was, not unexpectedly, acting the fool.

“Bloody inconsiderate,” he muttered. “Whoever did this must be local. They have to know we would be put to great trouble to care for it with the Revels preparations under way.”

I turned to him with a flinty stare, but before I could speak, Portia blazed him to silence.

“Do shut up, Bellmont. Anyone would think the heir to an earldom would have better sense and more compassion, but you are the very proof that abolishing the inherited peerage is a sound and desirable thing.”

He returned the compliment, and the next few minutes were wasted in recrimination and insult as they fell out, and our other seven siblings took sides. Our wives and husbands were wise enough to stay utterly silent, but I noticed with interest the staff exchanging bank notes as wagers were settled. My own butler, Aquinas, was on hand to serve Father during troubles with his household, and I gave him a significant look and flicked a glance to Portia. He nodded. Our money would always be on her.

But Father was in no mood to indulge sibling warfare. He lifted the shining helm in his arms, high over his head, and the gesture silenced the family as effectively as any shout might have done. He lowered it again and said in a stern whisper, “The child sleeps, and I’ll not have you lot waking it up. Now, Portia, your child is the youngest, and you’re the only one with a nanny in tow. You take charge of it. Brisbane, a word.”

He thrust the helm at Portia before she could demur, and I saw the quick rage flare in her cheeks. She swept off and I hesitated, torn between supporting my sister and hearing the tasty titbits for myself. But Brisbane would relate all to me, I reminded myself, and I hurried after Portia.

I caught up with her on the staircase, and she was muttering so loudly to herself she didn’t see me until she was on the second landing.

“Careful, dearest. You don’t want the baby’s first words to be of the coarse variety,” I told her.

She whirled on me. “You find this amusing? I have my hands quite full enough with my own child, thank you.”

She swept on, and I attempted to make amends. “Darling, it is practical, you must admit. Jane the Younger is not even a year. She has a nanny and milk and nappies and whatever else babies need. You are the best equipped to care for it.”

She turned again, her eyes suddenly bright. “I am the least equipped to care for anything. You know Jane. She’s a monster.”

“She isn’t a monster,” I chided. “She’s high-spirited.” I tried not to remember how many times she had attempted to wrench the earrings from my lobes.

“She is incorrigible. Do you know she opens her night bottle and pours the milk into her bed every night? And when Nanny warns her not to, she laughs.”

“She is ten months old! She doesn’t know what she’s doing. It’s a game to her,” I protested.

“It’s making Nanny cross. Very cross,” she said meaningfully. “She might leave us. I can’t bear to think what might happen if she did. I would go mad.”

“You would not. I don’t want to be stern with you, but you’re being very silly, Portia. Other women raise babies all the time, and they’re quite normal.”

“Other women were brought up to do it,” she pointed out acidly. “We were brought up to be decorative and stylishly eccentric. Not useful.”

She did have me there. She carried on, her voice fretful. “I mean it, Julia. I am only keeping Nanny by a carefully constructed series of bribes and concessions. If I thrust an extra child at her, she will leave us.”

I thought for a second. “The maids are all young and unspeakably stupid, but Morag might do.”

“What does your lady’s maid know about babies?”

I shrugged. “She was one of seven. She must have learnt something.”

“There were ten of us, and you and I know precisely nothing,” she said darkly.

“Do not remind me.”

Chapter Three

Young in limbs, in judgment old.

—The Merchant of Venice, II, vii, 71

It took a long while to smooth Nanny’s ruffled feathers, but the promise of a girl from the village, as soon as a suitable one could be found, went a long way to calming her—as did Portia’s promise of an extra ten pounds.

“That’s extortionate,” I whispered to Portia as Nanny bore off the infant to inspect it.

“You don’t know nannies,” she returned fiercely.

Nanny pronounced the child fit and healthy—and a boy. “Born this last week, I would say. His little knot of cord has not yet fallen.”

She wanted to show us, but I pleaded the Revels and scurried away, pausing only to inform Morag that she was wanted in the nursery.

“What bloody for?” she demanded.

I shrugged, and before she could argue further, made my escape. Brisbane was waiting in the stable court while Father yelled at his grandchildren—all costumed as small trees. I handed Brisbane his helm of St. George.

“One helm, good as new, and minus the baby,” I informed him. “What have you discovered?”

“That your father missed his calling,” he said solemnly. “He has organised eleven grandchildren into an orderly shrubbery. They’ll make a lovely backdrop for my death and resurrection.”

I nudged him. “I meant about the child. A boy, by the way. Born within the week, according to Nanny.”

Brisbane shrugged. “Nothing. No one saw a thing, no one heard a thing. No strangers about, no reports of recent births in the village. No footprints to follow, no note within the child’s blanket. I am to make enquiries after my scene is finished.” He rolled his eyes skyward, but I smiled.

“Even God Almighty could not distract Father from his Revels. Surely you don’t expect a foundling to manage it?”

Brisbane returned the smile, but I knew he was itching to be away. After we had finished an afternoon’s rehearsals, the entire family repaired to the great hall for an early buffet supper. Brisbane elected to go into the village to make enquiries while I decided to question my family. They had all been present during the discovery, and while they were undoubtedly distracted by the Revels, someone might very well have seen something that could prove significant.

I made my way to the great hall. In the early days, when Bellmont Abbey had been a proper Cistercian establishment, the brothers had used this enormous chamber as the Chapel of the Nine Altars. After the Dissolution, when Henry VIII had given the property to our family, little was done to change it. The original stone was still in evidence, the walls pierced here and there with the nine bays that once held the altars. Now they were furnished as conversation areas, with wide Turkey carpets and hideously uncomfortable sofas and armchairs. It was a cold room at the best of times, although summer sun pouring through the vast tracery windows rendered it beautiful.

But now, after dark and in the depths of winter, it was frigid and forbidding, and I took a cup of tea, grateful for its warmth. I took no food at first, preferring instead to mingle and do a bit of useful eavesdropping. The family had, not unusually, arranged itself into smaller groups. Three siblings, Viscount Bellmont and our sisters Olivia and Nerissa, sat with their spouses a short and disapproving distance from Father, who was comfortably sat directly next to the fire. Their disapproval was not directed at Father but at his companion, Hortense de Bellefleur. She was a Frenchwoman of scandalous repute and charming temper. I counted her a friend of great value, and she had invited me to call her Fleur. Besides her liaison with my father, she had very early in his career tutored my own husband in the arts of love. By my reckoning, it made us practically family. Her affair with Brisbane had cooled twenty years before to a much more filial relationship—no doubt aided by the fact that she was two decades his senior.

“Julia,” she told me once, “a wise courtesan knows when to stop romancing young men and restrict herself to gentlemen so much her senior, she can feel youthful again.”

She had taken her own advice, and compared to Father, she was an absolute rosebud. But in spite of the happiness she brought him, a few of my siblings did not appreciate her inclusion into a family party, and had banished their children to the schoolroom for supper with the maids rather than bring them within Fleur’s orbit. It was a silly bit of snobbery. The girls would have learnt far more about life from a close association with Fleur, and no doubt the boys would have, as well.

I passed Bellmont just as he was holding forth on the subject, sotto voce. “Naturally, I am glad my children have remained in London with their mother. Adelaide is busy with wedding preparations for our eldest, and I cannot think it would benefit any of them to associate with so notorious a creature.”

I snorted as I passed, a clear reference to Bellmont of his own peccadilloes. He flushed an angry red and motioned to a passing footman to fill his glass of wine again. I flashed him a brilliant smile and walked on. From quick conversation with my brother Benedick, I learnt that nothing had been amiss at the Home Farm. It was attached to the estate, and his responsibility as second son of the family. But he gave a nod to a little niche where one of the nine altars had once stood. Seated there, eating placidly from plates on their knees, were Benedick’s children, Tarquin and Perdita, and a third child I didn’t know.

“You want to know what goes on around here, ask that pair,” he instructed. “They’re like mongooses. Not a thing happens in Blessingstoke, on the farm or in the Abbey they don’t know it.”

He winked and turned away. I made my way to the little alcove, where I discovered the children eating an entire platter of fruit tarts they had liberated from the buffet table.

“Hello, Aunt Julia,” Tarquin said through a mouthful of crumbs. “You won’t tell about the tarts, will you? Only we’ve taken the last plate.”

“Clever you,” I said, helping myself to one. “They’re Cook’s best.”

“And we mayn’t get any more for a while,” Tarquin said darkly. “She’s gone down with an ague, and the undercook will be preparing meals until she’s well again.”

“That’s a pity,” I said. I turned to the third child, a portly little boy with a serious expression and a thatch of dark hair.

“I don’t know you.”

He brushed the crumbs from his hand and took mine with a courtly little bow. “Quentin Harkness, your ladyship.”

“What brings you to the Abbey, Master Harkness?”

He swallowed his tart and answered promptly. “Mr. Brisbane.”

I lifted my brows. “My husband? Really? Why is that?”

His dark eyes shone with admiration. “I want to be just like him. I’ve read about him in the newspaper, you see. And I think being a private enquiry agent would be brilliant.”

I smiled. “It has its moments. But it isn’t all glamour, you know. You’ll notice everyone else is enjoying their supper whilst he’s out trying to find out who left a baby in the stable.”

“I know,” Perdita said suddenly.

I stared at her. “What do you mean, child?”

She smoothed her skirts over her knees. “I mean I think I know. That’s almost the same thing.”

Quentin laughed, dropping crumbs to his lap, and Tarquin fixed his sister with a pitying glance through his spectacles. “Really, Perdie, it isn’t the same thing at all. You oughtn’t to speak unless you know. That’s how people get sued for libel.”

“No, it isn’t,” Quentin corrected. “It’s how one is sued for slander. Libel is what you write about someone in the newspaper. My father’s a barrister,” he told me by way of explanation.

There was something entirely unreal about having such a serious conversation with the solemn little trio, but I ought to have expected it. Benedick’s children were highly intelligent and highly original.

“You have a good imagination, Perdita,” I observed. I meant it as a compliment, but she did not return my smile.

“It isn’t imagination if it isn’t made up,” she told me.

“Who do you think left the baby?” I asked her. But she merely shook her head. I shot a look at the boys. I could have throttled them. They had dampened her enthusiasm for the story, and she would say no more. I made a note to get her alone later for a private tête-à-tête. I doubted she knew anything of significance, but it would not hurt to ask.

“Personally,” Tarquin said slowly, “I believe it was one of Aunt Hermia’s reformed prostitutes.”

I choked on my tea, and it was some minutes before I could speak.

I tipped my head. “I’m not entirely certain you children are supposed to know about that.” My father’s sister had established a home for reformed prostitutes in Whitechapel, a place to help them put away their gin and bad language and learn to be seamstresses and maids. She frequently bullied her family and friends into taking them on when they had completed their training, and my own Morag was a product of the place. It was never discussed in front of the children, but I was not surprised to find they knew of it, and Tarquin gave me a pitying look.

“Of course we know. We know masses of things.”

“I’ll wager you do,” I assured him.

Quentin spoke up then. “But they ought not to be wasting Mr. Brisbane’s time with babies,” he said, curling his lip. “Not when there’s a proper ghost in the village.”

“It isn’t a ghost,” Tarquin contradicted. “It’s a witch.”

“’Tisn’t,” Quentin argued, shooting me an abashed look. It was bad manners to argue with his host, but I could see that his passion for accuracy warred with his upbringing.

“What’s this about a witch?” I asked them.

They both perked up, and Perdita withdrew a little, as if accustomed to giving way to her brother. But of course, she would have to, I realised with a pang. Tarquin was her elder and a boy. Everything in civilised society had taught her that her opinions were not as important as his, her skills not as valued. I felt a rush of affection for her, but just then I saw her small, clever hand reach out and deftly slip the last jam tartlet off his plate and into her mouth. Perdita would be just fine.

I turned my attention to the boys, who were vying politely for the right to tell the story.

“There’s a cottage by the river, beyond the vicarage. It’s called Stone Cottage. Do you know it?” Tarquin asked.

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