Bonfire Night. Deanna Raybourn

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      “You don’t believe it then?” Portia asked.

      Brisbane ignored her and cocked his head at me. “Do you?”

      I thought a moment. “No. Although I can’t imagine why. It seems plausible enough. But everything about the man was just slightly off somehow. Call it intuition, but I don’t believe him.”

      “Neither do I,” he said firmly.

      “You’re a damnably suspicious pair,” Plum said, helping himself to a rose water biscuit. “It is possible that some generous old fellow was sincerely grateful for your aid, Brisbane. You have rescued any number of perilous situations from disaster.”

      “Yes, but I am more often responsible for putting people in gaol than keeping them out of it,” Brisbane retorted.

      “Can you think of a case where you might have earned the gratitude of a lady?” Portia asked.

      “That’s the crux of it,” Brisbane responded thoughtfully. “It might be any case. It’s far too vague to indicate any particular investigation. Did I restore a family treasure? Return a cache of stolen love letters? Destroy a purloined photograph? And it might have been any time in the past twenty years. That’s rather a lot of ground to cover.”

      I narrowed my eyes at him. “How many women do you suppose are gadding about with good reason to feel indebted to you?”

      He assumed an expression of innocence. “Just in London or on the Continent, as well?”

      I tossed a cushion at him which he caught neatly and slipped behind his head. “No, there’s no way of knowing which case, which lady. It’s all too vague.”

      “Deliberately so,” I added.

      “Piffle,” Plum put in. “You’re just too cynical, the pair of you. You are looking a very generous gift horse in the mouth, if you ask me.”

      “In my experience,” Brisbane said seriously, “gift horses are usually the ones with the most dangerous bite.”

Chapter Two

      The next two days passed in the twin pursuits of anticipation and preparation as we readied ourselves to travel to Thorncross. Garments and books were flung into trunks with little regard for system; cases were packed and unpacked in white-lipped fury as it became clear that vital items had gone missing only to be unearthed in unlikely spots. I found my best evening slippers in the dumbwaiter while Morag ran Little Jack’s favourite stuffed rabbit to ground in the coal scuttle. He was brushed off and returned to his master, a little the worse for wear, but by that point I had lost all patience with domestic irregularity. Aquinas had left for a long-overdue holiday, and as a result, our pets were in an uproar, the baby shrieked his head off from morning to night from the appalling noises in the cellars, and my newest lady’s maid had quit without notice.

      “I have to go to my sister. In Middleham,” she said sulkily as she carried her bag down the stairs.

      “You are an only child,” I reminded her coldly. “And you are not from Yorkshire. You’re a Cockney.”

      She had the grace to look guilty. “I’ll not be talked around, my lady. This house is Bedlam, and make no mistake.” The front door banged behind her, and I turned to Brisbane.

      “It’s because we let Aquinas take a holiday,” I told him with dark certainty. “Butlers should never be given holidays because everything falls to pieces.”

      He put his hands on my shoulders. “Aquinas has not had a holiday in nearly a decade. He was due. Now, we shall be gone tomorrow, putting all of the noise and mess behind us. Morag has the charge of Little Jack. We will find you a new maid, and the country air will restore all of our tempers.”

      I slanted him a suspicious look. “I suppose. But I still don’t like it. Not after—” I broke off. We did not often speak of Brisbane’s ability, but his flashes of precognition were alarmingly accurate. He had wakened me in the middle of the night, thrashing in his sleep, murmuring of portents and danger, chasing after something that threatened his peace. I had touched his shoulder to waken him and the nightmare fled. It was the first nightmare I had known him to have during our marriage, and it left him pale and a little unwell, a migraine hovering on the edge of his consciousness. He wore his shaded spectacles, his only concession to the malady. He would not ask for his own sake, but I knew the trip to the country was important to him. For all his love of London and his insistence upon living in the city, he was still half a Gypsy; his blood cried out for open spaces and fresh air in a way that a city-born man’s would never do, I sometimes fancied.

      I put a hand to his cheek. “You’re quite right, of course. I must see about engaging another maid before we leave. Morag would never be able to manage on her own.”

      He smiled, a ghost of his usual grin, and I pressed a kiss to his cheek. As I pulled away, he touched my hand. “In light of...the dream last night,” he began, “I have asked Monk to look into the matter of Mr. Sanderson. Just a few general enquiries.”

      I blinked. “Won’t he have quite enough to do since you’re leaving the enquiry business in his hands whilst you’re away?”

      Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Things are rather quiet just at the moment. Nothing Monk can’t handle. And something about this bequest disturbs me.”

      “Well, it is unusual simply to hand a house over to a man,” I agreed. “What do you suspect?”

      “I don’t know,” he replied simply. “And that’s what vexes me. It is too murky at present. It seems straightforward enough, and it well may prove to be so. But in the meanwhile, Monk will burrow around and see if there’s anything our Mr. Sanderson has kept from us.”

      “An excellent notion. But if I’m to find a maid by tomorrow, I must make haste. Oh, and Cook said to tell you she has a special surprise for dinner tonight?”

      One black brow winged up. “Oh?”

      “Stewed bananas.”

      * * *

      In spite of everything, we managed to depart on schedule, trunks and cases and carpet-bags in tow, trailing the odd book and umbrella and lap robe behind.

      “For God’s sake, we look like a travelling circus,” hissed Plum as we emerged from the carriage at the station. A pack of porters descended, scooping up our detritus and following Brisbane’s tall form as he strode down the platform.

      “Hush,” I ordered through gritted teeth. “You’ll frighten the new maid.”

      Plum glanced around, past Portia giving instructions to her nanny and Morag as they stood clutching their screaming charges. Portia’s stout maid, Clement, followed carrying Mr. Pugglesworth, my sister’s decaying pug, and in her wake trotted a slim, pleasant girl of perhaps twenty-two who was called Liddell.

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