Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn
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“A Satire Against Mankind”
“Of course you did the right thing, darling. Nicholas Brisbane is the sort of man one takes to bed, and since, clearly, that is not the sort of thing you would do …” Portia’s voice trailed off, but her meaning was explicit. I was not daring enough; I lacked the dash and the spirit to bed a man I barely knew.
“You would not take him to bed, either,” I reminded her sulkily.
“Yes, but for a very different reason. Jane would never forgive me if I went back with men. And I did promise her to remain faithful. You, on the other hand, do not engage in the Sapphic pleasures, so you would be perfectly free to avail yourself of Mr. Brisbane’s considerable charms and expertise.”
I glanced around furtively. The footpaths in Hyde Park, when deserted, provide excellent opportunities for privileged conversation. But Portia’s voice was carrying, and I feared eavesdroppers.
She slapped at my arm lightly, then looped hers through mine. “I was right to call you a little mouse. There is no one about for miles.”
That much was true. I had arranged our meeting for eleven o’clock in the morning, long past the hour when fashionable society exercised itself on the horse paths. There were a few children about with their vigilant nursemaids, but they were far away, near the Serpentine. I could scarcely hear the shouts of the children at play.
“I still have not forgiven you for calling me that,” I reminded her.
“Duly noted, my pet. But I am your elder sister. It is my duty to abuse you when necessary.”
We shared a little smile and both of us knew she was forgiven. I could never stay angry with Portia for long. Particularly not when I needed her.
“What do you mean ‘expertise’?” I asked suddenly. She lifted her brows meaningfully.
“Dearest, you must come to one of my card parties. Caroline Pilkington is the most revolting gossip. As long as she is winning, she will tell you simply everything.”
I stared at Portia, remembering Caroline’s ample hips and fleshy arms. I could not picture them twined with Mr. Brisbane’s. He had seemed so urbane, so groomed and fastidious, that I could not credit him willingly engaged in any intimacy with a woman who was famous for changing her underlinen only once each month.
“Do you mean that Mr. Brisbane and Caro Pilkington—”
“Don’t be daft. Her sister Mariah, the pretty one, apparently had a very brief liaison with him. Her husband objected and Brisbane graciously withdrew. Apparently it was all quite gentlemanly. Horace approached him at the club, stated his case, Brisbane agreed, and they shared a cigar and a glass of brandy together. Brisbane broke it off that very evening. Mariah was bereft, according to Caro. She’s had scores of lovers and says he was quite something extraordinary. Apparently, he uses disguises sometimes in the course of his investigations. In his liaison with Mariah, he used them for discretion. He came to her once dressed as a chimney sweep. Quite invigorating, don’t you think?”
I felt flushed, in spite of the coolness of the morning. “That may well be, but it is considerably off the subject. I need advice.”
Portia stopped walking and turned to face me, her expression stern. “No, Julia, you need adventure. You need a lover, a holiday abroad. You need to cut your hair and swim naked in a river. You need to eat things you have never even seen before and speak languages you do not know. You need to kiss a man who makes you feel like your knees have turned to water and makes your heart feel as though it would spring from your chest.”
Her eyes were so earnest that I burst out laughing. “I think you have been at my romantic novels again.”
“And what if I have? You went from Father’s house to Edward’s, knowing nothing. You have spent the past five years married to a man who barely acknowledged your existence in his house and who certainly did not provide you with an exciting bedmate. You are free now, rich and healthy and quite handsome. Do something with yourself or you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
“I had thought of going to Italy,” I said hesitantly.
She snorted. “Italy. To point at the statues and buy out the shops? I am not talking about simply a holiday abroad. I am talking about seizing your life and truly living it before it is too late.”
She knew me too well. “I am not such a wallflower. I sent Mr. Brisbane off with a flea in his ear,” I defended.
“Nicholas Brisbane is an adventure unto himself, Julia. Far too dangerous for you to handle, I can assure you. You were quite right to send him away. If I were not so devoted to Jane, I should be quite intrigued by him myself. You know, absolutely no one knows where he comes from. It is a very great mystery.”
“I should think he comes from Mr. and Mrs. Brisbane, wherever and whoever they might be.”
“Don’t be so literal, dearest. Apparently, he is very great friends with the Duke of Aberdour. The old gentleman sponsored him into his clubs the season before last. But no one knows why. Does he have some hold over Aberdour? Is he the bastard son no one ever suspected? It is quite possible that he is a Scot, given his connection with Aberdour, although no one really knows. Welsh, perhaps? A Savoyard count with a dark past full of misdeeds? Is he a Bonaparte prince in disguise, biding his time until he can claim his throne? It is all quite thrilling, don’t you think?”
“It is not thrilling, it is disgraceful. Imagine anyone accusing the sweet old Duke of Aberdour of foisting his bastard on society. And as for being a Bonaparte prince, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
Portia snorted. “You have never met Aberdour. Sweet isn’t the word. And no, I do not really think Mr. Brisbane is a prince, but there is something quite intriguing about him, the tiniest bit uncivilized—like a lion in a zoo. I can well imagine him the descendant of bloodthirsty Corsicans. And he would look rather well in an emperor’s robes.”
“Why do you think him dangerous?”
“That business last year with Lord Northrup’s son.” She paused and I looked at her blankly. “Goodness, Julia, will you never learn to listen to gossip? It can be quite useful. Apparently, Northrup’s youngest son was cheating at cards. At first he won only modest amounts, nothing to raise too many suspicions. But then he began to be greedy. He started playing for much higher stakes, winning conspicuously. He ruined the Bishop of Winchester’s nephew. Someone, perhaps the bishop, engaged Mr. Brisbane to sort it out.”
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Brisbane managed to get himself invited into a game where Northrup’s son was playing. Young Northrup won, and Mr. Brisbane immediately charged him with cheating. The young scoundrel had no choice. He challenged Brisbane to a duel and the particulars were arranged.”
“A duel? That is illegal,” I put in. Portia rolled her eyes.
“Of course it is illegal. And highly dangerous. That is what makes it interesting, ninny. They met at dawn, with pistols. They paced off the proper distance, turned, and Brisbane fired first, clipping young Northrup’s curls just over his ear.”
“And then?”
“Are you quite all right? You look flushed. Are you overwarm?”
I felt a spasm of irritation. She could not see my complexion through my veil. She was simply trying to draw out the tale, larding the suspense. Although, now that she mentioned it, I did feel a trifle hot.
“I am fine, Portia. Get on with it.”
She shrugged. “Well, it was young Northrup’s turn to fire, but he thought to provoke a retraction from Brisbane instead. He pointed his pistol at him and told him that if Brisbane would withdraw the accusation, he would not fire. Julia, you are breathing quite fast. I am concerned for you.”
I took her firmly by the arm. “Finish the story.”
“Very