Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn
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urge to giggle. With a great effort, I suppressed it. “My mother died when I was a child. I have nine brothers and sisters. Father is in town just now, at March House in Hanover Square. He lives with Aunt Hermia.”
“Indeed. Do any of the other members of your family live with them?”
“None. Most of them live in the country. My eldest brother, Viscount Bellmont, has his residence in London. So does my sister Portia, Lady Bettiscombe.”
“Did Lord Bellmont get on well with Sir Edward? Were there problems between them?”
“Only about politics. Monty is a Tory. Edward was apathetic. Used to call each other names. It meant nothing.”
“What of Lady Bettiscombe? Did she get on well with Sir Edward?”
“Well enough. Portia does not like many men. She lives with her lover, Jane.”
There was a long pause, but Brisbane made no comment.
“And who else lives in London?”
“Valerius, my youngest brother. Lives with me.”
Even through the lassitude, I could feel him prickle with interest.
“Tell me about Valerius.”
“Wants to be a doctor. Fought terribly with Father over it. That’s why he lives with me. He came after Edward died, with the Ghoul.”
“The what?”
I explained, in great detail, about the Ghoul, little of which seemed to interest Brisbane.
“Who else lives at Grey House?”
“Simon. Very ill, poor darling. Been bedridden for a year. Inherited nothing but the title and the old house in Sussex. It’s almost a ruin, you know. Owls are nesting in the picture gallery.”
“Did Simon get on well with Sir Edward?”
“Like brothers,” I said dreamily. “But everyone liked Edward. He was charming and so handsome.”
“What of your household, the staff? Who lives in at Grey House?”
I sighed, feeling far too tired to give him the particulars. He peered at me closely, then rose and took a handful of dried leaves, this time from a mother-of-pearl box, and threw them onto the fire. They burned orange, with a clean, spicy smell, and after a moment I began to feel a bit livelier.
“Your staff,” he prodded gently.
“Aquinas is the butler. You know him.”
Brisbane nodded, writing swiftly. “Go on.”
“Cook. Diggory, the coachman, Morag, my maid. Whittle does the gardening, but he is employed by Father. Desmond and Henry are the footmen. Magda, the laundress. And there are maids. Cannot keep it sorted out which is which,” I finished thickly.
“Have they been with you long?”
“Aquinas since always. Cook four years. Morag came just before Edward died, maybe six months. She was a prostitute. She was reformed at my aunt Hermia’s refuge and trained for service. The others at March House quite some time. Renard.”
Brisbane wrote furiously, then stopped. “Renard?”
“Edward’s valet. French. Sly. Hate him. Stayed on to help with Simon.”
This, too, went into the notebook. “Anyone else?”
I shook my head, feeling it throb ominously as I did so. There was a pain beginning behind my eyes and I was thirstier than ever.
“What of Sir Edward’s friends? Enemies?”
“No enemies. Everyone a friend, none of them close. Edward was private. God, my head.”
He rose again and opened the window a little. Cold, crisp air rushed into the room, clearing out the thick pungent smells from the fire. He left the room and returned a moment later with a wet cloth folded into a pad.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Put it on your brow. You will feel better in a minute.”
I did as he said, listening to the light scratching of his pencil as he finished writing his observations into his little notebook. Within minutes the lassitude had lifted and the pain had begun to abate. I sat up, swinging my feet to the floor, and watched as the ceiling seemed to change places with it.
“Easy, my lady,” he said, pushing me firmly back against the cushion. “You will be quite well in a minute, but you cannot move too quickly.”
I lay still, feeling the giddiness recede slowly. When I thought it might be safe, I raised myself by degrees. Brisbane was sipping a fresh cup of tea and had poured one out for me. There was no sign of the notebook.
“What did you do to me?” I demanded, peeling the compress from my brow. I did not want the thing against my skin. God only knew what was in it.
“Drink your tea, my lady. You will feel yourself in a moment.”
“How do I know it hasn’t been tampered with? For all I know you have laced it with opium,” I said indignantly.
He sighed, took up my cup from the saucer and drank deeply from it. “There. It is quite safe, I assure you.”
My expression must have betrayed my doubt, for he handed me his nearly full cup. “Take mine, then. Besides, if I were going to lace anything with opium, it would not be tea.”
I sipped cautiously at his tea, but it tasted fine. “Why not?”
“Tea is a natural antidote to opium. You would probably vomit it up before it did any real harm.”
“Mr. Brisbane, I deplore your manners. Such conversation is not fit for a lady.”
He regarded me with something like real interest. “That is quite a little war you have going on in there,” he said with a flick of his finger toward my brow.
“What do you mean?”
“You are such a strange mixture of forthrightness and proper breeding. It must always be a battle for you, knowing what you want to say and feeling that you mustn’t.”
I shrugged. “Such is the lot of women, Mr. Brisbane.”
He gave a short laugh. “Not by half. Most women of my acquaintance would never think of the things you do. Much less dare to say them.”
“I do not!” I protested. “If you only knew how much effort I take not to say the things I think—”
“I know. That is why I took the liberty of conducting my little experiment. It worked rather better than I had anticipated.”
I set the cup down with a crack. “You admit you deliberately gave me something—some sort of truthfulness potion—to get information?”
“Truthfulness potion? Really, my lady, your penchant for sensational novels is deplorable. There is no such thing as a truthfulness potion. Herbs, my lady. That is all. I threw a certain compound of dried herbs onto the fire. They produce a feeling of calmness and well-being, euphoria sometimes, lassitude most often. The result is one of almost perfect truthfulness, not because of some magic power, but because the subject is too relaxed to lie.”
I stared at him, clenching my hands into fists against my lap. “That is appalling. No, it is worse than appalling. It is horrible, horrible.” I could not think of a word bad enough to call him.
“I did tell you I was going to conduct an experiment,” he reminded me.
“Yes, but this—this is far beyond what I expected.”
He smiled thinly. “Did you think I was going to swing my watch in front of your face and count backward? I could engage in hypnotism if you like. I have practiced it. Mesmerism, as well. But I have found that those methods frequently have more value as parlor tricks than