Silent In The Grave (23 page)

A moment later Hoots opened the door. The thing I remember most clearly from that moment are Portia’s eyes, dancing with amusement, and Father appearing just at that second, still straightening his necktie. He, too, was looking highly amused, and I wondered if that is how the gods of Olympus looked when they were meddling with people’s lives, for they were certainly meddling with mine.

There upon the doorstep stood Brisbane, beautifully dressed in evening clothes, and with him was an elderly gentleman I had never seen before. They were returning Hoots’ very civil greeting, and I took the opportunity to hiss at Portia. “What do you think you are doing?”

She smiled back, dazzlingly. “Stirring the pot, darling. But it isn’t my hand on the spoon. Father invited them. Mind you speak up, the Duke of Aberdour is rather deaf.”

Father had moved forward and was welcoming the pair of them. According to precedence, he presented us to the duke.

“You remember my daughter, Lady Bettiscombe, your Grace.” He motioned to Portia.

The duke murmured something, but his old eyes were sharp, noting Portia’s beauty, I had little doubt.

“Your Grace,” she said loudly, dropping an elegant curtsey as she dimpled up at him. “I am so pleased you could come.”

The duke patted her hand and seemed reluctant to let it go.

Portia stepped back and Father waved at me. “I don’t believe you know my youngest daughter, Lady Julia Grey.”

I made a proper curtsey, and his Grace reached for my hand, taking in an eyeful of my displayed bosom.

“Enchanting. Why have I never met you before?” he asked in an accent slightly blurred with Scottish vowels. He was as perfectly turned out as Brisbane, but with much better jewels. I nearly goggled at the size of the ruby in his cravat.

“I have been in mourning this past year for my husband, your Grace,” I said. He was still holding my hand, his eyes wandering over my décolletage in an openly appraisin manner. I should have been insulted by such treatment from anyone else, but from him it was merely amusing.

“You have my condolences, my dear, but your husband is more deserving of them. I cannot imagine what a loss he suffered at leaving you behind.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “You are too kind, your Grace.”

“Not at all. I simply like good-looking women.” He tucked my hand through his arm. “You will help me in to greet my hostess, won’t you? I do not need the help, but I will pretend to in order to keep you close to me.” He finished this with an exaggerated leer and I laughed. Father and Brisbane had greeted each other quietly as Hoots closed the door, and now they stood, watching my exchange with the duke.

“I would be honoured to escort you, your Grace, but I must warn you, your reputation precedes you. I shall be on my guard with you.”

He cackled and motioned toward Brisbane. “She is clever as well. I like this one. Say hello, boy. I believe you know the lady.”

Brisbane smiled thinly and did his duty. I would have thought it impossible for anyone to speak to him in such a fashion and emerge unscathed, but the duke apparently had the gift of charm. It was clear that Portia thought him adorable.

The duke turned back to me. “I do like you. I might make you an offer of marriage before the evening is over. What do you think of that? Would you like to be a duchess? I’m very rich, you know.”

“I do know it. But I am entirely unworthy to be your wife, I assure you, your Grace. Perhaps, if it is not too presumptuous of me, we could just be very good friends.”

“How good?” he asked, edging his elbow into my ribs.

“Not quite that good,” I replied, patting his arm. He roared with laughter and allowed me to introduce him to Aunt Ursula and Jane. He greeted them in a perfunctory fashion, dismissing one of them as plain and the other as older than Moses, no doubt. He clung to my arm and I led him into the drawing room, where Aunt Hermia had just arrived, breathless and patting her hair. I flashed Father a smile to let him know he was forgiven. He might have broadsided me by inviting Brisbane without my knowledge, but he had ensured my good will with his Grace. It was not every day that I received a proposal of marriage from a duke, even if he was more than eighty years old.

For her part, Aunt Hermia was delighted with her unexpected guests.

“Your Grace! How lovely that you could join us this evening,” she said. “It is only a family party, though, and I am certain you will be quite bored with our feeble entertainments.”

“Not at all, dear lady,” he said, bowing over her hand. “The reputation of the beauteous March women is as widespread as it is accurate. I shall simply admire the view. I believe you have met Nicholas?”

Brisbane stepped forward. “Lady Hermia. How good of you to include me.”

Aunt Hermia’s face was pink with pleasure. “Ah, we owe you much, Mr. Brisbane.” She turned to the duke. “My niece Julia’s husband passed away last year under most unfortunate circumstances. Mr. Brisbane was very helpful during that trying time. I am so pleased to see you under more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Brisbane, but I must insist on a forfeit for your supper,” she added waggishly.

“Oh, God,” I said, sotto voce, to Portia.

“A forfeit?” Brisbane smiled down at her. “I cannot think that I possess anything that would be worthy of your ladyship.”

“Heavens!” Portia whispered back. “Did he learn that from the darling old duke?”

“They must be relations,” Jane put in. “Charm like that runs in the blood.”

“Our evening is a musical one,” Aunt Hermia was explaining. “We each of us contribute something to the entertainment of the group. Do you play? Or sing, perhaps?”

The duke snorted, lifting his bushy white brows. Clearly he intended something by the gesture, but the moment was smoothed over by Aunt Ursula’s petulant inquiry about dinner. Aunt Hermia bustled forward, suddenly realizing that there were far too many ladies for the men to escort.

“Never mind!” cackled the duke, taking Aunt Hermia firmly by the arm. “We’ll be here until Michaelmas if you insist on precedence. Let the young people sort themselves out.”

To her credit, Aunt Hermia obeyed, leading the way to the dining room and leaving the rest of us to follow behind in a haphazard fashion. Blessedly, Aunt Hermia favored a round table and precedence there was not an issue. True, the round table created a bit more confusion, but it ensured general discussion, rather than lots of indistinct murmuring. It usually made for more spirited and interesting conversation and this night was no exception. In spite of the duke’s presence, Father and Aunt Hermia engaged in a heated debate about the use of Biblical images in Shakespeare’s sonnets. It ended with Aunt Hermia throwing walnuts at Father and the duke offering her marriage instead, claiming that spirit was as important a requirement in a wife as beauty.

“That’s what I keep telling the boy here,” he said, jerking a thumb at Brisbane. “He’s got no interest in marrying, he tells me, because he cannot find a woman who interests him for more than a fortnight. He’s got a twisty mind, that one, and he wants a woman that’s got the same.”

Brisbane sipped thoughtfully at his wine. “All women have twisty minds, sir, or so you told me.”

Aberdour laughed his dry, creaky laugh. “That I did, boy, that I did. This one gets it from his grandmother,” he said, pointing a knobbly old finger. “She was just the same, always turning a word back on you, bending an argument to suit her end. She was a wily bitch. I was glad to see the last of her.”

Jane gasped, which did not surprise me. I have often found that the most outspoken liberals are secretly the most conservative in small matters. For all her open thinking, Jane was deeply shocked at the duke’s plain speaking. Father simply went on cracking nuts, Brisbane kept deliberately at his wine, and Aunt Hermia looked up curiously.

“His grandmother? Is there a family connection, your Grace?”

“My sister,” he said, his lips thin. “She ran off with a footman when she was fifteen. She died in childbed eight months later. We had the raising of her son, and did a dog’s job of it. He no sooner grew up than he—”

Brisbane coughed sharply and some understanding passed between them, for the duke simply muttered, “Then he bred this one and died on us.” I fancied that was not how he intended to finish that sentence, but it must have appeased Brisbane. He had tensed at the mention of his father, but now he uncoiled slightly.

Aunt Hermia cocked her head. Anyone who did not know her might mistake the shine in her eyes for sympathy, but I saw it for what it was—rampant curiosity.

“That accounts for the different surname,” she said, “but I do not remember hearing of your father, Mr. Brisbane. Surely he is not in Debrett’s.” This was simply a conversational gambit. The Shakespearean society’s quarterly journal was the only publication she perused for names. In itself, her line of inquiry was only mildly intrusive. But I had felt Brisbane tense again next to me, and I knew he did not like it.

I rose, dropping my napkin. “I think the champagne would best be served in the music room—after the entertainments. Forgive me, Auntie. I am simply too eager to hear Jane’s harp.”

I smiled innocently to the table at large as I collected my napkin.

As I had expected, Aunt Hermia pricked up like a pointer.

“Jane! Have you a new piece? Splendid! Nothing I love quite so well as a moody Irish harp. To the music room!”

Aunt Hermia never permitted cigars and port on her musical evenings on the grounds that they thickened the voice. There was a general flutter of movement as people rose, gathering wraps and stretching discreetly. Father whistled for the mastiff, Crab, who had been lying quietly under the table, snuffling for crumbs during dinner. Amid the chaos, Brisbane leaned near.

“It seems I shall be obliged to sing for my supper,” he murmured, his lips disconcertingly close to my ear. “What would you like to hear?”

“Bach,” I said without hesitation. I had the irrational notion that he was thanking me somehow for deflecting Aunt Hermia’s impertinent questions.

“A little old-fashioned, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “I don’t care. I have loved Bach since childhood.” I did not tell him my first clear memory of Bach was from my mother’s funeral. I was six years old, too young for the church, Father had said. I had been left in the nursery with Nanny and Val, that awful, screaming baby who came when Mother died. It had been quite an easy thing to slip out when Nanny’s back was turned. She had left me to go and quiet the baby, something she was doing far too much of, I thought. I followed the mourners, hiding outside in the churchyard, listening to the music that flowed out of the open windows. It was a warm day, with late roses giving off a thick perfume and bees buzzing drowsily near my face as I listened to the choirboys singing “When Thou Art Near.” It seemed as if angels were singing her to sleep, I thought sleepily, and I promptly curled up behind a gravestone and took a nap. Father found me there some time after Mother’s burial. I woke when he pulled me onto his lap and we sat together for a very long time. He stroked my hair and rocked me and I listened to the ticking of his watch through the wool of his coat. Or perhaps it was his heartbeat—I never knew. I only knew that this was a very special moment, and that Mother had left me, but Father was still there and that although Nanny and everyone else seemed to like that awful, screaming baby, Father still loved me, probably much more. The choirboys sang again, practicing for evensong, and Father began to talk to me, about Mother and about music, and all manner of things that I did not pay attention to. But I remembered the feeling, and from that day I always associated Bach with consolation and comfort.

Brisbane had not answered. I lifted my chin a little and arched a brow for effect.

“Bach it shall be,” he promised.

I was pleased, but a little surprised. “Can you sing?”

He smiled, that tricky smile he had that touched his lips, but not his eyes.

“I can, but never in public. I mean to play for you. I assume there’s a violin?”

“A rather good one. Made in Cremona.”

“Excellent,” he said, turning his attention suddenly to Jane. For no good reason I felt cast aside, and in favor of a woman who wore doughy beads and curtain fabrics, I thought irritably. I turned and left them, trailing into the music room on my own, a little dispirited. What difference did it make to me if Brisbane found Jane interesting? She was a delightful person, and an amusing conversationalist. At least, that is what I told myself, but I still felt nettled by the notion of Brisbane chatting with Jane, and that little annoyance disturbed me greatly.

And worse, Val had not deigned to make an appearance.

“Oh, no, dearest, he had a previous engagement,” Aunt Hermia answered in reply to my question. “The opera, I believe. With that Phillips boy. The one who always looks as though he’s picked one’s pocket.”

A succinct and perfect description of Reddy, I thought as I took my seat. I would have to wait up for Val, no matter how late, and collar him with what I had found in the laundry—and with his choice of companions. Reddy Phillips was quite enough of a nuisance without encouragement. I had not told Val that Reddy had accosted me in the street demanding the return of his raven, but I hoped fervently that they would settle the matter between them. The wretched bird was beginning to take a toll on my nerves.