that he assisted Brisbane in his inquiries. I could easily imagine him proving quite resourceful in an investigation.
He bowed very smartly from the neck.
“Do you enjoy being called a factotum?” I inquired, taking the cup he poured. Most bachelor gentlemen would have expected their lady guest to do the honours of pouring. It was a relief to be spared that. I was always rather clumsy around tea things and I fancied Brisbane thought me odd enough without my spilling the tea or dropping the saucers.
“I have suggested majordomo, but Mr. Brisbane finds it too grandiose for such a small establishment,” Monk explained in a gravelly Scots voice. “I am in fact his batman, my lady. Feather cake?”
“Ooh, yes, please. Batman, Mr. Brisbane? You were an officer in the army?”
Brisbane stirred his tea slowly. “I have been many things, my lady, none of which would interest you, I am sure.”
Monk coughed quietly. I had heard that cough often enough from Aquinas. It was the upper servant’s method of tactfully correcting his employer. But if Brisbane was aware of his rudeness or of Monk’s disapproval, he did not show it. In fact, if anything, he seemed vaguely amused.
“I shan’t need you further, Monk. Her ladyship and I can manage the rest.”
Monk bowed again and withdrew.
I faced Brisbane over the teapot. “Did you mean what you said? You will pursue this?”
Brisbane sipped at his tea. “I suppose. I have a few other matters that I must bring to conclusion, but nothing that cannot wait. And I have no other clients questioning either my integrity or my courage at present.”
I bit my lip. He was right to needle me. I had behaved wretchedly. Out of my own impatience and frustration I had offered him an insult that few men would have borne so calmly. I was only surprised that he had borne it at all, considering his bald threat of the previous year to have me horsewhipped for impugning his character.
“Yes, about that,” I began slowly. “I spoke in haste. I am truly sorry. I really did not mean it as an insult. I do find the whole matter puzzling in the extreme, and as you are in the business of conundrums …”
“You thought I would find yours irresistible?” he supplied.
Again, his voice was perfectly even, unshaded by even the slightest hint of an ulterior meaning. Why then did I feel he was amusing himself at my expense?
“I thought that it would present a unique problem for you to solve,” I corrected with as much dignity as I could muster in the face of his indolent stare.
He shrugged and placed his cup onto the table. “You will find that one problem is very like another, my lady. Only the personalities involved differ, and even then people are very much of a type. That is the greatest asset in my business, and the greatest bore.”
“You mean that people are largely predictable? I should think that a rather restful quality.”
His smile was small and enigmatic. “It is, and that is what makes it a bore. There is nothing in the world more dreadful than knowing exactly what someone else is going to do, even before he does.”
“You would very much like my family, then,” I put in with a laugh. “One never knows what a March is likely to do, not even another March.”
“So none of your family would have guessed that you came here today?” he asked slowly. He lowered his head, his eyes level with mine. There was something in those dark eyes that had not been there a moment before. Menace? Malice?
I forced a smile. “Of course they would. I told my sister Portia that I was coming here today. And my brother Valerius, who lives with me.”
He canted his head, considering me for a moment. Then he shook it slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I think you came alone. I think that no one knows the exact whereabouts of Lady Julia Grey.”
He moved very slightly forward in his chair and I felt my heart lurch. I learned something in that moment. Fear has a metallic taste, like blood sucked from a cut finger. I could taste it, flat on the back of my tongue as he moved closer toward me.
“My coachman,” I said suddenly. “He is circling the carriage. My footman is there as well. They both know where I am.”
Brisbane halted his movement, his eyes still intent upon my face. After a moment, he rose and went to the window. He flicked aside the curtain and I felt my toes curling up inside my boots as I prayed that Diggory was at the kerb.
Brisbane resumed his chair, his manner completely altered. “If you will forgive my remarking upon it, the first rule of investigation is discretion. Next time you call upon me, you should come in a hansom, or better yet, a hackney. Anyone who knows you will know that vehicle by the crest on its door. And your footman is a rather remarkable specimen as well. Some lady is bound to remember him.”
My heart slid back into its rightful place and I stared at him. “That was a joke, then? That menacing look? The vaguely threatening words?”
He waved a hand and helped himself to a biscuit. “I was curious. You had just maintained that the Marches were unpredictable. It was my professional estimation that you would have failed to take any precaution regarding your own safety in coming here today, or to make any attempt to conceal your identity. I was correct on both counts.”
“My safety! Why on earth should I take precautions on that score in coming here? You are my agent.”
Brisbane swallowed and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.
“No, I am not. I was your husband’s agent, and he is dead. I have not taken a farthing from you. And as for your safety, you have acted with the most appalling disregard for your own life because you failed to consider one thing, one thing that is staring you squarely in the face.”
“And what is that?” I demanded hotly. My temper was entirely frayed by now. I had had enough of his cryptic manner and ghoulish games.
He leaned forward, clamping both hands onto the arms of my chair. I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he loomed over me, and I knew if I spoke it would come out as a feeble squeak. His face was inches from mine, his voice harsh and low.
“Did you never once ask yourself, my lady, if I might have murdered your husband?”
THE NINTH CHAPTER
Break, break sad heart There is no medicine for my smart, No herb nor balm can cure my sorrow.
—Thomas Randolph
“Phyllis”
“You needn’t have kicked me so hard,” Brisbane said bitterly, rubbing at his shin. He had retreated to his own chair and was regarding me much as he might a rabid dog.
“I said I was sorry. Shall I ring for Monk? A wet towel, perhaps—”
“No, thank you,” he said, his tone still acid.
“I’m
