Chapter 11 #2
“There were jasmines, of course, and tuberose, filling the air with such strong perfume that the ladies wore no scent because they knew they could never compete. There was a formal parterre, which was completely cleared and replanted several times each year so the garden would always be perfect. In the center of the parterre was a fountain of gold, fed by a stream that ran through the garden which the servants called the Stream of Paradise. At one end there was a throne where the prince could sit and watch his ladies enjoy the pleasures of the garden, and above the throne was carved the words, ‘If there be paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this…’ And along each side ran colonnades, the columns so thick with bougainvillea and jasmine that you could not see the marble for the flowers. It was truly an enchanted place.”
“How did you come to see it?” Portia ground out her little cigar in a china dish and waved her hand to clear the air. I stared at the slender stub and realised suddenly where I had seen that particular variety of cigar before. Reluctantly, I turned my attention to Emma.
“The prince loved to entertain. He often gave dinners for the regiments and the English diplomats. He always toasted the queen and insisted his children be brought out to mingle with the guests. It was important to him that they learn English. He believed the future of India lay with England, and he wanted his children to be forward-thinking.” She hesitated, ever the consummate storyteller, the pause heightening our interest. “And yet, even as we ate his food and listened to his talk of progress and the modern age, I always thought of the ladies, locked behind marble walls until the moon rose and they were freed, like enchanted princesses under the spell of an evil queen. I liked to imagine them dancing to their strange, sad, quavering music, dancing through the columns and the fountains and the parterres, and out of the gates, leaving him behind forever.”
“Would they do such a thing?” Charlotte asked.
Emma gave her a sad smile.
“No. For much the same reason that Julia’s pet raven does not leave her, although his cage is seldom closed. Sometimes captivity is a comfortable place.”
I would have liked to have heard more—if nothing else the condition of women in the East was an excellent subject for brisk debate—but the gentlemen joined us then, and an exuberant discussion broke out over how we should amuse ourselves.
I listened as the others bantered, edging around the group to Portia’s chair.
I leaned close enough to brush her ear with my lips.
“Tell me, dearest, how long have you been smoking Brisbane’s cigars?”
Portia waved a lazy hand. “He sent a box of them after the last time he dined with us. I had invited him to smoke after dinner and admired the scent of them.” She slanted me a wicked look. “I thought you were not jealous.”
“I am not. I was simply going to offer you a pastille to sweeten your breath. I’m sure it smells vile after that cigar.”
She laughed then and gave me a little push.
I looked up to find Alessandro watching us, his dark eyes unusually brilliant.
I gave him a small smile and he returned it warmly, suggestively even.
I dropped my eyes then and we turned our attention back to the question of amusement.
Charades was suggested and mercifully rejected.
Someone else put forth the idea of word games; another made an argument for a theatrical, and Aunt Dorcas suggested a séance.
Mrs. King blanched visibly and the proposal was quickly abandoned.
Finally, the notion of sardines was bandied about, and found to be agreeable to everyone.
After another lengthy discussion concerning rules and procedures, it was established we should each play alone, and that the upper floors would be considered out of bounds for fair play, as well as the servants’ accommodations and offices so as not to disturb the staff.
Aunt Dorcas insisted upon remaining in the lesser drawing room beside the fire, and Hortense nobly offered to sit with her and keep her company.
To my surprise, Violante joined our merry group, her olive cheeks flushed with hectic colour.
Aquinas was summoned to supply each guest with a candlestick and lit taper. As Father had never bothered to install gaslights or proper heating on the main floor, it would be dark and chilly hunting one another.
Amid much laughter, we drew lots to see who would hide, and Charlotte King was the chosen one.
She clutched her candlestick nervously, perhaps a bit timid at having to brave the darkened Abbey alone to hide.
She hesitated at the door, looking tremulously back at the group of us, but someone—it might have been Portia—called a little word of encouragement and she seemed to take heart.
She slipped out, and the rest of us joined in a circle and began to count.
When we reached one hundred, we broke apart and took up our candlesticks.
I heard Lucy’s high laugh, and Sir Cedric’s answering chortle.
It occurred to me then that although we had agreed to hunt alone, the game was a perfect opportunity for the betrothed couple to steal a few kisses. The thought was not an appetizing one.
As soon as we left the drawing room, the group scattered like startled birds, some flocking down the side of the cloister toward the library, others taking the opposite tack and exploring the approach from the nave that led to the great drawing room.
I decided to take a more thorough approach.
There were few better hiding places than the shadows behind Maurice the bear.
I slid into the space behind him, holding my candle aloft, careful not to singe his shabby fur.
I had just decided that Charlotte must have chosen another place for her concealment when a hand clamped down upon my bare shoulder.
I gasped and turned on my heel, but before I could speak, the hand moved to my waist, drawing me hard against a masculine form and bold lips searched out my own.
With a bit of effort, albeit belated, I pushed with my free hand against the hard, muscular chest under my fingertips.
“Alessandro, really!” I licked my lips. He had tasted warmly of brandy.
He drew back, breathing heavily, a single lock of dark, silky hair spilling over his brow.
He kept one arm locked about my waist, his other holding his candle high.
The shadows threw his face into the sharpest chiaroscuro, and for a moment he seemed a stranger to me, harder, more forceful. Then he spoke, and the illusion faded.
“Il mio Giulia caro, I can hold my tongue no longer. My heart, it is so very full.”
“Oh, dear,” I murmured.
“Please,” he said urgently, “I must speak. For months I have known you as the sister of my very dear friends. I have honoured you as the greatest lady of my acquaintance. But now I must tell you that I wish you to return to Italy. With me.”
I blinked at him and pushed at his arm so that I could breathe.
“But Alessandro, there is every possibility I shall return to Italy. Plum and I spoke of that the night we invited you to come to England. Do you not remember?”
He shook his head, his glossy hair gleaming in the candlelight. “No. Just this evening, Lysander tells me Violante is expecting a child.”
“Is she! How wonderful for them. I suppose that explains the pickled walnuts,” I mused.
“Yes, and I am happy for my friend. But he wants the baby to be born here. And wherever Lysander goes, there goes Plum as well. I know you will not return to Italy alone.” He grasped my hand in his. “So come with me.”
I swallowed hard. “Alessandro, my dear boy…” I began.
He raised a hand to silence me. “No, say nothing now. Now you will refuse me. I can see this. You must think on it.” He pressed his lips to my fingers ardently, then disappeared as quickly as he had come.
I counted to twenty, waiting until I was certain he had gone.
I slid out from behind Maurice, giving the old dear a pat as I did so.
I wondered how many other such scenes he had witnessed.
I had not gone four steps when I collided heavily with another figure, bouncing ever so slightly off a solidly muscular form. The other player’s candle was held just at my line of sight, dazzling my eyes.
“I do hope I didn’t interrupt your interlude with Count Fornacci,” Brisbane said nastily.
“Lower your candle, you’ve half-blinded me.”
He placed it on a table, and I could just make out his face, inscrutable in its fitful light. There were times I understood him better than most, I liked to think. Other occasions, I found him as difficult to comprehend as ancient Greek.
“If you mean Alessandro, I can only say you are being absurd. He is a boy.”
Brisbane arched a brow at me. “You are ungenerous. I would have called him a man fully grown.”
I tapped the toe of my slipper on the carpet. “I will not quarrel with you, Brisbane. Besides, we are meant to be playing sardines, and I have not yet begun to hunt properly.”
“Do not bother with the dining room. I have already been there.”
“How kind of you to share your intelligence with me. Now, if you do not mind—”
Brisbane turned, maneuvering me down the hall toward the nave. “I thought we should try the billiard room.”
“We are not supposed to work together,” I reminded him.
He ignored me, and it occurred to me then that he had some ulterior purpose in seeking me out.
For an instant, I thought of Alessandro’s declaration and wondered if Brisbane had something similar in mind.
Immediately, I rejected the notion and cursed myself for a fool.
He was betrothed to Charlotte King, and although I was certain the engagement would come to nothing, he insisted upon maintaining the fiction of their relationship.
No, Brisbane wanted me with him for some other reason, but I could not yet work out what it might be.
Grumbling, I allowed him to lead me to the billiard room.
We searched the shadows, and I found it curious how the near-darkness heightened my senses.
I could hear my pearls click softly in the silence and the hushed rustle of my taffeta petticoats.
I was conscious too of Brisbane, never more than a few feet from me.
I caught the scent of him, his shaving lotion—something herbal, with a hint of spice, and something else, something indefinable but essentially Brisbane.
It was a distinctive scent, and had I been blindfolded and asked to choose him out of a thousand men, I should have done so without hesitation.
I shook myself from my fancies and moved away to look behind the heavy draperies at the window, but Brisbane followed me. He was casual about it, lazy as a panther stalking a deer, but just as effective.
“There is no one here,” I said finally. “I mean to try Father’s study.”
“A fair idea,” he said smoothly, opening the door for me. He had taken it as understood I would not question his accompanying me again, and it is a credit to how well he knew me that I did not. He could be silent as a tomb when he chose, and nothing would pry him open.
I preceded him to the study, and after a lengthy conversation with Grim, we searched it, turning up nothing.
My gaze lingered on the box where Father kept the newspapers, the ones that told of the vicious riot in Trafalgar Square.
Questions trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I did not ask them.
We were at last forced to admit defeat and moved on, closing the door softly behind us.
A few shadows flickered in the nave, a few glimmers of light glowed from under closed doors, but there was no one about. I had just begun to wonder if we were entirely alone in this part of the Abbey when the silence was shattered by a broken scream.
It faltered, then started again, over and over, until I thought I should run mad from it.
“The chapel,” Brisbane muttered. He grabbed my hand, crushing it in his, and began to run. I dropped my candle along the way, glancing back only once to make certain the flame had not sparked the carpet.
I dropped the candlestick and pressed my free hand to where a pain stabbed my side. “Brisbane, I am tightly laced. I cannot run so quickly.”
If he heard me, he did not care. He did not slow his pace until we reached the great oaken doors of the chapel.
One was closed; one stood open a scant few inches.
Light spilled across the carpet of the hall, and yet I was as reluctant to enter the chapel as I would have been to cross the very threshold of hell.
The screams had stopped, and there was only a tense, expectant silence as Brisbane pushed open the door and we stepped inside. The scene before us was like something out of a nightmare.
Lucian Snow was lying on the cold stone floor just in front of the altar, his neck twisted so that he faced us, his eyes wide open and staring.
And above him stood Lucy, clutching an iron candelabrum that dripped slow, heavy drops of crimson blood onto the floor.