Chapter 14
THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
Who dares not stir by day must walk by night.
—King John
In spite of the evening’s events, I drifted off to sleep rather quickly.
I had thought the image of Lucian Snow’s shattered head would stay with me, but even that horror was not able to blunt the dullness of the volume of Plutarch I had taken to bed.
I fell asleep with it draped over my chest and woke some time later to find the candle guttered and the fire nearly burned down to ash.
It was chilly in my room despite the tapestries and thick carpets, and I rose to poke at the fire, wrapping myself in a coverlet from the bed.
Florence was slumbering away in her basket, only her nose poking out from the fur tippet.
I jabbed at the fire a bit and tossed a shovelful of coal onto the grate.
It caught, and I sat for some minutes, warming myself and thinking of Lucian Snow.
He had been an attractive and charming man and a confirmed flirt, that much was certain.
But what about him had driven Lucy to murder?
Had he flirted with her, then scorned her?
The notion was laughable. I had a suspicion Lucian Snow reserved his attentions for wealthy, unattached ladies of good family.
Lucy was betrothed, decidedly not wealthy, and though she was a March, the connection was a slender one.
Of course, he was younger and much more personable than Cedric, and there was always the possibility he might have seduced Lucy away from her bridegroom.
She was young and impulsive to the point of recklessness at times.
It would not be difficult for a persuasive and passionate man to open her eyes and awaken her sensuality, I mused.
But no, Lucian had seemed to have more of an eye to the main chance than that.
I thought of our conversations, his warm eyes and lingering fingers.
He had been laying the groundwork for a courtship, I was certain of it.
He had nocked his arrow toward something more profitable than an impoverished virgin.
But if he had no interest in Lucy, then what was her interest in him?
He was worldly and whimsical and no doubt irreligious, all qualities to be deplored in a curate, but who among us had not met a dozen such like him before?
Fortune was not always kind to second and third sons.
With no solid expectations, the church was often the only means of a comfortable living.
More than one churchman had been made of a dissolute rogue.
Clearly, this had been Lucian’s lot, but how did it touch Lucy?
Asking her directly was out of the question.
She was in a state, and I had no doubt it would take all of Father’s considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to abandon sanctuary and give herself over to the authorities.
I had little confidence she would stand up to their questions; I was not prepared to subject her to mine.
But I knew I would not sleep again without attempting to find some answers.
I rose from my seat by the fire and found my slippers and a heavy velvet dressing gown.
I relit my chamberstick from the fire and fixed it firmly into its holder.
Silently, I slipped from my room and made my way down the gallery of the dorter, across the landing, and down another corridor until I reached the turning I wanted.
I peeped around the corner, scanning the bachelors’ wing for any sign of activity.
Formerly the lay brothers’ dormitory, the bachelors’ wing was comprised of a broad corridor with windows overlooking the central cloister spanning the length on one side, and a chain of bedchambers on the other.
The wing ended at the door to the guest room in the Galilee Tower.
In that room a tiny spiral stair rose to the bell tower itself where the great bell rested in silence.
I thought of Lucy grasping the sanctuary ring with blood-slicked hands and shivered.
The bell ought to have rung for her, but it had remained silent, perhaps rusted mute after centuries of disuse.
Deliberately, I pushed aside such morbid thoughts and tugged my dressing gown about me more tightly as I moved into the bachelors’ wing.
The clock had just struck two, and all was perfectly still in that part of the Abbey. A faint moon, very nearly full, shed its pale silver light through the bank of graceful leaded windows. Hastily, I blew out the chamberstick. The moonlight was just enough illumination for my purpose.
Holding my breath, I crept along the corridor, careful to keep to the middle of the way where the stone floor was thickly carpeted.
The bars of dull silver moonlight gave just enough light to read the cards slotted by each door.
I squinted at the names. The Honourable Eglamour March, Plum, as he was known in the family.
He was sleeping in the Highland Room, a smallish bedroom, charmingly furnished with tartans and antlers.
The door was closed, and though I paused a moment I heard nothing.
Beyond lay the Maze Room—so named for its perfectly framed view of the Tudor maze in the garden—and Alessandro. All was silence there as well.
I moved on. Sir Cedric Eastley. Aquinas had put him in the Yellow Room, the best of the bachelor rooms with its primrose taffeta hangings and a pair of Gainsboroughs flanking the bed.
Strictly speaking, the room ought to have gone to Brisbane as the ranking bachelor, but Aunt Hermia had probably devised the sleeping arrangements before she left for London.
She never did manage to work out such details properly.
I had passed Sir Cedric’s door and had almost reached the Tower Room when I felt a rush of air against my face.
I opened my mouth to exclaim, but before I could do so, a strong hand clamped about my wrist and dragged me into the room.
The door was closed behind me and I was pushed up against it, the hand now firmly pressed over my mouth.
I shoved it away. “Brisbane,” I hissed, “what do you think you are about? If you wanted to speak to me—”
“Do shut up,” he whispered harshly. I shivered as his lips grazed the curves of my ear. “You are not the only person about.”
I pushed his hand aside and caught my breath. “Who?”
“I do not know yet. I was just about to find out when you came blundering along.”
“I do not blunder,” I began, but a single firm finger laid over my lips silenced me.
I was acutely conscious then of my state of relative undress, and his.
He was still wearing his evening trousers and a fine, heavy white linen shirt, but this last garment had been casually opened almost to the waist, and topping the ensemble was a long robe of handsome dark red silk, flung over his injured shoulder to dashing effect.
His hair was a trifle more unruly than usual, and the faint smell of sweet Spanish tobacco clung to the finger that still touched my lips.
His strong form pressed me to the door, and I began to be aware of a somewhat breathless sensation, quite like the one I had experienced during my trip to Florence upon first seeing Michelangelo’s excellent rendering of David.
I had spent rather a long time admiring the perfect symmetry of the statue’s musculature, the way the breadth of his shoulders and the arrogant stance of his legs had countered the elegance of his profile and the sleekness of his flanks.
It occurred to me, pressed as I was between Brisbane and the door, that Brisbane himself seemed to have almost precisely the same proportions as that exquisite work of art.
“Stop wriggling,” he growled, his breath warm on my neck.
I cannot recall precisely what happened next. I must have said or—rather more likely—done something which conveyed the direction of my thoughts, for the next thing I knew, he was kissing me with thoroughness and enthusiasm. It was highly gratifying.
I had just begun to apply myself to a response with complete abandon when a faint noise distracted me. It took some seconds to place the sound, and several more to get Brisbane’s attention. His focus was quite masterful. In the end, I was obliged to use rather forceful measures.
He swore and broke off, rather short of breath and rubbing his shin. “You kicked me! What the devil was that for? For the love of God, Julia, if you did not want me to kiss you, you should never have—”
I broke in swiftly, untwining my fingers from his hair. “I heard a noise, a door closing in the corridor.” It only occurred to me later I should not have interrupted him. It might have been highly useful to know what action on my part had prompted such an uninhibited response.
Brisbane’s eyes glittered in the feeble moonlight and he swore again, which I must admit rather pleased me.
I too was rather regretting the end of our interlude.
But the investigation must necessarily take precedence, and I primly removed his good hand from my person.
He stepped back, and I patted my garments into place, giving a little sigh of impatience.
“Brisbane, you have ripped my favourite nightdress.”
He showed not the slightest remorse. “I will buy you another,” he muttered, pushing me aside and kneeling to peer out the keyhole.