“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 ofDavid.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.
“You most certainly will not. Of all the wildly inappropriate—” I let my voice trail off as I glanced around the room. It was round, as all tower rooms should be, the narrow lancet windows fitted with stained glass depicting the March hares. The draperies and bedclothes were bottle-green velvet edged in gold, enhancing the medieval atmosphere. I was not surprised to see that Brisbane had already put his stamp upon the place. He did not so much stay in a room asinhabitit. A pair of boots stood upon the hearth and a stack of books teetered on the bedside table, each of them marked with a playing card to hold his place. A telescope perched on slender legs at one of the windows, a chart of the stars unfurled beside it. His discarded silk neckcloth was draped carelessly over his pillow, doubtless where he had tugged it off as he began to disrobe. I looked hastily away, noting the half-empty glass of whiskey and the nearly full decanter on a little inlaid table that stood beside the velvet armchair by the fire. There was a cushion squashed into the depths of the chair and his black greatcoat shrouded the back of it, a comfortable place to while away a cold winter’s evening with a good book. Toilet articles—combs, clothes brushes, and a wickedly sharp razor—were neatly arranged on the washstand, and I wondered how he managed his ablutions with his injury.
“Brisbane,” I whispered. “How do you shave yourself? You’ve only the one good arm. I should think it frightfully awkward to manage.”
“It did not seem to hamper me a moment ago,” he returned mildly.
Whether he was making reference to his abduction of me or to what followed, I could not say. Before I could speak, he had sprung to his feet and was easing the door open.
The corridor was empty.
I prodded Brisbane. “If you heard something, we must investigate.”
“I know that,” he said through clenched teeth. “Would you kindly remove your finger from between my ribs?”
I obliged him and we slid out into the corridor, moving swiftly as we dared. When we reached the end of the corridor, Brisbane flung out his arm, pressing me flat against the stone wall and knocking the breath out of me.
“Ooof,” I said, gasping a little. He shook his head, frowning at me. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I thought of his methods, but by that time he was edging his head around the corner to determine if the staircase was clear. He gave a little exhalation of disgust and dropped his arm. I took this as a sign I was free to move and stepped around him into an empty gallery. There were perhaps a dozen doors that led off of it, and at the end the main staircase, leading to the other floors and a hundred other rooms.
I stepped back. “If there was indeed a phantom, we have lost him. He might have gone anywhere, and if we attempt to follow him now, we shall doubtless rouse the entire household. Shall we search Mr. Snow’s room instead?”
Brisbane gave me a piercing look. “Why?”
I sighed. “Because he is the victim. Perhaps among his possessions lurks some clue to why Lucy did this terrible thing. Perhaps even some mitigating factor can be found that might sway the judges to clemency.”
Brisbane shot a quick look back down the gallery, then took my elbow and led me to Lucian Snow’s room. Father had taken the precaution of having it locked, but such an inconvenience was of no consequence to Brisbane. From the pocket of his dressing gown he extracted two slender steel picks. He handed one to me. “Put this into the lock and hold it steady,” he instructed. He knelt, his thigh brushing my leg, and slid its mate into the lock. He kept his eyes closed, working by touch, and as his hand grazed my fingers, I had the oddest sensation that this was somehow even more intimate than the kiss we had just shared. He had the lock sprung in a brief moment, and we were inside, the door closed behind us.
The room was gloomy. A cloud had passed over the moon, throwing the room into deep shadow. Brisbane went to the bedside table, swift and sure-footed as a cat, and struck a match to the candle, illuminating the room passably well. I glanced about, not entirely surprised to find that Lucian Snow was not a particularly tidy person. A discarded shirt and neckcloth were draped at the foot of his bed, and the writing table was a litter of books and papers. He had been given the Blue Room, a small but elegant chamber, with dark blue and silver hangings and a rather nice suite of mahogany furniture. There was a bottle of excellent port on the table, as well as a humidor filled with expensive cigars. The air was thick with the acrid smell of stale smoke.
I glanced around, taking quick inventory of his belongings. There was a small toilet case, and a portfolio of fine morocco on the writing table. I searched them both, paying particular attention to the letters in the portfolio. There were only two, pleas from his sisters for money, and nothing of any interest whatsoever in the toilet case. His brushes were not as clean as they might have been, but were exceptionally fine quality, as was the ivory razor slotted neatly into its case.
“Mr. Snow did appreciate nice things,” I murmured. When Brisbane did not reply, I looked up to find him standing as I had left him, propped against the door. I would have thought him bored with the entire endeavour, save that his expression was one of expectation, as though he were waiting for something.
“Do you not mean to help?” I demanded.
He shrugged his good shoulder, the candlelight playing off the planes of his face, throwing the tiny scar on his cheekbone into relief. It was a small, perfect crescent moon and I wondered, not for the first time, on which of his travels he had acquired it. “You seem to have the matter well in hand.”
“Don’t be obstructionist. We are supposed to be investigating Snow’s death. It seems logical enough to begin here if we mean to understand why Lucy killed him.”