“That is reprehensible,” I told him, “and yet entirely plausible.” There was another possibility that was plausible as well: Aunt Dorcas. Father and Plum, as well as Emma, had mentioned her penchant for taking things that did not belong to her, usually of the sparkly variety. What if she had nipped into Aunt Hermia’s room and helped herself to a few of the prettier trinkets? But why hide them among Snow’s things? From the stories I had heard, she had seldom troubled to hide her crimes in the past. Usually the odd little jewel had actually been found on her person. If nothing else, the jewels would be difficult for her to retrieve from Snow’s room. It seemed the little bundle had raised more questions than it had answered.
We were silent a moment, locked in our thoughts. Florence had settled back into her basket and was snoring peacefully. I thought of what Brisbane had suggested, that someone had crept into my room and drugged the poor little thing to keep her quiet while they took my pearls. The very idea made me shatteringly angry. I did not actually like the animal, but she was helpless, a baby really. I made a note to tell Morag to give her more beef tea for her supper.
I turned to find Brisbane regarding me. I had not realised he was staring, and his scrutiny flustered me. I smoothed my skirts again. It was becoming something of a nervous habit.
“I think you had better keep a shorter rein on your fiancée,” I said lightly. “She seems over fond of my brother’s company. Perhaps you ought to have a word.”
Brisbane reached into his coat pocket and withdrew something. He opened his hand to show me a diamond ring sparkling on his palm.
“Charlotte broke our betrothal before breakfast this morning. I have no fiancée.”
He held the ring up to the firelight, watching the light bend and shatter into a tiny rainbow as it played over his hand. “Pity. It is a lovely ring.”
“Very well done of her to return it since she has no intention of marrying you,” I said, my voice husky with pent emotion.
He watched the play of light a moment more, then dropped the ring back into his pocket.
“I am rather relieved to be rid of the charade, truth be told,” he said finally. “I tired of playing the intended bridegroom.”
“I knew you could not mean to marry her!” I cried, triumphant. “I cannot believe anyone would think you a couple.”
“Well, when I embarked upon this sham betrothal, I never expected to have to convince you of my sincerity,” he admitted. “But I am glad to be done with it. I have no wish to be betrothed, in pretense or otherwise.”
I wagged a finger at him playfully. “Now, Brisbane, you mustn’t talk like that. You will lead people to believe you have no mind to marry at all.”
“I do not,” he said. He turned to the fire, and I had the most curious conviction he was doing so because he could not speak the next words directly to me. “I could never marry a woman like Charlotte.”
“You mean a silly woman?” I asked teasingly.
“No, a wealthy one,” he returned quietly.
It is astonishing how words can cut one to the quick and yet leave no outward trace. One would have expected a lash like that to leave a mark.
But pride, though deplorable as a vice, can be a worthy ally at such times. It was pride that lifted my chin and lent a note of lightness to my voice.
“Ah, a confirmed bachelor, like the noble Duke of Aberdour,” I said.
“I am nothing like my great-uncle,” he replied, his voice laced with bitterness. There was no pragmatic reason I could imagine for his opposition to marriage. His business was a profitable one, his lineage—though spotted with less than elevated blood—was illustrious enough for all but the most fastidious of brides, and now his achievements were to be crowned with title and an estate. He could even retire from his work as an inquiry agent if he wished and live a life of leisure. People would whisper about his having been in trade of course, but it had been my experience that with sufficient time and a healthy fortune, such a shortcoming could be deliberately overlooked.
But opposed he was, and from the set of his jaw, I did not imagine his position was one he had taken lightly or would relinquish easily. Pride was an expensive commodity, and his was easily wounded. It was a very great irony that the fortune my husband had left me should prove such an impediment to my happiness.
“Well, you needn’t marry,” I said finally. I was determined to be reasonable, as coolly logical as he. “You have your work to divert you, the excellent Monk to assist you, and Mrs. Lawson to manage your domestic affairs. What more may a man need?”
“What more indeed?” He looked at me then, a look I knew I should never forget, and a thousand things lay unsaid between us.
“I do not mean to marry again myself,” I said suddenly and with conviction.
“Do you not?” he asked softly, and I wondered if he were thinking of Alessandro. Ah, Alessandro. Such a delightful companion, and yet when I thought of him I felt a hundred years old.
“I made a mistake the last time I married. I should not like to do so again.”
“Then you and I understand each other perfectly,” he said, his demeanour suddenly brisk. “And we cannot sit idly by gossiping like old maids. We have a murder to solve.”
It was a testament to his distraction that he included me in that last statement. Or perhaps he was so eager to leave off the subject of marriage he did not mind returning to the safer ground of murder. In either event, it did not matter to me. As we rose and made our way downstairs, I realised that some small, cherished hope within me had gone very still. It was not entirely lost, but I reminded myself sternly Brisbane was a partner in detection and nothing more. If only I could make myself believe it.
* * *
We met Father in his study for a little council of war. I fussed over Grim, smoothing his feathers and feeding him from the box of sugared plums, while Brisbane and Father exchanged information. There was little to say. Brisbane had already informed him Aunt Dorcas was safe, but from the cool touch of frost in Father’s manner, I could only deduce he was not pleased with Brisbane’s role in the affair, nor in his refusal to send for Father when Emma and Lucy had fallen ill. The pearls were missing, and no clue had been discovered in the murder of Mr. Snow, save my little cache of jewels.