“And what did you learn of Alessandro?”
Brisbane shrugged, then winced sharply as he eased his wounded shoulder back into place. He made no sound, but he had gone pale under the deep olive of his complexion.
“I learned he wishes to be taken seriously. He is a man, but not yet respected as such. He feels any slight to his dignity deeply, and when he is frustrated, he is apt to strike without thinking.”
I felt my blood running cold in my veins. “You think he murdered Lucian Snow.”
Brisbane took another deep draw of the pipe, exhaling slowly through his nose. Sir Cedric had done something similar with his cigar, but from him it was faintly grotesque. On Brisbane, the gesture was suggestive of something altogether more sensual.
“I do not know. What possible motive would he have? He seems to have no ties to Lucy, no reason to bear a grudge against Snow. He may have the temperament to do murder, even a murder of this variety, but whether he did or not, I cannot say. There is simply no motive, though God knows I have looked for one.”
I shook my head. “I wonder at you. How can you be so determined to lay this crime at the feet of a young man who has given you no cause to think ill of him, save one impulsive moment that was completely provoked?”
“And I wonder you cannot see it for yourself,” he said softly.
I paused. Surely Brisbane could not wish Alessandro to be guilty simply because of his affection for me. That would demonstrate a possessiveness, an attachment to me on Brisbane’s behalf that I could scarcely credit. It was astonishing. I felt my breath catch in my throat. My lips trembled as I parted them.
“Brisbane,” I murmured.
“It is quite simple,” he said, smiling slowly, triumphantly. “If Alessandro is the murderer, then no member of your family is implicated, Lucy will go free, and I can return to London and put this case behind me.”
If there had been a vase at hand I would have thrown it at his head. Instead I summoned a smile of my own. “How succinctly you put it. If you will excuse me now, it is time for tea, and I have things to attend to.”
I took my leave, remembering only when I reached the gallery I had forgotten to tell him about Henry Ludlow. I shrugged and dismissed the thought. Brisbane was stalking his own game. I would give chase myself and see what the hunt turned up.
* * *
I hurried down to tea, nearly colliding with Portia on the staircase.
“Heavens, Julia, have a care. You nearly upset Puggy,” she chided. She was carrying her loathsome pet in her arms. He snuffled wetly at me and I curled a lip at him in return.
“It would be no very great crime to upset Puggy,” I remarked peevishly.
Portia gave me a dark look. “Do not think of joking with me. I have had a vile afternoon, and my head is throbbing again.”
“I am sorry, dearest. What is the trouble?”
She adjusted Puggy in her arms and we started slowly down the stairs. “Another one of the cats has delivered a litter, this one in the fireplace in the dining room, so we cannot light the fire.”
“Which cat?”
“Peter Simple.”
I paused on the stairs. “A moment, Portia. You mean to say both of Father’s toms have thrown litters this week?”
Her lips thinned in annoyance. “I do. And in the most inconvenient places. None of us has had clean linen on our beds because Christopher Sly scratches anyone who comes near her babies, and now we shall have to dress like Esquimaux at dinner or risk slowly freezing to death over the pheasant.”
“Oooh, I do love a nice pheasant. Normandy sauce, I hope?”
“Puggy, darling, do try not to drool on Mama. What? Yes, of course Normandy sauce. You know it is Father’s favourite. But when I ordered the pheasant for dinner, Cook nearly had an apoplexy and I had to spend almost an hour soothing her.”
“I thought Cook prided herself on her pheasant,” I put in. I was trying to pay attention for Portia’s sake, but the domestic dramas were all a bit tedious to me. Aquinas had ordered my household in London, and since the fire I had been without a home of my own. I felt a little adrift without a proper home. If nothing else, it would be lovely to have a place to keep Aquinas. I had never enjoyed the home-keeping aspects of marriage, but now I was on my own, I thought I might rather like to set up a little household. Whatever mess I made of it, Aquinas would soon sort out.
Portia, on the other hand, was alarmingly competent at that sort of thing. She had organised her husband’s household in a matter of days, overthrowing a century’s worth of poor management and turning the country house into something of a showplace. Her house in London was equally fabulous, and she was renowned for her elegant dinners.
“She does an excellent pheasant,” Portia said patiently, “but she did not want to cookthesebirds because they were in the game larder when Lucian Snow was brought in.”
My stomach lurched a little. “Oh, dear.”