He was mere inches from me, so close I caught the scent of his skin.
“Of course,” I replied. With every word we moved closer to one another, not quite touching, but with only a breath between us. I stared at the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Thank you,” I said faintly.
He bent his head toward mine, brushing his cheek against my hair. I heard him inhale deeply. “For what?”
“Saving Father in Trafalgar Square.”
I knew in this moment he would not deny it. After a moment I felt him nod. I ran a finger along the silk of his sling. “I promise I shall not ask it again if you tell me the truth. Will you be quite all right?”
“The shot was a clean one,” he replied, his voice muffled by my hair. “Another month and I will be right as rain.”
“Thank God for that,” I murmured.
The noises in the hall grew more frantic and I heard a footman announce to Aquinas that the carriage was drawing around to the door. Brisbane stepped back sharply. Once again he had assumed the unfathomable mask I knew so well. The moment between us, whatever it might have been, whatever might have been said, was lost.
I sighed and moved aside to let him pass. “Godspeed, Brisbane. I hope you find her.”
He nodded and moved to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “You are wrong, you know.”
I raised a brow. “About what?”
That fathomless black gaze held mine. “I think you are more my equal than any woman I have ever known.”
And before I could reply he was gone.
* * *
I dressed for dinner that night with the deepest apathy. With Brisbane gone I felt oddly flat and out of sorts. I did not like to think I cared more for him than he did for me. I did not like to think I cared for him at all, truth be told. He was enigmatic and difficult, tricky as a cat and twice as sly. But care I did, I admitted, slipping his pendant into the décolletage of my gown. And I did not know when, if ever, I would see him again.
But if I was sulky at dinner, I was in better spirits than half the company. Father was preoccupied, grieved after his visit with Uncle Fly, who had been badly shaken by Snow’s murder. Alessandro was quiet for reasons I did not like to think about. Ly and Violante had quarrelled again and were locked in silence, both of them pushing food around their plates and shooting each other nasty looks. And Plum looked pensive. He forgot to eat for long stretches, and more than once I glanced up to see him looking at a bit of food on his fork in bewilderment, as if wondering how it came to be there. Only Hortense and Portia made any pretense at normal conversation, and I was not entirely surprised when the subject turned to Charlotte.
“She was really a jewel thief?” Hortense asked. “I cannot believe it. She seemed so gauche, so unsophisticated, with her chattering and her silly mannerisms.”
Plum flicked an irritated glance at her, but she did not notice. Portia shrugged. “She was thief enough to take Julia’s pearls. They still have not been recovered, although how she would have gotten them past Morag, I do not like to imagine. Brisbane has gone after her, but she may have sold them by the time he reaches her. And that lot could get her halfway round the world and keep her in style for quite a long time,” Portia finished.
I laid down my fork. The joint of pork that had been so delectable only a moment before sat like ashes in my mouth. Had Brisbane gone after her for my sake? He had been engaged to recover the Tear of Jaipur. He had the jewel; the princess and the prime minister would be happy. The letters patent would be published and he would have his title and his estate. Why then pursue Charlotte except for the pearls? I had seen him at work often enough to know he did not go beyond the terms set upon his employment. If he was asked to retrieve incriminating letters from a blackmailer, he did so. He did not destroy them, nor did he turn the evidence over to Scotland Yard. His clients invariably came from the cream of society, those who were desperate to avoid scandal. He investigated future husbands, restored runaway children, retrieved stolen property. But I had never once known him to embark on a chase once his objectives were satisfied. When his obligation to the client was fulfilled, the case was closed, whether the villain had been locked away or not. His business was justice, not retribution, and I nearly wept into my napkin to think of him, hounding Charlotte until she turned over my pearls. And I had not even asked him to do it.
Just then, a commotion arose from the hall. Servants yelling, dogs barking and, above it all, the high, penetrating voice of Aunt Dorcas. Before we could rise, the door was thrown back and Aunt Dorcas entered, flanked by two men. All three of them were garbed in Gypsy clothes, from the gold coins glittering at their belts to the scarves tied around their heads. Aunt Dorcas, who had stated loudly and with vigour her hatred of the race, linked her arms with those of her companions and raised her chin, her Roma finery clinking as she tossed her head and addressed Father.
“March! Bring food for my friends and wine as well. I am come home!”
* * *
In fact, the Gypsies did not sit down to table with us. In spite of Aunt Dorcas’ insistence and Father’s courteous invitation, they demurred, but agreed to take with them a hamper of hastily packed delicacies. Portia herded Aunt Dorcas upstairs for a bath and a change of clothes while the rest of us finished our meal in stunned silence. As soon as dessert was cleared I excused myself and made my way to Aunt Dorcas’ room. I knocked and waited until she called for me to enter.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Good. I rather thought it was that fool Portia again. Can you believe she’s put me to bed? I am no invalid, but she was most resolute and unnaturally strong for so slight a woman.”
I smiled and closed the door behind me. The room was a comfortable one, small, so the heat from the fireplace warmed it through. It was done in pinks and reds, with a cheerful view past the gardens to the village of Blessingstoke in the distance. The raspberry taffeta draperies were drawn now, but had they been open, she might have been just able to make out the campfires of her new friends.
But she had shed her Gypsy glamoury and was once more the quarrelsome old lady of my youth. Her nightdress, snugly buttoned at the throat, was edged in tasteful ruffles of lace to match the cap set tidily on her head. She looked up to see me eyeing it and snorted.
“I look like a muffin, do not deny it.” I motioned for her to sit forward and I plumped a few of her pillows, smoothing the bedclothes when I was done.
“Do not fuss, Julia. Sit there and talk with me, but do notfuss.”
I sat obediently, taking the chair she had indicated. It was a pretty thing, but the seat was hard and slippery.