The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (64 page)

I
returned Grim to his cage in Father’s study, pleased to find the room deserted. He had likely gone elsewhere to sulk, and he was welcome to it. I took the chance to sit a moment, deeply occupied with the thoughts that were tumbling through my head like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. The difficulty was none of these bits seemed to make any nice, pretty patterns. There were dozens of snippets of conversation, impressions, facts, theories, all whirling madly, none pausing long enough for me to make sense of them. This would never do, I told myself severely. The only way to fit the pieces together was to first make them orderly.

With a brisk step I went to my room, banishing Morag and the dog as I retrieved paper and pen. I arranged them
on the blotter, remembering the maxim one of my governesses had always chanted, “A tidy desk is the reflection of a tidy mind.” Of course, this particular governess had been discharged when Aunt Hermia discovered her dancing naked on the front lawn in celebration of the summer solstice. Perhaps it was best not to put much confidence in her little philosophies, but I had nothing to lose.

Writing swiftly, I put down everything I could think of pertaining to the murder, the theft of the pearls, and any other curious behaviours I had witnessed—the drugging of Lucy and Emma, the flirtation between Plum and Charlotte, the antipathy Snow held toward the Gypsies, the ghosts—I noted it all. And written down in a neat and orderly fashion, it was as tremendous a mess as it had been in my head.

I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes, thinking hard. Nothing made any sense at all; the pieces were too tenuous, the connections between them too vague and shadowy as yet. I groaned and threw the paper into the fire, deriving a very little satisfaction in watching it burn. “How Brisbane does this every day I shall never know,” I grumbled.

But if I were to be entirely honest, I must admit I felt more alive, more
necessary,
than I had in half a year. My wanderings around Italy had been pleasant beyond description, but
pleasant
is a very little word. And I realised, as I sat watching my efforts at deduction smoulder to ash, I wanted a larger life than the one I had led. I wanted adventure and passion and romance, and all the other things I had scorned. More than seven hundred years of wild March blood had told at last, I thought with a smile. I had
done a mighty job of suppressing it for the first thirty years of my life, but it simply would not do anymore.

With a newfound vigour, I left my room and made my way downstairs. Just as I reached the bottom of the staircase, Hortense appeared, coaxing a moody Violante along. My sister-in-law was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and Hortense looked at me over the girl’s head, her eyes warm with sympathy and perhaps a touch of relief.

“Ah, Julia. Just the friendly face we hoped to find. Violante is a trifle upset, and perhaps you can cheer her better than I. I think she grows weary of me,” Hortense said, hugging Violante close to her side and giving her a wink.

Violante hugged her back, watering the silk of her gown with her tears.

I put out my hand. “Come, walk with me, Violante. We will be very naughty and steal cakes from Cook and eat them on the stairs as Portia and I used to do as children.”

Violante pulled a face and put a hand to her stomach. “I do not think the cakes I would like very much.”

“Perhaps not, but you will like being with me. I am far nicer than Lysander and much prettier than Plum.”

She laughed at this and took my hand, giving Hortense a quick kiss in farewell. I was astonished at how quickly they had become intimate, but it ought not to have surprised me. I knew only too well how kind Hortense could be. Compassion was the brightest treasure in her jewel box of virtues.

Violante and I strolled down the corridor, arm in arm. I felt a little ashamed of myself. The poor child was in a
foreign country, with an imperfect grasp of the language, struggling to accommodate herself to her new family, and had endured a murder in her home, as well. And one could only imagine how the knowledge of her pregnancy had affected her. Doubtless she was pleased, but she had not had an easy time of it thus far, and I noticed her mouth was drawn down with sadness.

Impulsively I patted her hand, sorry I had not remembered earlier how affectionate she was. She must have missed the easy intimacies of her sisters and cousins in Italy. I brushed the hair back from her brow. “You are a little homesick, I think.”

She nodded. “
Si.
I miss the sunshine, the flowers, the good foods of Napoli.” I raised my brows and she hurried on. “England is very nice, of course. But it is not my home. There are no dead people at home.”

I blinked at her. “Of course there are dead people in Italy, Violante. Some of them are still lying out in the churches for people to look at. I have seen the guidebooks.” They were gruesome too, those decaying old saints, preserved under glass like so many specimens in a museum of natural history. I had made a point of visiting as many as possible during my travels.

“They are not in my house,” she corrected, and I had to concede the point. To my understanding, her upbringing had been a conventional one. Her family might be passionately Italian, but at least murder had never broken out at one of their house parties.

“Please believe me when I tell you that they are not
usually in this house either. This is a very strange turn of events, my dear, and not at all the welcome we had planned for you,” I said consolingly.

She smiled at me, but doubtfully so. I changed the subject.

“What do you think of Father?”

Her smile deepened. “He is very nice.”
Verra nice.
“His Italian, it is not so good as my English, but we understand each other.”

“Good,” I told her. “It is good when family understand one another.”

She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I am making him a waistcoat—it is a surprise, tell no one.”

I blinked at her. “Of course not. What a charming idea. Father will be delighted.”

She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “It was Lysander’s idea. He thought if I made something for Papa with my own hands, it would show how much I est—est—”

“Esteem?” I suggested.

“Esteem him,” she finished happily. “I want to be the good daughter to him.”

I resisted the little dart of annoyance I felt when she said that. Father had five daughters, he scarcely needed another. But I reminded myself that Violante was a stranger in our country, and that we were her family now.

I patted her hand. “That is a noble idea, Violante. I am sure he will be very pleased.”

She brightened and tucked her handkerchief into her pocket. “I will go and work on it now. Tell me, does he like best the purples or the oranges?”

I tipped my head, considering carefully. Father’s wardrobe was usually an excellent barometer of his mental state. When he was feeling melancholy and sulky, he wore his decaying old tweeds and shirts made for him in Savile Row thirty years ago. When he was in fine fettle, he dressed like a maharajah with just a dash of circus performer, all colour and light. It had not escaped my attention that he had worn his threadbare tweeds with a pair of disgusting old gaiters since our arrival at the Abbey. Perhaps a fine new waistcoat would be just the thing to raise his spirits.

“He loves them both, Violante. He loves them both so much you ought to make him a striped waistcoat, orange and purple together. Perhaps with some nice red taffeta for the back,” I told her firmly. “And great buttons all down the front, green ones.”

She beamed at me, and I beamed back at her, baring my teeth in a fond smile. I was quite beginning to like the girl.

Violante and I chatted haltingly for some little while as we paced the length of the ground floor. She told me about the baby and I pretended to be surprised, and by the time we finished, she seemed much more cheerful than she had been when I found her with Hortense. At one point she threw her arms around me, kissing me soundly on the cheek.

I patted her shoulder a little awkwardly. “How very sweet you are, Violante. Now, why don’t we go and find Lysander? It is almost time for tea.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I like tea. It is very nice.”
Verra nice.

She looped her arm through mine while we walked like two schoolgirls on holiday, searching for Lysander. The library and music room—his likeliest haunts—were quite empty, but as we quitted the latter I detected a faint roar. I turned to Violante.

“Did you hear that?”

She cocked her head, jetty curls spilling over one shoulder. “The growl? Like the boar?”

“Bear,” I corrected. “Yes, that is precisely what I meant.”

I led the way down the corridor, and as we moved closer I distinctly heard another muffled growl and an unmistakable metallic clang. I groaned.

“What is it?” Violante demanded, her eyes wide as she clutched at my arm.

“A prime display of male conceit is what it is,” I muttered.

We had reached the door of the billiard room. It was closed, but I did not need to see inside to know what mischief was afoot. Carved from the great width of the south transept, the billiard room was a vast open space. Previous earls had found it a useful place to store weapons. The walls were studded with every conceivable variety of blade and bow, axe and arquebus. It was also the room where all of my brothers had received their fencing instruction. Father had shoved a billiard table into a corner and renamed the place, but to us it would always hold fond memories as the armoury.

I threw open the door and crossed my arms over my chest. As I expected, mock combat was under way. Lysander and Plum were engaged, while Ludlow sat at a safe distance,
instructing Charlotte in the finer points of swordsmanship. To my shock, I saw another pair of duelists, Alessandro and Brisbane.

“This cannot end well,” I said, more to myself than Violante. I motioned for her to follow me and we skirted the fencers, making our way to where Ludlow and Charlotte sat on a bench of polished oak. They greeted us, Charlotte rather more coolly than Ludlow. Violante took no note of the snub, and I welcomed it. It saved me the trouble of being nice to her. Violante and I seated ourselves and I turned my attention eagerly to the bouts already engaged.

The gentlemen combatants sported various states of undress. Plum had removed only his coat, while Alessandro and Ly had discarded their waistcoats as well. Brisbane had retained his waistcoat, but lost his neckcloth at some juncture, and his shirt was open at the throat.

“It is a friendly bout,” I told Violante. “Do you see that each of the swords wears a blunt tip? And none of the gentlemen wear a mask. That means they agree to direct their thrusts away from the face.”

I had thought to reassure Violante, but in truth I was the one heaving a sigh of relief. For one mad moment when I had spotted Brisbane parrying a thrust of Alessandro’s, I had feared the worst.

Violante asked a few questions then, and I answered her as best I could. What facts I forgot, Ludlow was prevailed upon to supply, and he pointed out a particularly nice bit of footwork on Plum’s part.

Charlotte gave an ecstatic little sigh and looked at him worshipfully.

“Beh,” Violante said. “Lysander, he is faster than Plum, and his sword is much nicer. See how pretty,” she said, pointing toward the finely etched hilt of Lysander’s weapon.

Charlotte set her mouth in irritation, and Ludlow suppressed a smile.

“I believe the quality of the blade, not the beauty of the hilt, is of primary importance, Mrs. Lysander,” he said kindly.

Violante, utterly unconcerned, shrugged and watched the fencers with interest, clapping and cheering for Lysander, booing Plum with enthusiasm. I did not have the heart to tell her such things were not done, and as I watched her face, shining with pleasure, it occurred to me Ly had done rather well in finding a bride to fit into our family.

“You seem to know a great deal about swordsmanship, Mr. Ludlow,” I remarked during a lull in the bouts. “Did you have a go with the others?”

Ludlow smiled. “I did. I believe Mr. Lysander thought it an unfair advantage that I wield a sword in my left hand, but Lord Wargrave fought me right-handed and thrashed me soundly. It did not seem to confound him in the least.”

Just then Lysander and Plum executed a series of complicated maneuvers, each of them moving smoothly, although Ly seemed a little off his footing. Plum was attacking rather aggressively, and Ly was determined not to let him land a blow. They seemed likely to resort to fisticuffs soon, and as I watched them I realised what Ludlow had just told me. Ludlow was left-handed. He and I had been seated
next to one another at the luncheon at Uncle Fly’s. We had spent half the interval apologising to one another for our colliding elbows. I had known it, but I had not translated it within the context of our murder. The syllogism was a simple one: the murderer was right-handed. Ludlow was not right-handed, ergo Ludlow was not the murderer.

Lysander rallied then, posting a series of deft attacks that left Plum breathless. After another bold maneuver, Ly had the tip of his sword at Plum’s chest. Violante cheered loudly, and Plum stepped forward, slapping Lysander’s sword aside to punch him soundly on the jaw.

Lysander staggered back, then dropped his sword and came back at Plum, fists swinging.

“Well, honestly,” I muttered. The scuffle was over as quickly as it had begun. Plum was bleeding profusely from his nose, and Lysander’s lip was split open cleanly. They circled each other warily as they moved apart, each of them mouthing profanities.

Violante was shaking her head. “Lysander must learn to move his head to the side. He should have ducked and hit Plum in the—what do you call this?” she asked, pointing to the small of her back.

“Kidneys?” I hazarded.

She nodded. “
Si,
the kidneys. That is how to hurt a man,” she concluded sagely.