Silent in the Sanctuary. Deanna Raybourn
her loss was not a recent one. The black suited her though, highlighting a certain fragile delicacy of complexion no cosmetic could ever hope to simulate. She was a Fragonard milkmaid, a Botticelli nymph. I hated her instantly.
“I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady,” she was saying. “Lord Wargrave has told me simply everything about you. I know we are going to be very great friends.” She was earnest as a puppy, and I had little doubt most people found her charming.
“Has he indeed? How very kind you are,” I said, fingering the pendant at my throat. It had been an involuntary action, and I realised as soon as my fingers touched the cool silver it was a mistake. Mrs. King’s bright blue gaze fixed on the piece at once.
“What an unusual pendant. Did you acquire it on your travels?” she asked, peering closely at the coin.
“No. It was a gift,” I said, covering its face with a finger. I turned to Brisbane, who was watching our exchange closely. I nodded toward the sling. “I see you have managed to injure yourself, my lord. Nothing serious, I hope.”
He lifted a brow. “Not at all. A nasty spill from a horse a fortnight ago, nothing more. His lordship was kind enough to invite me to recuperate here away from the bustle of the city.”
“And you will be here for Christmas as well?” I asked, forcing my tone to brightness.
“As will my fiancée,” he replied coolly, locking those witch-black eyes onto mine.
I did not blink. “Excellent. I shall look forward to getting to know her intimately.” The words were blandly spoken, but Brisbane knew me well enough to hear the threat implicit within them.
His gaze wavered slightly, and I inclined my head. “I do hope you will excuse me. I must greet the other guests. Mrs. King, a pleasure,” I said, withdrawing from the group. Father caught my eye, his own eyes bright with mischief. I turned my head, not sur prised to find Portia at my elbow.
“Well done, dearest,” she whispered.
“Whiskey,” I hissed. “Now.”
In another of the little altar alcoves a sideboard had been arranged with spirits of every variety. We made our way to the whiskey decanter and stood with our backs to the room. Portia poured out a generous measure for both of us and we each took a healthy, choking sip. I swallowed hard and fixed her with an Inquisitor’s stare.
“I shall only ask you once. Did you know?”
She paled, then took another sip of her whiskey, colour flooding her cheeks instantly. “Of course not. I knew Father meant to invite him down for Christmas. I thought it might be a nice surprise for you. But I had no idea he was being elevated, nor that he had that…that creature with him. How could he?”
Portia shot Brisbane a dark look over her shoulder. “He kissed you. He gave you that pendant. I thought that meant something.”
“Then you are as daft as I. Drink up. We cannot hover over the spirits all evening. We must mingle with the other guests.”
She stared at me as though I had lost my senses. “But are you not—”
“Of course, dearest. I am entirely shattered. Now finish your whiskey. I see Aunt Dorcas mouldering in an armchair by the fire and I must say hello to her before she decays completely.”
Portia’s eyes narrowed. “You are not shattered. You are smiling. What are you about?”
“Nothing,” I told her firmly. “But I have my pride. And as you pointed out,” I said with a nod toward Alessandro, “I have alternatives.”
Alessandro smiled back at me, shyly, his colour rising a little.
Portia poked me. “What are you thinking?”
I put our glasses on the table and looped my arm through hers, pulling her toward Aunt Dorcas.
“I was simply thinking what a delight it will be to introduce Alessandro to Brisbane.”
Aunt Dorcas had established herself in the armchair nearest the fire, and it looked as though it would take all of the Queen’s army to roust her out of it. No one would call her plump, for plumpness implies something jolly or pleasant, and Aunt Dorcas was neither of those. She was solid, with a sense of permanence about her, as though she had always existed and meant to go on doing so forever. Disturbingly for a woman of her size and age, she had a penchant for girlish ruffles and bows. She was draped in endless layers of pink silk and wrapped in an assortment of lace shawls, with lace mitts on her hands and an enormous lace cap atop her thinning hair. She wore only pearls, yards of them, dripping from her décolletage and drawing the eye to her wrinkled skin. She had gone yellow with age, like vellum, and every bit of her was the colour of stained ivory—teeth, hair, skin, and the long nails that tapped out a tuneless melody on the arm of her chair. But her eyesight was sharp, and her hearing even better. She was talking to, or rather at, Hortense de Bellefleur, Father’s particular friend. Hortense was stitching placidly at a bit of luscious violet silk. She was dressed with a Frenchwoman’s natural elegance in a simple gown of biscuit silk, an excellent choice for a lady of her years. She looked up as we approached, smiling a welcome. Aunt Dorcas simply raised her cane to poke my stomach.
“Stop there. I don’t need you breathing all over me. Where have you been, Julia Grey? Gallivanting about Europe with all those filthy Continentals?”
Her voice carried, and I darted a quick glance at Hortense, but she seemed entirely unperturbed. Then again, very little ever perturbed Hortense.
“Xenophobic as ever, I see, Aunt Dorcas,” I said brightly.
“Eh? Well, never mind. You’ve put on a bit of weight you have, and lost that scrawny look. You were a most unpromising child, but you have turned out better than I would have thought.”
The praise was grudging, but extremely complimentary coming from Aunt Dorcas. She turned to Hortense.
“Julia was always plain, not like Portia there. Portia has always been the one to turn men’s heads, haven’t you, poppet?”
“And some ladies’,” I murmured. Portia smothered a cough, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Yes, Aunt Dorcas, but you must agree Julia is quite the beauty now,” my sister put in loyally.
“She will do,” Aunt Dorcas said, a trifle unwillingly, I thought.
I bent swiftly to kiss Hortense’s cheek. “Welcome home, chérie,” she whispered. “It is good to see you.”
Simple words, but they had the whole world in them, and I squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “And you.”
“Come to my boudoir tomorrow. We will have a pot of chocolate and you will tell me everything,” she said softly, with a knowing wink toward Alessandro.
Before I could reply, Aunt Dorcas poked me again with her cane. “You are too close.”
I obeyed, moving to stand near Portia. “Portia tells me you have been staying here. I hope you find it comfortable.”
Aunt Dorcas puffed out her lips in a gesture of disgust. “This old barn? It is draughty, and I suspect haunted besides. All the same, I think it very mean of Hector not to invite me more often. I am family after all.”
I thought of poor Father, forced to face the old horror for months on end, and I hurried to dissuade her. “You would be terribly bored here. Father spends all his time in his study, working on papers for the Shakespearean Society.”
“The Abbey is indeed draughty,” Portia put in quickly. “And we do have ghosts. At least seven. Most of them monks, you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if one walked abroad tonight, what with all of the excitement of the house party. They get very agitated with new people about. Do let us know if you see a holy brother robed in white.”
Portia’s expression was deadly earnest and it was all I could do not to burst