Night of a Thousand Stars by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page A

hands.
Silent in the Grave
was incised in gilt letters and a slender piece of striped silk served as a bookmark. I opened to the first page and read the first line. “To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband’s dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.” I slipped down to sit on the carpet, the books tumbled in my lap, and began to read.
    I did not move until it was time for tea, and only then because Father joined me. He beckoned me to the table by the fire, giving a nod of his silvery-white head to the book in my hands.
    “I see you’ve discovered Julia’s memoirs.”
    I shook my head, clearing out the cobwebs. I had spent the whole day wandering the fog-bound streets of Victorian London with my aunt, striding over windy Yorkshire moors and climbing the foothills of the Himalayas. I took a plate from him and sipped at my tea.
    “I can’t believe I never knew she did all those things.”
    His smile was gentle. “It’s never been a secret.”
    “Yes, I always knew she went sleuthing with Uncle Brisbane but I had no idea the dangers they faced. And you—”
    I broke off, giving him a hard look.
    He burst out laughing. “There’s no need to look so accusing, child. Yes, I did my fair share of detective work, as well.”
    “I can’t believe Aunt Julia almost killed you once with her experiments with explosives.”
    “Once?” His eyes were wide. “Keep reading.”
    He urged sandwiches and cakes on me, and I ate heartily, suddenly ravenous after missing luncheon entirely.
    “That’s what I want,” I told him.
    He had been staring into the fire, wool-gathering, and my voice roused him. He blinked a few times and looked up from the fire. “What, child?”
    “I want what Aunt Julia has. I want a purpose. I want work that makes me feel useful. I don’t just want to arrange flowers and bring up babies. Oh, that’s all right for other girls, but it isn’t right for me. I want something different.”
    “Perhaps you always have,” he offered mildly.
    “I think I have,” I replied slowly. “I’ve always been so different from the others and I never understood why. My half-sisters and -brothers, my schoolmates. Don’t mistake me—I’ve had jolly enough times, and I’ve had friends,” I told him, pulling a face. “I was even head girl one year. But as long as I can remember, I’ve had the oddest sense that it was just so much play-acting, that it wasn’t my real life at all. Does that sound mad?”
    “Mad as a March hare,” he said, his lips twitching. He nodded to the mantelpiece, where a painting hung, a family crest. Our family crest. It was a grand-looking affair with plenty of scarlet and gold and a pair of rabbits to hold it up. “Family lore maintains the old saying about March hares is down to us, that it isn’t about rabbits at all. It refers to our eccentricity, the wildness in our blood. And the saying is a tribute to the fact that we do as we dare. As do you,” he finished mildly.
    I started. “What do you mean by that?”
    A wry smile played over his lips. “I know more of your exploits than you think, child.”
    “Exploits! I haven’t done anything so very interesting,” I protested.
    He gave me a sceptical look. “Poppy, give me some credit. I mayn’t have been a very devoted father, but neither have I been a disinterested one. Every school you’ve been to, every holiday you’ve taken, I’ve had reports.”
    “What sort of reports?” I demanded.
    “The sort any father would want. I had little opportunity to ascertain your character myself, so I made my own inquiries. I learnt you were healthy and being brought up quite properly, if dully. Araminta has proven herself a thoroughly unimaginative but unobjectionable mother. At first, I thought it best, given the sort of family we come from. I thought a chance at normality might be the best thing for you. But the more I came to discover of you, the more I