Silent on the Moor by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page B

determined and more capable than any man I hadever known. Had he really wanted me to leave, he would have carried me to Lesser Howlett on his back and put me on the first train back to London. His pretexts told me everything I ought to know: Brisbane needed me.
    His expression was bitter. “I? I am the most ruined thing of all.” He turned to face the fire, and for a long moment I watched the play of light over the sharp planes of his face. There was something new in his expression, something careworn and bedevilled that I did not like.
    “How did you come to be here?” I asked at length. “I thought you were to receive the viscountcy of Wargrave from the Prime Minister.”
    I trembled to hear the answer. I had interfered with Brisbane’s investigation at Bellmont—interfered so badly it had taken tremendous work on his part to salvage the situation. He had been engaged in business for the government, and the title had been offered as incentive for his involvement. When the promised viscountcy had not materialised, I had blamed myself.
    He rubbed at the dark shadow at his jaw. From the look of it, he had not shaved in some days. “Prime Minister was perfectly willing to give me the viscountcy. Then I discovered this property was available. When the previous owner, Sir Redwall Allenby, died, his mother and sisters were forced to sell. Lord Salisbury pointed out that the income from this estate was not sufficient to support the style of a viscount, but when I offered to take the estate in lieu of the viscountcy, he made the arrangements to purchase the property on my behalf.”
    “But why would you want this place at the expense of the Wargrave title?”
    He gave me a long, level stare. “Because it suited me.”
    That he was concealing something, I had no doubt. But Brisbane could be solitary as an oyster when it pleased him.
    “And the Allenby ladies? I presume you have extended your hospitality to them because they have nowhere else to go?”
    “Something like that,” he said, his eyes flickering away from mine.
    Silence stretched between us and I glanced around, noticing for the first time the delicate frieze painted upon the walls. Stylised palms and lilies reached toward the ceiling, and here and there a bird took flight, its wings gilded with a touch of gold paint.
    “It is an interesting room,” I offered. “The decoration is most unusual.”
    “Sir Redwall was an Egyptological scholar. His rooms were decorated to suit his tastes.”
    “Very pretty,” I remarked. I drew in a deep breath and moved closer to him. The firelight flickered over his face, casting shadows and lifting them again, making his expression impossible to read. I could see the lines etched at the corners of his mouth, lines I knew too well. I put out a fingertip to trace one.
    “You have been in pain. The migraines?” He did not brush my finger away. He closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head.
    “I have kept them at bay, but not for much longer I think. I can feel one circling on wings. There is a blackness at the edge of my vision.”
    “All the time?”
    “Most.” This time he did brush my finger away, but gently.
    “What do you take? Do you still smoke the hashish?”
    He shook his head. “Too much trouble to procure it here. Nothing but a glass of whisky before bed.”
    I clucked at him. “That will never serve. You require something far stronger than that.”
    “Don’t fuss, Julia,” he said, but his tone was soft.
    I put out my hand again, cupping his cheek. He exhaled sharply, but did not move.
    “Brisbane,” I murmured. “If you really want me to leave you, tell me now and I will go and you will never see me again. Just one word, that’s all, and I will remove myself. Forever.”
    I stepped closer still. He closed his eyes again and covered my hand with his own. “You smell of violets. You always smell of violets,” he said. “You’ve no idea how many times I have walked these moors and smelled them