Bonfire Night (6 page)

I explained to Brisbane what I had read on the plaque. “The family name was Padgett. They were the owners of Thorncross. The last of them died out only this past year. An elderly lady. I imagine the house has stood empty since then, hasn’t it, Mrs. Smith?”

She nodded.

“Now, what about my maid?”

Mrs. Smith raised her shoulders in a sigh. “She’s my niece, my lady. I told her to lock herself in my room and not to come out. I knew you would never look for her there. I couldn’t let you leave, so when Mr. Brisbane said he was bound for London, I had to think quick. I said she was gone because I knew it would keep the pair of you here, at least for tonight.”

“How is it that your niece is my lady’s maid? I engaged her in London. How does she fit into your scheme?”

“My gentleman friend wanted to put a servant in your household, someone to keep an eye upon you when the house staff were not about. He bribed your former maid to leave your service and tell him all your little likes so he could make you as comfortable as possible here,” she told me.

I shuddered. “That’s revolting. I’m glad the girl is all right, but tell her she is out of my employ as of this instant, and I shall not be giving her a reference. It is disgraceful that your friend planned this joke to such an extreme degree. It defies all rational behaviour.”

“Does it?” Brisbane put in softly.

I looked at him, and I knew his expression well. It meant the picture, still hidden from me, was coming together quite clearly in his head.

“Brisbane?”

He explained, half to himself, as he worked it out. “It is revolting because it intrudes upon every particle of decency to pay people to spy upon us. But that was not the point. It was not the purpose of this exercise to keep us entertained or engaged in a silly mystery in a haunted village. The point was to keep us away from London, wasn’t it, Mrs. Smith?”

She said nothing, but the defeated sag of her shoulders was eloquent.

Brisbane went on. “We had to be kept away from London through Bonfire Night,” he said slowly.

“Who is the villain capable of such a convoluted, ridiculous, theatrical—” I broke off in horror. “Oh, no.”

“Yes,” Brisbane said coldly. “My father.”

“But why Bonfire Night? What is so special about this night?” I persisted.

Brisbane hesitated only the barest second before he had it. “Fireworks,” he said suddenly. “To hide an explosion.”

He grabbed my hand and pushed me towards the door. “Hurry up—we’ve got to catch the next train to London. My father is going to blow something up.”

Chapter Six

We did not depart quite as quickly as Brisbane wished. First, we had to find Portia and Plum and apprise them of what we had learnt. We left the children in the care of Plum and the nannies while Portia remonstrated with the staff with such vituperation even the watermen were moved to tears. I would have liked to have heard the rest, but I made Plum promise to take note of what she said as Brisbane and I hurtled through preparations to catch the London train.

Properly abashed, the blacksmith harnessed up his phantom coach for a nobler purpose. His black horses, the swiftest in the valley, were whipped up to a frenzy to deliver us to the station in Greater Wibberley on time, and we understood it was a gesture of apology on the part of the blacksmith. He refused payment for the journey, muttering it was the least of what he owed, and Brisbane and I threw ourselves onto the train, landing upon the steps just as it pulled away from the station.

The ride to London was interminable. There were delays upon the line, and each minute that ticked past only heightened our impatience. Rather than fret at the time wasted, we applied ourselves to discovering Black Jack’s plan as far as we could with such limited information.

“What on earth can he mean to destroy?” I asked for the tenth time as we waited for a herd of cows to clear the line. I gave him a fearful look as I considered Guy Fawkes’ own target. “You don’t think even your father would attempt to actually blow up the sovereign and Parliament?”

Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He might if it suited him, but Parliament isn’t sitting and the queen is at Windsor. No, it must be something else—something small enough to be mistaken for fireworks should anyone notice.”

“A bank vault?” I guessed.

“Possibly,” he said slowly. “But why would he need us out of the way? I didn’t even know he was in England. Did you?” he asked, quirking a brow at the heavy emerald on my finger.

“Of course not! And if I had I would have told you,” I said, attempting to hide my annoyance he would even ask. Brisbane’s father was fond of me, at least as fond as he could be of anyone, but his affection was an unwanted thing. I had seen too clearly the havoc he had wrought in the lives of others. I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him. The fact that I wore the emerald Black Jack had given me was due solely to its beauty and my own avarice. It was the loveliest jewel I had ever owned, and I wore it with pride—so long as I didn’t think too long on the fact that it had been robbed from a Borgia grave.

“Remember,” I told Brisbane firmly, “it was my cousin he married and terrorised until she fled from him.” My cousin Lucy’s brief marriage to Black Jack had been a study in catastrophe. The only good to come of it was our son.

Brisbane returned to the question of Black Jack’s intentions. “No, he wouldn’t need us out of London to break into a bank.”

“Something closer to home,” I began, but even as I said the words, we both knew. “Oh,” I said slowly. “
Home
.”

He nodded. “We were no threat to him until we had the builders in. They’re preparing to take the cellars apart. Something of Black Jack’s is down there, and I daresay it has been all the time.”

“But what? And why hide it in your house?” I demanded.

He shrugged, his posture nonchalant, but I noticed the muscle playing in his jaw. He was deeply angry, a not uncommon state of affairs with his father. “What better place? If he had some small hoard—jewels or gold or some relic—he might gain access to the cellar and leave it for safekeeping. The walls are ancient and riddled with holes. It would be an easy matter to cache his treasure then brick it over. No one would be the wiser.”

“True,” I agreed. “Tradesmen are always coming into one’s cellars. Coalmen and rat-catchers, plumbers to lay pipes and wine merchants to deliver orders.” I caught my breath suddenly. “I’ve just had the most terrible thought—if his illicit gains were discovered, you would be the one to bear the blame.”

“I wondered when that would occur to you,” he said tightly.

“It’s fiendish,” I told him. I gripped his hand in mine. “Whatever happens tonight, that man is an absolute devil from hell. He must not be allowed to take Little Jack. Promise me,” I ordered.

He pressed a kiss to my temple. “With everything I have and all that I am. I will keep Jack safe.”

* * *

It was late when we made our way to the house in Half Moon Street, but the streets were full of revelers and bonfires glowed in the distance. Overhead, fireworks shimmered against the black of the night sky, the report echoing in our bones as we raced towards the house. Just as we stepped from the cab, I felt a reverberation under my feet, and hard upon Brisbane’s heels, I raced to the cellars. When Brisbane opened the door, a cloud of soot and smoke poured forth, choking us. We put handkerchiefs to our mouths and carried on, Brisbane’s pocket torch lighting the way down the stairs. The bottom was blocked with rubble, but Brisbane stepped over, giving me a hand as I scrambled after. There was an ominous creaking from the beams overhead, and Brisbane swore savagely.

“We dare not go further,” he told me. I opened my mouth to protest, but just then there was a stirring from the rubble.

“Bloody imbecile,” muttered a familiar voice. “I told him just a bit to blow a single course of bricks and he mines enough to bring the house down over my head.”

“Hello, Father,” Brisbane said, shining the torch into his father’s eyes. Even begrimed, Black Jack Brisbane was a fine figure of a man. He boasted the same height and breadth of muscle as his eldest son and the same thick locks, his a sooty silver with only a long streak of black at the temple to show what colour they had once been. His eyes were alight with unholy mischief, just as I had often seen Little Jack’s, and I shuddered as he fixed them on me.

“Well, isn’t this an unparalleled delight! My son and his wife, come to wish me
bon voyage
,” he said in his deep, silken voice.

“What did you leave here?” Brisbane demanded.

Black Jack brandished a box. “The proceeds from a rather tidy little robbery. You might know them as the Duchess of Reinenberg’s rubies.”

“Rubies I was engaged to find,” Brisbane said in some irritation.

His father grinned. “Rather neat twist, I thought. You taking the duchess’ money to look for jewels I had stashed right under your nose. They’re flawless, you know. Without equal in the world. I have a maharajah who will pay dearly for them. Apparently, they were originally stolen from his family by an ancestor of the duchess, and he’s willing to pay astonishingly over the odds to get them back.”

“Short of money, are you?” I asked.

He laughed. “Still tart of tongue, I see. Well, I’m glad to see one woman in your family has some spirit. Lucy was a sore disappointment to me from the very first. If it hadn’t been for her late husband’s money...” he trailed off with a sigh. “Still, one cannot have everything. And I took my regrets out on her flesh,” he said with a cruel smile.

“Yes, I know. You drove her halfway to madness.”

The smile deepened. “Only halfway? I oughtn’t to have given up so soon.”

“You didn’t give up,” I reminded him sharply. “She ran away.”

“Only because she was expecting my brat,” he replied. “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about that, did you? Poor Lucy, creeping away to have my child in secret,” he mocked.

“You’ll not get him,” Brisbane told him. “And I don’t much care if I have to kill you to make sure of that.”

Black Jack threw back his head and laughed. “You think I want him? What would I do with a puling infant? I’ve no more use for the imp than I did for you. You want the little devil? He’s entirely yours. Take him and be damned.”

Brisbane put out his hand. “Good,” he said coolly. “And I’ll have the rubies, as well.”

“The hell you will, boy!” his father returned. He levelled a pistol at Brisbane’s heart. “You’d kill me to keep the brat. I’d kill you to keep the gems. What do you say to that, my lad?”

Brisbane’s voice was perfectly calm. “Julia, get behind me. My father is an erratic shot at best.”

“Erratic shot?” Black Jack said indignantly. “I taught you, you insolent pup. But you are right that I wouldn’t be too particular which of you I hit. In fact,” he said, turning his attention to me, “it might be better to aim for her at that. You wouldn’t want to risk that, would you, boy?” he taunted.

Brisbane gave a lazy sigh, and then, with a swiftness I had never even guessed he possessed, he lunged, reaching the pistol just as his father pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the small room, and before I could determine if either of them had been shot, the beams gave another creak, a long protesting groan. And then the world fell in.

* * *

When they dug us out of the rubble, I was in far better shape than Brisbane. A pair of ribs I had broken the previous autumn were cracked once more, but apart from a broken wrist and a multitude of scrapes and abrasions, I was in perfect health. Brisbane had sustained a shot to his leg, a flesh wound to the thigh that left him with a handsome scar and need of a walking stick for a few weeks. We recuperated at my father’s London town house, fussed over by our butler, Aquinas, who insisted he could never again take a holiday as we were not to be trusted to take care of ourselves. Portia had organised the return from the country, packing up our things at Thorncross and dressing down the villagers at length. She must have been eloquent, for they sent presents with her—half a side of beef, a barrel of good ale, another of cider, and a bushel of apples along with the remnants of the excellent wine cellar we had left behind.

“I suppose there’s no point in going back,” I mused one afternoon as Brisbane and I lazed about, recovering from our injuries.

“None whatsoever,” he said flatly. “I have no desire to live in a village inhabited by my father’s creatures.”

“Poor dears,” I said. “They only did it because they were desperate for money. I daresay they would make amends very nicely. And the house really was quite lovely.” I had made enquiries and learnt that the house had only been let to Black Jack and was now for sale for an extremely modest price. But this was not the time to press. Perhaps I would surprise him with it as a Christmas present, I mused.

But the greatest Christmas present that year—and any year—was not of my making. When they had dug out our cellars, there was no trace of Black Jack. Not so much as a scrap of fabric to show there had been another person in the cellars. Brisbane always said his father had a cat’s own luck, and this proved it. By my count, he was on his ninth life at least, and I doubted we would see him again. The only odd find in the rubble was a key belonging neither to Brisbane nor me, and marked with a notation from a London bank. November and part of December had passed away in the bosom of my family with Little Jack learning to walk and Jane the Younger telling everyone to “SHUT UP” in a voice that might have done a boatswain proud. As Christmas drew near, Brisbane and I decided to escape the house one afternoon in order to savour a little peace and quiet, and after a thoroughly satisfactory luncheon at Simpson’s, we made our way to the bank in question.

It was a matter of moments before the clerk retrieved a small metal box from the vault and handed it over. The key fitted perfectly, and for one mad instant, I wondered if the Reinenberg rubies would be inside.

Instead there was a tiny velvet pouch and a sheet of paper covered in a scarcely legible scrawl.

“‘To whom it may concern,’” I read over Brisbane’s shoulder, “‘I hereby renounce all claims to my son, John Nicholas Brisbane, and give him entirely into the care of his elder brother, Nicholas Brisbane, and his wife, Lady Julia Brisbane, to raise as their own under the law.’” It was signed Captain John Erskine Brisbane and dated October 29, 1890.

“He knew you would come,” I said, my voice breaking a little. “He knew you would see those ridiculous hauntings for what they were and come back to London. He already had this prepared and put away, giving Little Jack to us. It was all a scheme, just to see you, to give you this.”

Brisbane shook his head. “No, I won’t believe it. He came back for the rubies.”

I took up the velvet pouch. Tied to its silken ribbon was a tag with the same untidy penmanship. “For Julia.”

Inside was a pair of earrings, emerald to match my ring, and nestled in delectable settings of gold filigree. “Also from the Borgias?” I asked.

Brisbane sighed. “Most likely.”

I slipped the pouch into my pocket and tucked the paper away carefully into my reticule as I turned to face my husband.

“Don’t try to see good in him,” he warned. “I won’t have it. He came back for the bloody rubies. This,” he said with a gesture towards the metal box, “was just so much theatre to amuse him. You know what he’s like.”

“Yes, and I do not believe a man who is entirely evil could have made a son as sterling as you,” I told him.

After an unseemly interlude that would have shocked the bank clerk had he seen it, Brisbane pulled away and straightened his neckcloth, and when he did so, he was smiling.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’ve only just realised. Little Jack is the first Christmas present my father has ever given me,” he said. “And he has given me the only thing of his I could possibly want.”

I kissed him again. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Brisbane.”

He returned the kiss with enthusiasm. “And a very happy new year to us all.”

And it was.

* * * * *