Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn Page B

appeared.
    “There is a caller, my lady, sir,” he said, proffering a card to Brisbane. “He apologises for the hour.”
    I poured out a cup of the thick black sludge that Brisbane preferred and handed it to my brother. He took a sip and pulled a face.
    “I will never get used to this,” Plum protested. “It’s like drinking tar.”
    “Peasant,” Portia said sweetly. “It takes a sophisticated man to appreciate other cultures.” As Brisbane was easily the most travelled—and the only one of us with any claim to mixed blood—Portia’s comment was nothing more than good-natured raillery, and Brisbane took it as such. He lifted his cup to her in silent salute.
    I nodded towards the small creamy card in his hand. “Who is it, dearest?”
    He shrugged and handed it over. “No one I’ve ever met. A solicitor, and one that keeps damnably strange hours.”
    I looked to Aquinas. “Show him up, please.”
    Plum settled his cup into the saucer. “Shall Portia and I go then?”
    “Why?” our sister demanded, relaxing further into the cushions of the sofa. “I quite like it here, and besides, strange solicitors showing up at odd hours speaks to an intrigue. I’d love a good intrigue.”
    Brisbane and I exchanged smiles. There was no possibility of shifting Portia once she became interested in a subject, and Plum was technically a member of the enquiry agency. Besides, living in the bosom of a large family meant keeping precious few secrets. Whatever the business this solicitor had with us, I would no doubt confide it to them in the end.
    In a very few moments the creaking of the stairs signalled his approach. Aquinas opened the door and announced him, but almost before he finished saying the name, the fellow was upon us. He was middling in height and portly with a ruddy complexion and well-trimmed whiskers of the faded ginger hue that comes when redheaded men begin to age badly. He was well-upholstered in an expensive suit and carried a small case of dull green morocco.
    “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, sir, and I do apologise for both the lateness of the hour and the intrusion upon your guests,” he added with a glance towards the rest of us. There was something faintly off in his expression as he looked at us, as if he smelt something not entirely pleasant.
    “Not at all,” Brisbane countered. “My wife, Lady Julia Brisbane. Her sister, Lady Bettiscombe, and their brother, Mr. Eglamour March. And you are Mr. Sanderson of the firm of Sanderson and Weevel, I believe?” he added with a nod to the card.
    “I am indeed, sir.” He inclined his head towards the rest of us in turn. “My lady, my lady, Mr. March.” He turned back to Brisbane. “The matter I have come to discuss is somewhat confidential in nature,” he began.
    Brisbane waved a hand. “I have no secrets from my wife, and I have been married long enough to know better than to believe she has any from her family. Please, be seated, Mr. Sanderson and state your business freely.”
    Still looking doubtful, Mr. Sanderson took the chair Brisbane indicated. He looked from his left, where I sat on a hassock, to his other side, where Portia occupied one end of the sofa. I lifted the pot of Turkish coffee. “Coffee, Mr. Sanderson?”
    He started a little at the sound of my voice and darted me an odd glance, sliding his eyes away from me and back to my husband. “How very kind. Erm, no, thank you, my lady.”
    He cleared his throat. “Now, Mr. Brisbane, as I say this is confidential, and perhaps it would be best—”
    I took up a plate of rose water biscuits. “Biscuit?” I asked sweetly, shoving the plate under his nose.
    He flinched a little. “No, thank you, my lady.” His tone was firmer this time, and I flicked a glance to my sister.
    She did not disappoint. She took a cushion from the sofa and thrust it at him. “Cushion, Mr. Sanderson? That chair is frightfully uncomfortable.”
    He put up his hands as if to ward her off. “I am quite