The Lady Julia Grey Bundle by Deanna Raybourn Page A

painful. In fact, quite the reverse.” He smiled suddenly. “If you wish to be a part of this investigation, you must first provide me with information about Sir Edward, your household, your family. I shall simply ask you a series of questions. Nothing too frightening about that, is there?”
    There was the faintest tone of mockery in his voice. I had taunted his courage before, now he was taunting mine.
    “Nothing at all,” I said roundly. “When do we begin?”
    He smiled again, that serpentine smile that Eve must have seen in the Garden. “No time like the present.”
    He began to make a few alterations in the room. The tea things were dispatched to a far table, jostling a small clock, a set of nautical instruments and a tortoiseshell. In their place he put a single candle, a thick, creamy taper that he lit with a spill from the fireplace.
    Then he reached for a lacquered box on the mantel. Out of it he scooped a handful of something that rustled, dried flowers or leaves, perhaps. These he hurled into the fireplace. The change was immediate. There was a fragrance, subtle and soothing, and the flames burned bright green for a moment. He turned to me then, brisk and businesslike.
    “Remove your jacket, my lady.”
    “I beg your pardon?” I clutched the lapels of my jacket together like a trembling virgin. He sighed patiently.
    “My lady, I am no Viking bent on pillage, I assure you. You will understand what I am about in a moment. Take off your jacket.”
    I complied, feeling like an idiot. If Portia had not made it very clear to me that Brisbane would never think of me as a woman, he certainly had. I struggled out of the jacket, regretting that I had instructed Morag to put out the new silk. It was tight and I knew I must look like a wriggling caterpillar trying to get it off. Finally I was free of it and Brisbane took it, tossing it onto a chair. Then, before I could remonstrate with him over the expense of the silk he was creasing, he grasped my ankles and swung them to the sofa.
    “Mr. Brisbane!” I began, but he silenced me with an exasperated gesture.
    He released my ankles then, but I could still feel the pressure of his hands through skirts, petticoats, boots, and stockings. He thrust a pillow behind my head, causing me to lie back in a posture I had most certainly never adopted in front of an acquaintance before.
    “Comfortable?” he inquired, resuming his seat.
    “Rather like Cleopatra,” I returned tartly. “What exactly is the point to all of this?”
    “I told you, it is the beginning of our investigation.”
    He busied himself taking a notebook and pencil from the drawer of the table beside him. “I know it seems unorthodox, but I need information from you, and I believe that the more relaxed a person is, the more information he or she will relate.”
    “You believe. Is this your normal practice? Do you do this to all of your clients?”
    “No, because most of my clients would not consent to it.”
    “What makes you think that I will?”
    “You already have, my lady. Besides, you are a rather special case.”
    I felt a warm flush of pleasure. “I am?”
    “Yes,” he replied absently. “Most of my clients are far more conscious of their dignity to permit such an experiment.”
    The flush ended abruptly. “Oh.”
    “But I have great hopes for you, my lady,” he continued. The flush began again, a tiny, creeping wave this time, but at least I did not feel quite so low. “I have read a great deal about the techniques used by the police and by those who practice psychology. Some of them seem quite suitable for use in my own work. It is just a theory at this point, but I have had some success in the past.”
    Of that I was certain. I wondered how many other ladies’ ankles he had handled, and promptly dismissed the thought as unworthy of me.
    “Begin then, before my neck takes a cramp,” I ordered him crossly.
    He opened his notebook and made a few comments before he began his