Free Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn Page B

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