Deanna Raybourn - Bonfire Night

“Me?” Brisbane put out his hand for the document. He skimmed it swiftly, his silky black brows knit together as he read. “I have never met a Josiah Thornhill. Nor have I ever visited Thorncross or Narrow Wibberley. Are you certain you have the right man?”

“Quite.” The syllable was clipped and emphatic, and Mr. Sanderson seemed to relax now that he had been allowed to get on with the business at hand. “As Mr. Thornhill states in his will, he felt indebted to you for the professional courtesies you rendered a lady to whom he was much attached.”

“What lady?” Brisbane asked.

The ginger whiskers looked affronted. “I am not at liberty to divulge that information, not least of which because I do not possess it. Mr. Thornhill was most discreet upon the point.”

“Perhaps the lady he loved was already married to another and that’s why he never married,” Portia put in.

Mr. Sanderson flinched again. “I should not like to speculate,” he said stiffly. He gave a sharp nod to the page in Brisbane’s hand. “You will see, sir, that the deed to Thorncross is yours, free and clear. It is a fine country property within easy reach of the City, beautifully situated off a tributary of the Thames. I am assured it is in excellent condition, a splendid little estate for a gentleman eager to escape the confines of the City,” he added smoothly.

Brisbane gave him a dangerously bland smile. “What is the catch?”

Mr. Sanderson blinked. “Catch, sir?”

Brisbane steepled his fingers, resting the tips of them beneath his chin. His gaze was speculative. “In my experience, gentlemen do not simply give other gentlemen houses, no matter how grateful. Did he do this to thwart another potential heir? Will I find myself dragged into court to litigate the rightful ownership of this place?”

“Certainly not!” Mr. Sanderson seemed deeply affronted by the notion. “Of course,” he went on, smoothing his waistcoat over his stomach, “there is the most trifling of conditions with the bequest.”

Brisbane’s smile deepened to something positively wolfish. “Go on.”

Mr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s nothing to speak of, nothing at all, really. Mr. Thornhill was naturally very fond of his home, and he wished that the new owner—namely you, Mr. Brisbane—would live in it, at least for part of the year. His will specifically states that in order to retain ownership, you must establish residence in the house for four periods each year upon the traditional dates when the rents are paid.”

“Four periods each year?” Brisbane asked.

Mr. Sanderson hastened to reassure him. “They are not lengthy periods, sir. A fortnight only at each of the customary rent days. It has always been the custom at Thorncross for the master to accept the rents.”

Plum perked up. “Brisbane, you’ll be a feudal landlord.”

“Rents are due on quarter days,” I said, thinking aloud. “Michaelmas was last month, so we would not have to take possession until Christmas. That would give us two months to make arrangements.”

Mr. Sanderson coughed gently. “It is the tradition in other places for rents to be paid upon quarter days,” he corrected. “It has always been the way at Thorncross for the rents to be paid upon cross-quarter days. In the old parlance, Candlemas in February, May Day, Lammas in August, and All Hallow’s Eve.”

“All Hallow’s Eve! That’s in two days,” I protested.

Mr. Sanderson gave me a lugubrious nod. “Indeed, my lady. Now you will understand my haste this evening. I am afraid the papers pertaining to this bequest were mislaid for a few days, and when they were unearthed, I discovered that Mr. Brisbane was in grave danger of losing his bequest unless he travels down to Thorncross at once.”

“And what happens if I lose the bequest?” Brisbane inquired. “What if I refuse to go?”

Mr. Sanderson blanched. “Unthinkable,” he said hoarsely.

“Let us think about it anyway,” Brisbane prodded. “What would become of Thorncross?”

Mr. Sanderson tugged at his collar. “It would be torn down.”

“Torn down! Are you quite certain?” I asked.

“I am afraid so, my lady,” he assured me. “Mr. Thornhill was quite specific upon the point. If Mr. Brisbane will not be master of Thorncross, no man shall.”

* * *

Mr. Sanderson departed some short time later, still visibly shaken by his errand, but looking much happier now that he had accomplished his business. Brisbane walked with him to the door, then closed it behind him, turning to face the three of us with a curious expression, very like a schoolmaster addressing rebellious pupils.

“All right, you lot. Why were you tormenting that fellow?”

Plum shrugged and pointed to Portia and myself. “Because they were, and it looked like fun. But I’ve no idea why they took against him.”

Portia spread her hands. “Ask Julia. She’s the one who disliked him the moment he came in. I merely abetted her.”

Brisbane lifted a brow at me, and I raised my chin in defiance. “He tried to get rid of us. It was rude. It was for you to say if your business was to be shared with us, and no man has the right to turn me out of my own rooms. If it was so dreadfully important and secret, he ought to have summoned you to his chambers.”

Brisbane nodded slowly. “Quite right. So why didn’t he?”

I blinked. “You agree with me?”

Brisbane resumed his chair, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. “Entirely. I had no intention of seeing him alone since he came to our home. Private business ought to be conducted in a solicitor’s chambers. So why didn’t he summon me there? Or write ahead to request an appointment? Instead he calls after dinner when he had every expectation we might be entertaining, behaving furtively and giving us that ridiculous story of a legacy from a grateful client.”

“You don’t believe it then?” Portia asked.

Brisbane ignored her and cocked his head at me. “Do you?”

I thought a moment. “No. Although I can’t imagine why. It seems plausible enough. But everything about the man was just slightly off somehow. Call it intuition, but I don’t believe him.”

“Neither do I,” he said firmly.

“You’re a damnably suspicious pair,” Plum said, helping himself to a rose water biscuit. “It is possible that some generous old fellow was sincerely grateful for your aid, Brisbane. You have rescued any number of perilous situations from disaster.”

“Yes, but I am more often responsible for putting people in gaol than keeping them out of it,” Brisbane retorted.

“Can you think of a case where you might have earned the gratitude of a lady?” Portia asked.

“That’s the crux of it,” Brisbane responded thoughtfully. “It might be any case. It’s far too vague to indicate any particular investigation. Did I restore a family treasure? Return a cache of stolen love letters? Destroy a purloined photograph? And it might have been any time in the past twenty years. That’s rather a lot of ground to cover.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How many women do you suppose are gadding about with good reason to feel indebted to you?”

He assumed an expression of innocence. “Just in London or on the Continent, as well?”

I tossed a cushion at him which he caught neatly and slipped behind his head. “No, there’s no way of knowing which case, which lady. It’s all too vague.”

“Deliberately so,” I added.

“Piffle,” Plum put in. “You’re just too cynical, the pair of you. You are looking a very generous gift horse in the mouth, if you ask me.”

“In my experience,” Brisbane said seriously, “gift horses are usually the ones with the most dangerous bite.”