Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

With degrees in English and History and a particular love of Regency and Victorian times, DEANNA RAYBOURNis a committed anglophile, who, at her husband’s insistence, gave up teaching to devote her energies to writing. Clearly her husband knew what he was doing.

Silent on the Moor is Deanna’s third novel in the Silentseries featuring the effervescent Lady Julia Grey and the enigmatic private investigator Nicholas Brisbane.

Deanna is currently hard at work on her next book from her home in Virginia.

Find out more online at www.mirabooks.co.uk/deannaraybourn

Also by Deanna Raybourn

SILENT IN THE GRAVE

SILENT IN THE SANCTUARY

Silent on the Moor

Deanna Raybourn

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to

Courtenay James Jones,

a far better father than any

I could have written.

One of the loveliest aspects of being a writer is having the opportunity to acknowledge the debts I owe. Great appreciation and tremendous thanks:

To my family: my daughter who provides endless companionship, laughter and very often food, my mother who tidies everything up – including my manuscripts, and my husband who makes it all possible.

To my agent, Pam Hopkins, a woman of tenacity and good humour whose skills at hand-holding, negotiating, and talking her writers down from ledges is unsurpassed.

To my editor, the stylish and demanding Valerie Gray who never rests unless she has my best.

To my friends, particularly those who travelled great distances, hosted me, shepherded me through their cities, or made multiple trips to events, most especially Vanessa, Sherri, kim, Stephanie, Jerusha, Suzanne, kristin, David, Tyler, Sali and my beloved godfather, Billy.

To those who have given technical assistance and shown exceptional professional generosity: Chris Wallbruch, Dr Sandra Hammock, Shea Titlow, and Dr Gregory Davis.

To all of the unsung heroes and heroines of publishing, the many hardworking people through whose hands my books pass and are made better and who work so tirelessly to get my books into the hands of readers–editorial, marketing, sales, public relations, and production. Most particularly, I would like to thank Emily Ohanjanians and Nancy Fischer for their elegant and attentive contributions to the editing process, and Michael Rehder for the exquisite new covers.

To the many booksellers who have shared their enthusiasm with their customers and converted them to readers.

To the readers of blog and books who have been so generous in their praise and kind in their compliments. I have shared my stories with you, and in return you have shared your stories with me. Thank you.

For now sits expectation in the air .

—William Shakespeare

Henry V

“Julia Grey, I would rather see you hanged than watch any sister of mine go haring off after a man who will not have her,” my brother Bellmont raged. “And Portia, I am thoroughly appalled that you would not only condone such behaviour, but abet it by accompanying Julia. You are her elder sister. You ought to set an example.”

I sighed and stared longingly at the whisky decanter. Portia and I had known that the summons to our father’s London townhouse was a thinly-veiled ambush, but I do not think either of us had expected the attack to be so quick, nor so brutal. We had scarcely taken our seats in Father’s comfortable library before our eldest brother launched into a tirade against our proposed visit to Yorkshire. Father, ensconced behind his vast mahogany desk, said nothing. His expression was inscrutable behind his half-moon spectacles.

Catching my wistful glance, Portia rose and poured us both glasses of whisky. “Take this, dearest,” she urged. “Bellmont is in rare form. He will surely rail at us until supper unless he has an apoplexy first,” she finished cheerfully.

Bellmont’s already high colour deepened alarmingly. “You may well jest about this, but it is unacceptable for Julia to accept an invitation to stay with Brisbane at his country house. He is an unmarried man, and she is a widow of thirty. Even if you are there to chaperone, Portia, you must admit, it would be a complete violation of propriety.”

“Oh, Julia hasn’t been invited,” Portia responded helpfully. “I was. Julia rather invited herself.”

Bellmont clicked his teeth together and drew in a deep breath, his nostrils going white at the edges. “If that is supposed to offer me comfort, it is a cold one, I assure you.”

Portia shrugged and sipped at her whisky. Bellmont turned to me, deliberately softening his tone. At more than forty years of age and heir to our father’s earldom, he had long since grown accustomed to having his own way. It was only with his eccentric family that his success was mixed. With a cunning blend of sternness, cajolery, and logic, he was sometimes able to bend us to his will, but just as often he found himself not speaking to more than one of his nine siblings. Now he attempted an appeal to my reason.

“Julia, I understand you were quite bereft when Edward died. You were very young to be a widow, and I am sympathetic to the fact that you felt compelled to search out your husband’s murderer.” I raised my brows. He had not been so sympathetic at the time. When I had unmasked my husband’s killer in a dramatic scene during which my townhouse was burned down and I nearly lost my life, Bellmont had actually stopped speaking to me for two months. Apparently, murder is a failing of the middle classes only. Aristocrats are supposed to be above such unpleasantness.

He went on. “I realise your connection with Mr. Brisbane was a necessary evil at the time. He has proved himself a thoroughly capable inquiry agent and, mercifully, a discreet one. But your association with this man cannot continue. I do not know what Father was thinking to invite him to Bellmont Abbey at Christmas, but it was badly done, and it has given you ideas.”

“And God knows women mustn’t have ideas ,” Portia murmured into her glass. Bellmont did not even bother to look at her. We were well-accustomed to Portia’s pointed asides.

I looked helplessly at Father, who merely shrugged and poured himself a glass of whisky. If Bellmont continued on we should become a family of inebriates.

“Monty,” I began, deliberately sweetening my tone, “I do appreciate your concern. But Father has already explained to you Brisbane was there to pursue an investigation. He left before the family arrived for Christmas. You did not even see him. I have never invited him to accompany me to your home, nor have I ever foisted him upon you in any social situation, although he would not be entirely out of place. His great-uncle is the Duke of Aberdour, you know.”

Bellmont rubbed a hand over his face, smoothing the furrows that marked his handsome brow. “My dear, his antecedents are quite immaterial. He is in trade. He is a half-Gypsy vagabond who makes his living by dealing in the sordid miseries of others. His exploits are fodder for the newspapers, and we have been dragged through those rather enough at present,” he finished, shooting Father a look that was ripe with bitterness.

Father waved an indolent hand. “Do not blame me, boy. I did my best to sweep the entire matter under the carpet, as did Brisbane.” That much was true. The newspapers, through Father’s influence and Brisbane’s connections, had taken little enough notice of the events at Bellmont Abbey, although a few rather distasteful morsels had found their way into print.