Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn Page B

she hoped to quiet the little beast, she was entirely disappointed. Jane the Younger crowed her triumph as Little Jack’s face darkened murderously. I retrieved the rabbit.
    “No, Jane, you must learn to wait your turn,” I said, eyeing my sister sternly.
    Before she could respond, Mrs. Smith appeared wreathed in smiles. “I do hope the fresh air gives you all an appetite. There’s roasted apples with fresh cream after luncheon, and I’ve plucked pheasants for tonight’s dinner in honour of the occasion.”
    “The occasion?” Plum asked, rousing himself from a quick sketch of the manor, a streak of charcoal across one cheekbone giving him a dashing air.
    “The occasion? Bless me, sir! It’s Bonfire Night. The lads will spend the day building the bonfire on the village green and come tonight they’ll light it up as grand as any bonfire you’ll see. The babes will long be abed, but the four grown folk will certainly want to see it. And you must not forget about Guy Fawkes’ ghost!”
    Brisbane replaced a letter he had been reading in its envelope. “Three, I’m afraid, Mrs. Smith. I am to London on the afternoon train.”
    I glanced at the letter. “Trouble, dearest?”
    He gave me a significant look. “It’s from Monk. He’s learnt something about our friend in London.” I knew he meant Mr. Sanderson, the solicitor who had brought us the news about Thorncross, and before Brisbane said another word, I understood.
    “He is not what he presented himself to be?” I asked carefully.
    “He is not.”
    “Oh, but you can’t go!” Mrs. Smith said, suddenly sounding rather frantic. “It’s Bonfire Night! You must stay or the house is forfeit.”
    Brisbane slanted her a curious look. “So you know the terms of my inheritance?”
    She smoothed her skirts in an attempt to gather her wits, no doubt. “Everyone does,” she said easily. “You’ll not want to forfeit such a lovely house, not when we’ve all gone to such pains to make it so comfortable,” she pleaded.
    The babies began to squabble again and the nannies swooped in to pick them up and console their charges. I noticed Jane the Younger was once more in possession of the rabbit, but Morag soon put an end to that, removing it decisively with an expression of such ferocity that even Jane the Younger did not dare oppose her.
    I turned my attention to Mrs. Smith. “I’m afraid if my husband says he must return to London, he must,” I told her, then looked to Brisbane. “But perhaps I should go with you?”
    “No!” Mrs. Smith interjected.
    We looked as one to her, our expressions varying only in degrees of surprise that the housekeeper should raise her voice so adamantly, but she did not temper her insistence. “You cannot go, my lady. Not you, as well. Wait until tomorrow, Mr. Brisbane,” she pleaded. “Just until tomorrow and you can all go.”
    Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so important about tomorrow?”
    “Nothing,” she said, twisting her hands, her expression one of frank desperation. Suddenly, a look of animal cunning came into her eyes. “But it would be very unkind to leave without making an effort to find what’s become of her ladyship’s maid.”
    She flicked me a glance, and I looked around in astonishment. “My maid? Whatever do you mean? What’s happened to Liddell?”
    “Only that she’s gone missing.” Her manner was smugly triumphant now as pandemonium broke out and the four of us began to question her at once. Finally, Brisbane raised a hand.
    “Mrs. Smith, explain,” he ordered.
    “Well,” she began slowly, gathering speed as she grew more confident, “she never came to breakfast this morning. After she dressed her ladyship,” she said with a nod to me, “she went for a walk and never came back. She could be anywhere. Why, she could be in the Haunted Wood with a broken leg or fallen down a well or—”
    Brisbane held up a hand. “Yes, Mrs. Smith. There is no need for every ghoulish possibility.