But that was a cynical thought. By her reputation, Madame de Bellefleur had set herself beyond the boundaries of most of polite society. Gentlemen would call often, ladies almost never. I found myself wondering if I was the first, and I felt a little stab of pity for this charming and perhaps slightly lonely woman.
She threw open a door and gestured for me to enter. My first impression was one of serenity. The colours were soft, as were the lights, and it occurred to me only later that these were the most flattering for an aging beauty.
But for now they served to soothe Brisbane’s eyes, I realized as he rose slowly to greet me, still wearing his smoked spectacles. I would have waved him back, but there was something ferocious about the set of his jaw that stayed me. He was still struggling with the notion of his own weakness and I was not surprised. I loathed being ill. How much more must a strong, otherwise healthy man hate his infirmity?
I smiled at him and offered my hand. “Mr. Brisbane. I am so glad to see you up and about. I hope you are well on the way to recovery.”
I was rather proud of that little speech. I did try to make it sound casual, but the truth was, I had rehearsed it in the carriage all the way from Grey House to Primrose Hill.
He resumed his seat after I had taken mine, a lovely little Empire piece upholstered in pale blue bee-embroidered silk. He did not look as bad as I had feared. He had shaved and his hair was orderly, though still untrimmed. Other than his pallor and the darkened lenses and a few lines still bracketing his mouth, there was little trace of his ordeal. It seemed incredible that a man could recover so thoroughly from the wreck that Brisbane had been a mere week before. I made up my mind to ferret into a few of Val’s medical texts when I returned home to learn more about Brisbane’s condition.
“My lady?” he said archly. I jumped, realizing with a dart of embarrassment that I had been staring.
“I am sorry. Building castles in Spain, as my grandmother used to say,” I told him with a fatuous smile.
His mouth turned down slightly at the corners. He seemed guarded, although whether because of his condition or Madame de Bellefleur’s hovering silken presence I could not tell.
“I am recovering,” he said at last. “Thank you for the basket of fruit. It was kindly done.”
I started, thinking of the last place I had seen that basket, tumbled on the floor with cherries spilling out, crushed juicily underfoot as Brisbane leaned into me, his arm laced about my waist. Deliberately, I pushed the thought away.
“Think nothing of it, I beg you.” I hesitated, a bit reluctant to produce the Psalter in Madame de Bellefleur’s presence. As if reading my thoughts, Brisbane lifted his eyes to the lady.
“Fleur, I think Lady Julia would like a cup of tea. Do you think that Therese—”
“Of course! I shall go and supervise her myself.” She gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Therese is old and very set in the French way of doing things. Sometimes her tea is not to Brisbane’s liking. His taste in coffee is that of a Turk, but he is a proper Scotsman about his tea. Have yourselves a pleasant tête-à-tête and I will return in a little while with refreshment.”
She withdrew and I watched Brisbane watch her leave. His eyes lingered, but not hotly, and I found myself wondering again the precise nature of their connection.
“I appreciate your willingness to come here, my lady,” he said, his voice pitched too low for her to hear through the closed door. “Not every lady would feel comfortable calling at so notorious a house.”
“Is it notorious?” I asked him with a nonchalance that fooled neither of us. “I had no idea. I had only heard Madame de Bellefleur spoken of as a great beauty, and I am glad of the chance to make her acquaintance.”
His lips lifted very slightly, almost but not quite a smile. “You are a better liar than I would have thought. But thank you for that.”
I inclined my head. It would be pointless and stupid to contradict him. I knew that I was in fact playing fast and loose with my reputation by coming to the Bellefleur home, but then I was beginning to realize that I was not altogether comfortable with my reputation in the first place.
“She is your friend, Mr. Brisbane. I trust that if she were a truly objectionable person, you would not bring us together in this fashion.”
“No, rather the opposite. For some reason, I have always thought that you and Fleur would get on rather well. You have one or two qualities in common that most women lack.”
I edged forward, wildly interested in what those qualities might be, but he disappointed me. He chose that moment to cough a little and reach for the tumbler of water that sat on the table near his elbow. By the time he had swallowed a good part of it and caught his breath, he had lost his train of thought or abandoned it on purpose. Instead, he stared at me through those strange smoky lenses, scrutinizing my face until I could bear it no longer.
“What is it, Mr. Brisbane? Have I left the house with my hat on backward?” I asked, smiling to relieve the touch of asperity in my voice.
He passed a hand over his brow. “Forgive me. I have a strange sense that I have seen you, quite recently, but I cannot place it. A dream, I think.”
My heart began to drum so loudly that I thought he certainly must hear it. I was grateful then for the high collar that hid the pulse at my throat.
“It must have been. Perhaps you took some medicine while you were ill. They can often provoke strange dreams.”
His eyes fell briefly to my mouth, his fingers twitched, and I wondered if he was smelling ripe cherries, remembering the feel of a supple glove against his finger.
“Yes, they can,” he said finally. I dared to breathe then. Apparently he had convinced himself that I had been an apparition, conjured by his drugged fever. Would God he always thought it so, I prayed fervently. The thought of prayer caused my hand to move to my reticule.
“Mr. Brisbane, while you were indisposed, I discovered something—something rather remarkable.”
I drew out the Psalter and handed it to him. He took it, and to my surprise, did not open it at once. He inspected the cover closely, running those sensitive fingers over the binding, the edges, the stamped crest and Prince of Wales feathers. He even lifted it to his nose to sniff lightly. Curiously, he closed his eyes, pressing the book to his brow. I thought for a moment that he might have relapsed into migraine, so intently still did he become.
