New York Times bestselling author Deanna Raybourn returns with a brand-new novella starring her beloved heroine, the intrepid Lady Julia Grey
To mark the passing of another decade, the esteemed—and eccentric—March family have assembled at Bellmont Abbey to perform the Twelfth Night Revels for their sleepy English village. But before Lady Julia and her handsome, sleuthing husband, Nicolas Brisbane, can take to the stage, a ruckus in the stable yard demands their attention. An abandoned infant is found nestled in the steel helm of St. George. What’s more, their only lead is the local legend of a haunted cottage and its ghastly inhabitant—who seems to have returned.
Once again, Lady Julia and Nicholas take up the challenge to investigate, and when the source of the mystery is revealed, they’ll be faced with an impossible choice—one that will alter the course of their lives…forever.
Twelfth Night
Deanna Raybourn
Contents
I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.
—Othello, II, iii, 31
January 2, 1890
“Julia, I shall count to ten. If you aren’t thoroughly awake by then, I am going to dash the contents of this pitcher into your face, and I warn you, I’ve only just cracked the ice on the surface of it.”
My sister’s voice pierced the lovely morning hush of the bedchamber with all the delicacy of a gong. I reached out one finger to poke my husband’s naked shoulder.
“Brisbane. Portia is here.”
He heaved a sigh into the eiderdown. “You’re dreaming. Portia wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” she asked. “And, Julia, this is the first time I’ve seen your husband entirely unclothed. May I offer my congratulations?”
With a violent oath, Brisbane flung himself under the bedclothes.
“Modest as a virgin, I see,” Portia remarked. “Julia, I’m still counting. Silently. I’ve reached seven. Are you awake yet?”
I flapped a hand at her but didn’t raise my head.
“Eight.”
Brisbane’s voice was muffled but distinct. “If you don’t leave this room, Portia, I will toss you out the nearest window. If memory serves, it’s forty feet down, and I won’t be gentle.”
Portia clucked her tongue. “How high will you count?”
“I won’t,” he told her flatly.
He sat up, bedclothes pooling about his waist, grim determination etched on his face.
Portia backed up swiftly. “Very well. But do hurry, both of you. You’re terribly late for the Revels rehearsal and two of our sisters have resorted to fisticuffs. Oddly, not the two you would think.”
I sat bolt upright, and Portia winced. “For God’s sake, Julia, have a little shame and put your breasts away.”
I scrabbled for a sheet, regarding her through gritted eyes. “We have four days to perfect the Revels for Twelfth Night, and it isn’t as though we’ve never done them before, is it? Thirty times in the last three centuries, Portia. I rather think the family have the hang of it.”
“But Brisbane has never played St. George before, and he is the centre-piece of the entire Revels. Now, get up and put on clothes, you disgusting hedonists, and come down at once. Father’s threatened to come himself if you aren’t there in a quarter of an hour.”
She turned on her heel and made for the door. “Oh, and there’s an abandoned baby in the stables. Father expects you to find out from whence it came.”
She slammed the door behind her, and I winced. “What day is it?”
Brisbane’s expression was thoughtful. “Second of January. Do you need the year, as well?” he asked sweetly.
I put out my tongue at him. “Surely I wasn’t that intoxicated.”
He snorted. “You started in on your brother’s punch on New Year’s Eve and carried on right through the first. No wonder you’re the worse for it today.”
I turned my head very slowly and blinked as he came in and out of focus. “When did you get a twin?”
His mouth curved into a smile. “Have a wash in cold water and some strong coffee with a big breakfast. You’ll feel right as rain.”
The notion of food made my stomach heave, but I did as he instructed, eating everything my maid, Morag, carried up on a tray. She helped me to wash and dress, slamming hairbrushes and powder boxes with unmistakable relish.
“Morag, you are a fiend from the bowels of hell,” I told her flatly.
She gave me a look of reproof. “And no lady drinks to excess.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but waved a hand at her instead. “Oh, God, I haven’t the strength to argue. Fine. I’m a disgrace. Just make me look presentable so the rest of the family do not suspect what wretched shape I’m in.”
She did her best, wrestling me into my corset and a pink morning gown that brought a little colour to my bilious cheeks. She rouged me lightly and stepped back. “It’s the best I can do with what I had to work with,” she remarked.
Brisbane, who had washed and dressed himself