The Dark Enquiry. Deanna Raybourn

Little Ned?”

      This fellow was somewhat smaller, but his weapon was significantly more impressive, an Italian stiletto, long of blade and polished to a wicked gleam that shone in the dim light of the alley.

      Brisbane sighed. “How considerate of you all to take it in turns.” Before the other fellow had quite got himself prepared, Brisbane moved, slapping the blade of the stiletto between his palms and twisting sharply upwards sending it clattering out of sight. The fellow’s eyes rolled in fright, and I almost felt sorry for him.

      He lunged forward and Brisbane countered, clasping him about the neck even as the miscreant’s hands reached for his throat. They remained locked for a short moment, nose to nose, until Brisbane closed one hand about the fellow’s wrist and gave another sharp twist. I heard the bone snap and the scream that came after. I daresay if the fellow had been clever, he would have left it there and the matter would have ended. But he lunged for Brisbane instead, and at that close a distance, he had little chance. He lashed out with his uninjured hand, and Brisbane neatly dodged the blow. Quick as a serpent, he put out his hand and closed it about the fellow’s windpipe. The villain clawed at the air with his free hand, his eyes rolling even more wildly than before, and just as they went completely white, Brisbane dropped him.

      “Is he dead?” I demanded.

      Brisbane snorted. “Not by half. Merely a touch of asphyxia and a broken wrist. And I will remind you, my dear, he did attempt to stab me.”

      Brisbane stepped back over the fallen men to retrieve his coat. He shrugged into it and took a five-pound note from his case, dropped it on the smaller of the pair, and before I could speak, he took my arm and we began to walk, very fast indeed.

      “That was not terribly sporting,” I remarked when we had gone a safe distance and were certain we were not being followed.

      He stared at me in frank astonishment. “Sporting? Julia, there is nothing sporting about a street fight. The rule is to drop the other fellow as fast as possible and by any means possible.”

      “I meant the money. You know he will be robbed before he wakes,” I chided him.

      He frowned. “It was strategic. Five pounds was a fair price for getting any lingering villains to quarrel amongst themselves for the money rather than chase us. Now, be quiet. I am trying to deduce precisely where we are.”

      I did as he instructed, attempting to bring some order to my hair as he simply stood and closed his eyes. I knew he would not attempt to determine our position by landmarks, but was retracing our journey in his mind, calling forth his excellent sense of direction and his intimate knowledge of the city to establish our whereabouts.

      “I have it,” he said after a moment. There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice, and I thought again that this was a man deeply content with his lot in life.

      He took my hand and set off at a rapid pace, almost too rapid, and I had cause then to be grateful that I was wearing a comfortable pair of boots as I scurried in his wake. To my surprise, we plunged even deeper into the shadowy stews of London, nipping in and out of dirty alleys and narrow streets, dodging both the occasional patrolling bobby and importunate prostitute. At last, we emerged into a more respectable street, where I suddenly remembered my hansom.

      “Brisbane! We must go back. I haven’t dismissed my driver. He will still be waiting for me,” I said, tugging at his hand. It remained clamped hard upon my wrist.

      “I will dismiss him. You are going home, directly home,” he said through clenched teeth, and I knew the easy camaraderie we had shared during our adventure was finished. Now the danger was past, Brisbane was giving way to his temper, and I suspected the ensuing scene would not be a pleasant one.

      I sighed and continued to trot along behind until we reached our own garden. We entered through the back gate, cutting through the darkness until we came to the back door. Brisbane rapped sharply, and I was not surprised to find Aquinas standing at the ready, lamp in hand.

      He opened the door, bowing low. “Sir, my lady.”

      To his credit, he did not so much as blink at my attire.

      Brisbane did not turn loose of me yet. “Have Lady Julia’s things arrived?”

      “Yes, sir. Morag arrived back less than an hour past, and Lady Bettiscombe has sent along Lady Julia’s carpetbag with her compliments.”

      I smothered a sigh. Apparently none of my conspirators could stand against Brisbane.

      “Excellent,” Brisbane said. “I will see Lady Julia to her room and then I am going out again. You need not wait up, Aquinas. And I should mention that Lady Julia will not be accompanying me,” he added coldly.

      Aquinas bowed again. “Yes, sir. And if she should attempt to?”

      I crossed my arms. “Brisbane, really! You’ve no need to talk about me as if I were not here.”

      Aquinas kept an enquiring look fixed upon Brisbane, who flicked me a quelling glance.

      “If my lady so much as opens the door to her bedchamber, you have my permission to use force to restrain her.”

      “Brisbane! Aquinas, ignore him. He does not mean it,” I assured him.

      Brisbane rounded on me, and I saw the rage, barely restrained within him. “Do. Not. Try. Me,” he managed through gritted teeth.

      Before I could reply, he stalked past Aquinas, dragging me along and up the stairs until we reached the bedchamber. Morag was there, laying out my nightdress.

      “Out,” Brisbane ordered. It was a mark of his bad temper that he should speak to her so. He was usually gentle as a lamb with Morag, treating her with better courtesy than he did most society ladies. She started, dropping my nightdress onto the floor.

      “Judas,” I muttered as she bent to retrieve it. She put her tongue out at me as she fled, banging the door sharply behind her.

      Brisbane towed me as far as the bed, where he dropped me as if I weighed no more than a feather. I blinked up at him and he braced his hands upon the bedposts, clenching so hard his knuckles turned white and I heard the bones cracking.

      He leaned forward, the crescent-moon scar on his cheekbone standing out in livid relief against the smooth olive of his skin. I had never seen his eyes so fathomlessly dark, so implacable. Usually Brisbane’s temper was cold, his rages controlled, but this night, he burned with it, the heat of his anger fairly radiated from him, scorching me where I sat.

      “I do not know where to begin,” he ground out. “I have never lifted a hand to you in anger, but you must know what it is costing me not to beat you within an inch of your life.”

      “Brisbane,” I began, my tone deliberately soothing.

      I reached a hand and he shied as if I had burned him. “Do not think to wheedle me. I have been soft with you, Julia. I have looked past deeds other men would have whipped you for and I have laughed. I have allowed you to take chances that might well have got you killed, and this is the coin with which you choose to repay me.”

      “Do not say that,” I protested. “I have taken every precaution to preserve my safety. And the chances I take are nothing compared to the risks you collect! And do not attempt to turn this back upon me when you have lied to me,” I flung.

      It was a hit, a palpable one, for he rocked back. “What do you mean?”

      “My brother called upon you, and you gave me a lie when I asked if you had seen him. You cannot deplore my subterfuges when you force me to employ them,” I explained calmly. It was a gambit only. I pretended to coolness so he could not see how deeply his emotion had affected me. If he had pressed his anger just a moment further, my poise would have deserted me, of that I had no doubt. I had no skill for anger. My father was a gentle soul, whose occasional bad moods were something his children laughed about. My previous husband had given me a taste of violence and I had found it completely unnerved me. Until this moment, Brisbane’s