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With degrees in English and History and a particular love of Regency and Victorian times, Deanna Raybourn is 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 in the Sanctuary is Deanna’s second novel in the Silent series featuring the effervescent Lady Julia Grey and the enigmatic private investigator Nicholas Brisbane.
Deanna is currently hard at work on her next book, Silent on the Moor, which will be available soon from MIRA Books.
Find out more online at www.mirabooks.co.uk/ deannaraybourn
Also by Deanna Raybourn
SILENT IN THE GRAVE
A Lady Julia Grey Mystery
SILENT in the SANCTUARY
Deanna Raybourn
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As ever, many thanks to my esteemed agent, Pam Hopkins, for all her hard work and support, for her unflagging optimism and for her ferocious devotion. Many thanks as well to my editor, the elegantly tenacious Valerie Gray, whose commitment to my writing has been truly humbling in the best possible way. My life and my work are the better for knowing both of you.
I am incredibly grateful to the MIRA editorial, marketing and PR teams for their enthusiasm and the exquisite care they have lavished on my novels. Particular debts of gratitude are owed to Cris Jaw and Julianna Kolesova for their stylish artistic contributions to this series. And many, many thanks to the unseen hands whose work is often unremarked, but so very essential and much appreciated – the proofreading, production and sales departments.
Thanks also to my Jackson girls, as always, for all their love and support. Particular thanks to Kim Taylor, for going above and beyond the call of friendship, and all of those who have done more than I could ever have asked. It is a gift to know you and to call you friends.
And thanks most of all to my family; thanks to my daughter and my father for their many little kindnesses, and to my husband, for everything. As ever.
This book is dedicated to my mother,
Barbara Russell Jones, who has read every word I have ever written and loved them all.
THE FIRST CHAPTER
Italy, 1887
Travelers must be content. —AS YOU LIKE IT
“Well, I suppose that settles it. Either we all go home to England for Christmas or we hurl ourselves into Lake Como to atone for our sins.”
I threw my elder brother a repressive look. “Do not be so morose, Plum. Father’s only really angry with Lysander,” I pointed out, brandishing the letter from England with my fingertips. The paper fairly scorched my skin. Father’s temper was a force of nature. Unable to rant at Lysander directly, he had applied himself to written chastisement with great vigour.
“The rest of us can go home easily enough,” I said. “Just think of it—Christmas in England! Plum pudding and snapdragon, mistletoe and wassail—”
“Chilblains and damp beds, fogs so thick you cannot set foot out of doors,” Plum put in, his expression sour. “Someone sobbing in the linen cupboard, Father locking himself in the study after threatening to drown the lot of us in the moat.”
“I know,” I said, my excitement rising. “Won’t it be wonderful?”
Plum’s face cracked into a thin, wistful smile. “It will, actually. I have rather missed the old pile—and the family, as well. But I shall be sorry to leave Italy. It has been an adventure I shall not soon forget.”
On that point we were in complete agreement. Italy had been a balm to me, soothing and stimulating at once. I had joined two of my brothers, Lysander and Eglamour—Plum to the family—after suffering the loss of my husband and later my home, and very nearly my own life. I had arrived in Italy with my health almost broken and my spirit in a sorrier state. Four months in a warm, sunny clime with the company of my brothers had restored me. And though the weather had lately grown chill and the seasons were turning inward, I had no wish to leave Italy yet. Still, the lure of family and home, particularly at Christmas, was strong.
“Well, who is to say we must return permanently? Italy shall always be here. We can go to England for Christmas and still be back in Venice in time for Carnevale.”
Plum’s smile deepened. “That is terribly cunning of you, Julia. I think living among Italians has developed a latent talent in you for intrigue.”
It was a jest, but the barb struck too close to home, and I lowered my head over my needlework. I had engaged in an intrigue in England although I had never discussed it with my brothers. There had been an investigation into my husband’s death, a private investigation conducted by an inquiry agent. I had assisted him and unmasked the killer myself. It had been dangerous, nasty work, and I told myself I was happy to be done with it.
But even as I plunged my needle into the canvas, trailing a train of luscious scarlet silk behind it, I felt a pang of regret—regret that my days were occupied with nothing more purposeful than those of any other lady of society. I had had a glimpse of what it meant to be useful, and it stung now to be merely decorative. I longed for something more important than the embroidering of cushions or the pouring of tea to sustain me.
Of my other regrets, I would not let myself think. I yanked at the needle, snarling the thread.
“Blast,” I muttered, rummaging in my work basket for my scissors.
“We are a deceptively domestic pair,” Plum said suddenly.
I snapped the threads loose and peered at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
He waved a hand. “This lovely villa, the fireside, both of us in slippers. I, reading my paper from England whilst you ply your needle. We might be any couple, by any fireside, placidly whiling away the darkening hours of an autumn eve.”
I glanced about. The rented villa was comfortably, even luxuriously appointed. The long windows of the drawing room overlooked Lake Como, although the heavy velvet draperies had long since been drawn against the gathering dark. “I suppose, but—”
What I had been about to say next was lost. Morag, my maid, entered the drawing room to announce a visitor.
“The Count of Four-not-cheese.”
I gave her an evil look and tossed my needlework aside. Plum dashed his newspaper to the floor and jumped to his feet.
“Alessandro!” he cried. “You are a welcome sight! We did not expect you until Saturday.”
Morag did not move, and our visitor stepped neatly around her, doffing his hat and cape. They were speckled with raindrops that glittered in the firelight. He held them out to Morag who looked at him as though he had just offered her a dead animal. I rushed to take them.
“Alessandro, how lovely to see you.” I thrust the cape and hat at Morag. “Take these and brush them well,” I instructed. “And his name is Fornacci,” I hissed at her.
She gave me a shrug and a curl of the lip and departed, dragging the tail of Alessandro’s beautiful coat on the marble floor as she went.
I turned to him, smiling brightly. “Do come in and get warm by the fire. It has turned beastly out there and you must be chilled to the bone.”
He gave me a look rich with gratitude, and something rather more as well. Plum and I bustled about, plumping