The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,3
mention it.” His gaze rested on Cross’s solitary travelling bag. “Father’s not travelling with us?”
For the first time since receiving Mereweather’s diagnosis, Cross felt something of the tension within him ease. He sank back onto the train seat. “We’re joining him in Ireland.”
Julian nodded, smoothing his jacket back into place. “That would explain why we’re going to Liverpool.” He picked up a carpet bag and stowed it on the overhead rail.
Cross raised his eyebrows. “You’re travelling light.”
“I inferred a certain amount of urgency from your telegram. My wardrobe’s following.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
Sarcasm slid off Julian like water off a duck’s back. “I thought it better not to pack until I knew what father had done this time.”
“You should not assume that just because we are going to Ireland at brief notice, your father has got himself into difficulty. There could be many reasons for us to be making this journey.”
Julian folded his gloved hands on his knees, leaned back against his seat. He waited, his expression mild.
Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Cross snorted and drew Pip’s letter from his jacket pocket. “Read this.”
Julian read the letter. He did not look at all surprised. “A banshee. Why else would we be going to Ireland?”
“This is no laughing matter. Your father takes the existence of banshees seriously. He must be concerned.”
“Undoubtedly,” Julian murmured. “Concerned about how best to procure an interview with one.”
Cross’s chest clenched tight, even as his mouth smiled. That was the best and worst of Pip. His boyish enthusiasms that gave him such delight and posed such danger. “We must ensure that his research does not imperil him.”
“It may be too late for that.” Julian read the letter a second time before returning it to Cross. “Who is Lord Connaught?”
“An American. Family emigrated to the states to make their fortune. Didn’t quite pan out as planned. O’Flaherty’s a journalist of some variety. Distant relative died, he inherited a castle.”
“And a banshee and a great-aunt. I don’t know which of the two would be the more disconcerting.” Julian took two ties out of his jacket pocket and held them against the sleeve of his jacket. “Do you think the dark grey for a banshee? The crimson is more suitable for vampires, I feel.”
Cross snorted, folding the letter back into his pocket. “What’s wrong with the tie you’re wearing now?”
“This is a leaving the house by stealth tie,” Julian answered, fingers busy undoing the knots. “Completely unsuitable.”
The tie was a blameless brown, in keeping with the tweed ensemble, but Cross knew that it was better not to question Julian’s decisions. “Why not green?”
“Too obvious. I wouldn’t want to offend the banshee.” He paused. “Or the great aunt.”
“I think the banshee is more concerned with things other than your wardrobe.” Cross settled back against his seat. He encountered something hard and discovered the wrapped parcel containing the cigar case. He pushed it back under his coat, before Julian could spot it.
“Harbingers of death, aren’t they?” Julian removed the offending tie from around his neck and began knotting its replacement. “I understood that they foretold the death of a member of the family, not caused it.”
Cross inclined his head. “Your father was excited about the prospect of a banshee and spoke at length about his knowledge of them. I too inferred they were a benign spirit, but your father must have some reason for his inference.”
Julian pulled his tie into shape and smoothed it down. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I know as much about the situation as you do. Your father’s letter is the first intimation I’ve had of anything untoward.”
Julian’s brow clouded. “There’s something different about you. Something—off.” He stood in front of Cross, his nostrils flaring. “You smell sour.”
“Positive,” Cross snapped. “The carriage hasn’t been cleaned. That’s all.”
Julian hesitated, his nostrils flaring.
Cross picked up his newspaper. “Did you have a pleasant time in Birmingham?”
“Very.” Julian sat. “Parts of it were extremely pleasant.”
“I remember you saying that there was nothing to do in Birmingham so you couldn’t imagine why Harrington kept inviting you to visit.”
“It turns out Harrington didn’t want to show me Birmingham at all,” Julian explained. “He had a different itinerary in mind. On that subject, I’ve worked out why you and father don’t like it when people don’t knock before entering your room, and why I was never allowed to sleep in your bed.”