A Lady’s Code of Misconduct Page 4

  She wanted him to defend himself. Instead, he laughed.

  He watched her shrink into herself. Now she imagined herself sitting across from a monster. Very well, let her believe so. She was also sitting across from the future prime minister, which meant that he’d given her a fine story to tell her grandchildren. History remembered the villains even better than the saints.

  Besides, even if nobody ever looked at him differently than she was looking at him right now—so pale, so appalled—he wouldn’t give a damn. Power made a fine panacea for any number of old aches. It would be revenge and pleasure and comfort rolled up in one.

  They were nearly to the gate. Crispin pounded on the roof to signal the coachman to halt. “We’ll go on foot from here,” he said. “There’s a tunnel that runs in through the woods. You will go straight to your rooms, and let them discover you there, sleeping. You never left tonight. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she muttered.

  He helped her out of the carriage, into the damp, cold night. The wind had died, and the air was filled with the sound of dripping, the fragrance of green and growing things yet to be slain by winter. The water caught on the tall grasses reflected the light of the moon.

  When they neared the door concealed in a bank of earth, he caught her wrist. She turned questioningly, and he saw the transformation she had undertaken during their brief walk. Her very posture had changed, her shoulders caving in, her head seeming to weigh more heavily on her long, slim neck. She was folding her true self away from sight.

  But he had seen her clearly now. He would not forget what he had glimpsed.

  She misunderstood his reason for halting. “I will listen for the name.”

  “No,” he said. “Not that.” He silently cursed himself, then shook his head—no, this was not sentimental. She could be a valuable asset to him. Keeping her safe was his wisest, most self-serving course. “Your uncle will not let you go.”

  She snorted. “I know that.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. He is deeply in debt. He—”

  “He just bought a new coach,” she said.

  “With Marlowe’s money,” he snapped. “And if something goes awry with the proposed defense works, the inventor will abandon him, and your money will be his only hope. Until now, he has simply embezzled from you, Jane. But if you find a way to remove your wealth entirely . . .” He took a deep breath. Listen to him, prattling warnings like some love-struck suitor! “Miss Mason, you do realize that if you die, your estate passes to your closest living relative?”

  Her expression did not change; it merely seemed to tighten, so shadows now appeared beneath her wide cheekbones. “Yes,” she said after a moment, her voice flat. “I am aware of that.”

  What marvelous control she had! His respect did not even feel grudging. “So your best path,” he said, “is to agree to marry Archibald. Insist on a long engagement, with the condition that you be allowed a season in town. And once in London, find a better husband, and elope with him quickly.”

  In the moonlight, her eyes were dark pools, opaque yet watchful. Her hand closed over his, small and startlingly soft.

  “Careful,” she said softly. “You begin to sound like a true friend. That was not your intention.”

  No. It had not been. He felt a stir of discomfort, too deep and unreachable to analyze, but strong enough to make him wish to push it away, or twist it into some more palatable emotion.

  “Of course, you won’t manage it,” he said. “Need no one and trust no one, Miss Mason. If you follow that law, you may survive.”

  “Is that your own law, Mr. Burke?”

  He did not like the goading note in her voice. “Make it yours,” he bit out. “Otherwise, someone will come along to smash you like china.”

  To his amazement, she suddenly laughed. “In fact, I think it already was my law. Trust nobody, need nobody—yes, that’s a fine way to describe it. But do I truly strike you as fragile, even after tonight? I thought you were more perceptive. What a pity!”

  He did not know whence she’d procured her confidence, but it was falsely founded. It would blind her to future dangers.

  “Forgive me,” he said sarcastically. “You’re made of steel. Go ahead and prove it, darling.”

  He pulled his hand free of hers and tipped up her chin. As he leaned down, her calm fractured; she tried to jerk away.

  He gripped her arms ungently to hold her in place. The kiss was a lesson: she had no hope against a stronger opponent.

  She smelled of lavender and soap, and her mouth was warm . . . She tried to clamp it shut. He bit her lower lip, then used her indrawn breath to push inside. Her tongue was startled, clumsy. Her shock tasted like barley and hops—some drink at the tavern.

  She quivered, a full-bodied tremor, as though in an icy wind. Resentment, hatred, could feel so much like bashfulness. He stroked deeper. Had anyone ever kissed her before? Her rigid grip on his shoulders, an impotent attempt to push him away, suddenly relaxed. For one moment, he felt the curiosity in her lips—fragile, groping, as easily ruined as encouraged.

  Then she sagged, becoming a boneless burden in his arms. He was kissing clay.

  He eased back, his triumph oddly hollow. He cupped her cheek, stroking to goad her. Her skin was impossibly soft.

  Her cheeks felt hot. She was blushing. But she lifted her chin and stared him in the eyes. “Do you feel like a villain?” she asked. “Or do you require more?”

  He flinched.

  Had this been a lesson to her? Or was it merely an example of commonplace evil? “I . . .” His throat closed on unthinkable words. I am sorry.

  For what? He owed her nothing.

  He turned her by the shoulders to face the doorway. “Go,” he said roughly.

  But she twisted out of his grip and turned back to him, reaching up to seize hold of his face. Surprise made him recoil. “What—”

  She went on her tiptoes and smashed her mouth against his.

  Astonishment felt so novel. It held him still as she rubbed her mouth against his. She bit his lip, then pushed her tongue into his mouth. Echoing what he had done to her. She mimicked his kiss so expertly that she turned it into mockery. A mockery of him.

  He wrested free.

  “Forgive me,” she said breathlessly. “I just wanted to see how villainy was done. Child’s play, it seems!”

  He groped for a reply but found none. He felt . . . unnerved.

  She turned and disappeared into the tunnel. For three long beats, he stared after her, until the whisper of insects, the hiss of the wind, and the pattering of fresh rain called him back to himself.

  He turned away, frowning.

  He did not like what he did not understand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Seven weeks later—January 1860

  The ballroom hushed. The violinists lifted their bows. Jane’s cousin settled his meaty hand at her waist and squinted, his pale blue eyes watering in the blaze of the chandeliers overhead. Archibald was not bad looking. His blond hair was thick, his jaw strong. No doubt many of the debutantes would swallow a sigh for his sake.

  “Don’t make a hash of it,” he muttered.

  And thus came the first words he had spoken to her since their engagement. How her heart fluttered!

  Jane offered him a bland smile. She didn’t intend to make a hash just yet. They had come to London for the opening of Parliament, but would stay on through the season. Aunt Mary would not contemplate a wedding anywhere but St. George’s, the most fashionable church in town, and then, too, at the height of the social whirl. That gave Jane three months in which to find some meek-mannered man to elope with.

  The strings launched into a rollicking waltz. Her fiancé swung her into movement, and a polite scattering of applause followed their sweep down the floor. In love, a newly engaged girl might relish such attention. Jane struggled not to cringe.

  As the first bars of music concluded, other couples joined them on the floor. But in a politic
al crowd like this one, many guests had no interest in dancing. Their attention lay in the hissed gossip of their companions, the looks of their enemies across the room, and in Crispin Burke and Jane’s uncle, who stood together near the stand of ferns that screened off the orchestra. Like magnets, the two men were dragging half the room toward them. It might have been happenstance that so many guests found themselves nearby. But if one squinted, one could make out a rudimentary queue. Guests were lining up to pay obeisance.

  Vultures. Jane’s father would have been appalled. Papa had come to politics in midlife, after making an extraordinary fortune in manufacturing. Ideals had driven him. He’d met his constituents in town squares, on street corners, in the shops and factories where they worked. But after his death, when her uncle had stepped into his seat, ordinary constituents had ceased to matter.

  This bill that her uncle and Burke meant to introduce at the next Friday session was a fine example of that inhumanity. The legislation would eliminate the ticket-of-leave system, which allowed petty criminals to receive early parole. In the new era, thieving boys and inveterate drunkards would be condemned to rot in prison alongside murderers. The government newspapers were aflame with indignation. But other newspapers were in her uncle’s pockets. Their editorials warned of a growing wave of crime, families slaughtered by criminals released early. Support was growing for Burke’s bill. If it carried, some said it would topple the government.

  Mr. Burke might become prime minister, after all.

  Archibald’s palm had begun to sweat. He prided himself on his waltz, but he was not sparing any effort on Jane. When she stumbled over his sluggish feet, he snapped at her to pay attention.

  He wanted this marriage no more than she did. Jane might have felt an inkling of sympathy for him—they were caught in the same trap—if only he hadn’t made it clear that he felt entitled to her money and furious that she came attached to it.

  That was Uncle Philip’s fault, really. He always insisted that he’d never been repaid properly for his investment in her father’s first factory. He felt cheated of her father’s wealth, and had taught his son to feel the same.

  When the waltz ended, Archie released her and stalked off without a backward glance. Like clockwork, Aunt Mary swept up to seize her arm. Jane’s submission to marriage had come with a condition: that she be allowed to experience a London season. But nobody was letting her out of their sight. Sneaking away would be a challenge, much less finding a willing dupe who needed money desperately enough to risk her uncle’s wrath.

  Three months—she would manage it somehow. She must.

  The next hour dragged by at a tedious limp. Aunt Mary politely rebuffed any gentleman who approached Jane to dance. Jane herself held on to a polite smile until her cheeks trembled and her lips felt numb. Her aunt’s acquaintances rarely spoke to her, instead scrutinizing her like horseflesh before manufacturing weak compliments to Mary about her “fine eyes.” Her olive skin and curling hair, they probably felt gracious in ignoring.

  The whole time, Jane remained acutely aware of Burke. Wherever the crowd proved thickest, whichever spot held the focus of most eyes, and whichever corner of the room positively fluttered with women preening themselves, there he stood. He would want to speak to her tonight. Her last letter seemed to have alarmed him in some way, for his answering reply had demanded an interview with her.

  Her uncle came over to join them. Jane listened with half an ear to his low conversation with her aunt—some gossip about the inventor; he had built a castle like Udolpho’s. Her aunt made an appropriately scandalized noise.

  The ballroom was growing hotter, a sweaty racket of shrieks and laughter and the frenetic swells of the orchestra. The valseurs waltzed now as though trying to throw themselves off a cliff. Jewels glittered violently in the candlelight. In the center of this bright chaos, Crispin Burke made a tall, long-limbed shadow, conspicuous for the leisurely menace that he radiated.

  She did not realize she was staring at him until he glanced over and caught her eye. His expression did not so much as flicker, but that brief, cool, deliberate glance felt like a summons. As though to confirm it, he promptly disentangled himself from his interlocutors—not pulling away so much as becoming, all at once, an indifferent wall of coldness to them, the slight smile on his face dying.

  Jane watched two heavyset men in rich suits and jeweled stickpins falter in their enthusiasm, then take their leave of him. With another brief, instructional glance at Jane, Burke turned and walked out of the room.

  Jane said quickly to her aunt, “I must—the retiring room—”

  “Oh, I’ll come with you,” said Aunt Mary.

  “Do you imagine she’ll get lost?” one of Aunt Mary’s friends cackled. “Or is the company so base that you fear for her safety?”

  Aunt Mary flushed. “Don’t be silly,” she snapped, but she let go of Jane’s arm. “Run along, then. And come back at once.”

  * * *

  By the time Jane caught up with Mr. Burke in the shadowy rear hallway, he was no longer alone. A beautiful blonde was hanging on his arm, pleading with him in low, urgent tones. The woman’s ruby silk gown rippled in the torchlight; she was swaying into Mr. Burke, whispering to him like a lover.

  Jane took a step backward. Burke looked up, his dark eyes spearing through the darkness to lock with hers. Wait, he mouthed.

  “Crispin,” the woman said. “After all we’ve been through . . .”

  Jane stepped behind a statue, a clumsy copy of some Roman emperor, conscious of embarrassment and—much worse—base curiosity.

  She recognized that woman from her aunt’s remarks earlier in the ballroom. One of the great society beauties, the Duchess of Farnsworth.

  “Yes, a storied history,” came Mr. Burke’s calm reply. “Not quite fit for children’s ears, though, is it?”

  “You can’t hold that against me,” the duchess said hoarsely. “He needs an heir. I could not keep him waiting forever.”

  “Of course not.” Burke’s voice dropped, growing almost too soft for Jane to make out. “I wish you all the joy, madam. What a fine mother you’ll make.”

  The duchess swore—a manly curse. Jane felt unwillingly impressed. “Don’t be a fool. This is our opportunity! We can meet freely now. He is satisfied.”

  “Not quite,” said Burke. “Your husband wishes you in the country for the season.”

  Some wordless exclamation. “You can’t mean you spoke with him—”

  “We reached an understanding.”

  A brief, charged silence. Then: “And when have you ever cared for what he thinks? After what he did to you! Why should he be allowed to—”

  “Because I need his vote.”

  “His vote!”

  “Forgive me. Was I meant to place you above politics?”

  A sharp smacking sound made Jane flinch.

  After a brief pause, Mr. Burke said, “Feel better, Laura?”

  “Not at all.” The words were choked by loathing. “I’d like to see you bleed.”

  “Consult the duke. Perhaps a shared goal will draw you close.”

  Jane realized she was hugging herself. Burke’s words, so full of dry scorn, seemed to burn.

  Silk rustled; the woman stalked past Jane’s hiding place, no less lovely in a fury.

  After a few moments, Mr. Burke came into view. A red mark was fading from his jaw, but he looked, otherwise, perfectly unruffled. His full, well-sculpted lips did not smile, precisely, but they held the impression of sardonic good humor. “Swooning, Miss Mason?”

  She wished he were not so tall. Then the Duchess of Farnsworth might have blackened his eye. “It would take more to make me swoon. First, I would have to feel surprised.”

  “Ah, good! A native cynic.” He extended his elbow, and with a resentful grimace she stepped past him, cutting a brisk pace down the hall.

  He spoke from behind her, his amusement plain. “Do you think depravity proves contagious?”

  She t
ried the doorknob to her uncle’s study. Locked, of course. Her uncle zealously cultivated each of his guests, but he did not trust any of them. “So you admit to being depraved.”

  “I wouldn’t waste the effort to argue it.”

  The next door opened into the morning room. She stepped inside, and Burke followed, closing the door.

  He leaned his weight against the door, no doubt entirely mindful of the threat he offered by blocking the exit. Six feet of muscle. She backed away from him. In this cozy little room—flowered wallpaper, soft chintz upholstery, lace doilies cluttering every surface—he seemed as out of place as a panther.

  “So,” he said. “You managed to get yourself to London. Does it live up to your hopes?”

  So they would pretend to be friendly. Very well, she could do that. “I cannot tell yet,” she said with a shrug. “My aunt will not let me out of her sight. She refused to drive through the park yesterday for fear that ruffians might kidnap us. And she says the weather is too cold for sightseeing.”

  “Oh, come, now, Miss Mason.” His tone was indulgent. “A schemer like you? Surely you could invent some reason to leave the house.”

  A schemer. The idea reverberated unpleasantly. She had been raised by honest, upstanding parents. Her mother had held truth to be a sacred charge; it was Mama who’d first insisted that Jane’s father look into conditions at the very manufactories that had made him rich. Profit, she’d said, has no bearing on the question of what is right. It was her moral certainty that Papa had absorbed, and that had driven him into his political career.

  But that career had been cut short. At seventeen, Jane had been thrust into a new world in which honesty was considered intolerable cheek. Slapped one too many times for talking back, she had learned to hold her tongue. She had learned how to scheme.

  “Yes,” she said now, flatly. “Your friend Mr. Mason has taught me many things.”

  “And Archibald?” asked Mr. Burke. “Have you undergone a sea change, and sworn your love to him?”

  “Of course not.”

  He straightened. “Then we have much to discuss.” He locked the door, then pocketed the key.