Jane flinched. That came perilously close to the truth. But Crispin looked unmoved. His mouth curved in a cold, humorless smile. “How amusing. And how naïve. The public wonders exactly what we wish them to wonder. Or did you imagine that the newspapers reported the truth?”
“I imagined,” Culver said hotly, “that you meant what you said in December. Or has your conscience awakened on that matter as well?”
Crispin’s jaw squared. He could not answer that, of course, for he did not remember.
Jane opened her mouth, but Atticus beat her to it. “Oh, this is rich,” he drawled. “A fine place we’ve reached in our nation’s great history, when conscience becomes a slur, and men cannot debate issues without ad hominem attacks. I’d expected better of you, Culver.”
Culver recoiled. “Well, I expected—”
The door swung open. The footmen seemed briefly baffled by the untouched plates of mutton. But Jane now wished for nothing more than a swift conclusion to the meal so the men might withdraw to hash it out among themselves. She made a discreet gesture, and the servants quickly changed out the courses, laying down the platters of roasted pheasant alongside small bowls of compote of fruit.
“I had wondered,” Culver said in a subdued voice, “at the company tonight. No offense to you, madam”—he gave a brief nod to Jane—“but I did think it a curious assembly. I imagined, in my naïveté, that a new bride might strive to reconcile feuding brothers. But I see now that this was an ambush.”
Along the table, forks clattered inelegantly. Culver had just incinerated the tattered remnants of a polite fiction: that this dinner took place among friends.
“An ambush!” Jane said lightly. “Why, what a diverting analogy for a dinner party! I’m sure that all the ladies here will agree with you, sir. What is a hostess but the general of an army domestic? With the footmen our troops, and each course a new tactic.”
“Quite right,” said Lady Randol. “It is positively warlike, the dinner campaign.”
Jane manufactured a beaming smile for her. “But instead of arrows and swords, we rely on butchers to slaughter little birds for our plates.”
“This pheasant is very fine,” Mrs. Culver said, adamantly ignoring her husband’s sharp look.
“Isn’t it?” Jane picked up her fork, spearing a bite of pheasant and chewing with an appreciative sound. “This new French chef,” she said, catching Crispin’s eye across the table, “knows just how to season the game.”
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, though his smile did not quite reach his mouth. “A tribute to your wisdom, ma’am.”
“But then, pheasant is no real challenge,” Jane said. “We must make sure not to bore the Frenchman.”
“Oh, there can be pleasure in skewering little creatures,” Crispin said smoothly, and she offered a deliberate smile as she raised her wineglass to him.
Mr. Lambert, who had followed this exchange closely, now cleared his throat, a nervous little sound. “I say, Burke—I did have my own doubts about the bill, you might recall.”
“That I do,” Crispin said. Nobody would ever have guessed he was lying.
“But . . . what with the, eh, compromises I agreed to make . . .” Lambert gave a discreet tug of his cravat. “I can’t quite see the way to, eh, revive my former view.”
“I’m certain I can help you,” Crispin said. “And my brother, of course, will also do his part.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” exclaimed Mrs. Lambert. “Perhaps everybody can discuss it at his country home. This weekend, do you think?”
Culver lunged to his feet. “Remarkable!” His wife, red-faced, almost dropped her wineglass as she hurriedly stood. “Well, I will leave you all to arrange your second round of bribes. But I, gentlemen, am done being bullied.”
With a jerky, grudging bow to Jane, he grabbed his wife’s arm and stalked out.
* * *
As Jane finished undressing, a knock came at the door that separated her bedroom from Crispin’s. He stepped inside, leaning against the doorjamb as he watched her remove her earrings.
“Lambert will vote against it,” he said.
She shut the jewelry box and knotted the sash of her wrapper before sitting on the bed. “That is something, at least. Will Atticus call on Culver tomorrow?”
“He will. But it may not do any good.” He rolled his shoulders, then touched the back of his head—feeling unconsciously, she thought, for his injury. “He’s a proud man. Atticus says he was stubborn even in school.” His hand dropped. “And he bitterly resented the pressure brought to bear on him with regard to this bill.” His smile was dark and fleeting. “The pressure I brought, to be precise.”
She hesitated. “Perhaps if you were to approach him, to apologize frankly . . .”
“Oh, quite.” There was no humor in his short laugh. “ ‘Dear Mr. Culver. It seems I strong-armed you, bribed you, perhaps even threatened you into bending. Apologies, old fellow. I take it all back. May I manipulate you again, this time for free?’ ”
She grimaced. “You could offer him something in return.”
He came a few paces toward her, took hold of the bedpost, and tapped out a brisk tattoo with his wedding ring. Click-clickety-click-click. “Such as?”
She knew only the methods that her uncle favored. “A bribe? Another one, larger this time.”
His tapping ceased. “I suppose I could,” he said slowly. “But what would that make me?”
No different from the man he had been. Everything in her balked at encouraging that. If he fell into old routines, his mind might supply the old details.
But this matter was too important to indulge such fears. The bill was wretched. They had to defeat it—foremost for the sake of those who would be hurt grievously by its passage, but also . . . as an exorcism. For somehow, the bill had become like the ghost of the other Crispin, hovering over them like a great shadow.
“Offering a bribe . . . it would make you a politician,” she said hesitantly. Not her father’s type, but a commonplace one all the same. “Bribes fly in every corner of Westminster, I think.”
“Among the corrupt, yes.”
“Some would argue that corruption is required to prove effective.” She could not believe she was, in effect, making the old Crispin’s argument for him. But there was a simple, brutal truth in it. Otherwise Mr. Burke would never have wasted his time on such back-door dealings. “If you believe that justice requires the bill to be defeated, then why not pay a price for it? A lesser evil, to defray the greater one.”
He sighed and looked away. Crossing to her dressing table, he picked up an ivory-handled brush, inspecting it before putting it down again. When he turned toward her, his jaw had tightened. “I hoped you might expect better of me.”
Her words had cut him, somehow. Cautiously she said, “It has nothing to do with what I expect. This is how it’s done, Crispin. Powerful men use their power—all the means at their disposal—to accomplish their visions. There’s no . . .” She faltered briefly, appalled by her own words. Did she even believe this?
But many did. “From one view,” she sighed, “there’s no moral fault in using whatever means necessary to accomplish a good.”
“From one view, certainly. And from your view?” He came to sit beside her. “The bill is bad policy. A miscarriage of justice.” He studied her face. “But is it worth any price to defeat?”
“For the sake of countless strangers, who would suffer for its passage? Yes. I think so.”
“And you would not think less of me,” he said, still watching her, “if I dabbled in corruption to defeat it. Instead of looking for another way, which might yet reveal itself.”
She felt an inward twist of discomfort. He was not wrong to challenge her.
What a hypocrite she was! She saw herself clearly now. She wanted him to do the dark work, while her own hands remained clean. She wanted the comfort of being able to pass judgment from a safe, stainless distance.
&nbs
p; “You would do so only in order to undo the corruption that preceded it,” she said.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I believe there’s an ancient proverb about that. Something about two wrongs . . .”
A breathless, frustrated laugh escaped her. “Here’s a fine turn,” she said. “You have woken up from your injury a moralist, and made me into the villain.”
“Not a villain,” he said instantly, and the warmth of his hand enclosed hers, his grip firm. “Perhaps you’re right, and bribery is the only way forward.” His gaze shifted, seeming to look beyond her now. “I’ll think on it.” He paused. “Do you sew?”
The tangent startled her. She followed his gaze to the sewing basket in the corner. Embroidery floss spilled in a tangle from the pile of crumpled canvas.
“Occasionally,” she said. “Not recently.”
He made a quick grimace. “It hasn’t been an easy time, has it?”
“No.” She looked at their joined hands. In some ways, it had been the most wondrous time of her life. “I never enjoyed sewing,” she admitted. “It was only a . . . distraction. A kind of medicine to quiet my mind, when I thought I might run mad from holding my tongue and being told not to think.”
Their eyes met. He offered a crooked smile. “I rely on you to think.”
“Yes.” And for all the fears and difficulties of recent weeks, she had not been so happy in years. It frightened her. “Perhaps, instead of a bribe, you might speak with Culver’s son. See if he can sway his father.”
He nodded. “I’ll ask Atticus.”
She pulled her hand free. “Atticus was hardly a boon to you tonight!”
“He’s a bruiser,” Crispin said amiably. “I never expected subtlety of him.”
“He insulted you in the same breath that he bid you farewell.” She still felt hot with anger, remembering it. So much for that, Cris. Would say I’m disappointed, but I hadn’t expected much anyway. If you’re smart, you’ll go tell a passel of lies to your cronies tonight, before Culver can speak to them. Oh, Mrs. Burke—our thanks for dinner.
“He’s not the easiest man,” Crispin said. “But as bizarre as this all seemed to Lambert and Culver, it must seem doubly strange to him. We have been crossing swords for decades now. Since childhood.”
“He expects you to reverse course again,” she said tightly. To support the bill if he could not be guaranteed to defeat it.
He shrugged. “He has no cause to believe in me.”
For a terrible second, she wished for the old Crispin. Just one brief moment, unsettling and wicked. Where was his anger, his resentment? “He’s your brother,” she said. “I know that family can be cruel. But that doesn’t make it right. My uncle was wrong to bully me, and your brother is wrong, too. His contempt—”
“Let it be,” he said softly.
“No, I won’t!” Why did Crispin seem so resigned to Atticus’s poor treatment? It was clear that his brother’s disdain was an ancient production. How much responsibility did Atticus bear for what Crispin Burke had become? “Why do you put up with it? You would never take such treatment from anyone else—”
“I had another brother once.”
He spoke so casually, it took a moment to untangle his meaning. “What changed him?” Perhaps the entire Burke family was prone to bizarre transformations.
“No, not Atticus. I mean I had another brother. Jonathan was his name.”
Confused, she held her tongue. She had heard a great deal of talk about Mr. Burke over the years. In her uncle’s stories, Atticus had featured regularly as the proverbial thorn in Burke’s side. But nobody had ever mentioned a brother named Jonathan.
“I tell you this,” he said, “because you seem to like my family. Apart from Atticus.” His smile was brief but wry. “Isn’t that so?”
“I do,” she whispered. “Your parents and Charlotte are . . . lovely.”
“Yes, well, now you’ve spotted the pattern, you may see how far it goes,” he said. “Charlotte excepted, perhaps. She is too young for it to shadow her knowledge of me. But you will see it, the more time we spend with them, and I don’t wish it to harm your opinion. For they like you very much as well, I think. And you miss your family,” he said gently. “Your stories are so full of longing. I would be glad if my family could lessen that ache a little.”
She had the feeling of finding herself on unsteady ground, where each step might cause her to lose her footing. She chose the cautious reply: “Thank you. That is kind to say.”
He stared at her a moment before seeming to reach some decision. Holding out his hand, he said, “Come with me.”
He led her through the door that connected their bedrooms, closing it behind him before urging her onward, into his dressing room.
An oil painting hung between the wardrobe and pier glass. It was the only decoration in the room, an unavoidable sight from every angle. It showed four children, two gangly boys caught on the edge of manhood, and a plump little girl holding the hand of a baby just learning to stand.
Jane’s throat closed. The baby carried a rattle inset with a gleaming ruby cabochon—the gem from Mr. Burke’s missing ring.
“He was the youngest,” Crispin said. “Ten years younger than Atticus, seven years my junior. I think he took my parents quite by surprise. Naturally, what with being sent away to school, I didn’t know him well. But on holidays, as he grew older, as he learned to walk and then to run, he became quite the devil. Harassing me at all hours. Escaping his nurse and begging me to play with him.”
He spoke quite neutrally. But she already knew the story would not end well. When his hand brushed against hers, she took it.
His hand remained lax in hers, his gaze locked firmly on the painting. “I found him a nuisance, if you must know. Oh, entertaining, no doubt—he was easily amused; anything I did seemed novel and astounding to him. A drawing, a riddle, a story composed off the top of my head . . .” He drew an audible breath, and his hand at last tightened over hers. “He was, in that household, perhaps the only person I could be guaranteed to please. Even Charlotte liked to mimic our parents, to make a game of rolling her eyes and scolding me to get to my work. She didn’t mean it, of course. But . . .” His laugh was curt. “She was a damned good mimic. Still is, in fact. Or . . . was. I can’t say if that has changed.
“At any rate, I tolerated him. And once he was four or five, I put him to work, carrying the pails and bait when I slipped off to the fishing pond on summer afternoons. His nurse was always hunting for him. It was quite amusing, how clever he got at escaping her. I used to encourage him . . .” His voice hoarsened; he paused to clear his throat. “Well. Yes, I would encourage him. I thought it a great prank. Only then we got caught sneaking away together, and I was scolded for it. The next time he slipped out, I sent him straight back again. I was managing to get into enough trouble on my own. But he was stubborn.” He drew a hard breath. “Took after me that way, I suppose.”
For a long moment, he said nothing else. She gripped his hand tightly, to let him know she was listening. His silence spoke as loudly as his words; the oncoming tragedy weighted the very air.
“The next day,” he said finally, “Jon found another way out of the nursery. He knew where to find me—down at the fishing pond. I never heard him arrive. I was napping on the dock; I woke and checked my line. I slipped back to the house before anyone could catch me bunking my studies. They found him three days later.” He swallowed. “After they dragged the pond.”
Breathing felt difficult. He did not weep, so she wept for him. The hot dampness of her own tears made her flinch.
He pulled away, his face a terrible blank mask. He thought she had flinched away from him.
“No,” she said, and grasped his face, looking directly into his eyes. “You can’t be blamed for that. You were—why, you were all of twelve, Crispin. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Nobody blamed me,” he said softly. “Why would they? They expected no better of me. They blamed themsel
ves. They blamed the nurse. But no, not me. Of course I didn’t watch for him. Of course I fell asleep. I slept on while he drowned. That was simply my nature, you understand. Careless to a fault. Unable to keep my mind on anything—even my brother’s safety.”
She shook her head. “That’s mad. You misunderstood them. Crispin, it was a terrible accident, but—tragedies happen, too often, God in heaven. Your family would never have—”
He wiped her tears away methodically, with long, firm strokes of his thumb. “Jane. I am going to disown the bill. Publicly, at the third reading.”
Thrown by this abrupt segue, she stammered. “In—in the Commons? Giving a speech, do you mean? That would—why, it would create a furor—”
“Yes,” he said. “It will need to be the speech of my life.”
“But you won’t even recognize your colleagues.” Imagining it left her aghast. “The hecklers—you won’t even know how to address them by name. Your amnesia will come out! And then they’ll dismiss you as a lunatic. You’ll be ruined.”
“Then what, Jane? What other option remains?”
“Let Atticus speak to Culver—”
“You still doubt me,” he said softly. “Just as my brother does. Very well. I’ll surprise you both.”
“That’s not it!”
“Then what?” He lifted an ironic brow. “Shall I abandon my ambition along with my memory? Is that what you want? Resign myself to the quiet life of an invalid?”
“No,” she whispered. “But if you waited—”
“Time is up,” he said harshly. “You married a politician. A man who would be prime minister. Now you’ll find out if his skills extend beyond bullying and bribery. It should be interesting, no?”
Words came short. She could make no reply that would not seem . . . flimsy, rote. Instead, she put her arms around him and hugged herself to his body. His palm came against her back—his touch somehow mechanical, a bloodless acknowledgment of the embrace. He was tolerating it for her sake, allowing her to take comfort in the fact that she tried to comfort him.