Her uncle’s jaw worked, chewing over his next words for a long, red-faced moment. “It will carry,” he said roughly. “But by God, Burke, it will take a decade to see the profits from that bill that will come in a year from the defense works.”
“Happy news, then: you’ll have no worries for your retirement.”
“I was never worried,” her uncle retorted.
A curious smile curved Burke’s full lips. “No, of course not,” he said smoothly—and then his cold, dark glance flicked to Jane’s, startling her so badly that she flinched.
For the briefest moment, he, too, looked startled. Then his eyes narrowed, shrewd and probing.
She looked quickly back to her needlepoint, cursing herself for having been caught listening. That was not her role. Her conspicuous inattention, her obvious disinterest, were what made the others so loose lipped around her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Archibald stand. He looked around, scrubbing his head like a man risen dazedly from a nap, then went bounding from the room.
Satisfaction purled through her. He was going for the embroidery. She knew it.
“At any rate,” Burke went on, “the profits are all yours. The penal bill will bring down the government. That is my only concern.”
The Earl of Elborough spoke at last, his voice timid. “But if Palmerston steps down, then what becomes of his plan for the defense works?”
Her uncle snorted. “Didn’t you know? Burke here means to step in as prime minister. He will see it through.”
God save the country, Jane thought. Such ruthlessness, wedded to such power—she shuddered to imagine it.
“And he will remember his friends,” her uncle added in a low, ominous voice. “Assuming one makes that list.”
“The list will be very predictable,” Burke said with a shrug. “It will include any man who helped to carry the penal bill.”
“I was always in favor of the penal bill,” her uncle said. “I helped draft the bloody thing, didn’t I? I only wish you would spare a few thoughts for how to pay for your ambitions.”
“That’s your job,” Burke drawled.
“Look here!” Archibald cried as he came back into the room. “I have a surprise for you all.” He took center stage in front of the fire as he lifted a folded bundle of cloth. “A great entertainment.”
Jane hid a dark smile. Though the room did not know it, her embroidery was about to deliver them a fitting farewell.
“Oh dear,” said Aunt Mary. She was blond, very thin, patrician looking; she had mastered the eternally amused demeanor of a woman bred to privilege, though her family was no better born than her husband’s. “We were doing very well without your help, Archibald.”
“But this is art,” Archie sneered, and unfurled the embroidery—struggling a little to hold it out wide. It had taken ten months, after all.
Lady Elborough gasped. Somebody coughed. Aunt Mary, turning a peculiar shade of green, tried a titter. “Good heavens,” she said. “What on earth is that?”
“Jane’s fancywork,” Archibald said.
“Always sewing,” Aunt Mary said nervously. “Our little angel of the house.”
Lady Elborough rose and slowly approached the piece. Jane found her troubled expression quite fascinating. The others were doing so well to gaze upon the work blandly.
Nobody dared look at Jane, of course.
Save Crispin Burke. His sardonic gaze delved through the shadows, finding hers and holding.
She fluttered her lashes and ducked her head, as though abashed.
When she dared to peek up through her lashes, he was still watching. He offered her a slow-growing smile, somehow unkind.
To her own annoyance, Jane felt herself flush. She picked up her needlework again. The nice thing about being a wraith was that nobody expected her to account for herself. That would, after all, require her to have a brain, which everybody very much hoped she did not.
“But I don’t understand,” said Lady Elborough, bewildered. “This is . . . Is this you, Mr. Mason? Here, in the middle?”
Jane stabbed her needle through the canvas. Obviously it was her uncle. His brown beard was unmistakable.
“Oh, I think not,” her uncle said gruffly. “Why, surely it is a likeness of our savior! See the blood in his palms?”
“Yes . . .” Lady Elborough did not sound convinced. “But if this is Jesus Christ, then who is this . . . dark man at his elbow?”
“That’s Burke!” Archibald crowed. “See? You can tell by the ruby on his finger!”
“Archie,” hissed Aunt Mary.
Lady Elborough was squinting. “Does he have horns?”
“Oh no,” said Uncle Philip hastily. “Why, I believe that is simply an illusion caused by the . . . the smoke rising behind their two figures.”
“But what do the flames mean, surrounding them?” Lady Elborough’s words pitched higher now, tighter. “And why are they standing on all those poor children?”
“Jane.” Her uncle’s voice lashed like a whip. “Will you explain this bizarre piece, please, lest Lady Elborough misinterpret it?”
No better proof of victory than being summoned to speak! Jane laid aside her embroidery frame and rose, locking her hands at her waist and gazing meekly at the carpet. “Of course, Uncle. It is a tribute to your great political work.”
“Politics! Is that quite the proper subject for fancywork?” asked Lord Elborough.
“Her needlework is very poor,” Aunt Mary said hurriedly. “Her parents neglected her education—”
“Give me that!” Her uncle snatched the piece from Archibald and chucked it into the fire. The bulge-eyed glare he turned on her promised retribution.
Jane pulled a shocked face. “I’m so sorry. I never thought— The fire, you see, was meant to represent the struggle for justice, in the ancient Greek tradition.”
Silence fell, thick with disbelief.
“She is slow,” Aunt Mary muttered to Lady Elborough, who nodded, her expression collapsing into pity.
A choked sound came from Mr. Burke. The fire was licking over the canvas, finding poor purchase, smoking as it singed the silk floss. Burke rose in one lithe, powerful movement, as if on springs. “Excuse me,” he managed, and coughed as he strode out.
“Go to your room,” snapped Aunt Mary to Jane. “Look through your magazines for some pleasant pattern to copy, or you will not sew at all.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
As Jane hurried out, she heard her aunt say, “Archibald, fetch down that monkey,” which made Jane swallow a laugh. Truly, her aunt must be desperate for a distraction to call down such trouble willingly. “We are great friends with Mr. Marlowe, you know, the inventor. He has made the most cunning device . . .”
In the hallway, Burke stood leaning against the wall, his face hidden in his forearm, his shoulders jerking.
Good. Jane hoped he choked on the smoke. She picked up her skirts and walked faster toward the stairs. Illusion of horns, ha! Burke was the devil. Her uncle supplied the money for Burke’s political career. (Her money.) Burke supplied the breeding and connections that her uncle required for his own campaigns. Monsters, both of them.
Her heel squeaked on the first step. Burke obviously heard it, for he called after her. “Miss Mason.”
She laid a hand on the banister and continued to climb, pretending to be deaf.
“Jane Mason,” came his low purr, much closer. “Where do you think you’re going?”
His question startled her into halting. In all the years he had consorted with her uncle, paying calls at Marylebigh in the off-season to plan for the parliamentary sessions ahead, he had never addressed her so intimately.
He’d never addressed her at all, in fact, save when formalities called for it. That he should break form tonight, of all nights, seemed alarming.
She took a deep breath and turned, careful to hunch a little, to keep her chin tucked. She knew how her uncle’s cronies viewed her: a dusty bauble, del
iberately kept on the shelf, lest her fortune be transferred to a husband. Cloistered, buried alive in the countryside. She was twenty-three, and she had never had a season.
“Yes, Mr. Burke?” she whispered.
He looked up at her from the base of the stairs, a position that should have given her the advantage, allowing her to feel as though she looked down her nose.
But he was tall, lean, broad shouldered. He managed to loom even when standing a foot beneath her. And the wicked smile on his face shifted his angular features to their best advantage, emphasizing the Viking broadness of his cheekbones, the masculine squareness of his jaw. His dark eyes glittered unusually. He looked . . .
Amused. He had been laughing, not coughing!
“You’re clever,” he said. “I didn’t realize that.”
What a pity. Her only aim had been to amuse herself. “Thank you,” she said in a deliberately confused tone. “I’m so clumsy with a needle. How mortifying that everyone should know it!”
His hair was black and glossy; from this high vantage, it looked thick enough to grab in great handfuls. She’d like to try it, and yank very hard. What an unfeeling monster he was with this penal reform bill he’d drafted! “Yes, you should take care,” he agreed. “Who knows what else you’ve proved clumsy with?”
She took a step backward. That sounded like a threat.
“Fine advice,” she said breathlessly. “I’m ever so grateful for it.”
“Are you?” His full lips tipped to a peculiar angle, not quite a smile. “Then here’s more advice: go to bed early tonight.”
Her heart jumped. There was no way he could know. She’d been so careful! “Why do you say so?”
As his smile faded, she had the impression of a mask falling over him, though his handsome face never revealed anything useful. “Sleep profits a young woman’s beauty,” he said, his mockery light but clear. “And every girl wishes to be a beautiful bride.”
She clenched her teeth. “But I am not engaged, Mr. Burke.”
“Oh?” He lifted one dark brow. “Your uncle tells a different story. And Archibald, just now—was he not beaming with pleasure over his future wife’s work?”
They could not force her to marry Archie.
She would not give them a chance.
She managed a wide smile. “Then perhaps I am wrong,” she said. “My uncle does know best. And I will take your advice, Mr. Burke. Good evening to you.”
She turned and continued up the stairs, ears straining for the sound of his retreat. But she heard no footsteps. He remained where he was, watching her until she crested the staircase. Her skin prickled; she shivered, but did not look back.
* * *
A driving rain was churning the garden into mud. The woods beyond huddled like dark monsters, limbs whipping, leaves hissing. Jane sprinted toward them.
Six years she had waited, prayed, deliberated, stewed. For six years she had kept meekly obedient, in penance for those first months in which she’d known no better, and had spoken her mind without fear.
Six years was long enough to fool anyone. Her family had forgotten she was capable of rebellion. They would not check on her for hours yet.
Only once she reached the country lane did Jane slow down. Her heart was drumming, her mouth full of rainwater. She spat her mouthful into the road. Not ladylike. Ha! She’d never been a lady. Never allowed to go into society. She would follow her own code.
Thunder cracked in the distance; lightning lit the roiling clouds. The night was wild, and it sang to her. Free, yes, at last! A warm cloak and wool-lined boots were all she carried. Money wasn’t required—or wouldn’t be, soon enough. She was, after all, the golden goose. Once married, once properly roasted, the goose would lay golden coins. Like magic, all she needed was a husband. By the terms of her father’s will, her inheritance would then come under her control.
The trickiest part had been finding a man desperate enough to elope with her. Jonathan Pine, her uncle’s elderly stable master, had told her he would meet her at the Cross Keys pub tonight. Four miles’ walk to the tavern. As long as she made it by ten o’clock, they would catch the last coach toward London.
The mud sucked at Jane’s boots like a hungry mouth. She slogged faster, head down, breath burning in her throat. The wind yanked off her hood and shoved her backward. She pushed on, step by step, her sodden skirts heavy as stones.
First, her uncle had stolen her father’s political career. He’d stepped into Papa’s seat after the cholera had killed her parents.
Now he meant to steal her father’s fortune. Not content with embezzling, he would wed her to Archibald, and have access to the whole.
Alas, Uncle Philip. You made one mistake: you forgot I had a brain.
* * *
Perhaps the clock was broken. Perhaps Mr. Pine had grown confused, and thought to meet at eleven instead of ten. There was still a way. Once he arrived, he could hire horses—
“He’s not coming.”
The smooth words came from behind her. Jane felt a horrible surprise, followed by a bolt of acidic nausea. Of course it would be Crispin Burke who caught her.
She kept her eyes on the old clock in the corner. The tavern was crowded, ruddy workmen slumped in exhaustion at the wooden tables around her. These same men—miners, farmers, decent men all—were made of nobler stuff than anyone at Marylebigh. They would find the energy to protest, should they see a young lady dragged screaming from the taproom.
“I tried to warn you.” Burke’s voice remained calm, low pitched. “I’ll do so again: don’t make a scene.”
She turned. Burke was straddling the bench on the other side of her table, a tankard of ale cupped in his hands. How had she missed his entrance, much less his passage to the bar? Nobody overlooked Burke. When he strode in, great dark coat flapping, the world itself paused. He was beautiful, the rippling waves of his dark hair and the strong bones of his face framing black eyes that shone with a dangerous intelligence. Beautiful as a cobra.
“Why should I not cause a scene?” she asked flatly. “Sparing you is no concern of mine.”
His gaze was dark, cold, and steady. “Then spare yourself. It won’t work.”
“Oh,” she said, struggling to keep her voice light, scathing, when it wanted to shake. She could not go back! “My uncle’s dog threatens to bite! Careful, sir. You will not want to injure the golden goose.”
One corner of his mouth lifted—the barest intimation of a smile. “Goose, indeed. If you wished to run away, you should have waited until your uncle went to town.”
Wait? She had already waited six years. If she waited any longer, she would . . . why, she would lose her mind. A woman could not pretend to be brainless forever without the charade becoming truth. Her wits were rotting by the hour.
But of course a man like Burke could not imagine what that was like. To live, day after day, as a shadow—to speak and be ignored, as though one’s words made no sound. To protest and be patted on the head, as though one’s concerns were a child’s. Her uncle had not burned the embroidery in an outrage, Jane thought suddenly, but in the righteous grip of moral duty. His niece’s role was to be used, not to think or speak or feel. And so, in the very act of communicating an opinion, she had committed the egregious offense of insisting on her humanity.
Burke glimpsed none of this. He barely knew her, for all that he was a regular visitor to Marylebigh. Nobody bothered to know her.
“You will have to tie me up and drag me back,” she said. “And I will make sure there are witnesses. Your political career will not profit from it.”
“Goodness. All for Mr. Pine?” He took a long swallow of his beer. “A heated passion, was it? Let me guess. He pledged his devotion while shoveling manure. Vowed to see to your comfort while mucking out a box stall.”
She refused to look away from him, though his dark eyes mocked her.
“How fierce you look,” Burke murmured. “If this is the face you showed your lover, it’s no
wonder he chose to jilt you.”
She and Mr. Pine had never been lovers. Their agreement had been practical: an arthritic stable master with failing eyesight required money for retirement. An heiress kept prisoner by her family required a husband to access her funds. Voilà: the perfect match.
A terrible thought struck her. “What did you do to him?” She leaned forward. “If you have hurt Mr. Pine, I will make you regret it.”
He leaned forward, too. “Will you, now?” he asked in a warm and interested voice.
She clenched her jaw. He imagined her powerless—an heiress whose money was controlled by her guardian, and who knew nobody that her uncle did not introduce to her.
But he did not know everything. Sometimes, watching her family speak so cruelly of others, plot so mercilessly to exploit the world, Jane felt an intimation of that same wickedness in herself. Only she would use it for noble ends. Given a chance, granted access to her own money, she would punish those who amused themselves by making others’ lives harder. “Justice finds a way,” she said. “Even if it takes time.”
Mr. Burke’s smile displayed white, even teeth. He’d been raised in luxury, but he had the lounging, easy posture of a man bred to street brawls. “The mouse grows claws.”
“You mistake me,” she said. “I have always had them.”
His glance flickered briefly. At least she was surprising him. “I did nothing to Pine. Your uncle made him an offer, which he accepted of his own free will. By now, if he is wise, he will be on the road to somewhere far, far away. Wherever five hundred pounds will take him.”
Liar. “Five hundred pounds is nothing next to what I offered.”
Mr. Burke drummed his fingers atop the scarred wood table. The ruby cabochon on his middle finger glittered violently. “Cowards take what they can get.”
She drew a strangled breath and looked away, her gaze fixing on the fire, which grew blurry through the haze of rising tears. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to talk Mr. Pine into agreeing to her plan. A comfortable retirement in some warm, dry climate—absolute freedom to do as he wished. The prospect had finally won out over his fear of her uncle.