A Lady’s Code of Misconduct

  “This must be it,” Jane said, drawing up. The cottage was freshly whitewashed, a fine bright role model for its sagging jaundiced neighbors, but one side had begun to buckle, weakened by rot.

  The door bore a curious mark on it, a crooked X as on a treasure map. It stood open, allowing a wedge of light to illuminate the broken wood flooring and the patches of bare earth that rose through it. When Crispin knocked, splinters of wood flaked free.

  “’Oo is it? Come in, then.”

  They ducked through the doorway into a dim, damp room strongly scented by a roasting chicken that a woman stood turning on a spit over the fire. She glanced up at them, and the tartan shawl fell from her brow, revealing lank blond hair and a smile that bloomed and faded in a moment.

  “I knew you wasn’t dead,” she said. “Cats and snakes ’ave got nine lives. Well, and I’m glad they didn’t kill you. But you’ll need to get out.”

  Jane took his arm, understanding it a moment before he did. “It was here?” she asked. “That he was attacked?”

  The woman wiped her brow with the edge of her shawl. “What? You don’t recall?”

  “I was found outside Clerkenwell station,” Crispin said slowly. It was a half hour’s walk, which he’d been in no condition to make.

  “Aye, we moved you there—my brother and I.” The woman—Mrs. Shufflebottom, he supposed—sighed heavily. “I felt right poorly for not calling the police. I ’ope you believe it. But they would’ve fingered me for it. There’s no justice for us in Agar Town. And I figured somebody would find you, once’t the next train came in.”

  “Who was it?” Jane asked. “Who attacked him?”

  Mrs. Shufflebottom cast a hunted look toward the lane outside. “Never ’ad their names,” she said. “But they knew you was coming. One took me at knifepoint—if I’d screamed ’e would’ve cut me. And I saved your life,” she added aggressively. “Afterward, I did. And we even dumped the body.”

  “The body?” said Jane, and he took a deep breath, feeling—whether through thickly buried layers of forgetting or through instinct—that he would not like this next news.

  “Aye, you ’ad a gun,” the woman said to Crispin. “Got off only the single shot, but by luck it found its way.”

  He felt Jane’s horrified look. But he kept his eyes trained on the widow. “Where is the body?” This was no time to recoil, to indulge finer sentiments. The corpse might hold clues.

  “Long gone,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said flatly. “My brother keeps pigs.”

  Jane made a muffled noise and walked out into the fresh air. The widow looked after her with an odd, sour smile. “Must be nice,” she muttered. “Must be nice indeed.”

  He forced himself to stay focused. He would contemplate later what it felt like to have another man’s blood on his hands. “You must have got a better look at that one. When you disposed of him.”

  “I did my best not to,” she said bluntly. “But ’e wasn’t a gentleman. Built like a dockhand—that’s what my brother guessed. Now, the one who put the knife to my throat, that was a proper nob. Smooth palms, never knew a day’s labor. So there you ’ave it. That’s all I got, and if you want to thank me, you’ll leave.”

  Jane came back inside. “Has anyone come back to trouble you since then?”

  “No, but there’s nothing to keep ’em from doing so, I reckon. Doing me the way they did your bloke here, and Baggie.”

  “But—then why have you stayed here?” Jane sounded aghast. “If they—if they killed your husband, as you say—”

  The woman exploded. “Where’m I to go, princess? My entire family is with me, ain’t they? Brothers and sisters and my ma besides, all living down the road. No, you’ll not talk with them,” she added sharply when Jane looked out the door. “Leave them out of this if you’ve got any decency.”

  Crispin reached into his jacket. “Fifty pounds,” he said. A handsome year’s salary for a clerk. “That should pay for all of you, I would think, if you wish to go.”

  The woman’s jaw dropped. Then she crept forward, reaching hesitantly, fingering the edge of the note. “Didn’t know they came so large.” She glanced up at him, wide-eyed, and he felt a curious twist in his chest.

  Yes, this was what it meant not to condescend from above. One looked into a person’s face, and saw what had been done to them. In another life, this woman would have been cossetted and adored. She had strong cheekbones and pale clear eyes. In silk and lace, she would have been celebrated as a beauty.

  “Take it,” he said quietly. “But tell me this: how did your husband catch these men’s attention? Why did they kill him?”

  She gathered up the bill to her breast, breathing hard as she stared at him. “They told me never to say. That ’twould be my death to speak of it.”

  “Bravery can’t be purchased,” Jane said softly. “You must decide on your own if you wish to tell us.”

  Crispin bit back a protest. But Jane read it in his face, and gave him an adamant look. “It is her life,” she said. “It does not come so cheap as ten thousand pounds, much less fifty. Which, I might add, you may keep regardless, madam.”

  “Kind,” the widow said faintly. “But—no, I want to be done of it. It’s been a curse on us.” She dropped to her knees, rapping her knuckles on the floorboards until the sound turned hollow. Then, using her fingernails, she clawed up the edge of the board.

  The sheet of paper she extracted was dank and smeared with dirt. Crispin unfolded it, revealing a clumsy jumble of lines.

  “Baggie should’ve never sold the ring,” the woman said, hushed. “Fancy piece, solid gold. Got a fine price, but it wasn’t worth what it brought to us. I ’ad a fancy gown for my wedding, and a dead ’usband a month later.”

  “This is a drawing of a ring?” He wanted to be clear.

  “The sign on it. That’s right.”

  “And where did your husband get it?” Jane asked.

  The woman’s mouth twisted. “On the transport ship.” She turned to spit into the fire. “Transported for what? Oh, ’e’d stolen, ’e’d thieved. But ’e never meant to strike that bobby.”

  “When was this?” Jane whispered.

  “Three years ago.” The widow’s lips trembled. “Imagine that, three years . . .” She took a hard breath and continued. “Well, the point: they brought another man to take ’is place. Threw Baggie off the ship. But before it, the man slipped over the ring. Baggie fell right into the drink, barely knowing ’ow to swim. A miracle, ’e called it—washed to shore, swapped out for a stranger.” A tear spilled, tracking through the soot on her cheek. “A miracle, ha! Maybe ’e’d still be drawing breath if they’d kept ’im a prisoner.”

  * * *

  They did not speak until they were in the coach again. Even then, the silence felt unbreakable, a great boulder between them. Perhaps neither of them wanted to say it.

  But at last, Jane held out her hand for the drawing, to look it over once more. “This is heraldry,” she said. “A family crest.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a signet ring.”

  He nodded once, his troubled gaze fixed firmly out the window. “Jane,” he said. His neutral tone was the product, she sensed, of great inner discipline. “I want you to go on holiday. To France, or New York. You wanted to travel. This is your chance.”

  She laid down the soiled drawing. “You think my uncle is right. That we aren’t safe.”

  At last, he looked at her. His face was bleak. “I think a signet ring generally denotes a man of some power. I think a man of power does not find himself forcibly impressed, transported to a penal colony said not to exist, unless his enemies have resources at their disposal that they would not hesitate to aim more broadly.”

  A tremor passed through her. “So we’ll find them before they find us,” she said softly.

  “With what clues?” He raked a hand through his hair. “This was as far as the trail led. Besides . . . you cannot help me in this.”

  “
But I have done. I just did.” She was angry suddenly. After so much, he would discount her? “Don’t condescend to me. This won’t be a contest of brute force. We are using our wits, and mine haven’t failed you yet.”

  His smile was bitter. “I cannot say what kind of contest it might yet become.”

  “Then hire guards. Show me how to use a gun. But I won’t . . .” She hesitated, suddenly confused. Was escape not her plan all along? “I won’t run away from this,” she said slowly. “That wasn’t what I dreamed of. That isn’t . . . freedom.”

  “There are many degrees of freedom.” His glance fell to the paper. “I expect one doesn’t realize that until all of them are stripped away.”

  Here, at last, was the question that had weighted the silence. “Whose family does this belong to?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “The College of Arms will know.”

  * * *

  At Whitehall, an hour later, the clerk took his time studying the sheet. But at last, his brow cleared, and with a triumphant smile he handed back the paper. Wiping his fingertips clean with a handkerchief, he said, “The Devaliant family. I have no doubt of it.”

  “I feel sure I’ve heard that name,” Jane said to Crispin as they made their way back outside. “But long ago.”

  “Your uncle stopped having cause to mention it,” Crispin said. “William Devaliant was once quite active in the House of Lords. But he grew fed up with the corruption. He married, I believe, and then he went traveling.”

  “Traveling?” She blinked. “It’s been three years, Mrs. Shufflebottom said. What of his wife? She never reported his disappearance?”

  “If so, it never reached my ears. And I imagine such news would have caught my attention.”

  “Crispin. Do you mean that nobody is looking for him?”

  “As far as I can tell,” he said, “no one on earth knows that the Earl of Lockwood is missing.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Duke of Auburn lifted his glass of whisky to the light. He appeared lost in admiration. “A very fine year,” he said. “A day is not complete without a taste, I think. Are you certain you won’t have one?”

  Crispin wanted his wits about him for this conversation. Auburn was legendarily deadly, a survivor of a massacre, which had broken something inside him. Sitting in this small library across from him felt akin to being caged with a panther. “No, thank you.”

  “Ah. Well, allow me to refresh my own.”

  Auburn rose, a tall, black-haired, broad-shouldered man whose green eyes made a startling contrast to the golden hue of his skin. His leanness, the athletic ease with which he moved, belied his apparent devotion to liquor. He was toying with Crispin—not for the first time, either. The duke was a powerful voice in the House of Lords, and had made a game, over the last few years, of frustrating bills that Crispin put forward with Mason.

  Crispin could remember his own former animosity for the man—a deep-seated irritation at Auburn’s righ- teous, idealistic speeches; his fondness for lost causes; his inability to compromise. But Crispin had guarded his opinion closely, for only fools underestimated the duke. Crispin had witnessed it countless times: when heckled by opponents, Auburn returned setdowns masked in cool, exquisite courtesy, so that it took his enemies several minutes to realize they had been sliced to the gut.

  But Crispin was no longer an enemy. Auburn knew this. Had he not realized so—had he misinterpreted the news of Crispin’s about-face in the Commons—why, then Crispin would never have made it past the front door, much less been shown to this dark oaken library where Auburn had sat reading the newspaper.

  “So,” the duke said, returning to the maroon leather couch. They were both of an unusual height, and other men would have taken pains to sit tall, lest Crispin manage to look down his nose. Auburn, however, leaned back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee, unconcerned for the subtler strains of intimidation. “I was unaware,” he said, “of your friendship with Lockwood.”

  Crispin had barely known the man. “I would not call us friends.”

  A sudden smile, which showed a hint of teeth. “Nor would he, of that I feel sure. However, as one who does enjoy his long-standing friendship, I assure you that his absence is not unusual.”

  “Three years now,” Crispin said.

  Auburn shrugged. “He was fed up with England.”

  “And is it like him to go so long without a word?”

  Auburn laid his glass down. “Letters often go astray. Perhaps he wrote to me in India. You may recall there was something of a disturbance there recently. Why, your confederate Mr. Mason made quite a fuss over how to quell it. He favored bloodshed, I recall, and—what was his word? Oh yes.” Auburn’s lip curled. “A ‘cleansing.’ ”

  “I did not stand with him in that debate,” Crispin said flatly. Even in his darkest hours, he’d had some standards. Mason had been pandering to popular sentiment, furious when Crispin had crossed him on the floor.

  “I didn’t take you for naïve,” Auburn said. “We are judged by our friends, Mr. Burke.”

  Crispin’s patience thinned. “I did not come here to be judged by you,” he said bluntly. “But if you must do so, then judge me as you would Lockwood, for I am acting as a friend to him now. The man is not traveling. He was kidnapped and thrown onto a prison hulk bound for Australia.”

  Auburn blinked. Tipped his head. And then laughed, a low musical sound that held an edge of mockery. “What a marvelous imagination, Burke! You missed your true calling. The stage would have—”

  “This is his crest, is it not?” Crispin shoved forward a copy he’d made of the drawing. “It was found in a hovel in Agar Town, in the possession of a widow whose husband was sentenced to transportation, but who was set free at the last moment when a stranger was put in his place. The stranger was wearing a ring with this design. Three years ago, Auburn.”

  With one fingertip, Auburn drew the paper close. A muscle leapt in his jaw. “This is a damned poor joke.”

  “I agree,” Crispin said. “Whoever did this tried to have me killed, and I much prefer my head in one piece.”

  “A drawing.” Auburn flicked it back toward him. “This is your proof? Give me pen and paper, and I’ll draw a man in the moon.”

  “There is more. I went by the docks this morning, and then to the Royal Exchange. The company that operated the transport ship no longer exists. The only record of its ownership traces to a privately held corporation, controlled through a trust. You have friends in the Home Office, Auburn—men who know how to prod and pry and chip away at secrets. I want to know who owned that company.”

  Auburn stared. The nearby fire caught his irises oddly, calling out gold striations within the green. The stare of a predator, unimpressed. “Dirty work,” he said. “Now that Mason won’t do it, you look for another way.”

  Crispin battled to keep his temper. “It is an implausible and ludicrous story. Do you not think I could have concocted a more credible tale? I gambled on your long friendship with Lockwood. But I am not disinterested myself. My wife will not be safe until I handle this.”

  “Nor will you, of course.” Auburn spoke in a dry, ironic tone. “Don’t forget that.” But he picked up the paper again, studying it with a frown. “This is ridiculous,” he said at last, mouth twisting as he cast it down. “I’ve no idea what scheme you’re on—”

  Enough. Crispin stood. “Every other transport in 1857 was granted to a single company under contract with the Crown,” he bit out. “But their warehouses burned in May of that year. A single transport was given to this company that has since become a ghost. Look into that, and then decide how far you can trust me. Good day, Auburn.”

  * * *

  The morning room smelled like a hothouse. Every hour brought more flowers, vase upon vase of chrysanthemums, roses, hyacinth, and heliotrope. Each of these was addressed to Mrs. Crispin Burke, sent by women whose surnames Jane only knew from her uncle’s contemptuous ranting. By breaking with h
is former cronies, Crispin had unwittingly invited the rest of the Commons to lobby for his support. His wife would be lobbied as well.

  Jane sat on a stiff, overstuffed brocade settee, which offered no comfort. She was staring at the piles of paper on the table before her. On the left lay all the invitations that had arrived in the post. On the right were a dozen calling cards left by the wives and daughters of politicians.

  And between these two piles lay a single sheet of paper that the clerk had copied out with laborious care.

  The door stood closed. Crispin had gone out before she’d woken. They had shared the same bed, last night, but had touched only by accident. He was livid with her for refusing to go abroad.

  In the coach yesterday, en route to Agar Town, she had misspoken somehow when condemning his former self.

  No, she had not misspoken. But he had taken her judgment poorly. She had felt him withdrawing from her, shuttering himself, retreating into a silence that the smile on his mouth had cast as courteous, only his eyes telling the truth. She had hurt him.

  She hadn’t understood how. A day’s reflection had not clarified her puzzlement. She worried every day, increasingly panicked, about the many ways she might hurt him. The possibilities crushed her as she ransacked her brain for some way out of this mess. A great mortal blow she could deliver him, if she told the whole truth. But she had comforted herself with the notion that he would be too enraged to be hurt. That the magnitude of her lie, once unveiled, would kill the affection between them.

  Affection. That was too pale, too casual. She would not think the word that better fitted.

  But the thought that somewhere in this great city, men had conspired to kill him . . . that they might try again . . . It made her wild with rage and fear combined. It was not their right. He was hers.

  But he wasn’t.

  On a breath, she unfolded the sheet.

  The clerk had not been surprised by her request. But he had probably wondered why she flushed, why her hands twisted together on the countertop as she spoke. Her heartbeat had counted out the moments it took him to disappear into the stacks. The sharp lurch in her chest had marked his return, the folder beneath his arm seeming ominous as an omen.