A Lady’s Code of Misconduct

Need no one, trust no one. A man who needed and trusted no one was a man with nothing to lose, and therefore a man with no cause for fear.

  What was the worst that could happen inside? He would be killed. No one would mourn. Someone else would become prime minister after Palmerston. But the failure would not touch him. He would be dead.

  He chambered his pistol and shoved open the door, stepping inside.

  Someone knocked the door shut. Total blackness. “Well?” he snapped.

  A fist smashed into his face. Knocked him to the ground. Rough scrape of wood, footsteps hard behind him.

  He shoved to his knees. The gun barked in his hand. A raw cry came from somewhere in the darkness. He spat blood and stepped backward, reaching for the doorknob, but it was no longer there.

  The second blow knocked him back down.

  Some distant part of his brain found the humor in it: The arrogant bastard finally gets what he deserves.

  The third blow made him see stars.

  The fourth was the last he felt.

  * * *

  “Jane? Jane! I am speaking to you!”

  Jane startled. Her aunt was glaring down the table at her. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  “You are pleased, are you not?”

  Jane cast a sidelong look toward Archie, who was glowering at his plate as though the Scotch eggs had insulted him. Whatever the tidings, he did not like them. “Very pleased,” she said. Where was her uncle? He had yet to come to the table, though it was his wont to finish his breakfast long before them.

  “That gives us only four weeks, of course.” Aunt Mary tapped a nail against the rim of her teacup, her eyes narrowing. “They say Madame Fouchet is not taking new clients. But for the right price, I expect she’ll change her mind.”

  “Madame . . . Fouchet?” Should she know this name?

  “Yes, the modiste.” Aunt Mary twisted her mouth. “Haven’t you heard a word? There has been a new opening at St. George’s, the last Sunday of February.”

  Archibald’s grim expression made sense now. “But—but surely, February . . .” Jane swallowed down a wave of panicked nausea. Her aunt had wanted a grand society event. “Many people will still be in the country at that time.”

  “Yes.” Aunt Mary’s nail was tapping steadily now, a stern and determined rhythm. “A pity. But I have spoken with your uncle, and he agrees: there is no point in waiting on the flightier fringes of the beau monde. The political lights will be in attendance, and that’s all that matters.”

  They had seen through her. They knew she was plotting to find a substitute groom. They were not willing to risk waiting until the height of the season.

  Jane took a hard breath. Her throat felt cramped, as though a noose were closing around it. Four weeks. That was no time at all, particularly when she was guarded more closely than the crown jewels. “But—I don’t—”

  “Oh, but you will,” Archie muttered into his coffee. “And so will I.”

  The look they exchanged then felt peculiarly intimate. In their perfect misery, they were at last in accord.

  “Naturally you feel bashful,” Aunt Mary said briskly. “Maidenly shyness, very fitting. I’ve written to Lady Elborough to see if she can put in a word with Madame Fouchet, but if that fails—”

  The door crashed open. Her uncle entered, pale and staggering, his cravat askew.

  “By God,” he rasped, and tossed a letter at his wife. “Look at this.”

  Aunt Mary unfolded the page and began to read. The contents caused her lips to whiten. “Is this . . . Is it public yet?”

  “Morning edition,” her uncle said.

  “What’s going on?” Archie asked.

  “None of your concern,” snapped Uncle Philip. He fell into a seat, but shoved away his plate. “What in God’s name are we to do?”

  In a single regard, her uncle and aunt did remind Jane of her parents. They trusted each other and conspired together, an intimate confederacy of two. Jane folded her napkin, preparing to be dismissed, but when she made to rise, her uncle snapped, “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Startled, she sank back into her seat—finding herself now the object of everyone’s regard.

  She cleared her throat, unnerved. She was far more accustomed to being ignored. Gone were the days of her youth, when her presence at the table, her thoughtful and confident contributions to debate, had not only been welcomed but expected. This household’s table was but an extension of the political battlefield, in which she had no place.

  But suddenly the atmosphere had transformed. A chilling idea came to her: suddenly she was enlisted in the battle.

  “We are going to move up the date,” her uncle said slowly, never removing his eyes from her.

  Her aunt made an unhappy noise. “But four weeks is already—”

  “Four days would be too long,” he said through his teeth. “Do you not grasp the news? With Burke dead, there will be blood in the water. We must solidify our defenses, now. We need the money in our hands.”

  Jane covered her mouth. “Mr. Burke is—”

  “Dead?” finished Archie. “How? When?”

  “Soon enough,” her uncle said. “On his deathbed, skull broken.” He shoved back from the table, rose, and nodded tightly as he looked between Jane and his son. “It will take a special license. I will find a way to procure one.”

  “But that’s impossible,” Aunt Mary cried. Her clear distress had nothing to do with Burke and everything to do with her visions of an ostentatious wedding. “Archie is no MP—”

  “Anything is possible,” her uncle said bitterly, “given the connections and the funds. And we won’t be short on those anymore.” His brief glance to Jane sent a new shock through her: he looked her over as one might a chair or a ladder, something to be used, without the brain or soul to look back.

  “I will go make arrangements,” he said, and pivoted to leave.

  “Wait!” Jane was on her feet, speaking desperately, without forethought or care. “I won’t agree to this! I can’t—I—” She dragged in a breath. Think. “I insist on a church wedding!”

  Her uncle’s laugh was horrible. “You insist, do you?” He took a pace toward her, and she was deeply grateful for the table that separated them. “I think you mean you wish. And what you wish is not my concern.”

  “My father,” she blurted. “My father would have wanted a proper wedding in a church—”

  “What your father did,” he said with icy precision, “was always quite different than what I would have done. But rest assured that I know my duty, and I will do it, regardless of your girlish fancies. You will marry my son, and you will never want for anything. You will live in comfort for the rest of your life. Whether or not you find cause to complain of it is your own concern, Jane. But I doubt your father would fault me for seeing to your welfare, or for deeming you a fitting bride for my son.”

  “He would!” She could not hold back the words now. What was there to lose? “My father would give me the choice. My father would not want a loveless marriage for me. He would never have permitted—”

  “Your father stole this family’s chance!” he roared.

  She shrank back.

  “Without my five hundred pounds,” her uncle snarled, “there never would have been a factory. Without my introductions, he never would have come to know the men who invested in the rest. And yet when it came time to repayment—what did I receive? A paltry five thousand? Do not speak to me again of your father, Jane. What you mistake for fine ideals was no more than calculating self-interest. But I have put it aside. For your sake, I have found a way to right that wrong, and to keep you in comfort besides. Be grateful for that.” He paused, glaring at her. “There were worse alternatives.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked out.

  A long moment passed, Jane frozen, Aunt Mary staring into space.

  Archie loosed a noisy breath, then picked up a Scotch egg and shoved the whole of it into his mouth. “S
o,” he said as he rose, still chewing. “Four days? I’ll be at my club until then.”

  The door banged shut again. Jane collapsed into a chair.

  “Dying,” Aunt Mary said softly. She picked up the letter, held it between thumb and forefinger as she studied it. “Of all men. So young, so robust. Who would have guessed?”

  Jane felt almost too exhausted to stir her thoughts toward Mr. Burke. But after a moment, they gathered around him of their own accord. He’d been a villain, an amoral rogue. Yet it was impossible, almost revolting, to imagine him killed. His vitality had all but filled a room. Had it only been turned toward good, he might have done so much.

  But he’d been wicked. The desolation that leached through her expanded to encompass him. What hope for heaven was there for Mr. Burke? For a man who’d corrupted even an archbishop?

  An archbishop.

  “I suppose we must pay a call,” Aunt Mary said. “Not today, of course. But tomorrow, on his family. As a matter of form.”

  Jane realized she was gripping her knife like a weapon. Very carefully, she laid it down. “Yes.” Her voice came out as a rasp. “Yes, I think that would be very decent.” Slowly she eased to her feet. “I would like to go with you, if you don’t mind. I have known him for so long.”

  “Of course.”

  “And now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Yes.” Aunt Mary scrubbed a hand over her eyes. “All right. Well . . . I suppose I must . . .”

  Jane stepped into the hallway. She felt dizzy. Dazed. She could not mean to do this.

  But she’d already meant to do it. Was it more sinful to gull a dead man than to bribe and buy a living one? Let the philosophers decide.

  Lifting her skirts, she bounded up the stairs into her room. Her hands fumbled on her lockbox. The key stuck before turning.

  There it was—the archbishop’s name, written in Burke’s slashing hand. His voice rang clearly through her mind:

  A prince, a pauper, the czar of Russia—take your pick, so long as you feel sure the groom will not object.

  A dead man could not object. A dead man would not even care.

  What had he told her? “If freedom is your aim,” she whispered, “then do what you must.”

  On a harsh breath, she went to the writing desk and took up her pen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Present day—February 1860

  You’re in shock,” Charlotte said kindly. “It’s entirely natural. But he will recover his memories, Jane. I promise you that.”

  Jane gave a halting nod. They sat together in the back parlor, crowded on every side by pots of scarlet roses from Lady Sibley’s hothouse. Jane had opened a window, but the damp breeze only seemed to excite the flowers. Their dark, rich perfume was clogging her lungs. When she shifted in her seat, velvety petals brushed her face, stroked her cheek. She felt nauseated, penned in. Trapped.

  Alive and awake! For almost a day now, Mr. Burke had been napping and then waking. Waking! In her desperate gamble, Jane had never foreseen this turn. Every doctor whom Viscount Sibley had summoned—from the Queen’s own physicians to the crème de la crème of Edinburgh and Paris—had instructed the family to abandon hope. But they had been mistaken. He would live.

  “It’s a miracle,” Charlotte said softly.

  A log split in the hearth, releasing a shower of sparks that caused them both to jump. The difference was that Charlotte laughed, an exultant and giddy sound, while Jane swallowed a curse.

  She had never felt more dark hearted. Burke’s recovery had brought joy to a family that showed nothing but kindness to her. But even for their sake, she could not be happy.

  He had lost some of his memories. How many? And how permanently? Last night, he had not seemed to believe her. My wife, he’d repeated flatly. And then he’d demanded to speak with his father again.

  Jane had gone to her bedroom. What else was there to do? She had drawn the blankets to her chin and listened as new doctors arrived, tramping up the stairs to inspect Mr. Burke. They had stood in the hallway for hours, conferring in low murmurs. But nobody had come to accuse her. She had finally fallen asleep near dawn and been tossed by paranoid dreams until, at half ten, Charlotte had come to wake her.

  It was three thirty in the afternoon now. Nobody had yet called her a fraud. But the day was young.

  What would she do if Burke’s memories returned by nightfall? It would take time to finalize the transfer of her wealth. Until she had access to her inheritance, she could not run. Not without finding herself worse off than she had been at Marylebigh—alone and penniless besides.

  But if Crispin Burke were to suddenly remember that he had no wife . . .

  “Mama does not know this,” Charlotte said in a hushed voice as she poured the tea, “and I pray you won’t tell her. But . . . Jane, I had ceased to go to church.”

  Jane nodded, and then—when Charlotte’s expectant silence continued—she produced a surprised noise. “Oh dear. And now?”

  “Today I slipped out and walked to Matins.” Charlotte held out a steaming cup. “I felt His presence again, Jane! And I wept in thanks, and felt so ashamed that I had lost faith even for a moment!”

  The tea was exactly as Jane liked it: lightly sugared, with two teaspoons of milk. She had lived in this house for four days now, for lack of anywhere else to go. Her uncle had been so enraged when she’d produced the marriage lines that she had feared for her safety.

  No frightened girl could have hoped for better protectors than the Sibleys. Amid their grief and shock, they had nevertheless managed to comfort her, telling her not to worry about anything. Her only concern must be her husband, they said.

  They had left her alone for long hours at Burke’s sickbed. Those hours had felt like purgatory. From the first, her exhilaration at having escaped her uncle was mixed with guilt over the lie she had told.

  The forgery would hurt nobody, she’d reminded herself. Mr. Burke possessed no fortune. She would inherit nothing from him when he died.

  But quickly it had become clear that Burke possessed a fortune more rare than her own. He had a warm and loving family that, in the face of their helplessness to aid him, instead turned their affections on the woman they considered his wife.

  She hated lying to them.

  But what choice did she have? Sitting at Burke’s bedside, Jane had listened, three times, as her uncle forced his way into the house. He demanded her return. He accused Crispin of kidnap and seduction. The last time, he’d brought the police.

  Charlotte had come to her then, and they had sat trembling, hands locked together, as her uncle raged in the entry hall. Viscount Sibley had allowed him no farther inside.

  Sibley’s voice had never lifted. But his rich, confident baritone had demolished her uncle’s accusations. My son’s marriage was witnessed by one of the highest officials in the land. You challenge the honor not only of the Church but of a Member of Parliament. And you try my patience as well. Tell me, Constable—what are the penalties for harassment? And what would your supervisors think of your support for it?

  The police had left then. Mason had soon followed.

  Charlotte’s thoughts trailed hers. “I’d like to see your uncle accuse Crispin to his face,” she said with relish. “I expect he’ll learn to hold his tongue very quickly. One word from Cris ought to do it!”

  “Yes,” Jane said weakly. She could see it in her mind’s eye—Mr. Burke’s dark and merciless look, the cruel humor of his slow smile. The cold pleasure of a predator on spotting new prey.

  Only it wasn’t Mason he’d be hunting.

  A drop of tea splashed hot against her knuckles. Her hands were shaking. Very carefully, she returned her teacup to the saucer.

  She needn’t panic. Nearby Southampton was full of ships, docking and departing at every hour. All she needed to do was to complete the paperwork that would finalize her access to the trust. Her husband’s signature was also required. Now that Burke was awake, she could insist on it. But
she must time the request carefully, lest it make her look venal.

  A bitter taste filled her mouth. But I am venal. I have gulled this lovely family in order to secure my freedom.

  What a pity he’d not been parented by brutes!

  How such decent people had produced Crispin Burke, she could not begin to guess. But their love was the noble counterpoint to his own dark nature. She hated to exploit it.

  Yet there was no other choice.

  * * *

  The trip across the room cost him his breath. Crispin collapsed onto the chair, panting. You nearly died. For the first time since waking, he believed it. His head was spinning. Almost two days had passed since he’d woken to this strange new world. It felt like aeons. He could not comprehend half of what he’d been told about himself.

  It was the cheval mirror that had drawn him out of bed. His breath recovered, he gathered the strength to stand and turn his chair toward it.

  The glass showed a man in his thirties, well removed from boyhood. Crispin sank back into his seat, skin prickling. He touched his chin. The man in the mirror did the same.

  This was his face, subtly changed. Lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. His skin looked sun burnished, the texture of it slightly roughened. His beard came in faster and thicker; he’d been shaved this morning, and already sported stubble. His lips, in repose, settled into a hard cast, unwittingly foreboding. He looked . . . fearsome.

  Fitting for a powerful politician. A man, his father claimed, who all but controlled the Commons.

  Controlled the Commons! Crispin sat back, amazed anew. He had always been ambitious, but the last he remembered, his world had been crumbling around him. The love of his life had rebuffed him; Laura’s family had decided a second son would not do for her, and engaged her instead to the Duke of Farnsworth. Crispin had managed to pass the entrance exam to the diplomatic corps, but he’d not been selected after all. He’d gone then to his father, who refused to use his connections to make inquiries. “The corps is a grueling route,” he’d told Crispin. “Atticus has said he will find you a position in the City. Short hours and a fine salary—just your line.”