A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(12)
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.”