A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(13)

“Not quite,” said Burke. “Your husband wishes you in the country for the season.”

Some wordless exclamation. “You can’t mean you spoke with him—”

“We reached an understanding.”

A brief, charged silence. Then: “And when have you ever cared for what he thinks? After what he did to you! Why should he be allowed to—”

“Because I need his vote.”

“His vote!”

“Forgive me. Was I meant to place you above politics?”

A sharp smacking sound made Jane flinch.

After a brief pause, Mr. Burke said, “Feel better, Laura?”

“Not at all.” The words were choked by loathing. “I’d like to see you bleed.”

“Consult the duke. Perhaps a shared goal will draw you close.”

Jane realized she was hugging herself. Burke’s words, so full of dry scorn, seemed to burn.

Silk rustled; the woman stalked past Jane’s hiding place, no less lovely in a fury.

After a few moments, Mr. Burke came into view. A red mark was fading from his jaw, but he looked, otherwise, perfectly unruffled. His full, well-sculpted lips did not smile, precisely, but they held the impression of sardonic good humor. “Swooning, Miss Mason?”

She wished he were not so tall. Then the Duchess of Farnsworth might have blackened his eye. “It would take more to make me swoon. First, I would have to feel surprised.”

“Ah, good! A native cynic.” He extended his elbow, and with a resentful grimace she stepped past him, cutting a brisk pace down the hall.

He spoke from behind her, his amusement plain. “Do you think depravity proves contagious?”

She tried the doorknob to her uncle’s study. Locked, of course. Her uncle zealously cultivated each of his guests, but he did not trust any of them. “So you admit to being depraved.”

“I wouldn’t waste the effort to argue it.”

The next door opened into the morning room. She stepped inside, and Burke followed, closing the door.

He leaned his weight against the door, no doubt entirely mindful of the threat he offered by blocking the exit. Six feet of muscle. She backed away from him. In this cozy little room—flowered wallpaper, soft chintz upholstery, lace doilies cluttering every surface—he seemed as out of place as a panther.

“So,” he said. “You managed to get yourself to London. Does it live up to your hopes?”

So they would pretend to be friendly. Very well, she could do that. “I cannot tell yet,” she said with a shrug. “My aunt will not let me out of her sight. She refused to drive through the park yesterday for fear that ruffians might kidnap us. And she says the weather is too cold for sightseeing.”

“Oh, come, now, Miss Mason.” His tone was indulgent. “A schemer like you? Surely you could invent some reason to leave the house.”

A schemer. The idea reverberated unpleasantly. She had been raised by honest, upstanding parents. Her mother had held truth to be a sacred charge; it was Mama who’d first insisted that Jane’s father look into conditions at the very manufactories that had made him rich. Profit, she’d said, has no bearing on the question of what is right. It was her moral certainty that Papa had absorbed, and that had driven him into his political career.

But that career had been cut short. At seventeen, Jane had been thrust into a new world in which honesty was considered intolerable cheek. Slapped one too many times for talking back, she had learned to hold her tongue. She had learned how to scheme.

“Yes,” she said now, flatly. “Your friend Mr. Mason has taught me many things.”

“And Archibald?” asked Mr. Burke. “Have you undergone a sea change, and sworn your love to him?”

“Of course not.”

He straightened. “Then we have much to discuss.” He locked the door, then pocketed the key.

“That’s not necessary!”

He lifted a brow as he faced her. “Do you want to be caught with me? Imagine how that might play out.” He held up the key, a silent offer: he would unlock the door, if she liked.

She could not imagine what her uncle would do if he caught them closeted together. He would probably invent a dungeon for her. “Fine,” she said shortly. “Leave it locked.”

He surprised her by handing her the key, then strode across the carpet, yanking shut the curtains and enclosing them in darkness.

She crossed her arms, the key icy against her elbow. “Is that necessary?”

“One never knows who might be watching.”

Did he often discover people spying through windows on him? What a terrifying world he lived in!

“Now,” came his voice, low and silken, “tell me more of your news. What did the letter say, precisely?”

“I didn’t read it.”

The gas lamps hissed; light rose as Burke turned the valve. He stopped too soon. A dull, hellish glow suffused the room, barely sufficient to see by. But it illuminated the irritation on his face. “You didn’t read it.” His tone was withering.

“I could hardly read over his shoulder! I only know that it concerned Elland.”

“You will need to get your hands on it, then.”

She squinted at him. “I cannot do that.”

“You can.”