A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(14)

“I won’t do it.”

He considered her a moment, then issued a sigh, somehow disappointed, scolding—a schoolmaster with a lackluster pupil. “Miss Mason. I thought you a girl of some wit. What leads you to imagine you have any right to refuse?”

“Some wit! Why, you do know how to turn a girl’s head. But you should really think before you speak, sir.” Suddenly, in some perverse way, she was enjoying herself. It had been a very long time since she had spoken without fear of giving offense. “I have every right to refuse you, and more to the point, you have every cause to coddle me. If I told my uncle you had asked me to spy on him, your friendship might undergo a decline.”

A brief pause opened, in which he considered her narrowly. Then he prowled close, moving so quickly that she had no chance to avoid his touch: he hooked her chin with one finger and yanked up her face.

For all the unpleasantries of her recent life, she was not accustomed to being handled like livestock. She jerked free. He caught her again, ungently now, gripping her jaw to hold her in place.

“Careful,” he said. “I don’t like to argue.”

Alarm shot through her. She had known him for an unprincipled wretch. But she had never imagined he would pose a danger to her person. “You assault women, do you?”

His lips twitched, an attempt at a smile that did not take. He released her and retreated a pace, shoving his hands into his pockets in a silent concession.

Now she was angry again, livid at his temerity. “How good to know you have some standards. Corrupt, amoral, with no cause save your own advancement—but you won’t abuse a woman. Yes, what a fine recipe for a politician!”

“You know what it requires to be a politician, do you?”

“I knew the finest politician who ever lived,” she said. “A man of true ideals, who thought foremost of the needs of the poorest—who put his fortune into helping those who needed it most, rather than enriching his friends—”

“Ah yes, the saintly magnate,” he said in a cutting voice. “It’s easy to be noble with a million pounds at one’s disposal.”

“My father would have been noble in the gutter,” she retorted. “He believed in his efforts. He lived his ideals. He educated me as he would have a son—he funded schools, he gave food to the poor, he treated everyone with respect—”

“How lovely,” he said in a flat tone. “I’m certain his workers quite cherished that respect while scraping together the pennies he paid them.”

She flinched. That was not fair. “His factory men were well paid—”

“Oh? Would you thrive on their salaries?”

“You know nothing about him!”

“His bank accounts spoke for themselves,” he said. “And I’ve no objection to feeding the poor, Miss Mason, provided I am well stocked myself. But we second sons, we workaday men—lacking a fortune, we must rely on our wits. Ideals, you see, do not fund our grand plans.”

“Grand plans?” Her scoff burned. “Plans to make sure that the miserable suffer further? Your penal bill—”

“That bill,” he said, “will save lives. It will keep dangerous criminals off the streets and away from neighborhoods that you will never live in. You are sheltered, Miss Mason, so I will forgive you for failing to see how that bill might benefit the same deserving poor whom you weep for in your silk-covered bed.”

“I don’t weep for them, sir.” She planned. Her father had drawn up a dozen proposals for how to best use his fortune for the improvement of the needy. Once she came into possession of that money, she would see his plans through, and invent more besides. “I do nothing so useless. The penal bill is a travesty. You would acknowledge that in an instant if it didn’t serve your purposes.”

“Yes, so I would. Just as I have fought against a dozen proposals that you also would have condemned, precisely because they did not serve my purposes. You had no complaints in those instances, I’m certain.” His smile looked cold. “But I do believe in removing criminals from the street. Which is convenient.”

She scowled. “You may launch any defense you like—”

“I need that letter copied.”

Oh, why bother arguing with him? He was rotted through. “Hire someone. I don’t answer to your bidding.”

“You have free access to Mason’s study. It would take months for a hireling to manage that.”

“You’re still young, Mr. Burke. Or . . . close to it.” He could not be much above thirty. “I’m quite sure you have the time to wait.”

“But do you have the time?”

She hesitated. There was a trap here. “I have three months, in fact.”

Burke sat down. His clear retreat eased the pressure in her chest, made her feel she could draw a free and full breath. When he gestured to the seat opposite him, she warily took it.

“You told me,” he said, “that comfort could be a prison. Do you recall?”

She nodded.

“That isn’t comfort,” he said. “What you have at Marylebigh. It is a . . . smothering. They imagine you brainless. Your words make no sound to them.”

He was too perceptive. It made her feel peculiarly exposed, almost humiliated. “So?”