A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(17)

His family’s grief could not affect him, their disappointment and blame could not touch him, because he did not need them. Nor could their lack of faith wound him, for he trusted no one to look on him kindly.

He had forgotten this code for a time. Now he lived by it. Yet if his instincts and suspicions were right—and in a moment, if he stepped inside, he might finally know—then he had never anticipated this kind of evil. He had been caught off guard. He could have no part in this.

His chest tightened. Doing the right thing. What a thought!

But if he left now, the truth might never be uncovered.

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.