A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(18)

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. “So,” 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: