A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(19)

A prince, a pauper, the czar of Russia—take your pick, so long as you feel sure the groom will not object.

A dead man could not object. A dead man would not even care.

What had he told her? “If freedom is your aim,” she whispered, “then do what you must.”

On a harsh breath, she went to the writing desk and took up her pen.





CHAPTER FOUR





Present day—February 1860

You’re in shock,” Charlotte said kindly. “It’s entirely natural. But he will recover his memories, Jane. I promise you that.”

Jane gave a halting nod. They sat together in the back parlor, crowded on every side by pots of scarlet roses from Lady Sibley’s hothouse. Jane had opened a window, but the damp breeze only seemed to excite the flowers. Their dark, rich perfume was clogging her lungs. When she shifted in her seat, velvety petals brushed her face, stroked her cheek. She felt nauseated, penned in. Trapped.

Alive and awake! For almost a day now, Mr. Burke had been napping and then waking. Waking! In her desperate gamble, Jane had never foreseen this turn. Every doctor whom Viscount Sibley had summoned—from the Queen’s own physicians to the crème de la crème of Edinburgh and Paris—had instructed the family to abandon hope. But they had been mistaken. He would live.

“It’s a miracle,” Charlotte said softly.

A log split in the hearth, releasing a shower of sparks that caused them both to jump. The difference was that Charlotte laughed, an exultant and giddy sound, while Jane swallowed a curse.

She had never felt more dark hearted. Burke’s recovery had brought joy to a family that showed nothing but kindness to her. But even for their sake, she could not be happy.

He had lost some of his memories. How many? And how permanently? Last night, he had not seemed to believe her. My wife, he’d repeated flatly. And then he’d demanded to speak with his father again.

Jane had gone to her bedroom. What else was there to do? She had drawn the blankets to her chin and listened as new doctors arrived, tramping up the stairs to inspect Mr. Burke. They had stood in the hallway for hours, conferring in low murmurs. But nobody had come to accuse her. She had finally fallen asleep near dawn and been tossed by paranoid dreams until, at half ten, Charlotte had come to wake her.

It was three thirty in the afternoon now. Nobody had yet called her a fraud. But the day was young.

What would she do if Burke’s memories returned by nightfall? It would take time to finalize the transfer of her wealth. Until she had access to her inheritance, she could not run. Not without finding herself worse off than she had been at Marylebigh—alone and penniless besides.

But if Crispin Burke were to suddenly remember that he had no wife . . .

“Mama does not know this,” Charlotte said in a hushed voice as she poured the tea, “and I pray you won’t tell her. But . . . Jane, I had ceased to go to church.”

Jane nodded, and then—when Charlotte’s expectant silence continued—she produced a surprised noise. “Oh dear. And now?”

“Today I slipped out and walked to Matins.” Charlotte held out a steaming cup. “I felt His presence again, Jane! And I wept in thanks, and felt so ashamed that I had lost faith even for a moment!”

The tea was exactly as Jane liked it: lightly sugared, with two teaspoons of milk. She had lived in this house for four days now, for lack of anywhere else to go. Her uncle had been so enraged when she’d produced the marriage lines that she had feared for her safety.

No frightened girl could have hoped for better protectors than the Sibleys. Amid their grief and shock, they had nevertheless managed to comfort her, telling her not to worry about anything. Her only concern must be her husband, they said.

They had left her alone for long hours at Burke’s sickbed. Those hours had felt like purgatory. From the first, her exhilaration at having escaped her uncle was mixed with guilt over the lie she had told.

The forgery would hurt nobody, she’d reminded herself. Mr. Burke possessed no fortune. She would inherit nothing from him when he died.

But quickly it had become clear that Burke possessed a fortune more rare than her own. He had a warm and loving family that, in the face of their helplessness to aid him, instead turned their affections on the woman they considered his wife.

She hated lying to them.

But what choice did she have? Sitting at Burke’s bedside, Jane had listened, three times, as her uncle forced his way into the house. He demanded her return. He accused Crispin of kidnap and seduction. The last time, he’d brought the police.

Charlotte had come to her then, and they had sat trembling, hands locked together, as her uncle raged in the entry hall. Viscount Sibley had allowed him no farther inside.

Sibley’s voice had never lifted. But his rich, confident baritone had demolished her uncle’s accusations. My son’s marriage was witnessed by one of the highest officials in the land. You challenge the honor not only of the Church but of a Member of Parliament. And you try my patience as well. Tell me, Constable—what are the penalties for harassment? And what would your supervisors think of your support for it?

The police had left then. Mason had soon followed.

Charlotte’s thoughts trailed hers. “I’d like to see your uncle accuse Crispin to his face,” she said with relish. “I expect he’ll learn to hold his tongue very quickly. One word from Cris ought to do it!”