A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(20)

“Yes,” Jane said weakly. She could see it in her mind’s eye—Mr. Burke’s dark and merciless look, the cruel humor of his slow smile. The cold pleasure of a predator on spotting new prey.

Only it wasn’t Mason he’d be hunting.

A drop of tea splashed hot against her knuckles. Her hands were shaking. Very carefully, she returned her teacup to the saucer.

She needn’t panic. Nearby Southampton was full of ships, docking and departing at every hour. All she needed to do was to complete the paperwork that would finalize her access to the trust. Her husband’s signature was also required. Now that Burke was awake, she could insist on it. But she must time the request carefully, lest it make her look venal.

A bitter taste filled her mouth. But I am venal. I have gulled this lovely family in order to secure my freedom.

What a pity he’d not been parented by brutes!

How such decent people had produced Crispin Burke, she could not begin to guess. But their love was the noble counterpoint to his own dark nature. She hated to exploit it.

Yet there was no other choice.

*

The trip across the room cost him his breath. Crispin collapsed onto the chair, panting. You nearly died. For the first time since waking, he believed it. His head was spinning. Almost two days had passed since he’d woken to this strange new world. It felt like aeons. He could not comprehend half of what he’d been told about himself.

It was the cheval mirror that had drawn him out of bed. His breath recovered, he gathered the strength to stand and turn his chair toward it.

The glass showed a man in his thirties, well removed from boyhood. Crispin sank back into his seat, skin prickling. He touched his chin. The man in the mirror did the same.

This was his face, subtly changed. Lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. His skin looked sun burnished, the texture of it slightly roughened. His beard came in faster and thicker; he’d been shaved this morning, and already sported stubble. His lips, in repose, settled into a hard cast, unwittingly foreboding. He looked . . . fearsome.

Fitting for a powerful politician. A man, his father claimed, who all but controlled the Commons.

Controlled the Commons! Crispin sat back, amazed anew. He had always been ambitious, but the last he remembered, his world had been crumbling around him. The love of his life had rebuffed him; Laura’s family had decided a second son would not do for her, and engaged her instead to the Duke of Farnsworth. Crispin had managed to pass the entrance exam to the diplomatic corps, but he’d not been selected after all. He’d gone then to his father, who refused to use his connections to make inquiries. “The corps is a grueling route,” he’d told Crispin. “Atticus has said he will find you a position in the City. Short hours and a fine salary—just your line.”

He’d assumed, as always, that Crispin’s aim had outstripped his abilities. And that Atticus, the golden child, would provide a solution.

The mirror showed Crispin’s darkening expression. It seemed he had made a success of himself despite everyone’s expectations to the contrary. But today, when delivering that news—that Crispin was an accomplished leader, the man who controlled the bloody Commons—even today, his father had managed to sound dubious. “Your methods, well . . .” His mouth had pinched. “They are not always honorable. Indeed, I fear they may have provoked someone to try to kill you.”

Crispin stared at his now frowning reflection. What sort of man would have made such violent enemies?

No. London was a dangerous city. And how typical of his father to assume that he might have done something to incite his own misfortune!

A knock came softly at the door. “Mr. Burke? You called for me?”

A political career was not his only accomplishment. He had married—not high, but handsomely. “One of the great fortunes of our time,” his father had called it.

On a deep breath, he turned in his seat. “Come.”

The door creaked open. Crispin’s bride hovered in the doorway, as though reluctant to approach. “You are dressed.”

Soft, cool voice. An impression of surprise. The doctors had counseled bed rest for him.

But he was done sleeping. This room had been forecast to house his corpse. He would not stay in it any longer than necessary. Nor did he mean to linger beneath his parents’ roof. It had not been a comfortable home since his childhood.

He braced himself, then slowly rose, resisting the violent trembling of his limbs, the dizziness, the strain of muscles that still seemed to be sleeping.

“Well done,” murmured the woman.

Generous of her. But his intention had been to bow. He would not manage it. His heart was already thundering, and his knees wobbled.

With a silent curse, he dropped back into his seat before he could fall.

“As spry as a toddler,” he said—aiming for wry, landing instead on embittered.

She took a step inside, her skirts whispering along the floor. A thick braid of dark hair wrapped like a crown around her oval face. She had large, watchful eyes, a wide and neatly shaped mouth. Lovely, really. But the opposite of Laura. Dark complexioned, tall. “You must be patient,” she said.

“Patience is not my strong suit.”

Her gaze fell. “Yes, I know.”

A wave of amazement lapped over him—another in an endless series, regular as the tide. She would know. For she was his wife, whom he had courted and married.