A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(4)

“The list will be very predictable,” Burke said with a shrug. “It will include any man who helped to carry the penal bill.”

“I was always in favor of the penal bill,” her uncle said. “I helped draft the bloody thing, didn’t I? I only wish you would spare a few thoughts for how to pay for your ambitions.”

“That’s your job,” Burke drawled.

“Look here!” Archibald cried as he came back into the room. “I have a surprise for you all.” He took center stage in front of the fire as he lifted a folded bundle of cloth. “A great entertainment.”

Jane hid a dark smile. Though the room did not know it, her embroidery was about to deliver them a fitting farewell.

“Oh dear,” said Aunt Mary. She was blond, very thin, patrician looking; she had mastered the eternally amused demeanor of a woman bred to privilege, though her family was no better born than her husband’s. “We were doing very well without your help, Archibald.”

“But this is art,” Archie sneered, and unfurled the embroidery—struggling a little to hold it out wide. It had taken ten months, after all.

Lady Elborough gasped. Somebody coughed. Aunt Mary, turning a peculiar shade of green, tried a titter. “Good heavens,” she said. “What on earth is that?”

“Jane’s fancywork,” Archibald said.

“Always sewing,” Aunt Mary said nervously. “Our little angel of the house.”

Lady Elborough rose and slowly approached the piece. Jane found her troubled expression quite fascinating. The others were doing so well to gaze upon the work blandly.

Nobody dared look at Jane, of course.

Save Crispin Burke. His sardonic gaze delved through the shadows, finding hers and holding.

She fluttered her lashes and ducked her head, as though abashed.

When she dared to peek up through her lashes, he was still watching. He offered her a slow-growing smile, somehow unkind.

To her own annoyance, Jane felt herself flush. She picked up her needlework again. The nice thing about being a wraith was that nobody expected her to account for herself. That would, after all, require her to have a brain, which everybody very much hoped she did not.

“But I don’t understand,” said Lady Elborough, bewildered. “This is . . . Is this you, Mr. Mason? Here, in the middle?”

Jane stabbed her needle through the canvas. Obviously it was her uncle. His brown beard was unmistakable.

“Oh, I think not,” her uncle said gruffly. “Why, surely it is a likeness of our savior! See the blood in his palms?”

“Yes . . .” Lady Elborough did not sound convinced. “But if this is Jesus Christ, then who is this . . . dark man at his elbow?”

“That’s Burke!” Archibald crowed. “See? You can tell by the ruby on his finger!”

“Archie,” hissed Aunt Mary.

Lady Elborough was squinting. “Does he have horns?”

“Oh no,” said Uncle Philip hastily. “Why, I believe that is simply an illusion caused by the . . . the smoke rising behind their two figures.”

“But what do the flames mean, surrounding them?” Lady Elborough’s words pitched higher now, tighter. “And why are they standing on all those poor children?”

“Jane.” Her uncle’s voice lashed like a whip. “Will you explain this bizarre piece, please, lest Lady Elborough misinterpret it?”

No better proof of victory than being summoned to speak! Jane laid aside her embroidery frame and rose, locking her hands at her waist and gazing meekly at the carpet. “Of course, Uncle. It is a tribute to your great political work.”

“Politics! Is that quite the proper subject for fancywork?” asked Lord Elborough.

“Her needlework is very poor,” Aunt Mary said hurriedly. “Her parents neglected her education—”

“Give me that!” Her uncle snatched the piece from Archibald and chucked it into the fire. The bulge-eyed glare he turned on her promised retribution.

Jane pulled a shocked face. “I’m so sorry. I never thought— The fire, you see, was meant to represent the struggle for justice, in the ancient Greek tradition.”

Silence fell, thick with disbelief.

“She is slow,” Aunt Mary muttered to Lady Elborough, who nodded, her expression collapsing into pity.

A choked sound came from Mr. Burke. The fire was licking over the canvas, finding poor purchase, smoking as it singed the silk floss. Burke rose in one lithe, powerful movement, as if on springs. “Excuse me,” he managed, and coughed as he strode out.

“Go to your room,” snapped Aunt Mary to Jane. “Look through your magazines for some pleasant pattern to copy, or you will not sew at all.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

As Jane hurried out, she heard her aunt say, “Archibald, fetch down that monkey,” which made Jane swallow a laugh. Truly, her aunt must be desperate for a distraction to call down such trouble willingly. “We are great friends with Mr. Marlowe, you know, the inventor. He has made the most cunning device . . .”

In the hallway, Burke stood leaning against the wall, his face hidden in his forearm, his shoulders jerking.

Good. Jane hoped he choked on the smoke. She picked up her skirts and walked faster toward the stairs. Illusion of horns, ha! Burke was the devil. Her uncle supplied the money for Burke’s political career. (Her money.) Burke supplied the breeding and connections that her uncle required for his own campaigns. Monsters, both of them.