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

Her heel squeaked on the first step. Burke obviously heard it, for he called after her. “Miss Mason.”

She laid a hand on the banister and continued to climb, pretending to be deaf.

“Jane Mason,” came his low purr, much closer. “Where do you think you’re going?”

His question startled her into halting. In all the years he had consorted with her uncle, paying calls at Marylebigh in the off-season to plan for the parliamentary sessions ahead, he had never addressed her so intimately.

He’d never addressed her at all, in fact, save when formalities called for it. That he should break form tonight, of all nights, seemed alarming.

She took a deep breath and turned, careful to hunch a little, to keep her chin tucked. She knew how her uncle’s cronies viewed her: a dusty bauble, deliberately kept on the shelf, lest her fortune be transferred to a husband. Cloistered, buried alive in the countryside. She was twenty-three, and she had never had a season.

“Yes, Mr. Burke?” she whispered.

He looked up at her from the base of the stairs, a position that should have given her the advantage, allowing her to feel as though she looked down her nose.

But he was tall, lean, broad shouldered. He managed to loom even when standing a foot beneath her. And the wicked smile on his face shifted his angular features to their best advantage, emphasizing the Viking broadness of his cheekbones, the masculine squareness of his jaw. His dark eyes glittered unusually. He looked . . .

Amused. He had been laughing, not coughing!

“You’re clever,” he said. “I didn’t realize that.”

What a pity. Her only aim had been to amuse herself. “Thank you,” she said in a deliberately confused tone. “I’m so clumsy with a needle. How mortifying that everyone should know it!”

His hair was black and glossy; from this high vantage, it looked thick enough to grab in great handfuls. She’d like to try it, and yank very hard. What an unfeeling monster he was with this penal reform bill he’d drafted! “Yes, you should take care,” he agreed. “Who knows what else you’ve proved clumsy with?”

She took a step backward. That sounded like a threat.

“Fine advice,” she said breathlessly. “I’m ever so grateful for it.”

“Are you?” His full lips tipped to a peculiar angle, not quite a smile. “Then here’s more advice: go to bed early tonight.”

Her heart jumped. There was no way he could know. She’d been so careful! “Why do you say so?”

As his smile faded, she had the impression of a mask falling over him, though his handsome face never revealed anything useful. “Sleep profits a young woman’s beauty,” he said, his mockery light but clear. “And every girl wishes to be a beautiful bride.”

She clenched her teeth. “But I am not engaged, Mr. Burke.”

“Oh?” He lifted one dark brow. “Your uncle tells a different story. And Archibald, just now—was he not beaming with pleasure over his future wife’s work?”

They could not force her to marry Archie.

She would not give them a chance.

She managed a wide smile. “Then perhaps I am wrong,” she said. “My uncle does know best. And I will take your advice, Mr. Burke. Good evening to you.”

She turned and continued up the stairs, ears straining for the sound of his retreat. But she heard no footsteps. He remained where he was, watching her until she crested the staircase. Her skin prickled; she shivered, but did not look back.

*

A driving rain was churning the garden into mud. The woods beyond huddled like dark monsters, limbs whipping, leaves hissing. Jane sprinted toward them.

Six years she had waited, prayed, deliberated, stewed. For six years she had kept meekly obedient, in penance for those first months in which she’d known no better, and had spoken her mind without fear.

Six years was long enough to fool anyone. Her family had forgotten she was capable of rebellion. They would not check on her for hours yet.

Only once she reached the country lane did Jane slow down. Her heart was drumming, her mouth full of rainwater. She spat her mouthful into the road. Not ladylike. Ha! She’d never been a lady. Never allowed to go into society. She would follow her own code.

Thunder cracked in the distance; lightning lit the roiling clouds. The night was wild, and it sang to her. Free, yes, at last! A warm cloak and wool-lined boots were all she carried. Money wasn’t required—or wouldn’t be, soon enough. She was, after all, the golden goose. Once married, once properly roasted, the goose would lay golden coins. Like magic, all she needed was a husband. By the terms of her father’s will, her inheritance would then come under her control.

The trickiest part had been finding a man desperate enough to elope with her. Jonathan Pine, her uncle’s elderly stable master, had told her he would meet her at the Cross Keys pub tonight. Four miles’ walk to the tavern. As long as she made it by ten o’clock, they would catch the last coach toward London.

The mud sucked at Jane’s boots like a hungry mouth. She slogged faster, head down, breath burning in her throat. The wind yanked off her hood and shoved her backward. She pushed on, step by step, her sodden skirts heavy as stones.

First, her uncle had stolen her father’s political career. He’d stepped into Papa’s seat after the cholera had killed her parents.