A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(7)

But she could well imagine that when he was confronted by the Masons, Mr. Pine’s dreams of a pretty cottage in Cornwall had collapsed under terror.

How smug her uncle must feel right now! She was only surprised that he had not sent Archie to rout her. Burke was too lofty for such errands. He was a star in the House of Commons, whose aristocratic connections gave him the upper hand over her uncle, despite her uncle’s access to her wealth.

“You make a fine messenger boy,” she said. “And here I mistook you for a man with a spine.”

“Your uncle did not send me.”

Startled, she frowned at him. The firelight painted his skin golden and played across the chiseled planes of his face. Rarely had she allowed herself to study him at length. But sometimes, to her distress, she had dreamed of him anyway.

In those dreams he was a different person, kinder, gentler. She always woke disturbed. Beauty had a horrible power. It did not conceal faults so much as it persuaded the viewer to ignore them, and to disregard the instinct that screamed danger.

“If my uncle didn’t send you, why are you here?”

Burke shrugged. “Mason intends to leave you stewing for a time. And then he will send Archibald to fetch you.”

She digested this bitterness. “Teaching me a lesson, is he?”

“You’ve been quite foolish.” Burke’s tone was gentle. “Archibald will come alone, you see. I cannot say, Miss Mason, what might transpire between you on the road home. But upon your arrival at Marylebigh, I feel certain that the Elboroughs will discover you together. Returning at midnight, in a state of disrepair, your gown perhaps ripped, with no chaperone . . .”

She could not breathe.

“It could be covered up,” he continued with dreadful patience, “if only the Elboroughs did not witness it. Your uncle will be alarmed and mortified. He will insist that his son does his duty by you. The Elboroughs will approve, and carry the tale of your engagement far and wide—as well as the cause for it. You will not be allowed to refuse this time.”

“I will not marry Archibald.” She had said so time and again. “No one can force me.”

“No one could have done,” Burke agreed. “But you made it possible. You arranged your own disgrace tonight.” He paused. “You and Jonathan Pine. How convenient! Mr. Pine certainly earned his payment.”

She recoiled so sharply that the bench tipped. As it slammed back against the flagstones, the noise drew attention from rough men nearby. Mr. Burke appeared unalarmed by their scowls. He lifted his tankard to them, his smile easy.

She battled a temptation to speak to the onlookers—to beg for their help. But nobody could help her. Her uncle was the most powerful man in the county, his influence built from the funds he steadily siphoned from her inheritance—and the cleverness and power of his friends.

“I wish you joy of your marriage, Miss Mason.”

As Burke rose, she leapt up. “Wait! I don’t—” She could not marry Archie. She would not live the rest of her life beneath her uncle’s thumb. “Please, you must help me.” Burke was allied with her uncle for a reason. Born high but a second son, he had no fortune of his own. “I offered Pine five thousand pounds. I will offer you the same if you help me to escape.”

Burke turned back, considering her from head to toe. The thoroughness of his inspection made her aware of her dishevelment. She had walked four miles in the rain and mud; her skirts were stained, her hair straggling.

Burke was right: the guests at Marylebigh would leap to the worst conclusion if they witnessed her returning alone, in Archibald’s company.

“I do not want your money,” he said.

“Ten thousand, then.”

He smiled faintly. “Perhaps there is something else you might do for me. We might, as they say, become friends.”

She had a vague notion of what friendship meant to a man like Burke. It had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with conspiracies.

“I have nothing to offer but money,” she said.

“Not true.” Burke sat back down, and so did she. “You know everything that goes on in your uncle’s household. They speak freely around you.”

Jane hesitated. Did they not speak freely around him? She knew Burke had been quarreling more and more with her uncle—it was the debate over the mutiny that had first put them at odds. Philip was a warmonger, whereas Burke preferred subtler methods of intimidation. Still, she had imagined their alliance unbreakable. “You want me to . . . spy for you?”

“I want you to use your brain,” he said coolly. “You don’t wish to marry Archibald? Then what you need is a friend—one who might do you favors, in return for those that you do him.”

She felt a wave of revulsion. Was this how Burke conducted his career? Like a spider in the dark, weaving webs of shameful debts? At least her uncle’s motives were straightforward, his politics dictated by what would enrich him.

But she’d long guessed Burke to be a more poisonous species. He had a cool temper, a clever mind, endless charm. He used people and then, elegantly, destroyed them. He never forgot a name or face or a slight against him. She had heard him quote, verbatim, conversations she had long forgotten, and pinpoint weaknesses in opponents that no honorable man would admit to knowing.

“You would do anything,” she said unsteadily, “to become prime minister. Wouldn’t you?”