My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(100)

Miss Burns squealed and clapped her hands. “Finally!”

Miss Bront? smiled. She had a nice smile, Alexander thought. Slightly crooked, very charming, and wholly genuine in the way her face lit with joy. “Now,” she said, “we storm the castle.”

“I thought it was a palace.” Miss Burns grinned.

“Whatever.” Miss Bront? lifted her spectacles. “Let’s storm it.”





THIRTY-FOUR


Charlotte

“Are you ready?” came Mr. Blackwood’s voice. “It’s nearly time.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Mr. Blackwood, I must protest. This isn’t remotely proper.”

“Let’s see.”

“I’d feel more comfortable in my normal attire.”

“Let’s see,” he insisted.

She moved out from behind the wall of crates they’d piled up to serve as an impromptu dressing room. Her face burned. She was wearing trousers, something she’d never imagined herself doing in her life, plus a fine button-up shirt that used to belong to Mr. Rochester, and knee-high leather boots with tissue stuffed into the toes. She stared down at the boots, pulling her ponytail over her shoulder. She didn’t have her spectacles in place, but she could still feel Mr. Blackwood staring at her. She wondered if he would laugh.

“We discussed this quite thoroughly this morning,” he said at last. “The Society doesn’t often employ women.”

“Which makes no sense.”

“Which makes no sense,” he said gently, “but it’s the reality we’re faced with. As far as Wellington knows, Miss Eyre is still a faithful agent of the Society. So the rest of us will have to go in disguise. You’re a footman.”

“Very well,” she grumbled. “But I don’t like playing a boy. I am perfectly at ease as a woman.”

“So you are,” he agreed. “But the clothing suits you, in my opinion.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

“I mean, I would never mistake you for a man. But you must admit it’s far more practical than that birdcage you’re always wearing.”

“It feels strange.” Strange didn’t begin to describe how she felt. But at least she could breathe without impediment. She felt unbound, unmoored from the stifling constraints of her gender. She felt like she could be quite capable of anything.

She smiled, in spite of her mortification. Mr. Blackwood reached for her hand, which was clutching her glasses, and held them up for her. He was smiling, too. He’d been in a good mood all day, dashing about, preparing. Like this business of confronting the king was not terrifying, as Charlotte found it, but merely putting him a step closer to the revenge he’d been seeking half his life. His dream within his reach once again.

“I know there’s not time now,” he said, “but we should get you some proper spectacles. The sort that you wear on your face.”

She shook her head. “I had those type once. They hurt my nose. And I looked . . .” Dreadful, she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t wish him to picture it.

“What matters is for you to be able to see.” He let go of her hand and held out a plain black jacket. Charlotte slipped her arms into the sleeves. The coat, like the boots, was much too large, but there was nothing to be done about it. Just then Jane came into the room, wearing the same enormous dress that she’d worn to see the king the previous time. She looked at Charlotte and heaved a great sigh.

“How is it?” Jane asked.

Charlotte shrugged. “Comfortable. I could go directly to sleep. However do men get anything done?”

“You look just like a fledgling agent.” Mr. Blackwood reached into his pocket and withdrew a black Society mask. For a moment he seemed about to tie it on, but then he remembered that he was not playing the part of an agent tonight. He sighed and put it back into his pocket.

Jane blushed and donned her own mask. “Let’s go now. I don’t believe I can stand any more waiting.”

“Do you have the book?”

Jane pulled the Book of the Dead out of her handbag. “And I’ve read it cover to cover. I know the words.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Branwell!”

The Rochesters appeared in the warehouse doorway, also dressed as men (although that was only strange on Mrs. Rochester, who still seemed to gleam like a star in whatever she was wearing). Bran popped up behind them. His hair was messy, his glasses inexplicably smudged again, and half of his shirttail was hanging out. But his eyes were bright with excitement. “Are we going yet? It’s nearly sunset.”

“We’re going.” Alexander swung his own coat onto his body in one fluid motion. Charlotte lifted her glasses to her face to admire the view as he strode toward the door, his coat billowing behind him, his steps purposeful.

She gave a faint sigh.

“Mr. Blackwood . . .” As they went headlong into this danger, she was flooded with the urge to tell him all the things that had come to her when she’d thought he was dead. To say the words out loud.

He stopped. Turned. “Yes?”

But now was not the proper time.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” He reached once more into his pocket and withdrew . . .