My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(47)

“I don’t have to do anything you say. You’re not the boss of me.”

“That’s why I phrased it as a question, Miss Burns.”

She tapped her finger against her chin. “Perhaps I’ll tell her. If the topic comes up again.” She floated away.

In the direction he needed to go.

Reader, you know that feeling when you say good-bye to someone and then you walk in the same direction with them, but you’ve already said good-bye and everything is awkward?

Alexander was desperate to avoid that. He turned the other direction.

Just then, he spotted someone else. Toward the east wing, a man fully dressed in a deep gray suit tested a doorknob, but it was locked. The man glanced over his shoulder, then pulled something from his pocket. A lock pick gleamed in the candlelight—just an instant before he fumbled and the sliver of metal clattered to the floor.

As the man rushed to find the fallen lock pick, Alexander strode forward. “Good evening,” he said. “Mr. Mason.”

The other man shot up. “Oh, Mr. Eshton, right? I didn’t see you there.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” Alexander nodded toward the other man’s day clothes.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m something of a night owl.” He took a step to one side, as though to block the door he’d been trying—and failing—to open. “And what about you? You look preoccupied, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Mr. Mason was behaving awfully shiftily, but Alexander hadn’t become the star agent of the Society by showing his hand. He’d let Mr. Mason believe he hadn’t been caught trying to break into the east wing. “I was pondering how strange it is that Mr. Rochester left mere days after receiving a houseful of guests.”

“Very strange,” Mr. Mason agreed.

“You’ve known him a long time, I take it.” Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets. “Has he always been like this?”

Mr. Mason hesitated. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen the man, I must admit, but I recall him being more—ah—attentive in the past.”

“What kept you away?”

Mr. Mason shifted his weight. “N—nothing in particular. That is, years ago a favor was asked of me and it’s been so long. . . .”

Alexander waited for him to finish.

“It’s family business. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

How intriguing. Alexander barely restrained himself from reaching for his notebook. “Worry not, sir.” Alexander forced himself to smile. “I’d better be off to bed. Good night, Mr. Mason.”

When Alexander returned to his room, a wet pigeon waited on the windowsill, its feathers singed by lightning and a letter tucked around its ankle. Apparently it was still raining. Gently, he removed the note and offered the bird a bit of bread, then watched it fly back into the storm. (These Society birds were as tough as nails.)

Branwell’s snores filled the room. He slept deeply enough that he didn’t even stir when Alexander struck a match and lit a candle.

The note read simply:

Return to London immediately.

That was strange. More than anyone else, Wellington knew the importance of having a Beacon join the Society. And what was more, Alexander still had two days to persuade Miss Eyre.

No, Wellington must have misread his note. (No matter that this had never happened before.) Wellington must have missed the part where Alexander confirmed she was a Beacon.

It was perhaps the first time Alexander deliberately disobeyed orders from Wellington, but perhaps it was the first time Wellington had ever been so wrong.

Alexander would not leave Thornfield Hall without Jane Eyre.





SIXTEEN


Charlotte

“Five thousand pounds!” Charlotte stared up at Mr. Blackwood, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Wait. What would Jane’s assistant make?”

Five thousand pounds was an enormous sum. Charlotte could not conceive of what Jane would do with such an amount. The only thing she’d ever known Jane to spend money on was painting supplies, and five thousand pounds would practically buy Jane the Louvre.

She tilted her head. “I thought you said that the Society was experiencing financial difficulties.”

Mr. Blackwood nodded tightly. “So I did.”

“But the Duke of Wellington approved offering Jane five thousand pounds a year?”

Mr. Blackwood scratched the back of his neck and glanced away. They had slipped out to the garden before breakfast to discuss their plans of recruiting Jane. One day had passed since Charlotte had made her initial offer behind the parlor curtains. Which meant there were two days left before Jane would give her final answer.

But Charlotte was certain that she’d only need today. No one could refuse the offer of five thousand pounds.

“Um . . .” Mr. Blackwood was being uncharacteristically inarticulate. “Well . . . We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“But, Mr. Blackw—”

“I find all this talk of money inappropriate, don’t you?” he said.

Inappropriate? She frowned. The last thing she wanted was to be inappropriate, but how could they discuss their plans for Jane without discussing—

“So how will you approach Miss Eyre this time?” he asked. “We are meant to go on a picnic later. Perhaps we can find a reason to bring Adele along. And therefore Miss Eyre.”