My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(52)

“No,” he said. “Who is it?”

“He says he’s an old friend. A Mr. Mason.”

Mr. Rochester’s expression remained blank. “I see. You may go.”

Jane frowned.

“I must attend to my new guest.”

Jane walked stiffly to the door.

“And I expect you in the drawing room.”

“Yes, sir,” Jane said.

“Well, that was strange,” Helen said. “Even you must admit it.”

Jane nodded slowly. “I admit it.”

The two of them went to the drawing room, where Jane took a seat next to Adele, partially hidden behind a panel.

Yes, for the umpteenth time, someone is hiding behind a panel. Apparently in pre-Victorian England, there were panels everywhere, and people hid behind them. Frequently. From what we could discover during our thorough research of the subject, panels were advertised by how well someone might hide behind one.

So, Jane was sitting behind a panel, as usual, when Mr. Blackwood entered.

“Mr. Blackwood!” Helen exclaimed, waving. “Hi! Do you have employment for a ghost? I can be most useful.”

Jane shot her a confused look and said, “Sit down, dear.”

Helen dropped to the floor. Before Jane could question Helen about her sudden enthusiasm for Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Rochester threw open the drawing room door and strode inside.

“I am sorry for my absence, my esteemed guests. The storm kept me.”

Mr. Mason crossed the room, his hand extended. “Rochester, my dear fellow.”

Mr. Rochester’s eyes narrowed and he took the tiniest step back. “Mr. Mason.”

Mr. Mason hesitated at the cold reception, and the two men stiffly shook hands.

“Very well,” Mr. Rochester said. “I understand you all had fortunes told. I can’t wait to hear about it, but for now, dinner is ready. If you’ll follow me.”

He held his elbow toward Miss Ingram, and she took the offered arm, a little less enthusiastically than she had in the past, Jane thought. She and Adele watched as the party went, two by two, out of the drawing room. Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte made the final pair, and both of them looked over their shoulders at Jane as they exited.

Helen watched them leave and then shook her head. “Five thousand pounds.”





EIGHTEEN


Alexander

As a general rule, Alexander found everything suspicious. Like, why didn’t women’s clothes have pockets? And why did most mammals walk on four legs while humans used only two? And especially why did we see only one side of the moon? What was the other side trying to hide?

And then there was Rochester, who did suspicious things all the time. And Mason, who skulked about the house in the middle of the night. What was their relationship? Their greeting had been so odd and uncomfortable, as though the two men didn’t agree on their shared history. And after dinner, Mason had tried to pull Rochester aside, but the latter just hissed gruffly, “She’s not here. You should go home.”

That wasn’t the sort of warm friendship Mason had indicated when he’d arrived.

Then, when Mason and Rochester separated, Mason caught Alexander’s eye and saw he’d witnessed the exchange. “Family business,” he muttered, frowning, but he seemed more confused and hurt than anything.

Family business probably wasn’t Alexander’s business, but what did that mean about Mason and Rochester’s relationship?

All of this might have been Alexander’s suspicious nature; as we said, he found everything worth raising an eyebrow at. Nevertheless, it was enough to keep him up a second night in a row. (That and the fact that he hadn’t worn his mask in more than a week. The lack of his mask made him feel exposed. Practically naked.)

On the other side of the room, Branwell snorted in his sleep, groaned, and turned over.

Resolved to find answers, Alexander dressed and started out of the room, only to realize Branwell was suddenly standing in the doorway. Fully clothed.

“What are we doing?” asked the apprentice.

“Snooping.”

“I love snooping.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’m coming along.” Without waiting for an invitation, Branwell was out the door with Alexander.

It would have been better, he thought, if he had to have “help,” if that help could have come from Miss Bront?; the young lady had proved her cleverness in getting them in to Thornfield Hall, though tonight she’d seemed to avoid him before dinner, and during dinner, and then when he tried to corner her after dinner, she wanted to talk about the tomato soup. But it wouldn’t have been proper, him sneaking around the house with a young lady. He shuddered to imagine the talk.

“Who are we snooping on?” inquired Branwell as they slipped through the hall.

“You should have asked before you decided to join.”

“I didn’t say I’d rescind the offer of help. I was just asking for details.”

“Rochester.”

Branwell gave a little hop. “I can’t wait.”

Shortly, they reached Rochester’s study, and Branwell stood watch while Alexander picked the lock with his penknife. At first glance, they found . . . everything in perfect order. No strange memory-altering artifacts. No device that removed the ability to speak French.