My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(93)

“All right,” sighed Bran. “I’ll get the horse.”

Upon arriving in London, they went straightaway to Mr. Blackwood’s flat, only to find that Mr. Blackwood was no longer residing there. A young lady had moved in, the neighbors reported. A small young woman, they said. Plain. Utterly unremarkable in every way.

They stood idly across the street for several hours waiting for Jane. Presently she arrived in a carriage that bore the crest of the Society on the door. She had a large garment bag draped over her arm and a strained expression, as if she was bravely facing up to an unpleasant chore. She ascended the stairs to the flat and disappeared. Charlotte and Bran crossed the street as if to follow, but at the last moment a cloaked figure darted out from an alleyway and pulled them both into the shadows.

Charlotte was about to scream, but the man clapped his hand over her mouth. “It’s me,” he whispered urgently. He held his other hand out to Bran, who’d just taken a wild swing at him. “It’s me, Branwell! I must speak with you.” He threw back the hood to reveal his face.

It was Mr. Blackwood. Trembling, Charlotte lifted her glasses to her eyes and drank in the sight of him. His appearance was more unkempt than usual: his clothing rumpled, his dark hair tousled, his face unshaven. He even smelled a bit like the docks. But Charlotte threw her arms around him. “Oh, Mr. Blackwood,” she cried. “I am so . . . pleased to see you again. We were told you were dead.”

“Wellington tried to kill me,” he affirmed. All at once they both became aware that they were holding each other. Mr. Blackwood gazed down into Charlotte’s face, the corner of his mouth tucking up into a smile. “He failed, obviously. I am . . . pleased to see you as well, Miss Bront?.”

Charlotte nodded mutely. For a moment neither of them spoke.

“I saw the ghost of Mr. Rochester,” Bran announced proudly. “He told me you’d be in London, and here you are.”

Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood stepped away from each other. Mr. Blackwood frowned. “The ghost of Mr. Rochester? How’s that? I saw Mr. Rochester alive and well but an hour ago. He and Mrs. Rochester saved my life.”

“He means the ghost of the senior Mr. Rochester,” Charlotte explained. “Mr. Rochester’s father. I know. It’s confusing.”

“Oh. Well, yes, here I am. In London,” Mr. Blackwood said, although he didn’t seem entirely pleased about it. “Unfortunately, I cannot say I’ve made much progress in my new mission to foil the duke’s plans and avenge my father’s death. And it seems that Wellington has replaced me with Miss Eyre in order to accomplish his schemes.”

“So Wellington is the true villain?” Charlotte thought this was a marvelous twist in her story. And also, of course, terrible news.

“The most nefarious,” Mr. Blackwood muttered. “We believe he means to possess the king. I’ve been trying to get to Miss Eyre, to warn her, but she’s always shadowed by the Society.” He jerked his head to one side to indicate a pair of large, surly looking fellows lurking on the corner just outside of Mr. Blackwood’s former flat.

“I could warn her,” Charlotte volunteered. “Wellington doesn’t know that I know of his treachery. I could simply pay a visit to Jane. A social visit. She is my dear friend, after all. What do friends do if not visit each other from time to time?”

“That would be most helpful,” Mr. Blackwood said.

Charlotte blushed. “I’ll go right now.”

Before she could take a step, however, the door to Mr. Blackwood’s former flat opened and Jane popped out in what was possibly the most extravagant gown that Charlotte had ever beheld. The entire dress was simply huge. Jane teetered dangerously several times as she made her way down the stairs, but always managed to catch herself. At the bottom she straightened her hat—the same rose hue as the dress with several bows and a large white feather sticking out the front. Then she pulled up the edge of one elbow-length white glove, and squeezed herself through the door into the waiting Society carriage.

The two surly looking fellows stepped up onto the back of the carriage.

“To Saint James’s Palace?” the driver asked, and one of the surly men confirmed the address.

“This is it,” Mr. Blackwood whispered urgently. “She’s going to the king. We have to stop her.”

The driver cracked his whip, and the carriage pulled away. They watched it helplessly as it swiftly disappeared around a corner.

“Well then, it’s a fine night to pay a visit to the palace, wouldn’t you say?” Charlotte suggested.

A muscle ticked in Mr. Blackwood’s jaw. “Yes,” he said. “A very fine night, indeed.”





THIRTY-TWO


Jane

According to Wellington, the entire future of the Society came down to the success (or failure) of Jane’s mission tonight. Of course, the pressure might have been exacerbated by the dress. Can we talk about the dress? First off, the sheer weight of the thing. Jane was a slight person, yes, but surely even the tallest and stoutest of women would be bothered by the heaviness of the gown. Second, the corset. Jane had found a book on the proper way to string a corset, and the gist of it was this: tighten it until you could barely breathe. Then you were halfway there. Since she was dressing herself, she tied two ends to a bedpost and walked forward to tighten it. But then the bedpost broke, and when the neighbor came over to see what the ruckus was, Jane implored her to tighten the corset for her.