Page 119 of The English Wife

Mr. Burke used his body as a shield to provide her a clear path to the side of the room, keeping his voice low. “If you want predictions, get a crystal ball. But my guess is that the verdict will be murder by person or persons unknown, and they’ll leave it at that.”

Janie’s steps slowed. “But … what about justice?”

“The courts are busy. The weather is bad.” Seeing the expression on her face, Burke relented. “That doesn’t mean it’s over. If there are any new leads, the case will be reopened. If there’s anything to find, trust me, I’ll find it.”

Janie could see Mr. Lacey’s tall hat on the other side of the room. He was standing by the exit, in close conference with Janie’s mother and Mr. Tilden.

“They would all very happily see Annabelle hanged,” said Janie quietly. “My mother has ranged herself wholeheartedly with Mr. Lacey.”

“Because he owns an abbey?”

“No. Not entirely. I think she believes she is avenging Bay, that she ought to have protected him from Annabelle, and this is her chance to make amends.”

“If you believe Mr. Lacey,” said Burke flatly.

Janie glanced swiftly at Burke. “Do you think he killed them? Mr. Lacey.”

“I wouldn’t place money against it.” The trio by the door caught sight of Janie and Burke. Lacey’s expression as he looked at Janie was not fond. “You made an enemy today.”

“Say rather that I didn’t make a friend,” said Janie.

“Is there a difference?” inquired Mr. Burke.

“I don’t believe he thinks I’m important enough to dislike,” said Janie frankly. “My mother has invited Mr. Lacey to stay with us at Illyria for the weekend—or, as he calls it, the Saturday to Monday.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” Burke was not amused by her imitation of Mr. Lacey’s accent. “You could come back to town. There’s a train leaving in twenty minutes. You could be back on Monday morning in time for the verdict.”

It was a tempting notion. To get on the train, to be free, even for two days.

“I can’t,” Janie said regretfully. “I can’t leave Mother, not now. She may not look like it, but she is grieving. She’s—” The memory of the carriage ride back to Illyria flashed across Janie’s mind. The crack of her mother’s palm against Anne’s cheek. “She’s not herself.”

“All right,” said Burke reluctantly. “But if Lacey so much as looks at you the wrong way, lock yourself in your room and find yourself a sturdy poker. Strike first, ask questions later.”

“It’s hardly so dire as that. I doubt Mr. Lacey would murder me in my bed. Bodies piling up might give people ideas. And,” Janie added, before Burke could protest, “he wasn’t yet in the country on the night of the ball.”

“Or so he claims. Once I’m back in town, I intend to take a look at the passenger list for that ship. There should also be a few telegrams from across the pond waiting for me in the newsroom.” When Janie looked at him in surprise, Burke’s cheeks reddened above his muffler. Gruffly, he said, “I made you a promise, didn’t I? Find the truth and publish it. I’m still working on the first bit. If anything makes you nervous, anything at all, telephone The World’s offices. If I’m not there, they’ll leave a message for me.”

“If the telephone wires don’t go down,” said Janie. The wind battered against the windows of the courtroom, whipping the bare branches of trees into a frenzied dance. Stray flakes of snow dipped and eddied, a promise of more to come.

Burke scowled at the slate gray sky. “I hate to leave you here.”

“You’re more use to me in town,” said Janie lightly. Her mother, who never essayed a task that could be delegated to someone of inferior station, had sent Mr. Lacey to collect her. She could see him coming for her, his tall hat wending its way through the crowd. “Now go. Or you’ll miss your train.”

Burke gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Be careful. It’s treacherous out there.”

Giles Lacey was nearly upon them. Janie looked from the man who had lied to her to the man who might have killed her brother. “I know,” she said.

TWENTY-FOUR

Cold Spring, 1899

January 5

“May I have a word?”

Georgie caught up with Bay near the rose garden—or rather what would be the rose garden at some point in the spring. Right now, it was a twig-and-thorn garden, spiky and joyless. He was conferring with David about the placement of the Chinese lanterns for tomorrow night, rather a ridiculous exercise, thought Georgie, given that it was too cold for any sane person to voluntarily seek the outdoors.

But then this was the cream of New York society they were inviting. Sanity wasn’t always a prerequisite.