Page 139 of The English Wife

“Never mind.” Burke let go of her and took a step back, holding up both hands. “It’s all right. You should go to bed. I should go to bed. Different beds,” he added quickly. “This never happened. We can pretend I never said anything.”

Janie took a step forward. “Burke?”

Burke’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Yes?”

“Stop talking,” said Janie, and kissed him.

There was nothing romantic or tender about it. She kissed him desperately, kissed him with all the grief and fear and longing coursing through her. She kissed him as the fire crackled and the stones of Illyria fell. Let Rome in Tiber melt. But she wasn’t melting, she was burning, burning where the stubble on his chin grazed her palm, burning where his hands pressed against her back, all the pain and doubt burning up and away in the fire of their touch, frantic, animal, alive.

“Ah-ah-ah-ahem.”

The sound of a man loudly clearing his throat made them jump apart, Janie’s hand against her swollen lips, Burke running a hand through his wildly disordered hair.

Giles Lacey swaggered into the room, lifting one of Janie’s grandmother’s precious Irish crystal goblets in a casual salute.

“Your gorgon sent me to tell you she has rooms for us.” He swirled the ruby liquid in his glass and frowned accusingly at Janie. “That cherry brandy in the dining room is appalling stuff.”

Janie repressed the urge to kick Mr. Lacey in the shin, if only to take the smirk off his face. “That’s because it’s not cherry brandy,” she said shortly. “It’s my grandmother’s raspberry cordial.”

“Whatever it is, it tastes like summer pudding gone wrong.”

“That doesn’t seem to have stopped you.” Burke kept a protective arm around Janie’s shoulder.

“We all have different means of—hic—escape.” Lacey raised a brow at the location of Burke’s arm. “Don’t want to intrude, but … we’d best get our story straight, eh, what? Convenient, having a journalist on hand. How long does it take you to get a story out? Never mind. Don’t tell me. As I see it, you tell ’em ’bout the chimney and leave out the resht—rest. Tragic fire, et cetera, et cetera.”

“By the rest,” said Burke slowly, “you mean Mrs. Van Duyvil’s confession.”

“If you can call it that. Just the ramblings of an old lady, eh? Lost her mind with grief. Could happen to anyone.” Giles Lacey gestured widely, slopping raspberry cordial on the carpet. “Georgie as good as done it, didn’t she? No need to muddy the waters.”

Burke looked at Janie, his expression troubled. “He has a point, you know. We only have your mother’s word.”

“And her brooch.” The portrait that proved it had burned, was burning even now, but there might be sketches, copies. Copies the police would never find unless someone drew them to official attention. “A brooch is a very silent witness, isn’t it?”

“If you wanted…,” Burke began and broke off.

“You can’t make yourself say it.” Janie knew what he was offering her. The ability to wave a magic wand and make it all go away. But it wouldn’t, would it? Bay was still dead. And the twins deserved to know the truth. “If I wanted you to lie.”

“Not lie, exactly. Just … leave out the bit where the old bat started raving.” Mr. Lacey winked broadly and staggered a bit with the exertion. He was, Janie realized, very drunk indeed. To Burke, he added, “You’ll be paid, of course. Sure you can make a good thing of it. Grieving mother dies in flames, murderess still missing. You know the sort of thing. Make your editor happy and get a bit on the side.”

Janie ignored him. She turned to Burke. “Would you do that?”

“Not for money. And not for him.” Burke jammed his hands deep in his pockets. There was honor even among journalists, he had told her once. “Is it what you want?”

Save her mother’s reputation and destroy Burke’s soul. No, not just Burke. Annabelle and her children and Bay and everyone else who had been touched by this.

Janie’s nails made crescents in her palms. “No,” she said fiercely. “We’ve had enough secrets and lies. The children need to know their mother wasn’t a murderess. We owe it to them. And to Annabelle.”

“She wasn’t—” began Giles Lacey, and Janie turned on him.

“She was Annabelle to us. She was Bay’s wife.” Janie was shaking, with reaction and fatigue and anger and goodness only knew what else. “I want the children to remember their mother with love. She loved them. They deserve that.”

“You don’t have to bite my head off,” Giles muttered. “It was only a suggestion.”

As an apology, Janie felt that lacked something. She advanced on Giles, one finger outstretched. “I don’t care what feuds you brought with you from England. You can take them back there with you. I’m telling the truth as I know it whether it suits you or not. And you can go … go drink raspberry cordial until your teeth rot.”

Behind her, Burke choked on a laugh.

Janie whirled to face him. “As for you, Mr. Burke—”