Page 25 of The English Wife

“I will deal fairly with you, if you deal fairly with me,” said Janie. And then, before she could think better of it, “Is Katie your cousin?”

A look of reluctant admiration crossed Mr. Burke’s face. “No.”

There was something reassuring about that blunt admission. Or it might just be, Janie admitted to herself, that she wanted to be reassured.

The wind had risen, shaking the bare branches above their heads, making Janie’s veil flutter wildly. The same wind made Mr. Burke’s coat flap around his legs, but he stood solid all the same, providing a wind block of sorts.

Janie looked up at him. “Well, then,” she said.

“Well, then.” Mr. Burke held out a gloved hand. “Let the games begin.”

Janie surrendered her hand into his grasp, expecting a crushing clasp. Instead, he bowed over her hand with exaggerated care. His fingers on hers were delicate, but firm. Janie could feel the tingle of his touch through the leather of her gloves. Nerves, that was all. Nerves at the impropriety of what she was undertaking.

“One more question,” Janie said at random, seizing on the first thing to come to mind.

“Yes?” Mr. Burke’s hand still held hers.

Quickly, Janie said, “What was the reward? The one I was meant to come to claim.”

Mr. Burke released her hand, taking a step back. “Et tu, Brute? You put honesty to the test quickly enough.”

The sun had gone back behind the cloud, and the sky was gray and cold, heavy with the threat of snow.

“It wasn’t meant as a test.” Katie had been a test. This was just a question. “I assume I could discover the answer myself by purchasing a paper.”

Mr. Burke gave a curt nod. “The World is offering $500 to anyone who can find Annabelle Van Duyvil’s body.”

There was something rather chilling about the image, the woman she had known, reduced to a commodity, sought after by bounty hunters. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Mr. Burke cast her an ironical look. “I suppose I was trying to spare your blushes.”

Janie had had enough of being spared. “Don’t.” In her most businesslike voice, she said, “I work at the Girls’ Club on Frankfort Street Tuesday and Thursday mornings. You may send a message to me there if you have any news.”

“Not to the house?”

Honesty for honesty. Janie lifted her eyes to meet his mocking gaze. “My mother and cousin know nothing of this. I would prefer—”

“—to keep them in ignorance?” Mr. Burke appeared to be more amused than appalled. “What other secrets are you keeping, Miss Van Duyvil?”

“None that would be of any interest to you,” said Janie. “Good day, Mr. Burke. I will look for your note at Frankfort Street.”

As Janie hurried away in the gathering dusk, she could see them standing there still: Mr. Burke and Nathan Hale, both staring after her.

FIVE

London, 1894

April

The American came to the stage door the next night and the next after that.

“Don’t tell me you’re not sick of us!” Georgie said, but there was no hiding the fact that she was pleased to see him.

“I’ve never seen Twelfth Night performed quite this way before,” said Mr. Van Duyvil, keeping an admirably serious countenance.

“And never will again, if you’re lucky.” She’d meant it jokingly, but it was beginning to feel prophetic. They were well into April now, a time when patrons ought to have been thronging the seats, but they were playing to a largely empty house.

Even more worryingly, Mr. Dunstan had made no noises about the next production. Usually, Georgie dreaded the period between shows, weeks to manage on her meager savings. They were only paid for performances, not for rehearsals. But rehearsals meant pay to come. The rumor among the cast was that Mr. Dunstan intended to sell the theater, that the show was only dragging on pending negotiations.