Page 71 of The English Wife

“Are you quite all right?” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded.

“No.” Mr. Burke ran a hand through his hair. Janie knew now, knew how it would feel against her fingers, the shape of his cheek, his jaw. “I’m an idiot is what I am. I let myself forget—”

An image rose in Janie’s head of a woman dressed in a brightly colored, form-fitting frock, a telegraph operator or a stenographer. A New Woman. “Forget what?”

“What you are. And what I am.” When Janie looked at him in puzzlement, Burke gave a snort. “You don’t hear it, do you? Even your voice is gold-plated.”

“My voice isn’t gold-plated.” Her voice was just a voice. Either Mr. Burke was more inebriated than she had realized, or he was, Janie thought with a twinge, regretting that impulsive kiss.

“No, not gold-plated. Gold straight through. Twenty-four carat to the core. You’re so used to it, you don’t even hear it. You don’t need to pretend it.” Mr. Burke sketched an impatient gesture. “You’d best go back to the big house.”

“And leave you here alone?”

“I’m not going to steal the silver.”

Janie blinked several times. “I don’t even know if there is any silver. Anything worth having is probably in the new house.”

Mr. Burke shoved his hands in his pockets in a deliberately rude gesture. “Well, that’s all right, then. You can leave me here with a clean conscience.”

“I don’t intend to leave you here at all.” How had they gone from Let Rome in Tiber melt to this? Or perhaps it had been in her imagination all along, a fantasy born of whisky and wishful thinking. Janie shook her head to clear it, trying to remember why they were there. Giles Lacey. Annabelle. “You don’t know where the nurse’s room is.”

“I can find it.”

“In an unfamiliar house? In the dark?”

“I didn’t come entirely unprepared.” There was the hissing sound of a lucifer being struck, sparking slightly before the hall flickered into light ever so briefly before Mr. Burke swore and shook the match out again.

“Here.” Janie lifted an old-fashioned candle in a stand from the side table, handing it to him. Her grandmother had always kept them there, wary of such newfangled notions as gas lamps. “Before you burn your fingers.”

“I think I already have,” Mr. Burke muttered. He struck another match, holding it to the top of the candle. “Satisfied?”

“No.” He reached for the candle, but Janie held it back, squinting a bit as the light made her eyes sting. “I’m coming with you.”

Now that she could see him properly, Mr. Burke looked as disheveled as she felt. Janie looked hastily away from his lips as he said, “Suit yourself. It’s your house.”

Janie led the way towards the narrow stair. “I don’t know whose it is.” The will wouldn’t be read until Bay was issued an official certificate of death. It was a sobering thought, a reminder of why they were here. Not a dalliance in the dark, but justice still to be served. “Sebastian’s, most likely.”

She heard a step creak as Mr. Burke paused for a moment behind her. “What about Viola?”

Resolutely, Janie kept moving forward, looping up her long skirts with one hand. “How do you think the Van Duyvils have amassed so much? We keep it in the male line.”

He caught up with her on the landing, resting one elbow against the newel post. “You’ll never catch a duke if you’re not an heiress.”

“I never wanted a duke.” They stared at each other fiercely, green eyes against blue, before Janie turned on her heel, saying dismissively, “Only the new people chase after titles.”

“Oh, the new people, is it? The ones who have only just made their first million? Forgive a poor, ignorant peasant. I thought every girl wanted a coronet.”

Janie’s head was starting to ache. “That’s as absurd as saying every boy pulls the wings off flies.”

“Don’t they?”

“Did you?”

They faced off across the door to the nursery, the candlelight casting orange shadows across Mr. Burke’s face, emphasizing the strong bones of his cheeks, sensual bow of his lips.

“No,” he said at last. “Although I’ll admit to swatting a few.”

“Well, then,” said Janie. “Don’t presume to guess what I do or don’t want. You haven’t the slightest notion.”