Page 74 of The English Wife

“Does the Ali Baba sound like the sort of establishment a lady would frequent?” Burke rested his palms on his knees. “I’ve been told that your brother and his wife were introduced by a mutual friend?”

“Sir Hugo Medmenham.” Janie felt as though she were betraying her brother, laying his secrets bare for strangers. But that had been their deal: information for information. It just hadn’t occurred to her that she would have any information to give. “They must have been in the same party that night at the theater.”

“You’re ignoring the other possibility,” said Burke. He pointed to the fragment of a name. Miss Geor … “Georgiana Smith?”

“That’s assuming a great deal from very little.” The world was full of Georginas and Georgianas, a compliment to a succession of kings. “We don’t even know if there was a Georgiana Smith.”

“Or is it just that you can’t abide the idea of your brother’s wife on the stage?”

Janie opened her mouth on an automatic denial, but something in Mr. Burke’s face stopped her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’d never thought … it’s hard to change your idea of someone. Annabelle always seemed so reserved.”

Annabelle had refused to sing in public, even when all the other ladies were taking their turn at the piano. Was it because she was afraid someone might recognize her voice?

No. She was building a mansion out of straws, presuming too much.

“There were those missing years,” said Mr. Burke, as much to himself as her. “Even if everything Mr. Lacey said was a lie, what about those three years after Annabelle Lacey disappeared? She had to live somehow. Better to sing for her supper than—”

“Other means?” Janie provided. She had worked long enough with the Girls’ Club to know that life wasn’t kind for a woman alone in a large city. “Yes. There is that.”

Mr. Burke lifted the piece of paper, folding it carefully in his handkerchief. Tucking it away, he rose to his feet. “Would you mind if I took this with me?”

“If I did mind, would you leave it?”

Strange, how one could know someone for such a short time and still read their body. Burke went very still. “Is that what you want?”

“No.” Janie took the hand he offered her, wincing as pins and needles shot up her leg. “We made a bargain, didn’t we? The truth, no matter the cost.”

“If we’re talking about the truth…” Mr. Burke held her hand just a moment too long before abruptly letting go. Brusquely, he said, “It might be nothing to do with anything. The program.”

It was an olive branch, but one Janie couldn’t accept. She wouldn’t be lied to, even in a good cause. “Then why burn it? You were right. This was something that someone wanted to hide.”

Mr. Burke gestured for her to precede him through the nursery. “Yet, if they wanted to keep it secret, why all the references to Twelfth Night? It’s as if they were taunting the world with it. The name of their house, a Twelfth Night ball…”

“Don’t forget Viola and Sebastian.” Janie drew a deep breath. “My mother was furious when she heard the twins’ names. They’re not family names.”

“Any more than Genevieve?” When Janie acknowledged the point with a nod, Mr. Burke added casually, “She was a very useful sort of saint, Genevieve. Not only did she feed the poor and help the helpless, she’s said to have scared the fearsome Attila the Hun himself away from the gates of Paris.” He cast her a sideways glance. “She’s the sort of saint one likes to have in one’s corner.”

Foolish to feel warmed by Mr. Burke’s words. It was only a name, and one she hadn’t used in years, not since her father died.

“I don’t know much about St. Genevieve.” Only that her mother considered saints’ names impossibly popish. Together, they crossed the dark nursery, the dim figures of fairy-tale characters looking down on them from the walls. “If we go out the back way, we’ll be closer to the garden path.”

“Lead the way.” But Mr. Burke didn’t follow her. He looked at her, and there was something in his expression that Janie couldn’t quite read. “Did you know that St. Genevieve is generally depicted with a candle?”

Janie glanced, automatically, at the candle in her hands.

Mr. Burke’s lips quirked. “There you have it, St. Genevieve. They say the devil tried to blow the saint’s candle out—but she made it light again. And ever after, she brought light into darkness.”

Janie had to clear her throat before she could speak. “That’s very … poetic.”

“And most likely apocryphal,” said Mr. Burke briskly. “But it’s a beautiful story, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Janie soberly. “A very beautiful story.”

They walked in silence down the back stairs, out the narrow door that led into the old kitchen garden, brown with frost, smelling of dead plants with the crisp tang of snow to come. The sky was a slate gray, the moon tinting the darkness rather than defeating it.

So much for St. Genevieve bringing light to the world, thought Janie, looking ruefully at the candle in her hand, the flame shivering in the wind.

Janie cupped the flame to keep it from blowing out. Inside the great house, Mrs. Gerritt would be setting the table for Janie’s solitary supper. It was bad enough to have invited Mr. Burke for lunch. It was impossible to allow him to stay longer.