Page 100 of The English Wife

“Wait.” Burke made as if to reach for her arm, then let his hand drop. “She only said it to hurt you. It’s my fault. I provoked her.”

Janie shook her head. “She means it. She loved Bay.”

“Did she?” Something in Burke’s voice brought Janie’s head up. He was looking down the hallway, his expression thoughtful. “You know what they say. Love is a first cousin to hate. By her own testimony, your cousin was the one who set you looking for Mr. and Mrs. Van Duyvil.”

“What are you implying?”

“Hell hath no fury?”

It would be less alarming if there weren’t a ring of truth about it. “A cliché isn’t an answer.”

Burke raised a brow. “That’s not a cliché. That’s Shakespeare.”

Janie narrowed her eyes at him. “Taken out of context.”

“Try it this way, then. In context, as it were. How much does your cousin hate your family?”

“Not at all, I would have said,” said Janie slowly. “She loved Bay. She … she spars with my mother, but that’s not to be wondered at. My mother holds the purse strings, and Anne doesn’t like being told what to do.” Or, rather, Anne liked doing exactly what she’d been told not to do. It was as impossible to imagine Anne without opposition as it was to imagine Bay in a temper. Anne always had a grievance; Bay never raised his voice. Was that true? Or was it only what she had assumed about them? “I could see Anne flying into a rage and flinging something at Bay, but killing him…”

“One blow, the medical examiner said. It needn’t have been intentional.”

Anne, grabbing Bay’s dagger in a fit of rage, pointing it at him, shocked and horrified when it penetrated cloth and flesh. Yes, Janie could see that.

Janie rested a gloved hand against the scarred paint of the wall, tracing the contours of a stain. “When we were children, Anne broke a vase. She hid the pieces, and then, when they were found, she tried to blame a maid.”

“What happened?”

“The maid was dismissed.” Janie’s lips pressed together. “Mother knew, but…”

“It was easier to blame the maid?”

“Yes.” It took a moment for Janie to remember to whom she was speaking. Anne had been responsible for Burke’s shame, his loss of livelihood, while she had gone blithely on to marry one of the most eligible men in New York. What better vengeance than to see her jailed for murder? Janie rested her temple against the wall, feeling impossibly weary. “I shouldn’t be saying any of this to you. You would think I would have learned my lesson by now, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re talking to me because you have no one else to talk to. Don’t think I delude myself that it’s otherwise.” Quietly, Burke added, “You’re being more generous with your cousin than she would with you. She’s jealous of you, you know.”

“Of me? Hardly.”

Burke straightened, pushing away from the wall. “Why do you think she went to such lengths to annex Teddy Newland? Not for love, I’m guessing. It’s because his name was coupled with yours.”

“You’ve got it backwards. Teddy—” Burke lifted his brows at her casual use of the name. Janie lifted her chin. “Teddy fell in love with Anne. Men tend to do that.”

“Not all of us.” At Janie’s look, Burke said, “She’s like smallpox. I’ve been exposed.”

Janie was surprised into laughter. She turned it into a cough. “Then what am I? Measles?”

“Nothing so mundane.” To her surprise, Mr. Burke lifted her hand and carried it to his lips in the European fashion. “You, Miss Van Duyvil, are plague. Utterly incurable.”

It was insulting. It was dreadful. It was the most romantic thing she had ever heard.

“Thank you. I think.” Just managing not to smile, Janie said, as drily as she could, “If you’re trying to charm me into complaisance, you might want to attempt something a trifle more lyrical.”

“I wouldn’t try to cozen you with verse. You’d see through me in an instant.” Mr. Burke looked at her ruefully. “You already have.”

Was that an admission? Janie was having trouble keeping up with what was real and what wasn’t. It was infuriating that someone should appear so trustworthy by admitting to being untrustworthy.

She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I’ve learned my lesson, Mr. Burke.”

“So have I.” The mocking note was gone from his voice. Looking down at his gloved hands, Burke spoke with difficulty. “I shouldn’t have kept the truth from you. I didn’t know you. And then—by the time I did know you enough to care—I cared too much to tell you. I meant it. About admiring you. That wasn’t a lie.”