“Welcome to this morning’s panel.” Rebecca’s announcement prevented any further discussion between Jane and Byron. Jane sat back in her chair and tried very hard not to look at him.
“We’re thrilled to have with us today some of the most exciting names in romance fiction,” she continued. “You all know Chiara Carrington, author of such novels as Whichever Way the Wind Blows and The Gift of Love.”
She paused to allow the audience to applaud. “And we’re pleased to introduce Jane Fairfax, whose novel Constance is making big waves in the book world.”
Jane noted with some disappointment that the applause for her was less enthusiastic than the response Chiara had received. Beside her, however, Byron clapped loudly. She resisted an urge to kick him under the table.
Rebecca took an audible breath. “I’m sure that many of you are here because you want to see the face behind the Penelope Wentz novels,” she said.
A murmur passed through the crowd, and several people clapped.
“Well, I think you’ll be as surprised as I was to meet her for the first time.” There was a dramatic pause. “Or I should say to meet him,” she concluded, indicating Byron with her hand. “May I present Mr. Tavish Osborn, the man behind Penelope Wentz!”
Gasps were heard all over the room, and several cameras went off, their flashes momentarily blinding Jane as she was caught in their glare. She tried to lean away from Byron.
A woman in the front row stood up. Dressed entirely in pink, she was clutching a copy of one of Penelope Wentz’s books. She held it to her chest as she looked at Byron accusingly. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “No man could understand what it’s like to be a …” She paused for a moment. “Woman of a certain age,” she concluded.
“That’s an excellent point,” said Rebecca quickly. “After all, the theme of our panel is what women want from romance fiction. Perhaps you could answer this reader’s question with that in mind,” she suggested, looking over at Byron.
“I’m more than happy to, Rebecca,” Byron said. He fixed his gaze on the woman who had spoken. Jane watched as she took a step back and sat down as if she’d been pushed. She knew Byron was casting a glamor on the audience. As if he needs to, she thought. Half the people in here are already in love with him.
“I know it will come as a shock to many of you that I’m a man,” said Byron. “After all, you’re wondering, how can I know what it’s like to be a woman? Well, I’ll tell you my secret.” He leaned forward, as if inviting them to come closer. And indeed many in the audience did lean toward the table. “I absolutely love women,” Byron said. “I love everything about you, and most of all I love listening to you.” He leaned back. “And that’s my secret,” he said. “I listen. When you read my books, it isn’t me telling the story, it’s you.” He pointed to the woman who had questioned him, who blushed deeply. “And you,” he continued, indicating another woman. “And you.” He pointed somewhere in the middle of the audience.
They all think he’s talking just to them, Jane thought. He’s glamored each and every one of them.
“That’s cheating,” she hissed softly, knowing that Byron could hear her.
“When I write, I’m giving voice to what you feel,” Byron continued, ignoring her. His voice was practically a purr.
The room erupted in applause. Half of the audience rose to their feet, their hands slapping together like the flippers of trained seals. Watching them, Jane wanted to tell them all to sit down and shut up. Byron looked over at her and gave a cocky grin. You horrid, horrid man, Jane thought at him.
“What an eloquent answer.” Rebecca had resumed control over the panel. Jane, looking at her, saw that she was wiping her eyes. Was she actually weeping? She was. Jane felt sick. Byron had them all in the palm of his hand.
“And just what is it women want?” Jane heard herself ask.
All eyes turned to her, including Byron’s. Jane felt herself flush, but she knew she had to continue. She took a breath and faced Byron. “I would like to hear what Penelope believes women want,” she said.
“I don’t think we—” Rebecca began.
“But I do,” Jane interrupted. “After all, Mr. Osborn has sold a great number of books based on his deep understanding of what women want. I’m wondering if he might care to share that secret with us—his readers,” she added.
Byron’s mouth twitched at the corners, and Jane knew she had landed a blow. But he quickly composed himself. “I’d be happy to,” he said.
“Without glamoring them,” Jane whispered as she pretended to take a drink of water from the glass set before her on the table.
Byron ignored her. “What women want,” he began. There was a long pause, which grew longer as Byron seemed to think. Jane sensed the audience growing restless. Someone coughed.
“What women want is to be accepted for who they are,” Byron said finally. “Not what the media tells them they should be, but who they really are.”
As the audience clapped, Byron turned to Jane with a triumphant look in his eyes.
“I see,” Jane said loudly. “Yet your books don’t really depict women as they are, do they?”
“Why don’t we move on,” said Rebecca, glaring openly at Jane.
“In a moment,” Jane said. “Mr. Osborn,” she addressed Byron. “Do you really mean for us to believe that you aren’t just as guilty of presenting women with an idealized version of themselves?” Having never read a Penelope Wentz novel, she hoped she was correct in her assessment of Byron’s prose.
“I think we can all agree that fiction, particularly romantic fiction, works best when it contains some elements of fantasy,” Byron said smoothly. “After all, a world of laundry, carpools, and helping with homework is hardly the setting for romance, do you think?”
“I absolutely do,” said Jane. “In fact, some of the most romantic novels in the world feature perfectly ordinary women. Take Sense and—”
“I think we should move on,” Rebecca interrupted loudly. “Mr. Osborn, perhaps you could tell us more about how you came to write as Penelope Wentz. I’m sure it’s a fascinating story.”
Jane sat back in her chair. She knew she’d been bested. Byron’s glamor was too strong, and she was out of practice. He had upstaged her, taking away what should have been a triumphant moment for her and her book.
For the next hour, Byron fielded questions from the audience. Jane and Chiara were barely noticed. Every so often one of them would start to answer a question, only to be cut off by someone who preferred to hear Byron’s thoughts on the topic at hand. While Jane was annoyed by the proceedings, Chiara seemed not to mind being eclipsed by Byron. Finally Jane tuned everything out and just sat there pretending to pay attention.
Only when she heard another wave of applause did she listen to what was going on. It seemed the panel was over.
“And now Mr. Osborn will sign copies of his books,” Rebecca announced. “Oh, and so will the other authors,” she added hastily. “Please form an orderly line.”
It seemed to Jane that nearly every person in the room rushed toward the platform simultaneously. For a moment she feared she would be trampled, but they came to a halt a few feet away and somehow managed to organize themselves into a queue stretching off to Jane’s right. The first person, a girl of maybe twenty, stepped onto the platform and approached her. Jane smiled, anticipating the first signing of her novel. However, the woman didn’t even glance at Jane as she went right to Byron.
“Could you sign it to Brandi?” the girl asked.
“That’s Brandi with an i, correct?” said Byron.
The girl beamed. “How did you know?”
Byron answered as he wrote in her book. “A girl as unique as you are is certain to have a unique name,” he said.
Brandi giggled and bit her lip.
“Thank you so much for coming today,” said Byron, eliciting another titter. “I hope you enjoy the book.”
“I will,” Brandi said as she was enco
uraged by Rebecca to move along. Jane noted with some small satisfaction that the girl walked by Chiara without so much as a turn of her head.
By then another reader had bypassed Jane and was talking to Byron. As he had with Brandi, he charmed her to the point that all she could do was giggle.
“Who do you think you are?” Jane asked in the interval between one woman leaving and another arriving. “The Beatles?”
With agonizing slowness the line grew shorter. Not a single person asked Jane or Chiara for an autograph. When the last person had received a signature from Byron and walked away glowing, Jane stood up.
“That was fun,” she said. “Now I’m afraid I have to be getting along. It was lovely to meet all of you.”
She gathered up her things and started to leave, not caring whether or not she insulted Chiara or Rebecca. Her entire trip had, as far as she was concerned, been a waste of time. Not quite, she reminded herself. You did kill Charlotte Brontë. That’s something, at least.
“Jane, wait.”
She heard Byron’s voice behind her but kept walking. A moment later he grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he said.
She shook his hand off and whirled to look at him. “Why would I possibly want to do that?” she asked.
“I know about Charlotte,” he told her.
Jane gritted her teeth. Of course you do, she thought. “What of it?” she asked, not even trying to deny his implied accusation. “Anyway, maybe I should be asking where she got the manuscript I gave to you.”
Byron held up his hands. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. But you don’t know how obsessive she is. Was. How was I to know she would take it?”
“So you did turn her,” Jane said. “Tell me, is there anyone else I should be on the lookout for? Christina Rossetti, maybe? Dorothy Parker? Truman Capote?”
Byron shrugged. “It’s difficult to say,” he answered.
Jane turned with a huff and started to walk away. Byron caught up to her. “Jane, darling,” he said, “I’m so sorry. It’s just that I couldn’t stay away. You’re like a magnet to my heart.”
Jane made a retching sound. “And you are like a purgative to my stomach,” she said.
“A fine thing to say after what I’ve done for you,” Byron said. He adopted a hurt expression.
“What you did for me?” Jane repeated. “Do you mean threatening to kill Walter and do worse to Lucy? Do you mean allowing my manuscript to fall into the hands of the one person in the world who would wish me harm?”
“To be fair, she’s probably not the only person,” said Byron. “But no, I wasn’t speaking of those things. I mean in Chicago.”
Jane inhaled sharply. “You were the one who bit that girl!” she accused him.
Byron shook his head. “No,” he said. “Charlotte did that. I was the one who saved the girl. And saved you,” he added.
“And just how did you save her?”
“Charlotte was not the most … adept of our kind,” he said. “She was never quite able to finish a job, so to speak. She thought she had killed the girl, but she had only weakened her.”
“What was she doing there, anyway?” Jane asked.
“Attempting to frame you, I would imagine,” said Byron.
It was a plausible enough explanation, although Jane had her doubts. “And what were you doing there?” she asked Byron.
“Watching out for you,” he said. “I was worried.”
“Mmm,” said Jane. “Always the gentleman.”
Byron lowered his eyes. “Jane, I’ve kept my promise,” he said. “I haven’t bothered you, or Walter, or Lucy. I’ve just been protecting you.”
Jane had nothing to say to that. If he really had taken care of Farrah in Chicago, she did have something to thank him for. And perhaps Charlotte really had simply stolen the manuscript from him years ago. She supposed he could be telling the truth.
“Have dinner with me,” Byron said. “It’s your last night in New Orleans.”
“No,” said Jane firmly. “That’s out of the question. I might possibly be able to forgive you for—”
“Just dinner,” Byron said. “And then I promise I’ll disappear forever.”
“Your definition of forever is sorely lacking in specificity,” said Jane. He was looking at her with his dark brown eyes. “All right,” she said. “Dinner. Then you’ll go away. Promise me.”
Byron smiled. “Promise,” he said. “I’ll come for you at seven.”
“No,” Jane said quickly. “I’ll meet you there.” She didn’t want him knowing where she was staying.
“La Maison des Trois Soeurs,” said Byron. “I know.”
“You’re impossible,” Jane said as she turned and left him standing in the lobby.
When she arrived back at the hotel she found Jasper lying in a pool of sun outside the front door. When he saw her he jumped up and ran to her, his stub of a tail wagging furiously. As Jane bent to pet him she saw that he was wearing a new red collar. “Aren’t you the handsome boy,” she told him.
“I thought it was a good color for him,” Luke called through the door.
“It most definitely is,” Jane agreed. “Thank you for getting it.”
“No problem,” Luke said. “His new crate is up in your room. All you need to do is check him in at the airport.”
Jane looked down at Jasper. “Do you hear that?” she said. “You’re going for a plane ride tomorrow.”
Jasper woofed at her, and both Jane and Luke laughed. “Thank you for taking care of him today,” Jane told the young man.
She headed upstairs with Jasper at her heels. Once there, she took off her shoes and lay on the bed for a while, thinking about the events of the day. It was a little too much. But it’s almost over, she told herself. You just have to make it through dinner.
Chapter 29
Constance drew away from him. His kiss stung her as much as if it had been his hand slapping her cheek. More painful even than that was the realization that she wanted him to kiss her again.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
AT A QUARTER PAST SIX SHE GOT UP, FED JASPER, AND CHANGED her clothes for dinner. She purposely put on something casual so that Byron would know she wasn’t trying to impress him. He’s not getting to me this time, she promised herself.
She took Jasper for a quick walk around the block using the new leash she’d found coiled on the dresser, and returned him to the room, where he immediately jumped up on the bed. “Tom’s not going to like that at all,” Jane told him. She wondered how she could introduce the two of them with the least amount of fuss and bother.
At five minutes to seven she went down to the lobby to wait for Byron. He might know where she was staying, but she wasn’t going to let him anywhere near her room. Absolutely not, she promised herself.
He arrived promptly at seven. Jane noted that he too was dressed rather casually, and she was surprised to find that she was slightly disappointed. Apparently he doesn’t think it’s a date either, she thought as she stood to greet him.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they walked down the street. They were moving away from the restaurants, toward a slightly more run-down part of the Marigny, and Jane was a little unnerved by it. Was Byron trying to trick her?
“Relax,” he said, taking her arm. “I’m taking you to an authentic New Orleans eatery, not one of those places designed to part tourists from their money.”
“So you live here, then?” asked Jane.
“Lived,” said Byron. “Then again, I’ve lived nearly everywhere, haven’t I?”
“And Charlotte?” Jane asked. “How long has she lived—how long did she live here?”
“Let’s not talk about Charlotte, shall we?” Byron suggested. “She was merely an … inconvenience. Now she isn’t.”
“That’s very easy for you to say,” said Jane. “You’re not the one who set her on fire.”
Byron laughed. “No one will hold it against you,” he said. “She was
rather a dreary creature. Those mummies,” he added, and Jane felt him shiver.
“They were a bit ghastly,” Jane agreed.
Byron stopped at a doorway over which flickered a red neon sign that said THE PLACE. “This is the place,” he said.
“I see that,” Jane said. She peered through the small window set into the door. The interior was dark. “You’re sure?” she asked.
Byron pulled the door open. “I’m sure,” he said.
Jane’s opinion of the restaurant was not improved by going inside. The small room contained half a dozen small tables, each one surrounded by mismatched chairs and covered with an oily checkered cloth. The walls were bare, painted a color that probably had originally been white but had taken on a yellowish tinge. A fan hung from the ceiling, spinning slowly in the heat. A length of flypaper hung from it, coated with the bodies of its victims.
Five of the tables were occupied, mostly by men drinking from bottles of Abita beer. Byron led Jane to the lone empty table and pulled her chair out for her. She inspected the seat with her fingertips before sitting. There didn’t appear to be anything on it that would stain her pants.
“You’re in for a real treat,” said Byron. “Outsiders don’t normally get to come here.”
“Outsiders?” Jane said. “You mean tourists?”
“Of a sort,” said Byron.
Before he could explain further, they were approached by a weary-looking woman of indeterminate age. Tall and thin, her long blond hair showed more than a few inches of dark roots, and her face was unusually red.
“Byron cher,” she said. “Where you been?” Her voice was thick with a Cajun accent.
“Here and there,” said Byron. He nodded at Jane. “Emmeline, Jane. Jane, Emmeline.”
The woman nodded at Jane. “She one of yours?” she asked Byron.
Byron grinned. “Ask her that,” he replied.
Emmeline turned her gaze to Jane. Her eyes were almost black, and something about her seemed impossibly old. Then Jane realized what it was. She looked at Byron, who laughed. “Yes,” he said, “she’s one of us.” He gestured around the room. “They all are. Well, most of them.”