Jane Bites Back

don’t feel at all unusual?” Jane interrupted. “Forgetful, maybe? Or tired? Maybe you find yourself craving rare meat?”

Farrah laughed. “Eww,” she said. “I’m a vegetarian. No, I feel great. Now, if I could just ask you a few more questions …”

They talked for another ten minutes before Farrah thanked Jane for her time and told her when to expect the issue of the magazine to be on the stands. She hung up and Jane turned her phone off. Jane continued to sit on the bed, looking at the phone in her hands and wondering what was going on. I saw her, she thought. That girl was dead.

But clearly she wasn’t. Somehow she had left that hotel room and now either didn’t remember a thing or was lying about it. Either way it was distressing. Why would someone go out of their way (out of his way, Jane suspected) to drain the reporter and set Jane up for murder, only to then get rid of the body? It didn’t make any sense.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to dwell on it. There was a cocktail reception for conference attendees beginning in an hour, and Jane was expected to make an appearance. Although she felt hot, damp, and now thoroughly confused, she had to go. She forced herself up and into the bathroom to see if she could do anything about her hair.

At a quarter past six she walked into a second-floor ballroom at the conference hotel. It was packed with people—mostly women—talking loudly and taking finger food from trays being carried around by bored-looking waitstaff. Jane noted with some alarm that there was a lot of pink clothing to be seen.

She located the sign-in desk and approached two women whose name tags identified them as organizers. Before she could even say a word one of them shrieked. “Jane Fairfax!” she exclaimed. “I love your book.” She extended a hand as the people around Jane turned to look at her, clearly wondering who she was to command such enthusiastic attention. Jane, blushing, took the proffered hand.

“I’m Sally Higgins-Smythe,” the woman said. “With a y,” she added, underscoring her name tag with one pudgy finger. “I’m the one who invited you to the conference.”

“Then I owe you a great deal of thanks,” said Jane. Sally Higgins-Smythe had a wild look in her eyes, bordering on hysteria, and Jane suspected she had been running for the past twenty-four hours on caffeine and sugar.

“Here’s your badge,” Sally said, pinning on Jane’s chest a name tag in the shape of a large heart. “And here’s your schedule.” She thrust a piece of paper at Jane. “I have to work the table right now, but I can’t wait for your talk.”

“Yes,” said Jane. “I—” She stopped. “My talk?” she asked, registering what Sally had said.

“Didn’t they tell you?” Sally said. “You’re going to be on a panel about what women want from romance novels. It’s you, Penelope Wentz, and Chiara Carrington.”

“Nobody mentioned anything about a panel,” said Jane. “Is it possible for you—”

“You’ll be fine,” Sally interrupted. “All you have to do is say a little bit and then answer questions.”

Jane began to rebut, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to cause trouble at her very first conference. Isn’t it enough that you almost got a reporter killed? she asked herself. You don’t need to add to it by getting a reputation for being difficult. “You’re right,” she told Sally. “It will be fun.”

She left Sally to greet the other arrivals, and made her way to the far corner of the room, where she hoped she could keep out of the way. On her way she lifted a glass of wine from a passing tray and downed most of it before she’d gotten even halfway across the floor. She wished Kelly were there, or Nick. Alone, she felt like the new girl at school. She recognized no one, and everyone was looking at her chest as they tried to figure out who she was.

She found a spot next to a potted palm and tried to blend into the crowd. With a little luck, no one would notice her and she could skip out early. Then she could worry about what she was going to say at her panel. What women want from romance novels, she thought. Honestly.

“Jane?”

Jane looked up to see a tall, lovely woman standing before her. The deep brown of her skin was set off by the gorgeous amber-colored dress she wore. A simple diamond necklace circled her slender throat, and her hair was done up in a tight, shiny knot. Jane racked her brain, trying to identify which movie star she was.

“Chiara Carrington,” the woman said, flashing Jane a stunning smile. “I thought I’d introduce myself before our panel tomorrow.”

“Oh!” said Jane. “I’m so pleased you did. I just now found out that I’m even doing it.”

Chiara laughed. “So did I,” she said. “Sally has a way of forgetting to tell authors little details like that. You’ll get used to it after a couple of conferences.”

For several minutes Jane and Chiara made small talk. Then Chiara said, “I’m ashamed to tell you this, but I haven’t read any of your books.”

Oh, I bet you have, thought Jane. “It’s all right,” she told Chiara. “This is my first. And since we’re confessing, I haven’t read yours either. Is it your first as well?”

“My fifteenth,” Chiara answered. A chill had crept into her voice, and Jane realized immediately that she’d made an error. “So many?” she said quickly. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have—”

“Excuse me.” Another voice interrupted Jane’s attempt at an apology. Jane turned to see a woman, small and dressed all in gray, standing beside her. Her skin was fair and her eyes were the same gray as her dress. Her brown hair was gathered into a severe chignon at the nape of her neck.

“I’d like a word with you if I might,” the woman said to Jane. She glanced at Chiara. “Alone.”

“It’s all right,” Chiara said. “I was just leaving.” She gave Jane an icy look. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she walked away.

Jane turned back to the new arrival. “I didn’t get your name,” she said.

“Violet,” said the woman. “Violet Grey.”

Jane, about to shake hands with the woman, kept her hand at her side. “Oh,” she said. “I’ve read your work.”

Violet smiled grimly. “I’m sure,” she said. “And I yours.”

Jane wasn’t sure how to proceed. She already knew what Violet thought of her book. Was she supposed to confront her? Or was she expected to just stand there while Violet got some sort of perverse enjoyment out of seeing her squirm?

“I’ve no intention of making a scene,” said Violet, as if reading Jane’s mind. “I don’t think either of us wants that.”

“No,” Jane said. “No, we don’t.”

Violet nodded curtly. “Then I’ll say what I’ve come to say. I intend to expose you.”

“Expose me?” Jane said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I imagined you would say that,” said Violet. “What I mean is that I can prove that you are not who you say you are.”

Jane hesitated. Did Violet know about her? And if so, how? She started to reply.

“Don’t bother denying it,” said Violet, stopping her. “I have all the proof I need.”

“Proof?” Jane repeated.

“That you plagiarized your novel,” said Violet.

Jane heard herself laugh with relief. The woman didn’t know about her after all. Then her words sank in.

“You think I stole someone else’s work?” she said.

“Not just someone’s work, Miss Fairfax,” said Violet. “Charlotte Brontë’s work.”

“Brontë?” Jane said. “What in the world makes you think that I stole from Charlotte Brontë?”

“As it happens, I am in possession of the original manuscript that you call Constance,” Violet informed her.

“That’s impossible,” said Jane.