The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (18 page)

“God, no.” She looked horrified. “Farm girls who catch the eye of a lord don’t end up
married
. If we’re lucky, we don’t end up pregnant. No. When I was a girl, I wanted to be a pirate.”

That
brought up an all-too-pleasant image—Miss Marshall, the rich, dark red of her hair unbound and flying defiantly in the wind aboard a ship’s deck. She’d wear a loose white shirt and pantaloons. He would definitely surrender.

“I am less shocked than you might imagine,” Edward heard himself say. “Entirely unshocked.”

She smiled in pleasure.

“A bloodthirsty cutthroat profession? Good thing you gave that up. It would never have suited you.”

Her expression of pleasure dimmed.

“You’d have succeeded too easily,” Edward continued, “and now you’d be sitting, bored as sin, atop a heap of gold too large to spend in one lifetime. Still, though, wouldn’t it solve ever so many problems if you married a lord? James Delacey could never touch you again if you did.”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed at that. Miss Marshall’s expression changed from amused to serious.

Edward didn’t know what he was thinking, asking her about marriage. He wasn’t a damned viscount. He refused to be one. And whatever odd flutterings he may have felt in her presence, whatever odd imaginings he had harbored, he wasn’t going to marry her.

And yet… It was tempting, too. While he hadn’t been paying attention, his mind had constructed a might-have-been, a world where he’d never been cast out, where he’d never had to make his heart as black and hard as coal. If he’d been Edward Delacey, he might have courted her in his own right. Edward Delacey, dead fool that he was, could have had the one thing that Edward Clark never would.

Miss Marshall snorted. “God, no,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’d rather carry a cutlass.”

“Ah, but think of the advantages.”

“What advantages?” She looked around her. “I’ve built something here. It’s a business that is not just for women, but for
all
women. We print essays from women who work fourteen hours a day in the mines, from prostitutes, from millworkers demanding a woman’s union. Do you think I’d give this up to plan
dinner parties?”

Like this—intense and serious—she was even more beautiful than before. She tossed her head, and he wanted to grab hold of her and kiss her.

It wasn’t as if he wanted to marry her; God forbid that he contemplate anything so permanent. But he’d entertained the idea. Viscount Claridge, he was sure, would have been able to woo her. It had been a strange sort of comfort—that even though he couldn’t have her as himself, some other version of himself might have accomplished it.

But there they were. Edward Clark, liar and blackmailer extraordinaire, had a better shot at Frederica Marshall than Viscount Claridge. It was the worst of his damned luck that they happened to be the same person.

He was saved from having to come up with an answer by Stephen.

“Hold on one moment,” Stephen said, setting a hand on Free’s arm. “Do you mean to tell me that
James Delacey
is causing you difficulties?”

Miss Marshall glanced over at Edward, and then sighed and looked back. “We believe he was behind the fire.” She sounded tired once again. “We think he’s behind the charge of copying, too. And that ugliness with you the other day.”

“I know James Delacey.” Stephen’s lips thinned. “He used to delight in tormenting me as a child. I would follow my brother around all the time, just so I wouldn’t find myself alone with him.”

Stephen had never said a word of that as a child.

“He whipped a skittish mare that he shouldn’t have been riding. It reared and kicked my father in the chest, and then he told everyone that my father had mishandled it. No surprise that he’s still an ass.” Stephen glowered bitterly. “I do wish…” He trailed off, giving his head a shake.

“What do you wish?” Miss Marshall asked.

Stephen looked up, past Miss Marshall. Right past her, straight into Edward’s eyes. “I wish his elder brother was still alive.”

Stephen could have just been addressing Edward out of politeness. They were part of the same conversation; people conversing with one another looked at each other. Still, Edward felt a cold chill run down the back of his neck.

Stephen continued. “He was a much better sort. Just goes to show that life isn’t fair. People like Ned Delacey perish, while his brother gets the title. That right there is everything that is wrong with the House of Lords. In any event, I didn’t mean to interrupt. If the two of you are talking about how best to deal with Delacey, I’ll let you get on with it.”

“Do you think you’d have anything to add to the conversation about him?” Miss Marshall asked.

Stephen looked straight at Edward. “Clark,” he said, “have you had a recent conversation with Delacey?”

“I have,” Edward said solemnly.

Stephen waved them off. “Then I trust you to deal with him. My knowledge of the man is far in the past. Clark’s your man, Free.”

Miss Marshall simply accepted this with a nod and gestured to her office. “Mr. Clark. If you will.”

Edward brushed past Stephen. But he’d gone only three steps when Stephen spoke again. “Oh, Mr. Clark.”

Edward turned.

Stephen was smiling—that sure smile he employed when he was certain he was about to say something very clever.

Edward felt a dreadful sense of foreboding. “Yes?”

“Ask Miss Marshall who her father is.” And then, while Edward was frowning in confusion, Stephen winked.

F
REE FOUND HERSELF BLUSHING
as she entered her office. It was the same room as always: desk, chair, papers kept in careful stacks. But the last time they’d been in this office together, she’d kissed him. Even though everything had changed—it was broad daylight, instead of dark night; she was fully clothed instead of dressed for sleep—somehow, the echo of that kiss still connected them, a solid, visceral thing.

Apparently, she’d let enough of her interest show when greeting Mr. Clark that Stephen had noticed, if that last cryptic comment meant anything.

Mr. Clark came in behind her. She seated herself safely behind the desk, smoothing her skirts into place.

He stood on the other side of the desk and watched her intently. “Who is your father, Miss Marshall?”

“Don’t listen to Stephen,” she huffed. “He’s a bit of a jokester. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“No?”

She sighed. “My father was once a pugilist. I told you he used to take me to matches when I was younger.”

His face went completely blank.

“Stephen was teasing me,” she explained to him. “Implying that I needed to let you know that my honor would be protected. Which is ridiculous, frankly. If you intended to force me, you’ve already had the chance, several times over. As for what happened…” She was blushing again, and she hated blushing. Blushing implied shyness; shyness meant that whatever she felt could be used against her.

He was looking at her lips. “As for that?” he asked quietly.

“
That
is not any of my father’s business.” And she wouldn’t have minded repeating that kiss.

Mr. Clark didn’t seem to agree. He lowered himself gingerly into the chair, but kept his eyes on her desk. His expression had gone grim.

“Marshall.” He shook his head. “I should have thought. I don’t suppose your father is Hugo Marshall, then.”

“Oh, do you know of him?” That was unusual. “He only fought for a few years, and as he was never in the heavyweight class, he’s not much remembered.”

Mr. Clark sighed and rubbed his chin. “There’s an account of his fight with Byron the Bear in
PrizeFighting Through the Ages.”
At that, he finally looked up at her—but his glare seemed almost accusatory. “My childhood friend and I used to reenact that one. That fight was the subject of one of my first decent oil paintings.” The glint in his eyes brightened. “I named my first horse
Wolf
after him.”

Free huffed. “It’s hardly my fault you made a hero of my father.”

“No,” he said softly. “But every bloody time I convince myself I ought to walk away from you…”

“Well,” she said simply, “you wouldn’t have that problem if you stopped convincing yourself of stupid things.”

He blinked at that, his mouth working, but there was no point leaving him time to protest. Free moved on briskly. “Now, I’ve been thinking about our next move. We must connect this fire and the copying to James Delacey. Somehow.”

He took a breath, looked in her eyes. There was a beat, as if he were considering repeating his complaint, and then he shrugged.

“As to that, I have an idea. I’d have told you last night, but we were…busy.” He smiled, a languid, suggestive smile that sent a little shiver down her spine. “And then we were…busier. Between all our busyness, it completely slipped my mind.”

“What slipped your mind?”

His fingers went to the buttons of his jacket, and her mouth dried. His buttons were simple cloth and metal affairs, scarcely worth a second thought. And yet as he undid them, she had second thoughts and third thoughts, none of them proper. His gloved fingers were long and graceful, and every button he undid revealed another inch of creamy linen, one that hinted at broad shoulders and strong muscles.

He’d not shown her the slightest bit of skin, but the act of unbuttoning his coat sparked indecent thoughts—memories of his arm coming around her, his mouth on hers…

He stopped undoing buttons, and she realized he’d only wanted to reach the inside pocket. She sat back in disappointment.

“I stole this from Delacey the other night,” he told her, “before I became distracted by thoughts of fire and other perfidy on his part. We made those advance proofs, as you may recall, so that we could tell how they were going astray. Tell me, Miss Marshall.” He handed her the paper. “Who did you send this one to?”

She took the page from him, spreading it out on her desk.

She could see him doing up his buttons out of the corner of her eye. Terrible, terrible man. Teasing her with the prospect of more. But if he could pretend it was nothing, she could, too. There—this was the one with the transposed lines.

“This is the one I sent to my brother.”

He nodded as he did back the last of his buttons. Alas.

“Do you think there is any chance your brother is personally sending them on? Perhaps he wishes to bring you in line.”

“No,” she said automatically. “Oliver would never do that.”

“Can you be absolutely sure of it? He’s not your full brother, is he? Only half, and from what I understand, the other half-brother is a duke. He doesn’t sound trustworthy to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’d as soon mistrust you.” It took her a moment to understand how she’d meant that: She’d talked about mistrusting
him
the same way she might have talked of pigs taking flight, or hell acquiring icicles—as if it were such an obvious impossibility that anyone would scoff at it.

But he didn’t take it that way. He smiled brightly at her, as if he didn’t expect trust, as if last night hadn’t happened at all. “You’re right. I waited with the mails. Easy enough for me to filch out one copy and return with it just now.”

An untrustworthy man would have protested his innocence. But surely a trustworthy man would have been annoyed at being doubted. He was the oddest enigma: a man who neither expected nor wanted her trust. A man who kissed her, told her he wanted more, and made no move to secure it.

“If you really want to know for sure,” he said, “you can send a telegram and ask. That way you can make sure it arrived at least.”

She looked him in the eyes. “Mr. Clark,” she said, “there are six people I am sure are not at fault here. My brother. His wife. Amanda. Alice. Myself.” She swallowed. “You.”

He smiled faintly in response. “But we already know you’re too trusting. My list is one entry long: you. Are you certain about your brother? He’s an MP, is he not? How much of an embarrassment are you to him?”

“Oh, not much,” Free said. “He always bails me out of gaol. If he wanted to stop me, he would have just left me in the lock hospital. He always says that I’m extremely useful politically because I make him look like the
reasonable
Marshall.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Mr. Clark growled. “You’re extremely reasonable.”

“Mr. Clark, did you just use an exclamation point? I could have sworn I heard one.”

He didn’t even blink. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “I borrowed one of yours. It’s allowed, when I’m talking of you. But this is neither here nor there. You see, Miss Marshall, we know something now, and Delacey doesn’t know we know it. If your brother is not the culprit, it’s one of his staff. It’s likely someone who works closely with him.”

“That would make sense,” she said slowly.

“And while Delacey would never talk directly with an arsonist, my guess is that he might make himself known to a secretary or a man of business. And that…” He smiled, charmingly. “That, Miss Marshall, is where we can get the proof we need to publicly hold him responsible.”

“Do you have any suggestions as to how we will manage that?”