The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (7 page)

S
TEPHEN HAD A ROOM
on a building that backed onto the River Cam.

From the bank of the river, huddled in a bush along a pedestrian footpath, an opera glass in hand, Free could see inside. Mr. Clark had posed no objection to sitting in the leaves and twigs with her.

She could make no sense of him. He’d lied to her—and he’d cheerfully admitted as much with a smile. He’d tried to blackmail her—but had shrugged complacently when she’d refused to be blackmailed. He was no doubt an utter scoundrel, but he was the best-natured scoundrel she’d ever had call to work with.

“Did you go to Cambridge?” she asked him.

He gave her an incredulous look. “What do you take me for? One of those prancing dandies arguing over Latin clauses?” He shrugged. “If you’re going to hold the glasses, keep your eyes on the room. We don’t want to miss anything.”

He didn’t try to take the glasses from her, though. Free sighed and trained them on Stephen’s room. He’d left a lamp lit, but it was still dark enough that she could miss something if she didn’t pay attention.

“You’ve been
somewhere,”
she said. “Somewhere before you lived in France is my guess. Harrow, perhaps? You have that hint of something to your speech.”

He snorted and looked away. “Eton.”

She snorted right back at him. “My brother went to Eton. I’d recognize
that.
You’re lying to me.”

“Of course I am. We’re reluctant partners, Miss Marshall, not friends swapping childhood stories.” Another man might have snapped out those words. He said them with a trace of humor, as if it were a great joke that they were forced to be in each other’s company.

“Ah. Shall we sit in stony silence, then?”

“No,” he said. “I’m perfectly happy to have you entertain me, if you prefer. Tell me, what was the result of the Hammersmith-Choworth match that took place this morning? I was rather isolated this afternoon and hadn’t the chance to find out.”

Free let the glasses fall and turned to him. “We’re reluctant partners, Mr. Clark,” she mimicked. “I’m not your secretary to relay the news to you.”

He shrugged. “How like a woman. You don’t know. Do you think pugilism is too violent, that it’s beneath you?”

Free burst into laughter. “Oh, no. If you think you can set me off with a poorly placed ‘how like a woman‘, you’re much mistaken. It’s terribly unoriginal. Everyone does it. I had thought better of you than that.”

There was a short pause. Then he shook his head ruefully. “You’re right. That was a dreadful cliché. Next time I attempt to provoke you to respond, I’ll do better.”

Free took pity on him. She raised the glasses once more and trained them on the lighted window. “Choworth fell after twelve rounds to Hammersmith.”

“Hammersmith won! You’re making that up. Did he manage to outdodge him, then? I know Hammersmith is faster, but Choworth has the punch. And the strength! I’ve seen him—”

“Careful, Mr. Clark.” Free smiled. “You’re using exclamation points.”

There was a pause. “So I am.” He sighed. “Do you know, boxing is the only thing I missed about England? I’d track down English papers just so I could find the results of my favorites. I was mad about fighting as a boy. I think it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.”

“Choworth apparently landed a few cuts to the right in the ninth round,” Free said after a pause. “Hammersmith was down; he struggled to his feet, but the account in the afternoon
Times
said the onlookers thought he was done for.”

He tilted his head at her. “Do you know that because you read all your rival papers as a matter of course, or because you actually follow the sport?”

“My father used to take me to matches when I was a child.” Free smiled. “We still go together. Take from that what you will.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Clark snorted. “Unfair.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that though, the door to Stephen’s room opened. Free waved him to silence and focused her glasses on the window. A man was slipping inside. He wore a dark, knit cap pulled low over his head.

“There’s someone there,” she told Mr. Clark.

“Damn.”

She had wondered if all his good humor was a deception—if, perhaps, he hated her and was just extremely good at hiding it.

That one syllable convinced her otherwise. There was a quiet fury in it. Beside her, he tensed, his eyes glittering.

“Damn,” he repeated. “I was hoping—
really
hoping—that he’d call it off.”

This, too, might be an act. This was, after all, the man who had dashed off a brazen forgery in front of her without blinking an eye.

Free kept her gaze trained on the man in Stephen’s room. The fellow stopped in front of Stephen’s dresser, turned toward his desk, and then, after another pause, slipped out the door once again.

She stood. “Let’s go.”

They scrambled down the path over the bridge. He didn’t try to outrun her—even though it would have been an easy prospect with her in heavy skirts and a corset. He kept pace with her instead, jogging easily at her side. When they came to the outer wall of the dormitory, he paused.

“If I give you a lift, can you get up to his window?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

Before she could ready herself, he took hold of her by the waist and swung her up. She had only the briefest sensation of his strength, the power of his muscles, before her fingertips caught the edge of Stephen’s windowsill. She scrabbled for a firm hold; his grip on her shifted, sliding down. One hand came under her foot as support. Then he boosted her up, and she pulled herself into Stephen’s room.

“Do you need me to help you up?” she whispered out the window.

“You’re too precious,” came the reply. And so saying, he swung himself up, finding a foothold here, a handhold there. Before she knew it, he was hauling himself over the sill of the window, scarcely out of breath.

Her eyes widened.

“I can tell you’re not a gentleman,” she said as he pulled himself into the room. “You’re far too strong.”

“Ah, you noticed.” He straightened, brushing his hands off, and gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve done some metalwork. But we can talk about how attractive my muscles are at some time when we are
not
illicitly entering a building.”

From another man, that casual boast would have been downright disturbing. But Mr. Clark didn’t leer or wink. He didn’t waggle his brows to make sure she’d understood his lewd implications. He simply turned away and studied the room as if he hadn’t been outrageous at all. As if he’d spoken the simple truth.

And maybe he had.

Free covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

“You’d better search,” he said. “That way, you can be sure I didn’t place anything. I’ll keep watch.”

It felt odd, rifling through Stephen’s chest of drawers. Even though he’d given her permission, it felt like an invasion on her part. She finally found a ring—an ugly thing of tarnished gold and amber—among his cravats.

“There,” she said. “That’s it. You were right about that much.”

She still wasn’t going to trust him.

He gestured. “Take it. Let’s get out of here before we’re discovered.”

She didn’t trust him, but if she let herself, she could like him. He was clever, easygoing, and utterly unoffended by her intelligence.

It was such a shame that she was going to have to ruin their temporary camaraderie.

Free went to the door. “There’s one last thing I need to do.” They’d spoken all this time in hushed whispers; this time, she didn’t bother to moderate her tone.

He made a face. “Hush. You’ll be heard.”

That was rather the point. Free raised her hand. Mr. Clark took a step forward, but before he could reach her, she’d rapped—hard—on the inside of Stephen’s door.

“You can come in now, Mrs. Simms,” Free said in a carrying voice. “Let’s see what we have.”

E
DWARD HAD SWUNG HIMSELF
out the window before he even had a chance to think what Miss Marshall was doing. His heart was pounding; his hands were clammy.

But instead of dropping to the ground immediately, he held on, his heels finding purchase against the rough rock of the building, his hands wrapped in the ivy.

“Well, dearie,” he heard an older voice saying. “Is it as you thought?”

“I’m afraid so. There’s a ring in here.”

The old woman—Mrs. Simms—clucked. “An ugly business, Miss Marshall. An ugly business. Good thing you caught wind of it. Stephen’s a dear.”

Not everyone hated him, then. Edward hadn’t spoken to Stephen in years, and yet he was unsurprised to discover that he was still winning women over.

This other woman was sniffing distastefully. “I can vouch for the fact that he’s not been in all evening. I went through his things at three this afternoon as he was leaving, and I saw nothing.”

Ah. Edward leaned his forehead against the cool stone. She’d arranged for a backup plan, in the event that they’d failed in their objective. Clever.

She hadn’t told him about that, of course. That was more clever still; he certainly wouldn’t have told himself, either. That must have been when she left her paper—she’d made certain that if he was lying to her, Stephen was protected anyway. And then she’d brought him a sandwich.

Damn, but he respected that.

“I’ll take it, then,” Mrs. Simms said. “And when the cry goes up about
missing things,
I’ll disclose everything. You can’t be found in here, Miss Marshall. You know what they’ll say. Go on.”

“You’re a dear. Have Mr. Simms send a message if there’s anything else I need to know.”

He could hear her coming to the window as she spoke. He dropped to the ground and waited.

She clambered over the edge, looked down, and caught sight of him. “You’re still here,” she said in surprised tones.

“Hang,” he told her in a low voice. “I’ll catch you.”

She didn’t hesitate. She swung her legs over the sill. He caught a flash of stockinged ankles and white petticoats—and then she lowered herself down. He wrapped his arms around her.

It was a little uncomfortable to let her slide down him. Uncomfortable for him in the best way possible: He was aware of every last shift of fabric. She had a lovely scent to her, something sweet and wild, like lavender on an empty hillside. He almost didn’t want to let her go when her toes touched the ground.

He did anyway, taking a few steps back.

When he glanced at her, she was smiling. “Are you angry at me?” she asked sweetly.

“Of course not. I told you not to trust me, and you didn’t.”

Every time he thought he knew what to expect from her, she upset his expectations. He felt buffeted about, unsure of his footing.

Also, she liked boxing.

God, this was bad. Very, very bad.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “we have to talk.”

Bad went instantly to worse. Talking was never a good thing. He glanced at her warily. “We do?”

“Yes.” She gave him a sudden grin. “But don’t give me that look. You’re the one who suggested it, after all. We’re supposed to talk about how attractive I find your muscles.”

His mouth went dry. No use pretending anymore. He wanted her—everything about her—from that saucy smile to the inner workings of her clever mind. He wanted her badly.

He took one step toward her.

“Alas,” she said, “we’ll have to postpone that discussion. After all, I have a newspaper that must be out with the 4 a.m. mail.”

He couldn’t believe it. She’d…toyed with him. Incomprehensibly, ridiculously, damnably.
He
was supposed to be the scoundrel here.
He
was supposed to be putting her on edge.

“No wonder you weren’t prepared to give me italics on either maddening or brilliant this afternoon,” he told her. “You were hoarding them all for yourself. Well played, Miss Marshall. Very well played.”

She gave him a smile—he could only call it maddeningly arousing—and then turned away. Her skirts swished around her ankles. She walked away from him with swift, sure strides, as if she knew her destination. As if it had nothing to do with him.

Edward had the odd notion that after years of drab motionlessness, his entire world had suddenly begun to spin about him. He’d had that feeling ever since he’d been pulled into her orbit on the bank of the Thames.

She gave him the most astonishing vertigo. He should have hated it.

But he didn’t—not one bit.