The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (13 page)

“Indeed. What more could a man want?” Edward asked. He even managed to sound sincere saying it.

But the answer to his rhetorical question rose unbidden in his mind. It was ridiculous to want Frederica Marshall. It didn’t matter how he dreamed of her at night; it didn’t even matter that he, apparently, did not disgust her, either. She was too intelligent to entangle herself with a man like him—and he was just foolish enough to want her anyway.

He was already in over his head. He didn’t mind that.

The danger was in telling himself lies. And the notion that he might have Frederica Marshall was the sweetest, most seductive lie he might have told himself. He wouldn’t give into that.

His brother burbled on—about his sons, his friends, about nothing in particular, helped on by a few judicious comments on Edward’s part. After a full quarter hour, James seemed to realize that he’d been monopolizing the conversation.

James took a long swallow of brandy and finally looked at Edward, squinting. “So,” he said. “What
have
you been doing with yourself all these years?”

“Running a metalworks in Toulouse,” Edward said smoothly. That much was true if James ever cared to look into the matter. His brother didn’t need to know any of the other things Edward had done.

But apparently, that was enough. James looked thunderstruck. “A metalworks! When you say
running
it—you mean you own it, but…”

“A fancy metalworks,” Edward smiled faintly. “If it makes you feel better. We do ornamental gates, fences, gratings for chapels. That sort of thing. And yes, I run it. I’m involved in all aspects of it.”

“You don’t actually mean that
you
do some of the…” James gestured futilely. “You know. The
working
. With metal.”

“Of course I do. I’ve always been artistically minded, and metal is just another medium.”

James did not ask any of the questions that Edward might have found uncomfortable, questions like
How did you come to own a metalworks?

Instead, he took a long swallow of his brandy. “No wonder you disappeared. You told me you’d done things that reflected poorly on your honor, but I’d never imagined that you would take up a trade. Why, metalworking is practically…manual labor.” This was followed by another swallow of liquor, as if spirits were the only thing that could make metalworking tolerable.

“It
is
manual labor.” Edward tried not to let his amusement show. “However fancy the product might be.”

“Good God.” James drained his glass, frowned at the bottom of it.

“Here,” Edward said, reaching forward and picking up the glass. “Allow me to do the honors.” For one thing, standing and turning his back on his brother meant that James couldn’t see him try to hide his smile.

“I understand what you were getting at now,” James said. “I didn’t understand at all, when you came the other night. Couldn’t figure out why you’d agree to give up a viscountcy. But this makes sense of everything. We couldn’t have a laborer as viscount. What if people found out?”

Edward wouldn’t laugh. God, to be such a fool, imagining that
manual labor
was the worst a man could do. Running the metalworks was the most respectable thing Edward had managed in his years away. He had a sudden, wicked desire to show his brother his skills at forgery, just to see him choke. Instead, he filled his brother’s glass with brandy and turned back.

“Here.” But as he returned, he knocked his foot against the rubbish bin, tipping it over. “My pardon.” He reached over and righted it, shifting the contents as he did. “How clumsy of me.”

He caught a glimpse of Miss Marshall’s masthead as he rearranged the papers. Just as he’d thought.

James waved this away. “I’m glad we had this chance to talk. I’ve been worried, to tell the truth. We were a bit at odds as children.”

An understatement.

“But I see that won’t persist. We’ve each found our place. You’re happy, are you not?”

Happier than ever, now that he’d found his way into James’s confidences. “I am,” Edward said. “And I, too, am glad we spoke. But I must be getting on. I won’t be in England much longer, and you’ve still work to do.”

“Of course.” A frown passed over James’s face. “Do you mean to stay here for the night?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. The family can’t risk my recognition, can we?”

Relief flickered over his brother’s face.

Edward shrugged. “I’ve a room for the night in a place by the station. I’ll be taking the train back to London first thing tomorrow. Speaking of which, is that today’s
Gazette?”
He gestured to the rubbish bin.

“Yes.”

“They still print the rail schedules, don’t they? Mind if I take that copy from you and bring it along with me? It’ll save me from having to look up the timetables tomorrow morning.” Edward gestured toward the rubbish bin.

“Of course.” James reached for it himself, but Edward beat him in bending down. He picked up the entire jumbled sheaf of newspapers, rummaging through them with a little more clumsiness than necessary until he found the proper one. “Ah. Here we are.” He gave the newspaper a tug, rolled it up, and smiled at his brother. “Thank you. I’ll be out of England soon enough—business will take me back to France, I’m afraid.”

James made a face, as if
business
was a dirty word.

“But I’m glad we had a chance to speak.”

“Of course,” James said. “No matter what you’ve done, you’re still my brother.”

“How generous of you.” Edward inclined his head. “You’re too good.”

And so saying, he slid the newspaper into the inner pocket of his coat—both the
Gazette
and Free’s proof rolled into one. There. His primary object for the evening was accomplished. “Good night.”

“Good night.” But as Edward started to leave, his brother grimaced. “Wait.”

Edward paused. “Yes?”

“Have you separated Shaughnessy from Miss Marshall yet?”

“No,” Edward said slowly. “I haven’t. He’s stubborn.” He’d not thought that his careful lies would bear fruit so soon. He stood in place, willing his brother to say more.

James sighed. “Can you keep a secret?”

“James.” Edward shook his head slowly, patiently. “I
am
a secret. Who would I tell?”

“True, true. Well. In the interest of brotherly rapport, you might want to make sure that Shaughnessy is not at the press late tomorrow evening.”

“Of course. Is there some reason?”

James hesitated, so Edward fed him another lie.

“No, no, don’t tell me,” he said. “I can see there is another reason. You’ve done something rather clever, haven’t you?”

That was enough to push his brother over the edge. “Oh, not so clever,” James demurred. “It’s taken me ages to build up to this. It’s just that tomorrow is when they’re supposed to set the fire.”

F
REE HAD BEEN BURIED
under a veritable onslaught of telegrams—seventy-three by four that afternoon—and the courier on his cycle brought more every hour.

That number didn’t count the notices that would come in the mails. After the exposé that had been printed in the
London Review
this morning and echoed in papers around the country by noon, advertisers throughout England had been desperate to sever their ties with her. Subscribers would no doubt follow suit.

Free had left the headlined paper out on the front table, a reminder of what she needed to accomplish by the end of the day.

WOMEN’S FREE PRESS
FOUND COPYING COLUMNS FROM OTHERS.

“Your response won’t hold up.” Amanda had come back from London that morning, and she was examining Free’s hastily hand-scrawled defense. “This piece sounds like the thinnest of excuses. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t watched you write those columns.”

“Mr. Clark has proof,” Free said.

Amanda snorted in response. “Mr. Clark is not here. Convenient for him, is it not? Here we are, asserting that someone—and while we suspect who it is, we cannot prove it, and so we dare not name him—has taken our work early, but we are not sure how. This unknown person has done this in order to discredit us for some unknown reason. The story is so thin that it would rouse the suspicions of even our most faithful adherents. We can’t print this. We’re better off printing nothing at all.”

Free folded her arms and glared off into space. “So you think printing a bare denial is the best option.” It had been her choice to wait until she had proof before proceeding; this debacle was what resulted.

“Yes,” Amanda said.

“She’s right,” Alice said over her shoulder.

When those two agreed, they were almost certainly correct.

“Say simply,” Amanda said, “that the
Women’s Free Press
has reviewed its internal procedures and we are satisfied that the pieces we have printed were authored by our writers. We are looking into this matter.”

“But—”

“Add that we will allow the reporter from the
London Review
to examine our internal archive of advance proofs, demonstrating that earlier versions of the columns were in our possession before the other newspapers went to press.”

“But—”

“Don’t defend yourself, Free, until you can do it well. You’ll have one chance to build your defense in the public eye. Wait until your story is unassailable, or you’ll lose.”

Damn it. She wanted to do
something.
Free balled her hands into fists. The telegrams had come all day long, and every one she glanced at felt like a knife to her heart. Andrews’ Tinned Goods—she’d worked with them for years. It wasn’t right, wasn’t
fair,
that they’d not even waited to hear her explanation before jumping to the conclusion of her guilt.

“We will win,” Alice said behind her, setting her hand on her back.

She didn’t want any of this. Even if she fended off these accusations, every hour she spent defending against them was an hour not spent on issues of substance. That bill of Rickard’s, flawed as it was, was unlikely to even come under discussion unless she helped do her part to put it on everyone’s lips. The very act of spending energy on this hopeless morass was a loss, no matter how it turned out.

She set her head in her hands.

The door opened. She turned, expecting the courier again.

But instead of the bespectacled boy from the telegram office in town, Mr. Clark stood in the doorway. He looked around the room—at her and Amanda and Alice at the table, arguing over that all-important response—and his eyes narrowed.

“Where are the men, Miss Marshall?” His voice was a low growl.

“What men?”

“The men I told you to hire.” He took a step forward. “I know you don’t trust me, but with what is at stake, I’d think you could at least bloody listen for a half minute.”

“What men?” she echoed.

He looked at her—really looked at her, taking in the ink stains on her chin, the drifts of telegrams on the table beside her.

“Christ,” he swore. “You haven’t read my telegram.”

“I’ve been busy.” She glared at him accusingly. “Trying to piece together a response to this accusation without any of the evidence
you
claimed to have but took with you. I haven’t had time to sort through all the messages. One more person canceling an advertisement or expressing their glee at my fall from grace—what would that have mattered? Things can’t get much worse.”

“Yes, they can,” Mr. Clark growled. “I was wrong; I didn’t have the full plan. This is not just about putting you in distress, Miss Marshall. You need to be seen to be in distress by the entire world. That way, when your press is burned to the ground, everyone will believe it arson. They’ll think that faced with the certainty of financial ruin, you set fire to everything for the insurance money in a fit of desperation.”

Free felt her hands go cold.

“He could be lying, Free.” Amanda came to stand by her. “These so-called men he wants you to hire—who knows who they might be? Men under his control. And once introduced, they’ll be here. Protecting us, so they say, but who knows what other master they’ll serve? Do you really trust him?”

Mr. Clark’s lips thinned, but he said nothing in his own defense. He simply folded his arms and glared at her, as if willing her to make up her mind—as if daring her to trust him now, when she had every reason not to.

But it wasn’t his silence that decided her in his favor. It wasn’t the memory of the last time she’d seen him—of the touch of his glove whispering along her jaw. It wasn’t even the perilous thud of her heart, whispering madness in the back of her mind.

No. Her trust, such as it was, was won on a far more practical basis.

“On this,” Free said, “I believe him.”

He let out an exhalation, his arms dropping to his sides.

“But—” Amanda started.

Free turned grimly and went to the window. “I believe him,” she said, “because I smell smoke.”