The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (17 page)

T
HE STABLES WERE QUIET
and peaceful, pleasantly dark after the midmorning sun. Edward felt totally at odds as he stepped inside. His right hand had hurt last night; it ached now. His palm was dark red with a forming bruise—but nothing was broken, and pain was the least of his worries.

Patrick Shaughnessy stood at the far end of the stables, examining a mare’s hind leg. He glanced up as Edward came in, but kept on with his work with no more than a nod of acknowledgment. Patrick’s father had been like that, too—not one to interrupt his work unless there was blood or a broken limb.

After a moment, Edward mounted the ladder to the hayloft and found a pitchfork. Pitching hay with his bruised hand was a difficult prospect. At first, the pain was just a twinge, but it grew to a sharp throb. Every forkful hurt a little more. It was as good a reminder as any. Deep down, there was nothing but pain.

It took some ten minutes for his muscles to remember the proper rhythm for the work. The pain concentrated in the palm of his hand, pulsing in time to each thrust.

All you see is the river, but I care about the roses.

Hard to remember there was more than the river, when it had once overflowed its banks and swept him away. He’d almost drowned. He’d learned his lesson: Don’t go near rivers. Don’t go anywhere near rivers.

Miss Marshall spent her life daring those more powerful than her to swat her down. The hell of it was, her determination was some kind of contagion. He could feel it infecting him, making him
believe.
Making him tell himself lies like
I could do some good
and
I want her forever.

He gritted his teeth and pitched hay, picking up a heavy forkful and letting it slide to the box in the stall below.

No, he had to remember that she was wrong. You had to keep your eye on the river, no matter what she said. If you let your control slip, rivers would pull you under. In your desperation, you’d claw at anyone around just to get a gasp of air. You wouldn’t even realize the harm you’d done until it was too late.

“I think,” Patrick’s voice said behind him, “that Buttercup has had enough now.”

Edward stopped, breathing heavily, coming back to himself. He set the pitchfork down, looking out over the stables beneath him. Horses munched peacefully on oats and hay, tails swishing in idyllic rest. A stallion stamped restively and shook its head.

It was peaceful here, and part of him wanted to take up residence in this stable. But there was no way he could crawl back into his childhood.

Instead, he looked back at Patrick. “You have always been my greatest liability,” he said solemnly.

Another man might have taken offense at those words, but Patrick understood him.

“It never mattered where in Europe I went,” he said, “or how much time elapsed. You never stopped mattering to me—you and Stephen. I wished I could be the hardened fellow who never cared. But I saw Stephen the other day…”

Edward shrugged.

“You never wished for any such thing,” Patrick said stoutly.

Edward contemplated this. “Yes. You’re right.” He sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the hayloft. “After all these years, after everything I’ve done. You’re still more my brother than the man who shares my blood. The surprise isn’t that I’m still hanging around you. It’s that you’ve not recognized me yet for what I am.”

He had tried. God, he had tried to drive Patrick away. He’d told him every vile thing he’d done—as if he, like his friend, were Catholic, and Patrick his confessor. Every forged letter. Every piece of blackmail. Every wrong act, he’d relayed to his friend by letter. Every time he’d been certain that this brazen theft, this false story, would set his friend against him.

“Oh, I know what you are,” Patrick said quietly. “I’m just waiting.”

Edward flexed his hand. “Love is hell,” he said shortly. “It makes me realize I still have something to lose. It was bad enough when it was just you and Stephen.”

“Oh?”

Edward kicked his legs angrily into space. “Oh.” He let that syllable hang for a few seconds before continuing on. “You were right, you know. Miss Marshall is very clever.” That was all he needed to say.

“And what are you going to do about it?” Patrick asked.

There was part of him—a foolish, damnable part of him—that wanted to give the answer that would make his friend smile.
I’m going to stay in England and woo her.

He had but to hear the thought to recognize its impossibility. If James discovered Edward hanging about England for good, he’d never rest for fear that he’d lose the title and his estates. And if Edward was found in the company of Frederica Marshall, James’s sworn enemy? James might finally muster the nerve to do more than burn down a few buildings.

Edward could take over the title. Announce himself as Edward Delacey. He prodded the idea gently in his mind; it felt as sore and tender as his bruised hand. The water he’d landed himself in was deep indeed, if he’d even consider the possibility.

Edward shook his head. “I’m going to do the same thing with Miss Marshall that I do to everyone I love. I’m going to leave before I can do her harm.”

Patrick looked at him, his mouth quirking skeptically.

“I will,” Edward said. “Just as soon as I can get everyone else to leave her alone.”

E
DWARD RETURNED TO
C
AMBRIDGE
in the afternoon, but when he arrived at the press and opened the door, he almost turned on his heel and walked away. Stephen Shaughnessy stood two feet away.

The other man didn’t look around as Edward stood in the doorway. His back was turned to Edward, and he was gesticulating in exaggerated motions, arguing in excited tones. He was almost Edward’s height. A massive change since Stephen had followed him around all those years ago.

Here he was, still following him around. Inconvenient as ever. Edward found himself smiling.

Stephen and Free—no, he’d best keep his distance as much as possible—Mr. Shaughnessy and Miss Marshall had their heads bent over a table.

“No.” Miss Marshall brandished a blue pencil. “You can’t say
Dukes get all the attention.
That sounds bitter, and you mustn’t sound bitter.” She crossed off a line as she spoke.

Edward could turn around and return in half an hour. By then, Stephen would no doubt have departed. No matter what, he couldn’t risk being recognized.

Miss Marshall was wearing a ghastly green gown, one that had no doubt been lent to her by a friend. It fit rather poorly, gaping at the bosom and stretching at the hips. The color dimmed the fire of her hair—which, without her normal pins, refused to stay in place. Little strands made an auburn halo around her head.

He’d never seen anything quite so lovely.

Miss Marshall nodded to Stephen. “This part is good here, but this introduction strikes me as too serious. It won’t do.”

“Aw, Free.”

God, Edward knew that phrase. How many times had they heard
Aw, Edward
or
Aw, Patrick
when they were younger?

Stephen turned wide, begging eyes on her. “Can’t I—”

“No,” she said severely. “You can’t. Stop whining and do it right. Now do I have to glower at you for the next ten minutes, or can you produce a creditable paragraph on your own?”

Edward should leave now, while Stephen was still occupied. Before he was recognized. And yet now that he stood this close, he didn’t want to go.

Besides, what was the likelihood that Stephen would recognize him? Edward’s own brother hadn’t. Stephen still thought him dead, and Edward’s mirror told him how much his looks had altered. Even his accent had shifted. Nine years living on the Continent, scarcely speaking English at all, had changed the natural cadences of his speech.

Miss Marshall looked up at that moment and made his decision for him. She looked at him and then her whole face lit up. He almost staggered back under the force of her smile. It made him feel…reckless. A man couldn’t disappoint a smile like that.

“Mr. Clark. You’ve returned.”

She sounded almost surprised. As if he were the sort to assist her in her predicament, kiss her, and then walk away.

He was. That was precisely the sort of man he was, and there was no losing sight of it.

He smiled at her nonetheless. “I have. This time. It turns out there’s something we forgot last night—”

At that moment, Stephen looked up from his paper. Every muscle Edward possessed tensed involuntarily, waiting.

“Wait, Miss Marshall,” Stephen said. “I don’t need ten minutes. I have it…” His eye fell on Edward, and he trailed off, frowning.

Only one way to handle this. Tell the lie before the other man had a chance to recognize it for falsehood.

Edward stepped forward. “I’m Clark,” he said casually. “I’m an admirer of your column.”

Stephen blinked at him quizzically, as if trying to figure out why he seemed familiar.

“Shaughnessy,” he said faintly, by way of introduction. “So
you’re
the Edward Clark that I’ve been hearing so much about.”

Miss Marshall colored faintly at that, and Edward felt gratified despite himself.

“I’m assisting Miss Marshall with a delicate matter,” Edward said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

Stephen simply smiled. “No, not yet. I have to run this by Free.”

Stephen used her pet name far too readily for Edward’s comfort. It gave him a sense of domestic tranquility, as if the three of them might become friends. As if they might spend evenings together, laughing and telling stories.

“By all means,” Edward said disparagingly. “If you can’t pen a simple paragraph without Miss Marshall’s supervision, far be it from me to hinder you.”

Stephen cast him an amused look, but he turned back to Miss Marshall.

“It goes like this.” Stephen cleared this throat. “Miss Muddled, your mistake lies in thinking that your voice deserves to be heard. You should first think of things from a lord’s point of view. Who, in all of England, is more powerless than a duke?”

Edward’s eyebrows rose.

“Technically,” Stephen continued, “we all know the answer to that question: Everybody is. But everyone below a duke is also, from said duke’s perspective, a nobody. That makes the duke the most powerless man in England. The nobility controls the House of Lords, commands the highest social respect, and yet they control a mere ninety-five percent of the wealth. If people like you continue to demand living wages, how will a duke hire the hundreds of servants to which he is entitled? The very fabric of our society unravels in horror at such a thought.”

“Better.” Miss Marshall nodded. “I still don’t like the last sentence. It’s too overblown. Continue more in the same vein as the first part—perhaps something like, ‘Won’t someone think of the dukes?’”

Stephen made a note on his paper. “Right.”

“Do the nobility really control ninety-five percent of the wealth? That figure seems high. One would think that the industrialists’ holdings—”

“Oh, no,” Stephen said with an easy smile. “I just made that up right now.”

Miss Marshall set a hand on her hip. “Stephen Shaughnessy,” she threatened. “You may write a satire column, but by God, you will write an
accurate
satire while you’re working with me.”

“I was standing here the whole time!” Stephen said. “You saw me. I didn’t have a chance to go and look up facts. Besides, it’s much more fun just making things up about lords. That’s what they do in Parliament; why shouldn’t I have the opportunity to return the favor?”

“Stephen.” She glared at him, doing her best to look annoyed, and Edward wanted to laugh out loud.

Thus had all his interactions with Stephen played out—trying not to laugh when Stephen said the things he did. He was impossible to reprimand. But…

“By the by,” Stephen said, “what is the difference between a viscount and a stallion?”

Miss Marshall shook her head. “What is it?”

Stephen gave her a broad smile. “The first is a horse’s arse. The second is an entire horse.”

She buried her head in her hands. “No. You cannot distract me with terrible jokes. You are supposed to be looking up facts. Shoo!”

But Stephen didn’t stop. “What’s the difference between a marquess and a paperweight?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“One of them can’t do anything unless a servant helps it along. The other one holds down papers.”

Miss Marshall simply looked at him and shook her head. “They’re getting worse.”

“Is there an entire series of these uncivil jokes?” Edward put in. “And if so, can I hear more of them?”

“Uncivil?” Miss Marshall looked about the room and then leaned in. “Oh, Stephen is being very civil, Mr. Clark. Very welcoming to you. Stephen and I don’t tell lord jokes around just anyone.”

Stephen leaned in. “As a fine point,” he pretended to whisper, “I don’t tell lord jokes around Lady Amanda. She’s a halfway decent sort. It’s not
her
fault her father’s a marquess.”

“Yes,” Miss Marshall put in darkly. “It was her mother’s. Marrying a lord. Hmph.”

Edward blinked at that. “Miss Marshall, are you trying to tell me that you didn’t dream of marrying a lord when you were young? That you didn’t play at being a lady, imagining what it would be like to be waited on hand and foot? I thought every little girl with any inclination at all to marry dreamed of catching the eye of a lord.”