The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (19 page)

“As it happens, I do.” His smile spread, and his eyes glittered wolfishly. “It’s simple. Blackmail first, followed by a public accusation.” He glanced over at her. “That is, assuming that you don’t mind bending the rules a little?”

Odd, what a strange thing trust was. A week or so ago, she’d never have trusted Mr. Clark, not for the slightest instant. In that time, little had changed. He was still a blackmailer, still a forger. He was likely even still a liar.

But he’d saved her last night, and now they knew things of each other—things that seemed more important than such details as the name he’d been born with, or the nature of his revenge. He knew she had nightmares about the lock hospital; she knew he’d been in a fire brigade in Strasbourg.

He sketched out a plan; she pointed out where her brother would comply and where he might not. At the end, Edward took his leave. There was, after all, much more work to do. But she felt as if she’d been carrying a great burden a long distance, and the end was finally visible.

She watched him leave. Still, there was one last thing niggling at her.

She waited until he’d left the press before standing up. Stephen Shaughnessy was still on the floor, giving his column a final look-over. She gestured him over.

He came in. “Yes, Miss Marshall?”

He looked…so innocent. Stephen was
good
at looking innocent; a necessary skill for a man who had a dreadfully mischievous sense of humor. Most of the time, his humor served her. But now…

“Do you have some passing prior acquaintance with Mr. Clark?”

He glanced behind him, toward the front door where the man had disappeared. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “I
don’t
have a passing acquaintance with him. Why do you ask?”

“Just a thought.” And yet now that it had occurred to her, she realized it made a strange sense of things. The first time she’d met Mr. Clark, he’d asked her about Stephen. They’d formed their partnership when Delacey had put Stephen in imminent danger of arrest.

It could have been a coincidence.

“You know how terrible I am at recalling names and faces.” He spread his hands before him. “I could have met him a thousand times and not recognized him.”

Both Stephen and Mr. Clark had dealt with James Delacey in the past. And Stephen had suggested that Mr. Clark ask about Free’s father—and while she’d assumed that Stephen had been twitting her about blushing on Mr. Clark’s arrival, it would also have fit if he knew Mr. Clark idolized the man, and was teasing him about it.

“Are you absolutely certain?” she asked.

Stephen shrugged. “I’m never certain about something like this. But it wouldn’t make any sense. How would I have met him? How old would you say he is?”

“Maybe the tail end of his thirties?” It was impossible to guess, really. That white in his hair, she suspected, was deceptive. He didn’t act like an older man.

She’d felt him lift her, too—and he’d seemed young enough then.

“There you are,” Stephen said. “The only men I know who are above thirty-five are friends of my father and tutors at school. And while I know very little about Mr. Clark, I don’t think he’s a tutor.”

“Right.” She sighed. “Well, let me see your column again, and we’ll see if it’s up to snuff.”

E
DWARD WAITED HALFWAY DOWN
the path to the university, pacing up and down. It took Stephen twenty minutes to appear. He had his hands in his pockets and he was whistling some complicated ditty.

He caught sight of Edward as he drew nearer. But instead of frowning or jumping in surprise, Stephen gave him a brilliant smile. “Edward,” he called out. “Good to see you. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

That little… Edward shook his head in mock anger. Stephen had known it was him the entire time, and he’d given scarcely a hint.

“Delacey, eh?” Stephen came up to him. “You’re taking on James Delacey?”

Edward huffed. “Shut up, clod.” And then, because that seemed unduly harsh, he reached over, removed Stephen’s hat, and ground his knuckles in Stephen’s hair. Or at least he tried to. The angle was no longer quite so convenient; he scarcely managed to apply his knuckles to his head.

Stephen simply looked over at him with raised eyebrows. “Unimpressive, Edward. That doesn’t work so well when I’m no longer waist-high.”

“Why didn’t you say anything back there, if you knew?”

“Huh.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Look at me. I’m just a nobody, with neither sense nor discretion. Why would I keep my mouth shut? It’s not as if my brother corresponds regularly with a man named Clark, a man I’ve never heard of and who he refuses to answer questions about. But, no, there’s nothing suspicious about that.”

Edward glared at him.

“I was certainly not suspicious when I heard there was a mysterious Mr. Edward Clark hanging about the press. Said Clark appeared just in time to foil a plot to have me tossed out of school, if not worse. But do I know an Edward Clark? No, of course I don’t. I only know an Edward Delacey. That’s the man who saved my life when I jumped out of a tree into sucking mud.”

Edward frowned. “No, I didn’t. That was Patrick.”

“I would remember. It was definitely you.”

“It wasn’t.”

“In any event, if my brother says that Edward Delacey is dead, who am I to contradict him?” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Really, Edward, after all these years, do you have to ask where my loyalties lie?”

Edward didn’t even believe in loyalty any longer. “You haven’t seen me in God knows how long.”

Stephen shrugged. “Yes, and while we’re at it, thanks for paying my school fees.”

Edward put his hands on his hips. “How the devil did you know about that? Did Patrick tell you? I’d thought more of his discretion than that.”

“No, but it was either you or Baron Lowery, and Patrick is very insistent on not accepting presents from Lowery.” Stephen shrugged. “I’m glad you’re alive. Even without that.”

When Edward had appeared to James, James had said almost exactly the opposite. It made Edward feel almost sentimental.

Instead of showing it, he simply raised an eyebrow. “
You’re
glad I’m alive? Imagine how I must feel.”

Stephen laughed. “Miss Marshall asked if I knew you.”

Edward stiffened. “And you said?”

“Do you remember that game we used to play, the one that annoyed Patrick? Where he’d ask questions, and we’d do our best to tell him falsehoods without actually uttering an untruth?”

Edward gave a crack of laughter. He had memories of lying in a field watching clouds go by, trying to make Patrick go mad by telling not-quite lies. God, he’d almost forgotten that.

“Well, I can still do that. ‘A passing acquaintance, Miss Marshall? No, I don’t have a passing acquaintance with Mr. Clark.’” Stephen smiled. “No need to mention that he’s my long-lost friend.”

Of all the things that Stephen could have said, that was the one that almost brought Edward to his knees. He felt the weight of a sudden, choking emotion. The other man’s casual smile seemed a heavy burden.

“I’ve been wishing I could introduce you to Miss Marshall ever since I found out about her father. Just to see your face when you found out.”

That fantasy played out again—the one where Edward Delacey, whole, and unblackened, met a fiery Miss Marshall.

She’d have laughed in his face. And truth to tell, his old self wouldn’t have had the strength to deal with her. She would have utterly overwhelmed him.

“Play your hand right,” Stephen said, “and maybe you can beg an introduction.”

He could have friends, family…and Free.

But then it never worked out that way.

Edward shook his head. “Play your hand right, and maybe she’ll never discover you lied to her. I’d hate to incur her wrath, if I were you. She seems rather fierce.”

T
HE TELEGRAM HAD ARRIVED
late last evening, and Amanda had tossed and turned all night, dreading what she needed to do.

It was ridiculous to hold a grudge against Free for asking her to deliver this message—and she didn’t really feel grumpy about it. Not truly. But no matter how she tried to tell herself she need only address herself to Mrs. Jane Marshall, every time she looked up from her comfortable, cushioned chair, it wasn’t Mrs. Marshall, garbed in a flowing pink gown that emphasized her plump curves, that her gaze fixed upon.

It was Miss Johnson. Miss Johnson wore a demure pastel purple that should have seemed washed out next to her friend’s exuberantly-colored silk. But she glowed in it, the picture of beauty, good health, and perfection.

The women were looking at Amanda in something like horror. No surprise there—she’d just told them about the fire, the threat to Free’s newspaper, and Free’s plan, which would require them to host a massive soireé on not even a week’s notice.

“Of course we’ll help,” Mrs. Marshall said stoutly. “Any way we can.”

Of course they would. It was, after all, Free that they cared about. The thought of helping Free had Miss Johnson glowing in excitement.

“We shall be extremely busy,” Mrs. Marshall said.

Miss Johnson smiled. “I don’t mind. And there’s an added benefit.” She turned to Amanda. “Lady Amanda, I shall finally have you at one of my parties. After all this time! What a triumph that will be for me.”

Amanda felt almost dizzy. “Oh, no,” she said. “No. Of course I’m honored, but no, I couldn’t. It’s imposition enough to ask you to do such a thing in so short a time. I could not expect an invitation.”

“Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Marshall frowned at her. “You’re asking us to invite hundreds. One more could hardly signify. And you’re a friend of the family twice over—once through Free, and again through your Aunt Violet.”

“I couldn’t,” Amanda said again.

But Mrs. Marshall shook her head. “Of course you could.”

“I
couldn’t,”
Amanda repeated.

“But—”

“Jane.” Miss Johnson set a hand on her employer’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go speak to the staff and inform them of what is to come?
I’ll
talk with Lady Amanda.”

No.
Amanda felt her eyes widen in panic, but she could hardly cling to Mrs. Marshall and beg her to stay. What was she to say?
I’m afraid of your secretary. She’s too pretty.

“But—” Mrs. Marshall started.

Miss Johnson looked over at her and pursed her lips. Something must have passed between them, because Mrs. Marshall sighed.

“Yes,” she said, “of course, Genevieve.”

The door closed on her. It did not make an ominous, resounding thud; it shut with an almost inaudible snick.

Miss Johnson turned to Amanda. “I didn’t think when I insisted earlier. Do you have anything to wear? All your things must have been burned in the fire.”

Amanda wished she had that excuse. But no, Genevieve would volunteer to find something for her, and being fitted for clothing with the impeccable Miss Johnson watching would be altogether too much for Amanda’s composure. “I have a suitable frock,” she choked out. “At my aunt’s house.”

Miss Johnson’s face grew more sober. “Then is it me?” She looked down. “I hope I’ve done nothing to make you feel unwelcome. You must know I think highly of you. Very highly.”

Oh, that was not helping matters. Amanda gulped in air. “It’s not you.” And that was only a little bit of a lie; after all, it wasn’t Genevieve herself who posed the problem. It was simply everything she represented. “I just don’t go out in society any longer.”

“No?” Miss Johnson frowned. “Why not?”

Amanda looked away. “The last time I did was years ago. I arrived at an event with my aunt. My sister was there.” Amanda’s hands balled into fists of their own accord. “My parents had tossed me out two years before, when I refused to marry. They thought I would bend to their will eventually. I didn’t.” She swallowed. “I hadn’t seen my sister since then.”

She hadn’t seen anyone in her family in years, and she’d missed them terribly.

“I caught a glimpse of her across the room. I had known she was out, had hoped to be able to speak with her. I started toward her. And she looked the other way and walked away from me.”

Miss Johnson inhaled.

Amanda looked down. “At first, I assumed it was an accident—a coincidence, that she’d just not seen me. So I found her in the cloakroom at the end. And she told me…”