The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (20 page)

She could still hear Maria’s words, as plain as if they’d just been spoken.

You ruined my life, Amanda. You’re ruining it just being here, making everyone whisper about you and what you’ve chosen. You walked away from the family once. I wish you’d do it again, and this time for good.

“She told me she never wanted to see me. That my very presence was a cause for gossip.” Amanda couldn’t look at Miss Johnson. “After that, it all began to crumble. Every time I went out in society, every time I spoke, I could just hear her words. I could feel myself ruining everything for her. Just by speaking, by sitting in the wrong room. By breathing.”

It sounded so foolish when she said it.

“So it’s that simple. Every time I’m in polite company now, I feel unwanted. And I know that sounds as if I’m asking for sympathy. I’m not. I made a choice, and I don’t regret it. I just wish…”

Miss Johnson leaned across the table. That didn’t help either—her physical presence set Amanda on edge, her entire body lighting up in response. Her lungs hurt with the effort of taking in air.

Amanda wouldn’t have moved away for the world.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Miss Johnson said. “I can’t imagine it. When I made my own decision—similar, and yet not the same—my sister never once questioned it. She told me that no matter what I chose, no matter how I felt, she would always love me. Without her, I doubt I could have chosen as I did. I don’t know what I would do if she ever said such things.”

Amanda swallowed bitter jealousy at those words. “Well. Now you have it. It isn’t you, Miss Johnson. I don’t think I can go out in society any longer. My own sister couldn’t forgive me for walking away from a society marriage and attending university. How could anyone else?”

Miss Johnson considered this. “How long has it been since you saw your sister?”

“Since I was twenty.” She frowned. Her memory was as sharp as if Maria had walked away from her yesterday, and yet… “That’s about seven years now.”

Miss Johnson pulled back at that. “You’re only twenty-seven? I had always imagined you older.”

Amanda felt her cheeks heat. She was fairly certain that Genevieve Johnson was older than she was. But one couldn’t tell by looking at her. She still looked fresh-faced and young; by comparison, Amanda was painfully ancient, her hands stained with ink that would not scrub out, her first wrinkles appearing around her eyes.

Amanda didn’t care about her appearance—truly she didn’t—but…

“It’s just,” Miss Johnson was saying, “your columns, when I read them, I don’t feel like I’m listening to someone my age. You always sound so sure of yourself, and you’re so clever. I suppose I should have realized.”

“You don’t need to be nice to me,” Amanda said in misery.

“I’m not being nice. I’m jealous of you, if I must admit it. After all, you’re a lovely woman who has found her own place in the world. People respect your words. They know who you are. They talk about you as someone other than your parents’ child.”

Amanda looked up. “Now I
know
you’re being nice to me. Everyone adores you. Who couldn’t? You’ve managed to make your own life where you’re accepted by everyone, without marrying or…or…” She stopped.

“It’s true,” Miss Johnson said with a smile. “I have an excellent life. But I’m always aware that if something were to happen to Jane, I would have nothing to do. You have your own life.”

Butterflies descended into Amanda’s stomach again, hammering at her with their wings.

“That column you wrote,” Miss Johnson said, “that one from six months ago, about the life a woman could have without a man. The one you wrote in response to Lord Hasslemire? I felt that one.” She set her hand on her belly. “I felt it here, when you wrote about how Hasslemire talked about a lady’s life as a collection of things that women did for men. When you said that a woman could exist for herself, without needing to serve someone else’s needs…” Miss Johnson smiled. “Do you know how many women clipped that column and sent it to me?
Seven.
I don’t know what you think you’re going to see on that ballroom floor, Lady Amanda. I’m sure you’re right. There will be a great many women who frown at you. But there will also be women who know you through your words, who will want to take your hand and squeeze it just so that a little of your strength will come to them.”

“But I walked away from them,” Amanda said stupidly.

“Maybe,” Miss Johnson said quietly. “But here we are, walking back to you.” She took hold of Amanda’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. So simple a gesture, to send such a shock through her. Amanda felt bewildered for a second, completely unable to respond. Her fingers lay like dumb, dazed caterpillars, unresponsive, incapable of returning that tight grip. Miss Johnson stole her hand away before Amanda had a chance to marshal her nerve.

“Trust me on this, my dear,” Genevieve said. “There are a great many women out there tonight who want the honor of your acquaintance.”

“And you?” Amanda’s voice sounded rusty; her words scraped in her throat.

“I already have the honor of your acquaintance.” This was said with a little smile, but that faded, and Miss Johnson looked away. For a moment, she looked almost vulnerable.

“Do you think…” Amanda had not felt brave in company in a long time. She tried it on tentatively now. It slipped from her fingers, but she went on anyway. “Miss Johnson, do you suppose you could consider friendship?”

Miss Johnson turned to her. There was a wry look in her eyes. She shook her head a little.

Of course. It was one thing to claim acquaintance; it was quite another to be a friend, to be someone who would be seen with Amanda in public. Amanda drew back.

“Oh,” Miss Johnson said. “
No.
That’s not at all what I meant. Don’t mind me; I’m just a little foolish sometimes. Yes, Amanda. I’d be honored if you were my friend. But you’ll have to start calling me Genevieve.”

Maybe she was lying; maybe she was just being kind. But when she smiled, it was impossible to doubt her. And when Miss Johnson reached out and took Amanda’s hand in hers, she felt her own smile creep foolishly across her face.

“Very well, Genevieve,” Amanda said. She squeezed the other woman’s hand. “Very well.”

“S
O.”
T
HE MAN ACROSS THE DESK
from Edward folded his hands and frowned. “These are rather unusual circumstances, Mr. Clark. I find myself curious to see how you will explain them.”

It had been a mere twenty-four hours since Edward and Free had hashed out a plan—twenty-four hours during which he’d scarcely slept, after running back and forth between Cambridge and his brother’s estate. He’d finally ended up here in London. That was no reason to admit exhaustion. Edward leaned back casually, resting his hand against the brocaded arm of the chair. The man across from him didn’t look as much like Free as Edward had expected. His hair was brighter: almost orange. He was a great deal taller, his features less delicate. But his arms were crossed, and his suspicious glower could have been a twin for Free’s.

Marshall frowned, and Edward changed his mind. Free was much prettier when she glared at him.

Her brother sniffed and shuffled through the papers Edward had handed him. “So, you’re an Englishman who has spent some time in France.”

“Yes,” Edward said lazily.

“You’re doing some work with James Delacey.” Marshall grimaced at that.

“If you call it that,” Edward said.

“And you’ve come to see me.”

“You
do
appear to have basic literacy,” Edward said mockingly. “Well done, Marshall. You read your sister’s letter. Not everyone who has gone to Cambridge could manage so much.”

Mr. Marshall’s eyes narrowed further and he set down the papers. “My sister has never before mentioned you, does not live in France, and works mostly with women on women’s issues. Would you care to explain your acquaintance with her?”

Edward considered this carefully. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Free’s older brother made an annoyed noise in his throat. The silence stretched. Edward supposed it would have been uncomfortable to another man. Every tick of the clock no doubt was intended to make him feel more and more awkward. But he was tired enough that a rest—any sort of rest—was welcome.

He simply put on a pleasant smile, and when Marshall’s expression darkened, looked about the room and began to hum.

Marshall glared at him more fiercely.

“That tactic won’t work,” Edward said after a minute. “I’m not going to volunteer any more information than you have in front of you. I’m not scared of your glowers. I can sit here as long as I please without saying a thing. It’s your time, if you wish to waste it. If it makes you feel any better, your sister said to tell you that it’s none of your business who I am to her, and that she won’t have you barbarically assuming that she’s in need of protection from me.”

“Yes, well,” the other man said shortly. “Barbaric or not, I have some small idea what my sister endures, being what she is. If I can stop it in some small way, I will.”

“That’s good to hear,” Edward said. “But so far as I can tell, you haven’t stopped anything.
I
have. So set aside your masculine trumpeting. I haven’t come to pass whatever test of loyalty you want to mete out to me. You’re here to pass mine.”

Oliver Marshall was a Member of Parliament, well respected, liked by many. Even his enemies spoke highly of him. Mostly.

That likely meant that he played fairly—again,
mostly
. He probably told the truth, respected others, and gave his word and meant it. As such, Edward held a natural advantage over him.

“I beg your pardon,” Marshall was saying in faint outrage. “Are you questioning my devotion to my sister?”

Edward undid the twine holding another clump of papers together. “It’s not my pardon you’ll need. It’s hers. Has she told you about the duplications of her columns?”

“Yes. Of course. That’s the whole point of this whirlwind affair coming up, the one that’s driving my wife to distraction. I don’t know what you’re driving at, but—”

Edward snapped a sheet of newsprint out flat and held it up. “Do you recognize this?”

“Of course. That’s my sister’s paper. The edition that came out a few days past.”

“No,” Edward told him. “That’s the advance proof she sent to you. The precise page, mind you—there’s a note you scrawled in the corner, right there. Now, did you give this to Delacey yourself?”

“Delacey? That ass? Why would I give him this? Why would he…ah.” Free’s elder brother stopped talking and frowned, reaching for the paper. “Ah,” he repeated. His eyes grew darker. “Someone in my household is passing things on.” He shut his eyes and grimaced. “That’s extremely unfortunate.”

It was almost sweet how good-natured the man was. That all he could see was inconvenience in such a thing, instead of opportunity.

Edward smiled. “No. It’s going to be extremely useful, as soon as we can figure out who it is. If it isn’t you—and Miss Marshall believes it is not—then the number of people it could be is small. And we can use them.”

Mr. Marshall nodded. And then he frowned. “I still don’t understand. Why did my sister send you to tell me all this? Who
are
you?”

“She’s busy,” Edward said shortly. “As for me? I’m the one who is going to figure everything out. Let me tell you how.”

M
ISS
M
ARSHALL’S BROTHER
had the most comfortable wardrobe that Edward had ever hidden inside. It was spacious enough to fit two people, and, as it was apparently used as extra storage space for Mrs. Marshall’s gowns, was filled with colors so bright that the space seemed welcoming even in the dim light filtering in through the doors.

Not so the man who crouched next to him. He’d known her brother was a Member of Parliament, which was already one strike against him. From what Free had said, he’d expected a stodgy stickin-the-mud who constantly frowned at his exuberant sister.

Instead, he’d seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. He’d absorbed the details of the fire, and Edward’s role in it, with a darkening expression. When Edward had told him about Delacey, he’d growled and offered to beat the man into a pulp.