The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (3 page)

Edward grimaced. “How many times have I told you? I prefer Edward. For God’s sake, James, come in and shut the door.”

After a moment’s hesitation, James did just that. Of course he wouldn’t call the servants. Not now, not with a handful of months remaining. It had been six years and some eight months since last he’d written to his family. At the seven-year mark, James would officially inherit everything. He probably had the date marked with stars and rainbows on his calendar.

“Ned.” James stumbled forward, fell into a chair. He was shaking his head in confusion. “My God. You’re
dead.
We had a ceremony.” He looked up, his eyes dark with some unspoken emotion. “We sold your horse. I’m sorry.”

Of all the things his brother had to apologize for, selling an unused stallion seemed the most foolish.

James frowned. “We put up a monument, too, at some bloody expense. If you were going to turn up alive, could you not have done so in a respectable time?”

Edward could not help but smile. Yes, he had heard that correctly. His brother had just complained to him about the expense associated with his death.

“I just visited my grave,” Edward assured him. “The monument is lovely. I’m sure it was worth every penny.”

“What have you been doing with yourself? Why haven’t you said anything? By God, if you’d only known how I have suffered these last years. I’ve been telling myself that I sentenced you to death.”

Edward’s hands twitched. How
James
had suffered? His brother sat across from him, whole and hearty. His suffering had involved neither missing meals nor cowering under military bombardments. He’d not been kept in a basement, hadn’t had everything taken from him in one long, unending nightmare. He was sleek and handsome, a version of Edward who hadn’t walked through hell.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said dryly, “for any discomfort I caused you.”

“Yes.” James frowned. “And it’s not over yet, is it? This is damned inconvenient.”

Personally, Edward would have found it more inconvenient to be dead. But he could hardly begrudge his younger brother his point of view. “Do say why.”

“This will be the most immense scandal.” James looked at the desk, drew a deep breath. “You’ll want the title, then. That’s why you’ve come.” His hands clenched in his lap, as if he were preparing himself for a fight.

Ah, yes. Another thing James had that Edward lacked: the illusion that this family had some semblance of honor. Edward could remember believing that. Barely.

“If I had wanted to be Claridge,” Edward said, “I’d have returned the day I heard of Father’s death. No, James. Keep the title. It’s yours.”

James frowned, as if he could not believe his ears. No doubt he couldn’t conceive of a world in which a man walked away from a viscountcy. “Speaking of the city, how did you ever survive?”

There were a great many things his brother might have meant by that question.
How did you get on after Father left you stranded?
Or, perhaps:
Did you by any chance go to the British Consul before the siege started?

How had he survived? He’d survived any way he could.

But he simply smiled at his brother. “I survived by luck,” Edward told him. “When I had it.”

James’s eyes widened. “Was it bad?”

“No,” Edward lied. “But only because I learned to be worse in response. Trust me, James. I’m no longer fit company. I know who Viscount Claridge is supposed to be. I had enough lectures on the meaning of our family honor to recall that. I can’t be him.”

He’d had enough of people making him into someone else, and the boy who had grown up in this house might as well stay dead, for all the use he’d been.

“You, on the other hand,” he finished smoothly, “can. You will.”

James blinked, taken aback, but seemed to take this as simple truth. He seemed, even, to think that Edward had given him a compliment. He nodded, looking faintly relieved to discover that his entire world was not going to be upended.

God, James was so simple to read. Relief was evident first in the slump of his shoulders. That was followed by an intake of breath and a narrowing of his eyes. He looked at Edward in sudden suspicion. He was no doubt wondering why his brother had returned from the dead after all these years if not to claim the title. Soon enough, James would realize this was a negotiation, not a reunion.

“You need an allowance, then.” James sounded resigned.

“God, no.” Ongoing blackmail was never his preference. There were too many opportunities to get caught. Edward thought of the file underneath his fingertips. “There’s only one thing I want from you.”

James leaned forward. “Well?”

Edward flattened his hand on the newspaper clippings. “You’re going to leave off whatever it is you’re plotting to do to Stephen Shaughnessy.”

James let out a long, slow breath. He reached up and rubbed his forehead. “I see.”

“Your word that you won’t hurt him, directly or indirectly. That’s all I want; give me that, and I’ll let you live out your life in peace.”

“I see,” James repeated more sharply. “It was his fault you were sent away in the first place, or have you forgotten? But that’s how it is. You’ve been alive these last seven years. In all that time, you’ve sent not one note to your own brother, not one
word
indicating that you were alive. But I can see you’ve spoken with Shaughnessy. Regularly enough to know that his little brother has landed himself in water too hot for his taste. That does rather clarify matters.”

“You left me to die,” Edward heard himself snap out. “You can hardly complain because I chose to gratify your desires.”

James paled. “I didn’t,” he said too swiftly. “You must know I didn’t. What I told the British Consul… It was true, in a sense.”

A sense. When the declaration of war had come, Edward had written to his father, asking for the means to return to England. It had been a blow when his father refused. He’d said that if Edward didn’t believe in the family honor, he needn’t rely on the family’s help.

But it was James who had taken matters two steps further. When Edward had arrived at the British Consulate in Strasbourg two steps ahead of the advancing army, the consular secretary had declared him an impostor. The secretary had received a letter to that effect, after all—a letter signed by James himself. Edward had been called a liar and a profiteer and he’d been tossed out on his ear.

With that had vanished Edward’s last hope of financial assistance or a pass of safe-conduct.

Old news, now. They’d both been little more than boys when that happened. Edward steepled his fingers. “What you told the British Consul,” he repeated calmly. “It was true. In a sense.” He didn’t make the words a question. He didn’t need to.

“It was just that you were singularly unrepentant, Ned, and—”

“I prefer
Edward.”

James swallowed. “Yes. Edward. I didn’t think… That is, it was for your own good, and…” He seemed to realize that this was not a fruitful line of argument. He shook his head, as if he could shake off what had happened to his brother with so simple a motion. “You’re not dead after all. So…” He let out a long breath. “All’s well that ends well, eh?”

Too bad for James that Edward was not the sort to be won over with meaningless platitudes.

“I agree,” he said smoothly. “All’s well that ends well. These are old events, and you and I find ourselves in agreement after all these years. It’s in everyone’s best interests that I remain dead. Yours. Mine.”

He smiled and waited for that threat to sink in. His brother shifted uneasily on the seat across from him.

“So once again, I ask you: Will you leave off plotting against Stephen Shaughnessy?”

James let out a long, shaky breath. “It’s not that simple. I have a place in this world. If I am going to be Viscount Claridge for the rest of my life, I’ll need to maintain a certain reputation.” He pressed his lips together. “It’s like with dogs. If you don’t give them a good slap on the head from time to time, they’ll never think you’re in charge.”

“Are we still talking about Stephen Shaughnessy? He’s a boy with a silly column, not a dog.”

“Yes,” James said flatly. “He’s completely unimportant on his own. But you asked me not to hurt him
indirectly
either, and I can’t do that unless I let Miss Marshall and her damned paper alone.”

Edward inhaled and thought of the card in his pocket. But he didn’t let his brother see that his interest was piqued. He managed a dubious frown instead. “Who is Miss Marshall? Am I supposed to care about her?”

James’s lips thinned. “She is the prime example of everything that is wrong with England. Writing those damned reports, getting the women all heated up, forcing Parliament to spend valuable time on irrelevant matters. Do you know how much
time
was wasted on the inquiry she forced regarding the government lock hospitals?” His brother made a disgusted noise. “Decades ago, a pretty girl with pleasant conversation, a mild competence, and a taste for independence would have set herself up in London as some man’s mistress. Look at her now.” There was an angry edge to James’s voice. “Beholden to no man, putting her nose in where it’s not needed, setting wife against husband, servant against master. Most of these women, well…” He shrugged. “They’re relatively harmless. Let them natter on; it gives them something to occupy their time. But Marshall? She’s real trouble.”

It was interesting to know his brother so well and yet not know him at all. Edward could still tell when James protested too much. “When did you ask her to be your mistress?”

His brother flushed crimson. “It was a generous offer! The best that someone of her breeding could expect. And she turned me down without any consideration for my feelings. In any event, that’s years in the past—hardly relevant now—and I wouldn’t have her at this point, not if she begged me.”

Strange that he and James had that much in common. It might have been the only thing. Miss Marshall was precisely his sort, too.

“I understand,” Edward said mildly. “She sounds a right terror.”

James wouldn’t know that he intended that as a compliment.

Indeed, his brother nodded in relief. “This thing with Miss Marshall… Well, we’re months into the planning. Father started it. It was one of his grand plans—you should see what she wrote about him. I can’t see it left undone.” He frowned. “If you’d like me to leave Stephen alone, you could convince him to separate himself from Miss Marshall.”

“I could.” Edward pretended to consider this. “That might be an acceptable compromise.”

But then he would have to talk to Stephen directly. He’d have to reveal the truth of his continued existence, and that was far too dangerous. The more people who knew of him, the greater the likelihood that someone would tell. And once the secret was out, Edward would be forced to come forward. It was one thing to abandon the viscountcy to his brother, who would see to the estates. It was another entirely to leave the properties uncared for. Even Edward was not so vile a scoundrel as to accept that. If the truth came out, he’d have no choice but to take James’s place here. He’d spend the rest of his days in this cloying, smelly room, suffocated by his father’s title.

Besides, knowing Stephen, a simple confrontation wouldn’t do any good; the boy he’d known would never leave a friend—or an employer—in the lurch simply because he was threatened.

And more importantly… Asking Stephen to run away went very much against Edward’s grain.

Edward could threaten his brother with ease. But helping him to achieve his goals? After what James had done? No. Everything in Edward revolted at that.

He scarcely knew Miss Marshall. She had struck him as naïve and optimistic. She was not the sort of ally he would normally seek out; he generally preferred to work with more cynical types.

But—not entirely irrelevantly—he’d liked her. He couldn’t say the same for James.

“There are a few small things already in motion,” his brother said airily, “but they’re of little consequence, and I’ll try to make sure they don’t hurt Stephen more than they must. Will that do?”

“Is that port over there?” Edward motioned to the other side of the room.

His brother turned away. “Why—no. It’s brandy.”

“Just as good. Pour us a glass, then, and we’ll drink to our accord.”

His brother crossed the room, a pleased smile on his face. No doubt he thought the whole thing had been worked out.

While James’s back was turned, Edward rolled the contents of the thick file he’d been perusing before James came in—newspaper clippings, letters, and all—into a bundle and stashed it inside his coat. He’d go through it all and slip it back in place by morning. James would never know.

All things being equal, Edward would rather not betray his little brother. Even after what James had done. But then, life was a series of hard choices. He could walk away from England and leave his best friend’s younger brother to the mercy of his family’s plan. Or he could make Miss Marshall’s better acquaintance and upset the whole thing.

He could see her in his mind’s eye for a moment—that all too delightful smile on her face.
Call on me if you ever find yourself in need of an exclamation point.

No exclamation points.

But then, he’d never needed punctuation to get his revenge. He’d found lies and forgery to be much more effective tools.

Hell, he’d be doing Miss Marshall a favor. She didn’t need to know any of the details—and maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get that cuddle after all.