The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (32 page)

“Did he write you while he was there?”

“A few letters, yes. And then hostilities broke out, and I heard nothing for months.”

“For months,” the man said, sounding somewhat perplexed.

“Months,” Patrick repeated. “Not quite a year. He sent me a letter in April of 1871 saying that he was in a bad way. At the time, I was only a groom for Baron Lowery.”

Patrick had become more easy as he spoke on, but Edward grew tense. That April had been awful. He’d been wounded. Desperate. Destitute. He hadn’t known who he was, had only known that he’d done some terrible things. His entire world had been ripped to shreds. He’d had nothing at all.

“He asked me to help. So I sold everything I had and got on a steamer.”

“Everything you had, even though you were only a groom?” the man said dubiously. “Really?”

No, Edward realized. He’d never had
nothing.

“We’re that sort of friends,” Patrick insisted. “He’s like a brother.”

Even at his worst, there had been constants in his life: Patrick. Stephen. People he couldn’t eradicate from his heart and hadn’t wanted to. He’d always had that much.

The questions continued on. “And did you find him?”

“I did. He was alive, but…” Patrick shook his head. “He barely talked, and he’d been hurt. Badly. He wasn’t well.”

They would no doubt imagine that Patrick spoke of physical harm. But the physical harm had been minimal—his fingers, a lingering cough in his lungs from the water. It was his mind that had been splintered.

“So I took care of him for a few weeks, and reminded him…” Patrick stopped, coughing.

Edward knew what he’d been about to say. He’d reminded Edward that he wanted to live. But while Patrick was no liar, even he wouldn’t announce to the House of Lords that Edward had harbored thoughts of suicide.

“I reminded him,” Patrick said, “that war had ended and life went on. When he was well enough to be left on his own, he told me to get back to England, but that he was not coming with me. His family had left him in Strasbourg, you see. He felt they’d abandoned him, and he had no wish to return to them.”

This was met with a longer pause. “So the last you heard from Edward Delacey was when you left him in 1871 then? Do you have proof of any of this remarkable tale?”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “I have that letter he sent me in 1871. I’ve kept all his letters.”

There was a pause. “
All
his letters?”

“Yes. We’ve corresponded ever since.”

A clamor arose at that. Edward let out his breath and put his head in his hands. There truly was no going back after that proclamation, no pretending any longer.

“When was the last time you received a letter from Edward Delacey?”

“Two weeks past,” Patrick said. “But—”

“And how do you know that Edward Delacey has been writing these letters, and not some other man?”

“I know,” Patrick said, “because he saw those letters yesterday morning as we were compiling the evidence, and he did not disavow them.”

That was met with deafening silence. There was not even a shocked whisper in response.

“You saw him,” the questioner finally said. “Two days ago. He’s in England?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “He is. He’s—” He gestured at the room behind him. “He’s there. Waiting in the back chamber. I had to half-drag him here, your lordships.”

That much was true. Edward smiled sadly.

“James Delacey, would you recognize your brother?”

There was a long pause. “Of course I would,” his brother said, his voice sounding a little too hearty.

“Let Edward Delacey come forward, then.”

Edward stood. Some part of him wanted to run away, to escape England and leave Patrick to face the wrath of the lords on his own. But he wouldn’t do that to Patrick…and he couldn’t let Free linger on in a cell, at his brother’s nonexistent mercy.

He came forward. It had been a long time since he’d tried to walk like a lord—arrogant, occupying space as if all the room in the world belonged to him. These men were watching him, judging him.

He sat, hoping that his dazed state came across as bored arrogance.

“Are you Edward Delacey, the eldest living son of John Delacey?” the speaker asked.

“I am,” he said. “Although I have been called Edward Clark these last years, and I prefer that name.”

That got another murmur.

“James Delacey, is this man Edward Delacey, your brother?”

He looked over at James. James was watching him, a confounded expression in his eyes. No doubt he didn’t realize that this was not the only one of his plans that would unravel today. He’d understand it soon enough.

“I don’t know,” James demurred. “He—well—that is…” He trailed off.

“There’s no point lying now, James,” Edward said. “Whatever you claim, they’ll make you swear it under oath. You’ll not want to perjure yourself before the House of Lords.”

“Ah… If only I…”

“The alternative to your admitting this now,” Edward said, “would be to find the British consular secretary from Strasbourg, the one you wrote to. I suspect this body would find his testimony
most
instructive. Do you want that?”

He’d do it, too, if need be—expose his brother’s treachery to the world. He didn’t give a damn about gossip; he cared about Free. He could see the moment his brother gave in. James lowered his head, his skin pale. “I don’t understand. You said you didn’t want it. You said…”

Edward could now see the face of the man who had been asking the questions. He was the attorney general, the man tasked to present James’s credentials to the House of Lords. At this, the man hissed.

“Delacey,” he said, “are you telling me that you not only know this man is your brother, you
spoke
to him before these proceedings?”

James winced. “I. Ah.”

“You sent a letter to the queen detailing your claim two weeks ago. And you knew it was false?” There was a dangerous note to his voice.

“I—that is one way of looking at it, of course. But—”

“There is only one way of looking at it,” the man said severely.

And like that, there was nothing to do. Edward could scarcely pay attention. The proceedings were wound up, the vote taken. The committee decisively agreed not to refer James’s petition to the House of Lords.

Edward sat in place, barely hearing anything, unable to contemplate how his life had changed. The only thing he could think of was Free. She’d be furious once she found out.

But then, she’d not be in gaol. She wouldn’t be tortured. And that would be enough for him—it had to be.

He stood when the committee adjourned and began to leave.

“Claridge,” a voice called.

It took him a moment to understand that
he
was Claridge now. Not confirmed yet, but recognized. It was only a matter of time until he received all the accolades he’d never wanted.

Edward looked over. A man was striding toward him—thin, blond, and smiling.

“The majority of them are too shocked to say anything. I thought I’d say… Welcome to Bedlam.” The other man winked. “Don’t listen to a word they say. It really
is
as bad as you fear.”

“I hardly need instruction on that point.” Edward shook his head.

“Come by sometime and we’ll talk about what we can do about it.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Clermont, by the way.”

Clermont. It had been years since he’d memorized his peerage, but he knew that name. He didn’t remember the title from his dimly remembered lessons as a child; he remembered the man because Free had mentioned him just yesterday. This was her brother’s brother.

After Free realized how he’d misled her? This man would be his enemy.

Edward frowned. “You’re not on this committee.”

The other man shrugged one shoulder. “When my wife tells me that there’s been an interesting pair of witnesses sworn in for a routine hearing, I try to make it my duty to sit in. Now, shall I send a note around for dinner someday?” His hand was still outstretched.

Edward looked regretfully at the other man’s hand. “I won’t take you up on that until I’m sure you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“Now, yes,” Edward said. “In a day? Your Grace, what you just witnessed is not the worst mess I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours.”

Clermont raised an eyebrow. “Ah. You’ve been busy.”

“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go retrieve my wife from gaol.”

His Grace lifted his other eyebrow, but all he said to this was, “You’ll find that substantially easier now, I’ll warrant.”

As if rescuing women from prison cells were a part of a duke’s regular affairs. And hell, if Clermont had any acquaintance with Free at all, it probably was.

I
T TOOK
E
DWARD THIRTY
-
THREE MINUTES
to convince the sergeant on duty of his identity. In the end, the man sent a runner to the House of Lords to ascertain the truth. When the boy came back, breathless and wild-eyed, Sergeant Crispin became substantially more helpful.

“A rough business,” Crispin said. “Rough indeed. I—uh—know your brother.”

“Oh, do you?” Edward asked in a low voice. His brother had worked out an arrangement with Crispin with regards to Free, and God help the man if he’d done anything to her in the hour and fifteen minutes he’d had her in his custody.

“We’d an arrangement.” The sergeant licked his lips. “I don’t suppose you’re here to, ah, agree to the same thing?”

“I don’t know.” Edward said blandly. “What sort of arrangement did you have?”

The man blanched. “Um. Nothing, really. Why are you here, my lord?”

My lord. People were already calling him
my lord,
and it would only get worse from here.

If he had to take the reins, he might as well get all he could from the part. Edward stood straighter. “Your arrangement with my brother is of little importance to me. Carry on with that as you will.”

The man looked faintly relieved.

“I’m only interested in a prisoner who is being held here.”

“Ah?” The sergeant looked about. “In these front cells?”

“No.” He’d glanced through them when he came in.

“Are you sure he’s here, then? We’ve only a handful of cells in the back, and those won’t be of much interest to you.”

“Well, show me them, if you would.” Edward did his best to look bored. “I’ll judge whether they’re of interest; you needn’t decide for me.” God, that was exactly the sort of self-indulgent tripe that a lord spouted—as if he were the center of the universe.

But the man didn’t punch him in the face for his condescension. Instead, he ducked his head. “Of course, my lord. I only wish to be of assistance. But there’s nobody back there but the suffragettes.”

“Nonetheless.”

The man neither sighed nor rolled his eyes at this. Edward was conducted through a maze of desks, down a back hall, into a back room containing a handful of holding pens filled with women in black gowns. Edward scanned them quickly, his eyes coming to rest on the very one he was looking for. She sat on a bench talking to another woman. She glanced up as he came in, but then looked away.

It took him a moment to realize that she didn’t recognize him. Since he’d left her at the station, he’d cut his hair close. He’d shaved. He’d donned a fine wool coat and a gentleman’s top hat, and he carried a gold-topped walking stick. If she’d heard him talking to the sergeant, she’d have heard his sleekest, poshest accent.

He wasn’t anyone she knew any longer.

“What was it you said you had back here?” he asked the sergeant.

“Just some suffragettes,” the sergeant replied. “Nobody important or dangerous. They were making a racket earlier, and we’re having them cool their heels until their men can come get them. You understand how it is.”

“I thought that’s what you said.” Edward felt a smile tweak his lips. “That’s why I didn’t understand you at first. You’re mispronouncing the word.”

“What word? Suffragettes?” The sergeant frowned. “It’s my accent, my lord—a thousand pardons, I know it’s low, and I
do
try to talk proper, but—”

“It’s not your accent.”

“It’s not?” Bafflement flitted across the sergeant’s eyes.

“It’s
definitely
not your accent.”

His voice carried, and this time, Free did look up. Her eyebrows came down; her lips narrowed. She came half up from her seat, staring at him.

Edward spoke a little louder. “It’s the way you’re saying it. Didn’t you know? ‘Suffragette’ is pronounced with an exclamation point at the end. Like this: ‘Huzzah! Suffragettes!’”

Behind the sergeant, Free glowed. He could see the smile taking over her face, lighting her until he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her. It was the first thing he’d seen all day that had given him hope—hope that once she understood the lies he’d told, she might forgive him yet. That he might spend tonight in her arms, and tomorrow, and the day after.

“Huzzah,” the sergeant repeated in confusion. “Suffragettes?”

“That’s a question mark,” Edward said sharply. “Try it again: Suffragettes!”

“Suffragettes!”