The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (34 page)

He gave her a wintry smile. “It’s that simple. I’ve never expected that I would be able to keep you with me. All I could do was keep you safe.”

That steadiness in his gaze… She still remembered last night. The way their bodies had joined, the way their hands had intertwined. It had been one of the sweetest, loveliest experiences of her life. If she let him do that again…

No. She slid into the corner of the carriage, her shoulder pressing against the door.

“I’m sorry, Edward,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“I know. I never expected you would.”

Somehow, his acceptance cut her more deeply than if he’d demanded her submission.

“If I stayed…” she started.

But she could not continue on. If she stayed, she’d let herself be seduced. She was being seduced now by the sudden hope that flared in his eyes. God, how he’d smile if she kissed him now. And all she would have to do was…no.

Free slid her hand up the leather of the seat until her fingers met the side of the carriage. She traced a figure eight against the side, and thought about all the reasons she’d married—bad ones, it turned out. And yet not so bad.

“But I can’t,” Free said. “I can’t stay.”

God, she hated that the one person she wanted to comfort her at this moment was…him.

The carriage rumbled on. She had no idea where it was taking her—Claridge House, perhaps? Was there such a thing? The only thing she knew was that she had to get away before she did something foolish. “I can’t stay,” she repeated. Her fingers found the latch on the door.

“I know,” he said calmly. “We’ll work it all out, darling. I’ll leave you to your work, if that’s what you want. You won’t ever have to see me again.”

It
wasn’t
what she wanted. She wanted everything she’d lost back—her scoundrel, her Edward Clark. She couldn’t listen to this man who seemed to be that same person and yet answered to
my lord.
She couldn’t bear to sit down with him and plan a future apart. She’d break down if she did.

She turned the handle in one smooth motion. The door tumbled open. The carriage was moving at a stately clip through a residential area. She could see no more than a blur of passing houses. One second since she’d opened the door; he was staring at her in confusion. Two, and he began to reach forward.

“I can’t,” she said one final time. But she understood now why she was saying it. She was saying it because she
could.
If she remained here, she
would.

She stood. He reached for her, but he was too late. She jumped through the door. Her feet hit the cobblestones; her ankle nearly gave way beneath her. But she caught her balance, if not her breath, and as quickly as she could, she darted down an alley.

“Free!” she heard him calling. “Free!”

She scrambled through a mews, and then down another side street.

“Free!” he called once more, but he was farther away now. So long as she kept going, he’d never discover her again.

I
T BEGAN TO DRIZZLE
while Free found her bearings.

By the time she made her way to the cemetery, it was full-on pouring rain. She had no umbrella, but it didn’t matter. It was summer; the rain was not that cold, and the water obscured the tears on her cheeks.

She traversed the graves carefully—up three rows, then down the line, until she found the simple stone her family had erected years ago.

Frederica Barton

1804-1867

Beloved sister

Devoted aunt

Her family had added a line after her funeral, when they had all discovered the truth.

Author of twenty-nine books of high adventure.

Free bowed her head. She couldn’t yet face the living; she couldn’t stand to deliver those convoluted explanations. Her Aunt Freddy would have to do. Some people thought she’d named her paper the
Women’s Free Press
as a sly reference to herself. In a way, she had. But she shared her name with another woman—a woman whose bequest had made this all possible.

It had felt like her Aunt Freddy’s posthumous blessing on Free’s life. She’d tried to use it wisely: to never back down, to never let fear stop her from moving forward. Aunt Freddy’s money from those twenty-nine novels had paid for Free’s education, her home, the press she loved.

Every time Free was afraid, she thought of her aunt. But until now, Free had only feared what others might do to her. This was the first time she’d feared herself.

She sank to her knees beside the grave. “Hullo, Freddy.”

She could almost hear her aunt’s annoyed response.
You’re far too casual. Don’t call me Freddy. And what are you doing, kneeling in all that mud? Get up before you dirty your gown.

“Right. Aunt Frederica. I suppose I ought to call you that.” But she didn’t stand. Instead, she trailed her fingers through the wet grass. There were a few stray dandelions sprouting up. She pulled them, making a pile of green leaves and white roots. That was how you got through life: one weed at a time. It was how she’d get through this.

When she was done here, she’d take the train back to Cambridge. She would write to Edward. They could handle the details of their separation through the mail.

Even the thought of that smarted.

And, she realized, her plan had one terrible flaw. The constables had confiscated her coin purse at the station, and she’d been too distracted to demand its return. She had no money for a ticket. Or—her stomach rumbled—even for a meal. Night would come all too soon.

Edward would no doubt be willing to remedy all that. For a moment, she imagined herself waiting on his doorstep, imagined his reaction at finding her there. He’d pull her to him and hold her tight, and she’d never feel alone again.

The thought was far too alluring to contemplate. It was a good thing she didn’t know where his doorstep was.

She had other friends in London. Genevieve was here. Amanda. Violet Malheur. Her brother’s house might not be completely shut up. There were any number of people who might take her in.

But for some reason, her thoughts slid back to the last time she’d visited Freddy, back when her aunt was alive. She’d been with Oliver, then, and he’d brought her to the place where he’d been staying at the time—his half-brother, the duke’s house. That had been before Oliver had married and purchased his own home. Free had gawked at the surroundings, laughed at her brother’s casual acceptance of luxury.

Now that same casual luxury had come for her, and she was afraid.

She was afraid of herself. Not just that she would accept Edward back and forgive him. She was afraid of who she might become if she did that. Oliver lived in a massive home. He tried to do almost everything right. She was afraid that she, too, would start caring about propriety and stop caring about her newspaper. She would back down and make herself small to fit into the role of viscountess.

She was afraid that she’d bite her tongue and swallow her nausea when presented with James as her brother. She might keep her newspaper, yes, but in what form?

If Frederica Marshall turned into Lady Claridge, she might stop being the person that would make her Aunt Freddy proud.

“Freddy, what do I do?” She trailed her fingers in the grass.

But her aunt didn’t answer, and the rain continued on.

If Free wanted to not be afraid—if she wanted to truly look that potential future in the face, and make a real decision, it wasn’t Amanda or Violet Malheur she needed to speak with.

It was someone else entirely.

T
HE DOOR OPENED
and a waft of warm air, perfumed by beeswax and lemon, drifted out. Free stood frozen on the doorstep, already doubting her choice.

But it was too late. She was already here, garbed in a dripping wet gown, trying to figure out what to say to the manservant looking down his nose at her.

He barred the way between her and that wide expanse of marble tile in the entryway. She could see chairs upholstered in luxurious cream-colored velvet just beyond. A painting larger than her two arms outstretched graced the entry wall.

Meanwhile, Free’s hair dripped water down her back.

To his credit, the man did not slam the door in her face. He simply raised an eyebrow. “Are you in need of assistance, madam?”

That gentle tone suggested that the duke had a charity policy, and that Free appeared so bedraggled that he’d judged her a beggar.

“No.” Free said. “I mean, yes. I’m here…”

Oh, it had been stupid to think that she should come here, stupid to imagine that simply because she’d met the duke a handful of times and he’d been polite, that he’d take her in for the night and answer a few questions.

Free raised her chin. “I’m here to see the Duke of Clermont.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. Wordlessly, he held out a silver salver.

She dipped one chilled hand into her pocket and pulled out… Well, it
had
been her card once. The rain had turned the cardstock to near-mush; the ink was bleeding into incoherence. She set it gently on the silver plate and tried not to wince.

He peered at the almost-dissolved ink. “Miss…Felicia? Perhaps you could provide some assistance on the pronunciation of your family name.”

He was being too kind. The card was an unreadable mess.

“It’s Frederica Marshall,” she said hopefully. “Oliver Marshall’s younger sister. I
do
know His Grace. A little.”

The man’s expression went from kindly charitable to understanding. “Of course,” he said, although his tone suggested that there was nothing
of course
about it. “I missed the family resemblance. Would you care to wait in the…”

A beat passed as he considered the available options. Free felt sorry for him. He couldn’t very well put her in the front parlor with all that near-white velvet. She looked like a dog that had run through a field of mud; she wouldn’t allow herself in that stately room even if she were dry.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “I can drip in the entryway. But I wouldn’t mind a towel.”

He nodded and gestured her in. It took a scant few moments for not one, but two towels, to be brought by a maid. The woman helped her take off her cloak; she opened the door and unemotionally wrung the article of clothing out on the front step, before taking it off to drip dry in some more appropriate place. Free was doing her best to rub warmth back into her limbs when steps sounded above her.

She turned to see the Duke of Clermont standing at the top of the staircase. He was tall and thin, his blond hair fluffed up as if he’d been ruffling it.

God, this had been a stupid idea. His waistcoat probably cost as much as her rotary-press drum. His eyes fell on her; he frowned, and then he was striding toward her, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Free,” he was saying. “Good God, Free, what on earth happened to you?”

She shook her head, sending droplets flying. One landed on his upper lip, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Louisa, fetch her some tea. And you should be in front of a fire.” He set his arm about her towel-draped shoulder and pushed her into the parlor. She tried to dig her heels in. The carpet beneath her feet seemed to glitter with gold threads, and she could hear her shoes squelch with filthy water with every step. She refused to look down, for fear that she’d find a string of muddy footprints across that white expanse.

But he was determined. He pulled a chair up for her, one of those gorgeously embroidered chairs. She didn’t dare do anything so brazen as to sit in it, but then her knees stopped working and she did anyway. He took a towel from her and started rubbing her hands.

“You’re freezing,” he told her in an accusing tone of voice.

“I’ll be a-all right.” There was a tremor to her speech. “I just n-need to get a little warm, ask you a few questions, and then I’ll be out of your h-hair.”

He made a reproachful sound. “It’s eight at night. Have you a place to stay? Any money at all?” He glowered at her. “Do you even have an umbrella?”

“I—that is—I was arrested, and I seem to have misplaced my coin purse.”