The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (38 page)

A smile touched her mother’s face. “You are a handy person to know. Would you…two…care to…”

Come in? Abscond? Free wasn’t certain what she wanted. She didn’t want them to kill Edward—even though they were probably joking. Robert was, at least; she wasn’t entirely sure about her mother. But she didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want him near almost as much as she wanted him close. She was afraid that if she caught sight of him, he’d charm her into compliance.

She drew a deep breath. “We can postpone Claridge’s inevitable demise,” she said. “At least until we’ve spoken with Minnie. And until I’ve…”

Behind her mother, Edward came into the hall. He caught sight of her and came to a halt.

Or maybe it was Free’s world that stopped instead. Her heart ceased to pound. Her breath ceased to circulate. Every atom of her being seemed to slow and come to a standstill.

What’s the difference between a lord and your husband?

None. There was no difference at all.

F
REE STOOD ALL OF FIVE FEET
from Edward, real and solid and safe. He’d spent the night worrying about her. She was separated from him now by a mere two paces on the one hand, and a gulf of lies on the other. Edward didn’t know if he could reach her if he tried.

“Free,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes seemed an impenetrable wall. At least she didn’t turn on her heel and walk away.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said. “I ruined everything, absolutely everything. What I did was unforgivable.”

She didn’t move.

“Inexcusable,” he kept on. “I know you’ll want nothing to do with me. Whatever it is you want—a sworn statement that I’ll not interfere with your business, a promise to keep my distance—whatever you want, Free. You can have it. I owe you that much.”

She opened her mouth once, closed it, shook her head, and then opened her mouth again. “Why did you do it?” she managed to get out. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me know?”

“Because I’m stupid,” he said. “And selfish. I should never have asked you to marry me.”

Free held up a hand. “That isn’t what I meant. You had to know I would find out—and find out soon. Why didn’t you tell me the truth before?”

“Because…” He frowned. “Because I knew you wouldn’t marry me. I wanted to make sure you’d be safe—and as I said—there was a hefty dose of selfishness involved.” He didn’t have any good reasons to offer her—just that feeling of sickness at heart, of panic at the thought of losing her, at what might happen to her if he didn’t have her…

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Free said. “
I
don’t know that I would have walked away if you’d told me the truth. How could
you
know I would?”

He swallowed. His heart beat a painful rhythm against his chest.

“You had to know there was no future in what you were doing,” she said. “So why did you do it that way? Wasn’t it worth the chance that I would say yes?”

Everything hurt. He shook his head. “I don’t know anything of planning for futures. I always assumed…”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That whatever happened to me was going to be awful, no matter what I chose.”

She let out a long breath and looked about. And that was when Edward realized that they stood in her parents’ hall, surrounded by her father, her mother—good God, that man standing over there was the Duke of Clermont, and what he was doing here, Edward didn’t want to know.

Free let out a long breath. “Come. Walk with me.” She gestured.

Her mother twitched, frowning, but didn’t say anything.

Free turned and went out the front door into the sunshine. He followed. She didn’t wait for him outside, though. She turned to the left and began picking her way along a path. He trailed after her, feeling as if he were Eurydice following Orpheus out of hell. Except that he had the strangest feeling that if she looked back,
she
would disappear, not him. She took him over a faint path worn through the fields, over a hill, down an embankment, to a line of trees along a stream.

A few massive rocks lined the bank. Free seated herself on one of them, smoothing her skirts before looking up at him.

God, her eyes. He never wanted to see her eyes like this again—so hurt, so uncertain.
He’d
done that to her.

“If it helps,” he said, “I’ve always known I didn’t deserve you.”

“How odd. I’ve only begun to doubt that in the last twenty-four hours.”

He seated himself across from her. “Yes. You’ll only doubt it more the better you know me.”

She shut her eyes. “How could you be so certain?”

“Because I hurt everyone I love. My best friend as a child—I convinced him and his brother to speak, and my father had them whipped in front of me.” Edward glanced down. The next words came out low. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

“What is the worst of it?”

The worst of it was a dark, echoing memory, one that at odd times seemed to have happened to someone else. “I told you that I stayed with a blacksmith near Strasbourg,” he said. “That was my father’s punishment for my earlier choices.”

She nodded at him.

“It was a lovely punishment,” Edward said. “I was there for two years. He was paid to look after me, but I expect my father thought of me ‘laboring’ and imagined I would hate it. I didn’t. He taught me things like how to shoe a horse. He’d lost his own son years past, and he never treated me as a burden. I loved him.” His voice roughened on those last words, but he shook his head. “He showed me how to work metal. His name was Emile Ulrich.”

She nodded again.

“And then Strasbourg was taken. I thought to get the two of us out of occupied territory. I failed, and I was taken in by Soames after my first attempted forgery. Ulrich found out what had happened, and he came to Soames, determined to get me out. He started to raise a stink about what Soames was doing, holding me in a cellar.”

Edward swallowed and looked away.

“He was the first person Soames made me implicate as part of the resistance. They shot him summarily in front of me.”

She inhaled slowly. Her eyes reminded him of storm clouds on the horizon: dark and impossible to read. “What did you do?” she asked.

“What else could I do? I had no way to escape, and I was so turned around in my head that I wouldn’t have known what to do with one if it were offered. I stayed as Soames’s pet forger, believing what he told me to believe. People say sometimes they’ve lost hope for themselves.” He shrugged. “They rarely mean it the way I did. I lost all sense of myself for months. There was no future, no past. Only him and the prospect of pain. He kept me until the French lost Paris and sued for peace.”

She looked at him.

“Eventually, I got away. My friend Patrick came and took care of me until I was well enough to send him off. I spent several years wandering about Europe, honing my craft as a forger, learning how to commit crimes and not get caught at it.” Edward couldn’t look at her now. “It took me years to untangle what had really happened. When I did, I went back to Strasbourg. Soames was still there—and he was rather successful, in fact. I knew enough about him to change all that. So I forged the right letters and took control of his accounts. I left evidence that he’d played both sides during the war. And then I took his money and left him to account for what he’d done. That’s how I established myself.” He shrugged. “I always expected, every day, to be uncovered. There are times I wonder if everything is not a lie after all, if maybe I’m still in that cellar, so terrorized that I cannot bear the truth.”

She had sat, listening, as he spoke, scarcely interrupting. “Is that why you haven’t asked me to forgive you?”

“I don’t see how you can.” His voice dropped low.

“No?” She looked into his eyes. “Don’t you?”

“I try not to lie to myself.”

“You walked into my life,” she said slowly. “You found evidence proving that other papers were copying my columns. You saved one of my writers from certain embarrassment and possible imprisonment. You saved me from fire. You rescued me from gaol. And, yes, you hurt me, too. But you think you would be lying to yourself if you believed I could forgive you?”

Edward shook his head. It wasn’t a denial; he wasn’t even sure what it was.

“Do you think I could hear what you just told me, and not bleed for you?” Her voice was trembling now. “Do you think I would condemn you if I heard that story, or that I would agree that you were hopeless? I have never given up hope so easily, and no matter how you hurt me, I love you too much to do it now.”

“Free.” He could scarcely speak.

“So.” She stood, brushing her hands off briskly. “You don’t think you can have forever with me. You don’t things can be lovely with the two of us. I will admit that we have some things we must discuss about our future.” She dismissed those
things
—their entire way of life—with a toss of her head. “But if you think that the two of us cannot resolve our differences, you
are
lying to yourself. Not all truths are bitter, and not all lies are sweet.”

His whole heart jolted. “Free. I don’t know—”

She came toward him. And then, to his shock, she took his hands.

“I understand,” she said. “I understand why you did what you did. I understand why you didn’t tell me. Your entire life has taught you that you can’t have anything good unless you steal it. You wanted me; you stole me. You never expected to keep me.” She shook her head. “I can even forgive you for that.”

His heart, cold and shriveled thing that it was, came to life, thumping in a way he didn’t understand. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look her in the eyes. She seemed so brilliant, so untouchable.

And yet here she was, touching him in defiance of all his expectations. This couldn’t be happening; it couldn’t be real. But her fingers were truly laced through his, warming him from the outside.

Her features softened. “You lied to me about the family that rejected you. I knew you hadn’t told me when I married you, and I married you anyway.
They
rejected you. I was hurt when I found out the truth. But it hurt just as much that you thought
I
would reject you.”

Her other hand came up and brushed against his cheek. He let out a breath.

“I still know who you are, Edward. And if you recall, I didn’t fall in love with a man who represented himself as the most honorable fellow in all of England. I fell in love with a scoundrel.”

It felt like forgiveness—sweet words that he didn’t dare believe in.

“So, yes, Edward. I think I could forgive you.” Her voice trembled. “But you can’t keep telling yourself that I am a lie, one that you must walk away from. If we’re to do
this,
whatever this ends up being—we’ll need to do it together.”

He almost couldn’t hear her. She had said
if.
She’d said she could forgive him. He didn’t know what to do with that confused, painful jumble of his emotions.

Her fingers trailed along his chin. She tilted his face up so that he met her eyes. “Come find me when you’re willing to do that.”

He’d never thought of the future until now. He’d flinched from it all these years. It had seemed as impossible to unravel as his past.

But when he shut his eyes, he didn’t think of a dark cellar. He remembered himself in the back chamber at the committee hearing just yesterday morning.

We’re that sort of friends,
Patrick had insisted.

And they were. Stephen and Patrick had been the constants in his life, the two people he had never forgotten. They were fixed. They were not a lie. They’d not betrayed him, and he…

How odd. He hadn’t betrayed them either. It took him minutes to understand that, and more time beyond that, turning that bewildering thought in his head, over and over, trying to imagine what it meant.

Maybe pessimism was as much a lie as optimism.

He got out the notebook he always carried. He drew to remember—to recall all the details that his inconsistent, unreliable memory washed away. Over the months, he’d drawn a hundred sketches of Free. He started one now—one of her standing in front of her press as she’d greeted him—was that just two nights past? It
was.
He drew her skirts, ruffling in a breeze, her eyes, brightening in recognition.

Like every other sketch he’d made of her, this one was missing something—something so fundamental, so necessary, that he knew he’d never get anything right if he didn’t figure it out now.

He wracked his memory, searching. There she was, a lone silhouette against the doors of her business. That was wrong. Empty.

She hadn’t been alone. Slowly, he drew in the lines of his own trousers, the tilt of his head as he’d walked up to her. His outstretched hands—that brilliant smile on her face now seemed to make sense.

It had never been
her
that he’d drawn incorrectly.

The thing that he had been missing was…himself.

He sat sketching on that rock in the sunshine long after she’d gone back to the house. He worked until the sun switched from his left to his right side. The breeze came and went, the water rippled past.