The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (42 page)

“Choose?” He smiled at her. “Come, my dear. It’s time you stopped being so acquisitive and started being more political.”

For one moment, her heart stopped. And then—as the future truly opened up to her—she began to smile.

“I rather think,” he said, “that they’re competent to vote on a board themselves.”

“They could.” She couldn’t breathe. “And who will get to vote, do you think?”

He reached out and took her hands. “Must you ask? It’s our estate. Our board. We can set any rules we wish.”

The bluebells shifted as another breeze ruffled them, thimble after thimble ringing out.

“So,” he finished, “I had rather assumed the women would vote, too.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. She reached out and pulled him to her. He was solid and real in her arms. And he was right—there was no need to compromise. Not with him. From here on out, there would be no almost—just more, and more, and more.

“That’s where we’ll start,” he said. “When the fabric of society fails to unravel in response… Well, we’ll take on the rest of the world.”

She pulled him down for a kiss. “They don’t stand a chance.”

I
T WAS LATE
A
UGUST,
and the archive room at the
Women’s Free Press
was miserably hot. In part that was because the weather was deucedly warm. In part, it was because no breeze came in through the window, even though they’d opened it as wide as it would go. But mostly, it was because there were seven people—counting Edward—crammed into the tiny space.

The chair and the desk that had once stood here had been pressed into service in the adjacent meadow, bearing food and drink.

That meant that everyone sat on the floor.

To Edward’s left, Oliver Marshall’s knee jammed into his thigh. On his right, Patrick Shaughnessy sat, quietly contemplating his cards. Violet and Sebastian Malheur sat shoulder-to-shoulder across the room. Opposite them sat the Duke of Clermont, with Stephen Shaughnessy at his side.

“So is someone going to explain to me,” Edward asked, “why we must all play cards in a closet?”

“Tradition.” That came from Sebastian Malheur.

Sebastian Malheur was precise and amusing. He’d glanced once at each card as it was dealt, and then never looked at them again. Edward had met him first a few weeks ago, when Free had taken him down to London on her brother, Oliver’s return.

“Tradition?” Edward looked dubiously around the space.

They were crammed in every which way. Marbles—which Clermont had insisted were the only tokens to be used—took the place of cash bets. Clermont had explained the matter of those tokens solemnly. Apparently, marbles were a serious business in these parts.

Edward shook his head. “You lot have terrible traditions.”

“The cramped space is not part of the usual way of things,” Clermont said. “It’s more that when one of the Brothers Sinister gets married, we get together the night before and play cards.”

“Discomfort, however, does seem to be the norm.” Sebastian grinned. “
Particularly
on the part of the groom.” He looked off in distant memory. “And Oliver did say you could use a little discomfort.”

Edward pushed back against the wall—as much as he could in these maddeningly close quarters—shaking his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “Just because I’m left-handed and married to Oliver’s sister doesn’t mean I’ll join your ridiculous organization of entirely non-sinister proportions. I will not be dragooned into such a thing.”

“Don’t worry,” Robert said. “We’re not dragooning you. You’re not really a Brother Sinister. You’re just a convenient excuse.”

“That’s a relief.”

“And Stephen and Patrick may be left-handed, but they’re not even relations. So unfortunately, we can’t include them.” That came from Free’s brother.

“Also you’re not really marrying Free today,” Violet pointed out. “You’re just holding a late wedding breakfast.”

“While we’re at it, it isn’t even the night before.” That was Sebastian. “So you see, it all comes out right. All the ways in which this is
almost
the right circumstance, and yet not, cancel one another perfectly. Ergo, we must all sit in this closet while I win at cards.”

“You will not,” his wife muttered.

“While the Malheurs win at cards,” Sebastian corrected smoothly. “Speaking of which—how do we fare? I know that Oliver and Robert have both already crossed twenty-one. But what do the rest of you have?”

“Seventeen,” Patrick said, flipping over the card he’d kept facedown.

“Nineteen.” Violet turned over a nine and a seven to go with the three she had on display.

“Ah.” Sebastian flipped his single card over, showing a pair of kings. “I’m at twenty. Can anyone beat that? I think not.” The man smiled beatifically and glanced at the marbles in the middle of the room.

“I’ve only got eighteen,” Stephen said, “but I don’t think that your
almosts
do cancel out. You see, I’m not really left-handed.”

“No!” Robert and Oliver spoke together in joint outrage.

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “An infidel! Stone him!” He looked wildly around, found a scrap of paper on the floor, and hurled it ineffectually at him. “Die, fiend, die!”

Stephen watched the paper flutter to the ground, and then shook his head. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Sebastian said. “I’m not even angry, but it’s more fun this way. You set everything off balance. If I can’t get a little amusement in return, what’s the point?”

“Ah,” Stephen said with a wave of his hand. “You lot were asking to be lied to. Gathering a bunch of men, muttering something about being left-handed.” Stephen shrugged. “Of course I’m going to say, ‘Yes, I’m left-handed.’ Why wouldn’t I?”

“Ah, well. At least tradition was upheld on the most important point.” Sebastian leaned forward and began to gather up the marbles in the center of the room. “I won.”

“No,” Edward said. “You didn’t.”

Sebastian froze. He glared at Edward, who had a string of cards showing. “You can’t have won,” he said. “Not unless you have a three under there. The chances of that are—”

Edward smiled blandly and flipped over the card, revealing the three of spades.

Silence met this proclamation. Sebastian blinked at Edward’s hand, frowning. “Did you cheat?” he finally asked.

“I lie. I forge. I blackmail.” Edward shrugged. “But cheating at cards? I’d never stoop so low.”

“Good to know you have some principles,” Oliver said with a roll of his eyes.

“Indeed,” Edward said. “Cheating at cards is too easy. I’d be vastly bored if I let myself do it.”

Beside him, Patrick—who knew Edward’s sense of humor rather better than the others—let out a crack of laughter.

But at that moment, the door opened behind him. A draft of cool air swept over him. Edward turned and glanced around.

“Ah,” he said. “Speaking of principles. Here comes my principle now.”

Free stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, dressed in a gown of brilliant blue and white. She glanced over them all—crammed into the too-tight space—and shook her head in exasperation.

“Why is half my wedding party hiding in the archive room?” she asked.

Edward reached forward and gathered up the scattered marbles. “Ah, Free. How lovely to see you. Did you know that every one of these marbles represents a favor owed to me by these fine men and women?”

Free tilted her head, contemplating the marbles. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I did know that. Jane mentioned these to me once. Apparently she’s still holding one in reserve.”

“It’s a high-stakes game,” Edward said, “but I was willing to play. And now look what I have for you.” He reached up and poured the marbles in her waiting hands. “Here,” he said. “I know I gave you a puppy for a wedding present, but these are much better.”

Free smiled down at him. “Dearest. You shouldn’t have. A duke
and
an MP, both in my pocket? It’s everything I’ve always wanted.”

Oliver began to struggle to his feet. “See here,” he said sharply.

Edward stood gracefully and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Enjoy.”

“I’m fairly certain they’re joking,” Sebastian stage-whispered.

Edward ignored this. “Now we’ve taken care of two of them,” he told her. “How many more do we need?”

“I don’t know.” She linked her arm in his. “Shall we go find out?”

Thank you!

Thanks for reading
The Suffragette Scandal
. I hope you enjoyed it!

• Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at
www.courtneymilan.com
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@courtneymilan
, or like my Facebook page at
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.

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• You’ve just read the fourth book in the Brothers Sinister series. The other books in the series are
The Duchess War
,
A Kiss for Midwinter
,
The Heiress Effect
,
The Countess Conspiracy
,
The Suffragette Scandal
, and
Talk Sweetly to Me
. I hope you enjoy them all!

The final novella in the series is
Talk Sweetly to Me
, and it will be out in late August of 2014. The hero is Stephen Shaughnessy, who you saw briefly in this book. If you’d like to read an excerpt, please turn the page. But for those who are curious about Stephen’s advice column, between now and the release date for his novella, I’ll be posting “Ask a Man” columns…and you can ask him your own questions. Visit
http://ask-a-man.tumblr.com/
to find out more.

Talk Sweetly to Me: Excerpt

Nine months ago, Miss Rose Sweetly started a friendly correspondence with Britain’s most infamous advice columnist, Mr. Stephen Shaughnessy. But a virtuous young lady cannot write to a known rake without risking her reputation. That's why she's signed all her letters as “Aldus Grange”—a man who claims to be everything Rose is not: old, male, and white.

Three months ago, Stephen Shaughnessy moved into the house next door. In person, he’s wickedly funny, devilishly flirtatious, and heart-stoppingly handsome—exactly the sort of man that earnest, mathematically-minded Rose should avoid. But as she’s struggling to cut all ties, he writes to “Aldus” for advice…on how to seduce the girl next door.

Rose knows she should walk away—but she can’t let this brazen insult pass. Instead, she vows to bring Mr. Shaughnessy to his knees…any way she can.

Dear Man,

My father says that women can’t do mathematics. Is this true?

Yours,

Hypatia

Dear Hypatia (if that is really your name),

I am puzzled as to why you are asking me this question, since you appear to have already asked one man. Do not all men think alike? It must be so, since your father believes all women think alike.

See how easily the problem is resolved?

Yours,

Stephen Shaughnessy

Authentic Man

Greenwich, November 1882

T
HERE WAS NO WAY
for Miss Rose Sweetly to put her packages down. They were balanced precariously under one arm, all six of them. Her free hand fumbled through her pocket—encountering used pencil nubs and a letter, folded in half—in search of her key. Her burden would remain stable, so long as that dratted keyring was in this pocket, and not the opposite side—ah!

Thumb and forefinger met cold metal. Rose was withdrawing her find in triumph, when a voice interrupted.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sweetly.”

The sound of Mr. Shaughnessy’s voice—that lilting velvet—set the inevitable in motion. First the book wrapped in paper slipped, and then, as she grabbed for that, her notebook began to fall. She could compute the physics of it in her mind, a cascading avalanche of packages resulting from too few hands and too much gravity. Rose had time to make only one decision: save her slide rule, or save the shopping?