The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (9 page)

He heard footsteps behind him, coming after him. He didn’t look back, not until a hand grabbed his wrist and forcibly turned him around.

But it wasn’t Patrick. It was Baron Lowery, glowering at him.

“See here,” the man said. “I don’t understand a thing about your friendship with Patrick. I don’t know who you are. But if you hurt him, I will hunt you down and
pulverize
you.”

The man was shorter than Edward, and Edward had spent the last years at manual labor. He simply drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the baron.

“
You’ll
protect
him?”
Edward rumbled.

Even in the starlight, he could see the other man flush. Lowery had to know what he was revealing. A baron didn’t fight to save his stable master from a hint of insult. He certainly didn’t take on a big man like Edward.

“Yes,” Lowery said in a low voice. “I will.”

Edward couldn’t do any good, and thus far, his friendship hadn’t benefited Patrick much. The best thing he could do for his friend was to leave.

And so he reached out and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

Before Lowery could do more than blink, Edward turned and left.

T
HE FLOWERS WERE COMING UP
cheerfully yellow in their boxes, the window was open a few inches, and the spring breeze that filtered in was sweet and refreshing. Tea and toast were laid out on the table, and Free was surrounded by her best friends. Two nights ago, she’d achieved a complete and total victory.

Despite all that, this morning felt rather less victorious.

“Another column was copied,” Alice said, laying her clipping out. “The
Manchester Times.
Here. It’s almost exactly your discussion of Reed’s bill. There are entire sentences duplicated.”

Free frowned. “How is that even possible? I didn’t let any of you see the column until it was proofed. I was careful this time.”

“Then it must be the proofs.” Alice shrugged. “If that’s the only option.”

Alice Halifax was Free’s cousin through her father. Her family had grown up mining coal until the mine’s production faltered. In the panic of ’73, she and her husband had fallen on even harder times. Free had known Alice only dimly at the time of the panic, but she’d needed someone to help out, and so she’d asked. It was the best decision she could have made. Alice was straightforward and direct, telling Free and Amanda when the paper went astray, when they were too theoretical. She also told them when they were condescending to women who knew the confines of their station better than they did. She grounded the entire paper. If
Alice
thought this would make trouble, this would undoubtedly make trouble.

Free sighed. “You are no doubt right, Alice. If you say it must be the proofs, it must be the proofs.” She put her head in her hands. “But I don’t want it to be the proofs.” If that was the case, secrets weren’t being sold by some stranger going through her rubbish.

Alice shrugged, unmoved. “You don’t get to be stubborn about this, Free. Reality is what it is.”

Amanda, who had been sitting at Free’s left, was more gentle. “It’s likely not what you’re imagining,” she said. “You’re supposing that Aunt Violet or one of the other people we send complimentary proofs to is chuckling evilly while she hands them off to your enemies. But just think rationally. It’s much more likely to be a servant filching the household papers.”

Free let out a long breath. Amanda was right, and it was a calming thought. But then Amanda always was a calming influence. They’d met almost a decade before, when Amanda’s Aunt Violet—Violet Malheur now, the former Countess of Cambury, and a brilliant, successful woman—had announced a series of scientific discoveries, upsetting all of England in the best way possible. Amanda had attended Girton a year behind Free. After years of being friends, it had seemed easy to ask Amanda to join her when she started her newspaper. Now Amanda reported on various Acts of Parliament. She spent half her time in London, taking notes in the Ladies’ Gallery.

When she was here, though, she and Amanda shared this house and a charwoman. The land they had built the house on—leased for as many years as Free had been able to get—had once been a cow pasture on the edge of Cambridge. The space also housed the building where her press stood, some fifty feet away. That way, when the press was running late at night, they’d not be bothered by the noise. Her dwelling was scarcely a cottage—three small rooms—but she felt secure here, surrounded by her friends.

She shook her head. “Then we’ll figure out who is doing it, and we’ll stop them.” She hesitated. “In fact… Along those lines, do you recall the man who was here the other day?”

“Mr. Clark.” Amanda frowned. “Is that right? Is he advertising with us?”

“Yes. Well.” Free grimaced. “He wasn’t really here about advertising.”

“What a shame. With Gillam’s pulling out—”

“He was here because he claims that the Honorable James Delacey”—Free gave the word
Honorable
a sarcastic twist as she spoke—“is behind the copying. I’m not sure we can trust Mr. Clark. In fact, I’m certain we can’t. But he may be telling the truth about that.”

She spilled the whole story. Almost the whole story. She left off mention of the blackmail and the forgery. She also—somehow—didn’t mention the compliments he’d given her or the solid feel of Mr. Clark’s hands on her waist as he’d boosted her to the window.

Amanda listened with increasing disapproval. “Free,” she finally interrupted, “whatever were you thinking? Going off alone at night with a strange man? What if—”

“She’s taken bigger risks,” Alice said with less rancor.

“I told Mrs. Simms where I would be,” Free said. “I left a letter, so if anything happened to me—”

“Oh, good.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “If my best friend had been killed, I could have avenged her death. What a comfort that would be! You have to be more careful, Free. I’ve seen some of the letters sent to you. There was that incident two years ago with the lantern, and just three weeks ago, those letters painted on our door in the dead of night.”

“Well, nothing happened.” Free looked away. “As Alice says, I’ve done more dangerous things for a story. If I went into hiding just because people sent me vile threats, I’d spend my entire life cowering beneath a blanket.”

“Oh, don’t do this.” Amanda huffed. “There’s a massive difference between
hiding beneath a blanket
and
slipping out at night with a man you just met.
I don’t care how sterling his credentials were.”

“Oh, they weren’t sterling at all,” Free said. “I’d never have trusted him if they were. They were more like tarnished brass, and we laughed at them together.”

“Even worse. You have to stop taking risks, Free. Learn to be afraid for once.”

As if that was a skill she had to learn. Free’s nostrils flared. “My entire life is a risk. That’s what it means when I put my name on a masthead and speak up. If someone decides to make an end of me, there’s nothing I can do about it—nothing at all but surround myself with the illusion of safety. If Mr. Clark had wanted to kill me, he could have simply crept into my room in the middle of the night with a garrote.”

That brought to mind a memory of one of Free’s nightmares, a dark, lurid image that lurked at the edge of her conscious thought. Oh, she was afraid. She never stopped being afraid. She just tried not to let it stop her in turn.

Years ago, her aunt had passed away, leaving Free a surprising legacy. But the money she’d received was not the most valuable thing her aunt had left her. Her Aunt Freddy had also written her a letter.
One of these days,
her aunt had written,
you are going to learn to be afraid. I hope that what I’ve managed to save for you will help you move on from that in some small degree.

Free kept that letter on the table next to her bed. Freddy had been right; she had learned to be afraid. Sometimes, if a nightmare was particularly bad, Free took the paper out and held it, and it kept the worst of her fears at bay.

She shook her head, shoving this all away. “We can argue about the past all we like. But the truth is that nothing I did could have stopped a determined assailant—not my good sense, not my most demure choices.”

“Free,” Amanda protested.

But Alice leaned over the table and patted Amanda’s hand. “She’s right, Amanda. If she didn’t take risks, then she’d be a lot less like herself, and a lot more like…” She trailed off, perhaps realizing what she’d been about to say.

“Like me,” Amanda said bitterly.

“No,” Alice said. “You take risks. In your own way.”

Free wished she could say something in response to that. Instead, she swallowed and looked at her hands. Time for a change of subject. “You’re going down to London next week, aren’t you?”

Amanda gave her a jerky nod.

“Then I’d like you to take something to Jane, if you could.”

“I suppose. If you think you can manage to keep yourself from getting killed without a housemate,” Amanda muttered with ill grace. “Are you going to keep away from Mr. Clark?”

Free sighed. “There’s no point in promising. He won’t be back.” Yes, he’d flirted with her. He’d been shameless about it. But after the way she’d altered their plan and then put everything in the newspaper? It was unlikely. Even if he’d told her the truth, and she very much doubted that, men didn’t like women taking charge.

“Free,” Amanda said in exasperation. “Stop evading my question.”

“No,” Free said, rubbing her temples. “I won’t promise. He’d be a useful tool, if he did come back. But he won’t.”

F
REE HAD BEEN CERTAIN
—almost certain—that she’d seen the last of Mr. Clark two weeks ago, on that night in March. As the days went on, she did her best to convince herself that it was true. Every time the door opened, she turned, her breath catching. Every time someone other than Mr. Clark entered, her heart sank. Foolishly, she told herself—entirely foolishly. After all, there was no reason to look forward to his return. Matching wits with him once had been enough for a lifetime.

And besides, the only man her paper really needed around was Stephen Shaughnessy. Free was sure that
he
was on her side, at least.

That incident involving him had sobered everyone, making them realize what was at stake. It had driven Stephen to write even more outrageous columns—and everyone else had followed suit, throwing themselves into their work.

No, they didn’t need Mr. Clark.

April was well and truly started. Amanda had gone down to London to report on the latest sessions of Parliament, and Free had stopped glancing up when the door to her business opened. She’d shrunk the foolish impulse to no more than a touch of interest—one she could push away, concentrating on the papers before her instead.

And then…

“Hullo, Miss Marshall,” someone said from the doorway of her office. Someone with a rich, dark voice, one that spoke of amusement and danger all in one breath.

Free jumped, dropping her pen and spattering ink across her sleeve. Not that it mattered; all her day gowns were well-inked.

She blotted at the stain anyway. “Mr. Clark. How do you do?”

He smiled at her, and she did her best to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t like him. She didn’t know his real name. He’d tried to blackmail her. He’d disappeared for weeks with no explanation.

But he had a very nice smile, and he seemed truly pleased to see her.

Damn him.

She tried not to smile back. “And here I thought that you took the piece I wrote about the events of the other night for what it was—a threat to expose you publicly. I thought you’d absconded in response.”

“Of course not.” He leaned against her doorframe. “I did take your warning. It was clever of you, Miss Marshall, to make it clear that you have yet another hold over me. I can hardly begrudge you that.”

He appeared to be serious about that.

Free shook her head. “On the contrary. That seems precisely the sort of thing a person usually holds a grudge about.”

“Ah, but if I were that sort of man, you wouldn’t find me nearly so compelling.” Without being invited, he walked into her office. He didn’t seat himself at one of her chairs; he leaned against her desk, as if he had every right to come so close. “A man must make choices: He can become enraged for no reason on the one hand, or he might impress men and women on the other.” He shrugged. “I’ve chosen to be charming. Is it working?”