The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister)

by Courtney Milan

  Andrews flinched back. His breath cycled. He stared at it and then slowly lifted his eyes to Mr. Marshall.

  “Sorry, Mr. Marshall,” he said quietly. “But—but—”

  Mr. Marshall folded his arms in disapproval.

  “Here. Repeat after me what you must do,” Edward said, and when Andrews got it wrong, as Edward had suspected he would, he coached him once, twice, three times.

  “There,” he said at the end. “You’ll do very well.”

  “Do you think so?” Andrews smiled hopefully.

  Of course he didn’t. Edward would have to introduce himself to Alvahurst to make sure everything went off as anticipated.

  “Of course you’ll do well.” Edward clapped the man on the back. “I know you’ll do well, because I’ll know the instant you set one foot wrong.”

  He could feel Marshall’s eyes digging into his back, but he escorted Andrews from the room and called a footman to take him out of the house.

  He turned back. “There. Now was that so bad?”

  Marshall was shaking his head in disapproval. “You knew it was him,” Marshall said.

  “He was one possibility.” Edward shrugged.

  “But you said you had proof. And you mentioned his mother and his wife. If you didn’t know…”

  “I knew something about every possible subject.” Edward looked over at Marshall and frowned. “I just mentioned his mother and his wife. He filled in the rest himself. Come, Marshall. These are standard intimidation tactics—threaten small, and let the target’s imagination cast the necessary shadows.”

  “Standard intimidation tactics?” Marshall asked. “What are you? And what are you doing with my sister?”

  Edward smiled at him. “One of these days, you’re going to realize that your sister doesn’t need a man who follows the rules. There are too many rules and only one of her. Keep your brotherhood of left-handed do-gooders, Marshall. Your sister needs a man who is actually sinister. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Where are you going?”

  Edward simply smiled. “Someone has to make sure that Andrews performs—and that Delacey takes the bait.”

  “But—”

  “Complain to your sister,” Edward said. He felt only the slightest twinge of his conscience as he said it. “She’ll take care of everything.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE EVENING OF THE SOIRÉE did not start out as ghastly as Free had feared. She’d expected whispers about her paper, and numerous sidelong glances. Those were certainly in evidence.

  But Amanda joined her, looking stately in cream and pearls. Several of the women here had come because they enjoyed the newspaper, and she and Amanda were swarmed. They were bombarded with questions about what it had been like to have a university education. Still others asked her surreptitiously whether she thought that a lady—no, not the speaker herself, of course; they were all only asking for friends—might perhaps choose to take on duties that until this point had been seen as strictly within the male purview.

  Yes, yes, it was all possible, Free told them. Hard as well, but then difficulty was the seasoning of life.

  She even joked about men trying to discredit her, and received laughter in response.

  All things considered, it was not the worst evening she had ever had. She was even almost enjoying herself. And then, halfway through the night, she thought she saw someone.

  It was a trick of the light, an impossible, unbelievable thing. But there, between the column and the terrarium, she thought that she saw Edward Clark in the room. The shape of his nose; the way he held his glass. The light glinted off his hair.

  She’d not seen him this last week except in passing—a few minutes here, a few minutes there, scarcely enough time to tell each other what they’d done, and for him to take her hand.

  That touch of glove on glove, hand in hand, had brought her back to the floor of her office and the dark velvet of that night when he’d kissed her. But he’d let go and left every time.

  Edward wasn’t supposed to be in the ballroom. Not that he would let a thing like what he was supposed to do stop him. Not that she cared that he was upsetting the plan.

  In that bare, shining moment when she beheld him, Free felt herself light from within. She couldn’t help herself—she smiled, bright and welcoming, and that was nothing to the sheer pleasure that flooded through her. Finally, someone she could have a proper conversation with, someone who would make her laugh, who… who…

  He turned toward her, and all that incandescent joy became ice-cold inside her. The man wasn’t Edward. How could she have thought it? At that angle, with those shadows on his face and the light in his hair—but she’d been so, so wrong. This man was softer, rounder, completely dark-haired instead of having threads of white scattered through his hair.

  He looked nothing like Edward, nothing at all. How could she have made such a mistake? And this was not just a mistake; it was a horrifying one. The man she’d mistaken for her Mr. Clark was precisely his opposite. He was, in fact, James Delacey, the soon-to-beseated Viscount Claridge, and the author of her current misery. What a dastardly illusion. It was like biting into a strawberry expecting sweetness and getting a mouthful of dirt instead. Free took a step back.

  But he’d seen her. He’d caught her looking at him in that instant, caught that initial flush of happiness on her. He frowned, and then slowly, he started toward her.

  She wasn’t going to flee from his presence as if she were a partridge. She’d come here tonight to defeat him; he’d learn that soon enough. Free folded her arms and watched him approach.

  He stopped a few feet from her. “Miss Marshall.”

  She inclined her head, refusing to pay him more than that bare courtesy.

  He tilted his head and smiled, as if remembering a private joke. “Your brother has a lovely house,” he said. “When your newspaper fails, as I suspect it soon will, I know you’ll be well taken care of.”

  “Fail?” Free said. “How odd. I don’t even know what that word means, except when I use it to describe you. No doubt you are more intimately familiar with the implications.”

  His face grew dark. “Careful, Miss Marshall,” he said in low tones. “I will love it when you’re forced to depend on your brother. How badly will it rankle you to rely on a man, when you once had your own independence? Just think, my dear. You could have relied on me instead.”

  An angry flush rose in her cheeks. “Is that why you wish me harm?”

  “Miss Marshall, harm comes to you because of who you are.” He shrugged. “Not because of me. A woman in your circumstances should expect to be hated.”

  “And what circumstances are those?” she asked. “So far as I am aware, the only circumstance of note is that you made me an offensive proposition and I refused. From that, we come to all of this?”

  His hands clenched at his sides. “I’ve already forgotten that,” he said coldly. “I do not wish to think of it.”

  “Of course you don’t want to think of it,” Free told him. “It’s obvious that you don’t want to think at all. But despite your carefully cultivated ignorance, you’ll have to comprehend that a woman has a right to say no.”

  He bristled further. “That’s precisely it. You said no, so that is what I wish for you. No newspaper, no voice, no reputation, no independence.” He looked away. “No is apparently all you understand, and so I’ve made sure that when I talk to you, I use language that you can interpret.”

  “I see.” Free glared at him. “You’re as sordid and despicable as I thought.”

  He held up a hand. “It would be sordid, Miss Marshall, if I threatened to do those things to have you in my bed. As it is, I don’t want anything from you. I just want you to understand what it’s like to be humiliated. Tit for tat.”

  It was hardly that. She’d told him no in private, and had only wrenched his arm when he tried to kiss her as a form of persuasion. He’d set fire to her dwelling and had tried to do the sam
e to her business. He could have killed someone. Only the most self-centered fool would equate those two things.

  Someday, she told herself grimly, someday, she’d look back at this moment and she’d turn it into a damned good joke about lords. Something like…

  “So sorry to intrude,” said another man, coming up to them. “But Miss Marshall, you did tell me earlier that you wanted to be introduced to Mrs. Blackavar, and she is just over here. She mentioned she had a headache, but I told her she couldn’t possibly leave before you’d met.”

  Free looked up to see the Duke of Clermont smiling at her.

  Clermont was…

  A lord, yes. But he was also an acquaintance. She scarcely knew him herself, although their paths had crossed quite a bit. He was her brother’s brother, and that made them…absolutely nothing. She had no idea who Mrs. Blackavar was; she hadn’t talked to Clermont in months, and then only in passing. On the other hand, she wanted to stay with Delacey about as much as she wanted to stab herself repeatedly in the eye with an ice pick.

  “My apologies, Delacey,” Clermont said with a little bow, “but if you’ll excuse us…”

  “Of course.” Free took Clermont’s arm. “Thank you.” She allowed him to conduct her away.

  When they’d gone a short distance, he leaned down to her. “I’ll take you back, if you like,” he whispered. “But you had gone bright red here.” He indicated a semi-circle on his cheek. “When Oliver looks like that, it usually means he’s on the verge of punching someone in the face.” He glanced at her. “I… Maybe I presumed a little, but…”

  They were a little more than nothing to each other. She found it difficult to believe in the other half of Oliver’s life—but here was proof that it existed anyway.

  It was odd, sharing her brother with this man. He knew Oliver as well as she did. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, better than she did. It was so strange, her brother having a brother, one whom she scarcely knew.

  “No,” she told him. “You were perfectly right. If I’d had to stay one more minute in his company, I would have clawed his eyes out. Which isn’t a problem, but there would have been witnesses.” She glanced over at him. “It was good of you to intervene, Your Grace, especially when you have no obligation to me.”

  He smiled oddly at that. “Oliver had to leave the room momentarily,” he told her. “If he’d been here, he’d have walked over himself and done the same thing. I was just acting in his stead.”

  Maybe the Duke of Clermont felt that same strangeness that she did, that they ought to mean something to one another, because he cleared his throat and looked away. “I’m not your brother, but I’m still an interested party. And if there’s ever anything you need, anything I can do for you, please ask.”

  “I should hate to put you out, Your Grace.” She smiled. “Besides, while I was listening to Delacey, I was developing a theory that all lords were self-centered. You’re smashing that to bits, and it was my only comfort.”

  “No, no,” he told her, taking her hand and threading it through his arm. “Keep your comforts. We are all self-centered, Miss Marshall. It’s only that some of us are better at hiding it. Now, let me introduce you to Mrs. Blackavar. You’ll like her.”

  Free glanced behind her.

  James Delacey glared at her still. But it was the grandfather clock behind him that she noted, its face showing twelve minutes to nine.

  Delacey could glare all he wanted. But in twenty minutes, the show would start—and after that, he’d regret everything.

  IN THE END, it was even more glorious than they had planned.

  Oliver’s undersecretary, looking pale and frightened, came into the ballroom. Free had been watching for him; he stole through a servants’ door, sweating profusely. His forehead shone in all that crystal light. He plastered himself against the wall, looking about the room until his eye fell on Delacey.

  He inhaled, straightened his spine, and then did his best to slink to the man through the crowd.

  That was Free’s cue. She signaled, and a servant brought her a sheaf of papers.

  Andrews, meanwhile, bumped into everyone as he moved. He ducked his head in apology every time he did, jumping away and inevitably jostling someone else as he did it, necessitating yet another apology. Free would almost have felt sorry for him had he not been part of the plot to destroy her. As it was, her sympathies were low.

  “Pardon,” she heard him mutter as he moved by her. “Pardon. So sorry. Argh.” That last happened as he knocked a wineglass out of a woman’s hand.

  By the time Andrews found Delacey, half the room was pretending not to watch him. Free had situated herself a strategic ten yards away, with a perfect view of the coming storm.

  “Sir.” At least, that’s what she assumed Andrews said; from here, she could see only the movement of his lips.

  Delacey turned to Andrews and then turned a little pale. But he harrumphed creditably and narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “Sir.” This, she could hear. Andrews spoke a little louder, but just as importantly, those around him had stopped talking, the better to overhear. “Yes, sir. Of course. We’ve never spoken before.” He said that with a little flourish, as if he were winking at the man. “But the thing we’ve never spoken about…”

  Delacey took a step back. “What part of I don’t know you escapes your understanding?”

  “Yes, I know, that’s what we say, but—”

  Delacey scowled. “I do not know you, you idiot.”

  “But things have changed. I’m suspected, and I must give you this because—” Andrews leaned in close, whispering.

  “What did he say?” someone nearby asked. Those closest murmured to their neighbors, and they to theirs.

  “He said…there’s a horse in the grain?” someone near Free said in confusion.

  “No,” another man contradicted. “He said he’s being called out.”

  But by that time, the poorly understood whispers were irrelevant. The little undersecretary removed a sheaf of papers all bound up in twine from his jacket.

  It was Delacey’s own file. Mr. Clark had stolen it that very morning. Delacey must have recognized the contents, because he took a step back, his eyes growing wide. “How did you get that?”

  Andrews held it out helpfully. “You gave it to me?”

  “I didn’t! I never!”

  One of the few protests Delacey had made that was actually true, Free mused. Poor man. He had no idea what was happening to him.

  “Take it,” Andrews gestured. “Here, before they find me—”

  Delacey stepped back just as Andrews lunged forward. The papers slipped from the secretary’s grasp, scattering widely over the floor.

  “Here,” a nearby man said. “Let me help you gather those.”

  “No!” Delacey said, leaping on the pile. “Nobody look at them!”

  Naturally, of course, everyone did.

  “I say,” a man near the papers said, “Delacey—this is a draft of a letter to the Portsmouth Herald, asking them to print a column.”

  “By God,” another voice said. “There’s a statement of account here—according to this, he’s…” The rest of that sentence was caught up in a swelling murmur.

  Free didn’t ask questions. She didn’t ask how Edward had stolen a file that had notations in Delacey’s own hand. The details of his plan, while not spelled out, were hinted at in such detail that it became clear what Delacey had been doing—that he’d filched early copies of her columns and paid others to reprint them to discredit her, that he’d hired the man who had set fire to her home.

  It was possible that Delacey was such an inveterate record-keeper that he’d kept written notations on the arsonist he’d hired. And if he wasn’t? Well. He was now, and she wasn’t going to feel sorry about it. If he kept this up, next time, he might actually kill someone. Sometimes there was no point in playing fair.

  Right now, she only watched, making mental notes about the changes she w
ould have to telegraph back to her office for the column she’d already written, waiting to go to press as soon as the events of the evening came to an end.

  To her side, she noticed her old colleagues—Chandley from the Manchester Star, Peters from the Edinburgh Review—taking note of this all. She’d asked Jane to invite them particularly. Usually, she’d be delighted to have an exclusive story on a matter of this magnitude. But this time, she wanted every paper in England to know what was in that file that had spilled. Chandley and Peters would write their own pieces, to be published in the next few days, explaining how they’d been hired to print duplicates of her columns.

  The details of his entire plan would be discussed and made public.

  Delacey had given up trying to gather his papers; now, he was simply trying to escape the room.

  Free crossed over to him, caught his coat sleeve before he managed to exit. “No business.” She was trying not to gloat. “No reputation. That is what you promised me, is it not? Remember this, Delacey. Everything you try to bring down on my head, I will bring back to you a thousandfold.”

  He glared at her. “How did you do it? How did you get that file?”

  If she’d truly wanted to taunt him, she’d have told him that one of the men he’d hired had turned on him. But she didn’t know what Edward was to him, and she didn’t want to put Edward in danger.

  She simply smiled and handed him the papers she’d been carrying ever since Andrews entered the room.

  “James Delacey,” she said solemnly, “you are hereby served with notice of a suit against you. I’m asking for compensation for the fire you started.”

  He stared at these papers, his lip curling in distaste. “You think you’ll win this way? With papers and a suit at law, perhaps a fine of a few hundred pounds?”

  “I don’t care if I prevail on the suit. I care that everyone will hear the evidence, will discover how foul you are. That’s how I will win.”