The Suffragette Scandal

  But he wasn’t a sweet nothing sort of man. She dragged her hand over her face and sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just that I know I shouldn’t have nightmares. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Shouldn’t you?” he asked gravely.

  “It feels foolish to admit it. Like I’m admitting to fear.”

  He cast another glance at her. “And you’re not afraid?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Of course you’re afraid, Miss Marshall. Fear is only foolish when it’s irrational. You have men painting threats on your door, burning your house down. If they’re writing you letters suggesting that you need a child in your belly, I doubt they’re offering to put it there only if you’re willing.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “I still have nightmares about being in the lock hospital.” She took hold of a curl of her hair, wrapping it around her finger. “And that makes no sense. I was there only for a few weeks, and there’s no danger of my being sent back.”

  He fell to silence.

  “I knew my brother would get me out. And still I remember the baths—ice water in winter. Brown ice water. They didn’t change it between women.”

  He shuddered.

  “And the medical exams. It wasn’t like having a doctor listen to your pulse. They had to examine you visually.” She let out another breath. “Everywhere. I tell myself I’m strong and brave, but I had been going to spend two months there. I broke after two exams.”

  He took her hand in his. He was still wearing his gloves—he’d been feeling too self-conscious to take them off. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if he was holding her hand to give her strength, or to drive away his own plague of memories.

  She sighed. “But then, what would you know of it? You’re not afraid of anything.”

  He ought to have laughed. He should have told her that fear was for other men, because he was the thing that they feared.

  Tonight, he couldn’t make himself tell her that lie. Instead, Edward let out a long breath. “Percussion fuses are the very devil.”

  She didn’t say anything, and for a long while, he didn’t either. Their hands tangled, warmth meeting warmth.

  “I was in Strasbourg,” he finally said. “Seven years ago, during the siege. I was on the fire brigade. The Prussians had these rifle-bored cannons that could shoot shells an impossible distance—right into the center of the city itself. All those shells had percussion fuses so they exploded on impact. There was no place safe. Cellars, if you lined them with bags of sand—but then the danger was that the house would collapse on top of you. Later, I heard that in the first days of the siege, the Prussians had sent through a shell every twenty seconds. You can’t imagine it, Miss Marshall. Everything burned, and what didn’t burn, splintered. Have you ever seen plaster dust ignite in the air? I have. And we’ve not begun to talk about the machine guns—capable of sending out bullets at the speed of a hand-crank.”

  She turned her head to look at him. Her fingers played in his.

  “The worst were the shells that didn’t explode on impact. They could go at any time. I saw a man ripped to shreds by one in front of my eyes.”

  For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

  “I don’t believe in lying to myself,” he said. “I’m afraid. To this day, I can’t hear a loud noise without jumping. And I never do like sleeping in small spaces. I’m always afraid the walls will come down on me. Fear is a natural response.”

  Somehow, his arm came around her.

  “It’s what you do with your fear that matters. And that’s what I can’t make out about you.”

  She turned to look in his eyes.

  “Lightning always strikes the highest tree on the plain,” he told her.

  Her eyes were wide, glinting in the dim moonlight.

  “Most people who are struck by lightning learn to keep their heads down. It’s only people like you who grit your teeth and then come out again, refusing to cower. That’s what I can’t understand about you. You’ve been struck by lightning, again and again, and still you stand up. I don’t see how you are possible.”

  God, it was so easy to hold her. To pull her closer to him, to feel her body against his. The curve of her breast pressed against him, the line of her leg.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her head up to him. His arm came around her; his lips came down on hers, and the rest of the world—the dark room surrounding them, the uncomfortable feel of hard boards beneath too-thin blankets—seemed to slip away. There was nothing but her shoulder under his hand, her lips soft under his.

  Kisses were dangerous things, when a man wanted a woman.

  They made him want to toss his heart in her lap. They weren’t just an exchange of pleasantries; they offered a glimpse into the future. A kiss hinted at the pleasure that might come from a night in bed, at the deliciousness that a heady, week-long affair might bring.

  But when Edward kissed Frederica Marshall, something terrible happened—something that had never happened in a lifetime of kisses.

  He didn’t see an end.

  He wasn’t going to want a sweet farewell in a few weeks’ time. He wouldn’t walk away with a light heart. He was going to want more and more—more kisses, more of her, again and again.

  He was going to want the sweet taste of her, the feel of her fingers resting in his until the end of his days. The arsonist had stomped on his hand; it was badly bruised. Perhaps that was why he squeezed her hand in his, welcoming the sharp pain as a reminder.

  He pulled away. Her eyes shone up at him, bright and hazed with desire.

  Oh, he had known this was happening from the first moment he’d met her. He’d known, and he’d lied to himself, calling it desire, want, revenge—anything but what it was: He was falling in love with her.

  He hadn’t thought there was anything left to him that could fall in love.

  He pulled away. But he couldn’t make himself be abrupt with her. Not even now. “Free. Darling.” His hand slid in her hair, stroking it gently. “Get some sleep.”

  He stood.

  It was only when he was at the door of her office that she spoke.

  “Was it in Strasbourg that you were tortured?”

  A sick, black pit opened around him. This time, she had not said that you watched a man be tortured. She’d figured that out as well. He stood in place for a moment, simply forcing his lungs to work.

  When he had control of himself, he turned back to her. He made himself smile, even though the smile was a lie. He made sure his voice was easy, even though nothing about him would ever be easy again.

  “No,” he said. Casual—that was what he wanted. Casual, so that she’d not suspect the truth. A casual man would not have lost himself completely.

  He shrugged negligently, and even though she could not see it, he found a negligent smile. “That came after.”

  FREE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the sound of someone moving about her press. She jerked to her feet, brushing her unruly hair into some semblance of order with her fingers.

  But the only person she saw through the window was Clarice, the woman whose morning duties required her to get everything in readiness for the day. Clarice was folding up the blankets where Edward had slept that night.

  He wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  Free dressed swiftly and came out into the main room. “Good morning.” She wondered if Clarice knew why she’d slept in her office—but by the sympathetic look on her face, she’d been told everything.

  At least, everything that had happened until midnight.

  “Here,” Clarice said, handing her a piece of paper. “Mr. Clark gave me this a half hour ago, as he was leaving.”

  Leaving.

  She took the paper.

  Miss Marshall—

  Business takes me elsewhere for the moment. I’ll be back this afternoon.

  —E.

  Nothing more. Last
night, everything had changed between them, and it wasn’t just the kiss. There was something about sitting with a man in the dark, sharing secrets well past midnight, that altered the course of what was to come.

  Two days ago, she’d have said she didn’t trust him.

  This morning?

  It felt as if he were still here, still holding her hand. Still telling her that he couldn’t comprehend how she continued. She felt all of that even though he wasn’t here.

  And yet he had the right of it. There was business to take care of—more than she could possibly comprehend. Reality landed on her shoulders like sacks of heavy flour.

  She had men to hire to secure the place at night. She had to see to the details of her burned-out home, and incidentally, she ought to find another place to stay until she could build a new one. She needed clothing, a comb, tooth powder—too many items to list. There were advertisers to appease, a story to discover, and James Delacey to destroy. And on top of that all, the paper would have to go out yet again tomorrow.

  Better to begin early. Free raised her chin. “Well, let’s get started.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE STABLES WERE QUIET and peaceful, pleasantly dark after the midmorning sun. Edward felt totally at odds as he stepped inside. His right hand had hurt last night; it ached now. His palm was dark red with a forming bruise—but nothing was broken, and pain was the least of his worries.

  Patrick Shaughnessy stood at the far end of the stables, examining a mare’s hind leg. He glanced up as Edward came in, but kept on with his work with no more than a nod of acknowledgment. Patrick’s father had been like that, too—not one to interrupt his work unless there was blood or a broken limb.

  After a moment, Edward mounted the ladder to the hayloft and found a pitchfork. Pitching hay with his bruised hand was a difficult prospect. At first, the pain was just a twinge, but it grew to a sharp throb. Every forkful hurt a little more. It was as good a reminder as any. Deep down, there was nothing but pain.

  It took some ten minutes for his muscles to remember the proper rhythm for the work. The pain concentrated in the palm of his hand, pulsing in time to each thrust.

  All you see is the river, but I care about the roses.

  Hard to remember there was more than the river, when it had once overflowed its banks and swept him away. He’d almost drowned. He’d learned his lesson: Don’t go near rivers. Don’t go anywhere near rivers.

  Miss Marshall spent her life daring those more powerful than her to swat her down. The hell of it was, her determination was some kind of contagion. He could feel it infecting him, making him believe. Making him tell himself lies like I could do some good and I want her forever.

  He gritted his teeth and pitched hay, picking up a heavy forkful and letting it slide to the box in the stall below.

  No, he had to remember that she was wrong. You had to keep your eye on the river, no matter what she said. If you let your control slip, rivers would pull you under. In your desperation, you’d claw at anyone around just to get a gasp of air. You wouldn’t even realize the harm you’d done until it was too late.

  “I think,” Patrick’s voice said behind him, “that Buttercup has had enough now.”

  Edward stopped, breathing heavily, coming back to himself. He set the pitchfork down, looking out over the stables beneath him. Horses munched peacefully on oats and hay, tails swishing in idyllic rest. A stallion stamped restively and shook its head.

  It was peaceful here, and part of him wanted to take up residence in this stable. But there was no way he could crawl back into his childhood.

  Instead, he looked back at Patrick. “You have always been my greatest liability,” he said solemnly.

  Another man might have taken offense at those words, but Patrick understood him.

  “It never mattered where in Europe I went,” he said, “or how much time elapsed. You never stopped mattering to me—you and Stephen. I wished I could be the hardened fellow who never cared. But I saw Stephen the other day…”

  Edward shrugged.

  “You never wished for any such thing,” Patrick said stoutly.

  Edward contemplated this. “Yes. You’re right.” He sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the hayloft. “After all these years, after everything I’ve done. You’re still more my brother than the man who shares my blood. The surprise isn’t that I’m still hanging around you. It’s that you’ve not recognized me yet for what I am.”

  He had tried. God, he had tried to drive Patrick away. He’d told him every vile thing he’d done—as if he, like his friend, were Catholic, and Patrick his confessor. Every forged letter. Every piece of blackmail. Every wrong act, he’d relayed to his friend by letter. Every time he’d been certain that this brazen theft, this false story, would set his friend against him.

  “Oh, I know what you are,” Patrick said quietly. “I’m just waiting.”

  Edward flexed his hand. “Love is hell,” he said shortly. “It makes me realize I still have something to lose. It was bad enough when it was just you and Stephen.”

  “Oh?”

  Edward kicked his legs angrily into space. “Oh.” He let that syllable hang for a few seconds before continuing on. “You were right, you know. Miss Marshall is very clever.” That was all he needed to say.

  “And what are you going to do about it?” Patrick asked.

  There was part of him—a foolish, damnable part of him—that wanted to give the answer that would make his friend smile. I’m going to stay in England and woo her.

  He had but to hear the thought to recognize its impossibility. If James discovered Edward hanging about England for good, he’d never rest for fear that he’d lose the title and his estates. And if Edward was found in the company of Frederica Marshall, James’s sworn enemy? James might finally muster the nerve to do more than burn down a few buildings.

  Edward could take over the title. Announce himself as Edward Delacey. He prodded the idea gently in his mind; it felt as sore and tender as his bruised hand. The water he’d landed himself in was deep indeed, if he’d even consider the possibility.

  Edward shook his head. “I’m going to do the same thing with Miss Marshall that I do to everyone I love. I’m going to leave before I can do her harm.”

  Patrick looked at him, his mouth quirking skeptically.

  “I will,” Edward said. “Just as soon as I can get everyone else to leave her alone.”

  EDWARD RETURNED TO CAMBRIDGE in the afternoon, but when he arrived at the press and opened the door, he almost turned on his heel and walked away. Stephen Shaughnessy stood two feet away.

  The other man didn’t look around as Edward stood in the doorway. His back was turned to Edward, and he was gesticulating in exaggerated motions, arguing in excited tones. He was almost Edward’s height. A massive change since Stephen had followed him around all those years ago.

  Here he was, still following him around. Inconvenient as ever. Edward found himself smiling.

  Stephen and Free—no, he’d best keep his distance as much as possible—Mr. Shaughnessy and Miss Marshall had their heads bent over a table.

  “No.” Miss Marshall brandished a blue pencil. “You can’t say Dukes get all the attention. That sounds bitter, and you mustn’t sound bitter.” She crossed off a line as she spoke.

  Edward could turn around and return in half an hour. By then, Stephen would no doubt have departed. No matter what, he couldn’t risk being recognized.

  Miss Marshall was wearing a ghastly green gown, one that had no doubt been lent to her by a friend. It fit rather poorly, gaping at the bosom and stretching at the hips. The color dimmed the fire of her hair—which, without her normal pins, refused to stay in place. Little strands made an auburn halo around her head.

  He’d never seen anything quite so lovely.

  Miss Marshall nodded to Stephen. “This part is good here, but this introduction strikes me as too serious. It won’t do.”

  “Aw, Free.”

&n
bsp; God, Edward knew that phrase. How many times had they heard Aw, Edward or Aw, Patrick when they were younger?

  Stephen turned wide, begging eyes on her. “Can’t I—”

  “No,” she said severely. “You can’t. Stop whining and do it right. Now do I have to glower at you for the next ten minutes, or can you produce a creditable paragraph on your own?”

  Edward should leave now, while Stephen was still occupied. Before he was recognized. And yet now that he stood this close, he didn’t want to go.

  Besides, what was the likelihood that Stephen would recognize him? Edward’s own brother hadn’t. Stephen still thought him dead, and Edward’s mirror told him how much his looks had altered. Even his accent had shifted. Nine years living on the Continent, scarcely speaking English at all, had changed the natural cadences of his speech.

  Miss Marshall looked up at that moment and made his decision for him. She looked at him and then her whole face lit up. He almost staggered back under the force of her smile. It made him feel…reckless. A man couldn’t disappoint a smile like that.

  “Mr. Clark. You’ve returned.”

  She sounded almost surprised. As if he were the sort to assist her in her predicament, kiss her, and then walk away.

  He was. That was precisely the sort of man he was, and there was no losing sight of it.

  He smiled at her nonetheless. “I have. This time. It turns out there’s something we forgot last night—”

  At that moment, Stephen looked up from his paper. Every muscle Edward possessed tensed involuntarily, waiting.

  “Wait, Miss Marshall,” Stephen said. “I don’t need ten minutes. I have it…” His eye fell on Edward, and he trailed off, frowning.

  Only one way to handle this. Tell the lie before the other man had a chance to recognize it for falsehood.

  Edward stepped forward. “I’m Clark,” he said casually. “I’m an admirer of your column.”

  Stephen blinked at him quizzically, as if trying to figure out why he seemed familiar.

  “Shaughnessy,” he said faintly, by way of introduction. “So you’re the Edward Clark that I’ve been hearing so much about.”