But he’d saved her last night, and now they knew things of each other—things that seemed more important than such details as the name he’d been born with, or the nature of his revenge. He knew she had nightmares about the lock hospital; she knew he’d been in a fire brigade in Strasbourg.
He sketched out a plan; she pointed out where her brother would comply and where he might not. At the end, Edward took his leave. There was, after all, much more work to do. But she felt as if she’d been carrying a great burden a long distance, and the end was finally visible.
She watched him leave. Still, there was one last thing niggling at her.
She waited until he’d left the press before standing up. Stephen Shaughnessy was still on the floor, giving his column a final look-over. She gestured him over.
He came in. “Yes, Miss Marshall?”
He looked…so innocent. Stephen was good at looking innocent; a necessary skill for a man who had a dreadfully mischievous sense of humor. Most of the time, his humor served her. But now…
“Do you have some passing prior acquaintance with Mr. Clark?”
He glanced behind him, toward the front door where the man had disappeared. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t have a passing acquaintance with him. Why do you ask?”
“Just a thought.” And yet now that it had occurred to her, she realized it made a strange sense of things. The first time she’d met Mr. Clark, he’d asked her about Stephen. They’d formed their partnership when Delacey had put Stephen in imminent danger of arrest.
It could have been a coincidence.
“You know how terrible I am at recalling names and faces.” He spread his hands before him. “I could have met him a thousand times and not recognized him.”
Both Stephen and Mr. Clark had dealt with James Delacey in the past. And Stephen had suggested that Mr. Clark ask about Free’s father—and while she’d assumed that Stephen had been twitting her about blushing on Mr. Clark’s arrival, it would also have fit if he knew Mr. Clark idolized the man, and was teasing him about it.
“Are you absolutely certain?” she asked.
Stephen shrugged. “I’m never certain about something like this. But it wouldn’t make any sense. How would I have met him? How old would you say he is?”
“Maybe the tail end of his thirties?” It was impossible to guess, really. That white in his hair, she suspected, was deceptive. He didn’t act like an older man.
She’d felt him lift her, too—and he’d seemed young enough then.
“There you are,” Stephen said. “The only men I know who are above thirty-five are friends of my father and tutors at school. And while I know very little about Mr. Clark, I don’t think he’s a tutor.”
“Right.” She sighed. “Well, let me see your column again, and we’ll see if it’s up to snuff.”
EDWARD WAITED HALFWAY DOWN the path to the university, pacing up and down. It took Stephen twenty minutes to appear. He had his hands in his pockets and he was whistling some complicated ditty.
He caught sight of Edward as he drew nearer. But instead of frowning or jumping in surprise, Stephen gave him a brilliant smile. “Edward,” he called out. “Good to see you. I’m glad you’re not dead.”
That little… Edward shook his head in mock anger. Stephen had known it was him the entire time, and he’d given scarcely a hint.
“Delacey, eh?” Stephen came up to him. “You’re taking on James Delacey?”
Edward huffed. “Shut up, clod.” And then, because that seemed unduly harsh, he reached over, removed Stephen’s hat, and ground his knuckles in Stephen’s hair. Or at least he tried to. The angle was no longer quite so convenient; he scarcely managed to apply his knuckles to his head.
Stephen simply looked over at him with raised eyebrows. “Unimpressive, Edward. That doesn’t work so well when I’m no longer waist-high.”
“Why didn’t you say anything back there, if you knew?”
“Huh.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Look at me. I’m just a nobody, with neither sense nor discretion. Why would I keep my mouth shut? It’s not as if my brother corresponds regularly with a man named Clark, a man I’ve never heard of and who he refuses to answer questions about. But, no, there’s nothing suspicious about that.”
Edward glared at him.
“I was certainly not suspicious when I heard there was a mysterious Mr. Edward Clark hanging about the press. Said Clark appeared just in time to foil a plot to have me tossed out of school, if not worse. But do I know an Edward Clark? No, of course I don’t. I only know an Edward Delacey. That’s the man who saved my life when I jumped out of a tree into sucking mud.”
Edward frowned. “No, I didn’t. That was Patrick.”
“I would remember. It was definitely you.”
“It wasn’t.”
“In any event, if my brother says that Edward Delacey is dead, who am I to contradict him?” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Really, Edward, after all these years, do you have to ask where my loyalties lie?”
Edward didn’t even believe in loyalty any longer. “You haven’t seen me in God knows how long.”
Stephen shrugged. “Yes, and while we’re at it, thanks for paying my school fees.”
Edward put his hands on his hips. “How the devil did you know about that? Did Patrick tell you? I’d thought more of his discretion than that.”
“No, but it was either you or Baron Lowery, and Patrick is very insistent on not accepting presents from Lowery.” Stephen shrugged. “I’m glad you’re alive. Even without that.”
When Edward had appeared to James, James had said almost exactly the opposite. It made Edward feel almost sentimental.
Instead of showing it, he simply raised an eyebrow. “You’re glad I’m alive? Imagine how I must feel.”
Stephen laughed. “Miss Marshall asked if I knew you.”
Edward stiffened. “And you said?”
“Do you remember that game we used to play, the one that annoyed Patrick? Where he’d ask questions, and we’d do our best to tell him falsehoods without actually uttering an untruth?”
Edward gave a crack of laughter. He had memories of lying in a field watching clouds go by, trying to make Patrick go mad by telling not-quite lies. God, he’d almost forgotten that.
“Well, I can still do that. ‘A passing acquaintance, Miss Marshall? No, I don’t have a passing acquaintance with Mr. Clark.’” Stephen smiled. “No need to mention that he’s my long-lost friend.”
Of all the things that Stephen could have said, that was the one that almost brought Edward to his knees. He felt the weight of a sudden, choking emotion. The other man’s casual smile seemed a heavy burden.
“I’ve been wishing I could introduce you to Miss Marshall ever since I found out about her father. Just to see your face when you found out.”
That fantasy played out again—the one where Edward Delacey, whole, and unblackened, met a fiery Miss Marshall.
She’d have laughed in his face. And truth to tell, his old self wouldn’t have had the strength to deal with her. She would have utterly overwhelmed him.
“Play your hand right,” Stephen said, “and maybe you can beg an introduction.”
He could have friends, family…and Free.
But then it never worked out that way.
Edward shook his head. “Play your hand right, and maybe she’ll never discover you lied to her. I’d hate to incur her wrath, if I were you. She seems rather fierce.”
THE TELEGRAM HAD ARRIVED late last evening, and Amanda had tossed and turned all night, dreading what she needed to do.
It was ridiculous to hold a grudge against Free for asking her to deliver this message—and she didn’t really feel grumpy about it. Not truly. But no matter how she tried to tell herself she need only address herself to Mrs. Jane Marshall, every time she looked up from her comfortable, cushioned chair, it wasn’t Mrs. Marshall, garbed in a flowing pink gown that emphasized her plump curves, that her gaze fixed upon.
It was Miss Johnson. Miss Johnson wore a demure pastel purple that should have seemed washed out next to her friend’s exuberantly-colored silk. But she glowed in it, the picture of beauty, good health, and perfection.
The women were looking at Amanda in something like horror. No surprise there—she’d just told them about the fire, the threat to Free’s newspaper, and Free’s plan, which would require them to host a massive soireé on not even a week’s notice.
“Of course we’ll help,” Mrs. Marshall said stoutly. “Any way we can.”
Of course they would. It was, after all, Free that they cared about. The thought of helping Free had Miss Johnson glowing in excitement.
“We shall be extremely busy,” Mrs. Marshall said.
Miss Johnson smiled. “I don’t mind. And there’s an added benefit.” She turned to Amanda. “Lady Amanda, I shall finally have you at one of my parties. After all this time! What a triumph that will be for me.”
Amanda felt almost dizzy. “Oh, no,” she said. “No. Of course I’m honored, but no, I couldn’t. It’s imposition enough to ask you to do such a thing in so short a time. I could not expect an invitation.”
“Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Marshall frowned at her. “You’re asking us to invite hundreds. One more could hardly signify. And you’re a friend of the family twice over—once through Free, and again through your Aunt Violet.”
“I couldn’t,” Amanda said again.
But Mrs. Marshall shook her head. “Of course you could.”
“I couldn’t,” Amanda repeated.
“But—”
“Jane.” Miss Johnson set a hand on her employer’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go speak to the staff and inform them of what is to come? I’ll talk with Lady Amanda.”
No. Amanda felt her eyes widen in panic, but she could hardly cling to Mrs. Marshall and beg her to stay. What was she to say? I’m afraid of your secretary. She’s too pretty.
“But—” Mrs. Marshall started.
Miss Johnson looked over at her and pursed her lips. Something must have passed between them, because Mrs. Marshall sighed.
“Yes,” she said, “of course, Genevieve.”
The door closed on her. It did not make an ominous, resounding thud; it shut with an almost inaudible snick.
Miss Johnson turned to Amanda. “I didn’t think when I insisted earlier. Do you have anything to wear? All your things must have been burned in the fire.”
Amanda wished she had that excuse. But no, Genevieve would volunteer to find something for her, and being fitted for clothing with the impeccable Miss Johnson watching would be altogether too much for Amanda’s composure. “I have a suitable frock,” she choked out. “At my aunt’s house.”
Miss Johnson’s face grew more sober. “Then is it me?” She looked down. “I hope I’ve done nothing to make you feel unwelcome. You must know I think highly of you. Very highly.”
Oh, that was not helping matters. Amanda gulped in air. “It’s not you.” And that was only a little bit of a lie; after all, it wasn’t Genevieve herself who posed the problem. It was simply everything she represented. “I just don’t go out in society any longer.”
“No?” Miss Johnson frowned. “Why not?”
Amanda looked away. “The last time I did was years ago. I arrived at an event with my aunt. My sister was there.” Amanda’s hands balled into fists of their own accord. “My parents had tossed me out two years before, when I refused to marry. They thought I would bend to their will eventually. I didn’t.” She swallowed. “I hadn’t seen my sister since then.”
She hadn’t seen anyone in her family in years, and she’d missed them terribly.
“I caught a glimpse of her across the room. I had known she was out, had hoped to be able to speak with her. I started toward her. And she looked the other way and walked away from me.”
Miss Johnson inhaled.
Amanda looked down. “At first, I assumed it was an accident—a coincidence, that she’d just not seen me. So I found her in the cloakroom at the end. And she told me…”
She could still hear Maria’s words, as plain as if they’d just been spoken.
You ruined my life, Amanda. You’re ruining it just being here, making everyone whisper about you and what you’ve chosen. You walked away from the family once. I wish you’d do it again, and this time for good.
“She told me she never wanted to see me. That my very presence was a cause for gossip.” Amanda couldn’t look at Miss Johnson. “After that, it all began to crumble. Every time I went out in society, every time I spoke, I could just hear her words. I could feel myself ruining everything for her. Just by speaking, by sitting in the wrong room. By breathing.”
It sounded so foolish when she said it.
“So it’s that simple. Every time I’m in polite company now, I feel unwanted. And I know that sounds as if I’m asking for sympathy. I’m not. I made a choice, and I don’t regret it. I just wish…”
Miss Johnson leaned across the table. That didn’t help either—her physical presence set Amanda on edge, her entire body lighting up in response. Her lungs hurt with the effort of taking in air.
Amanda wouldn’t have moved away for the world.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Miss Johnson said. “I can’t imagine it. When I made my own decision—similar, and yet not the same—my sister never once questioned it. She told me that no matter what I chose, no matter how I felt, she would always love me. Without her, I doubt I could have chosen as I did. I don’t know what I would do if she ever said such things.”
Amanda swallowed bitter jealousy at those words. “Well. Now you have it. It isn’t you, Miss Johnson. I don’t think I can go out in society any longer. My own sister couldn’t forgive me for walking away from a society marriage and attending university. How could anyone else?”
Miss Johnson considered this. “How long has it been since you saw your sister?”
“Since I was twenty.” She frowned. Her memory was as sharp as if Maria had walked away from her yesterday, and yet… “That’s about seven years now.”
Miss Johnson pulled back at that. “You’re only twenty-seven? I had always imagined you older.”
Amanda felt her cheeks heat. She was fairly certain that Genevieve Johnson was older than she was. But one couldn’t tell by looking at her. She still looked fresh-faced and young; by comparison, Amanda was painfully ancient, her hands stained with ink that would not scrub out, her first wrinkles appearing around her eyes.
Amanda didn’t care about her appearance—truly she didn’t—but…
“It’s just,” Miss Johnson was saying, “your columns, when I read them, I don’t feel like I’m listening to someone my age. You always sound so sure of yourself, and you’re so clever. I suppose I should have realized.”
“You don’t need to be nice to me,” Amanda said in misery.
“I’m not being nice. I’m jealous of you, if I must admit it. After all, you’re a lovely woman who has found her own place in the world. People respect your words. They know who you are. They talk about you as someone other than your parents’ child.”
Amanda looked up. “Now I know you’re being nice to me. Everyone adores you. Who couldn’t? You’ve managed to make your own life where you’re accepted by everyone, without marrying or…or…” She stopped.
“It’s true,” Miss Johnson said with a smile. “I have an excellent life. But I’m always aware that if something were to happen to Jane, I would have nothing to do. You have your own life.”
Butterflies descended into Amanda’s stomach again, hammering at her with their wings.
“That column you wrote,” Miss Johnson said, “that one from six months ago, about the life a woman could have without a man. The one you wrote in response to Lord Hasslemire? I felt that one.” She set her hand on her belly. “I felt it here, when you wrote about how Hasslemire talked about a lady’s life as a collection of things that women did for men. When you said th
at a woman could exist for herself, without needing to serve someone else’s needs…” Miss Johnson smiled. “Do you know how many women clipped that column and sent it to me? Seven. I don’t know what you think you’re going to see on that ballroom floor, Lady Amanda. I’m sure you’re right. There will be a great many women who frown at you. But there will also be women who know you through your words, who will want to take your hand and squeeze it just so that a little of your strength will come to them.”
“But I walked away from them,” Amanda said stupidly.
“Maybe,” Miss Johnson said quietly. “But here we are, walking back to you.” She took hold of Amanda’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. So simple a gesture, to send such a shock through her. Amanda felt bewildered for a second, completely unable to respond. Her fingers lay like dumb, dazed caterpillars, unresponsive, incapable of returning that tight grip. Miss Johnson stole her hand away before Amanda had a chance to marshal her nerve.
“Trust me on this, my dear,” Genevieve said. “There are a great many women out there tonight who want the honor of your acquaintance.”
“And you?” Amanda’s voice sounded rusty; her words scraped in her throat.
“I already have the honor of your acquaintance.” This was said with a little smile, but that faded, and Miss Johnson looked away. For a moment, she looked almost vulnerable.
“Do you think…” Amanda had not felt brave in company in a long time. She tried it on tentatively now. It slipped from her fingers, but she went on anyway. “Miss Johnson, do you suppose you could consider friendship?”
Miss Johnson turned to her. There was a wry look in her eyes. She shook her head a little.
Of course. It was one thing to claim acquaintance; it was quite another to be a friend, to be someone who would be seen with Amanda in public. Amanda drew back.
“Oh,” Miss Johnson said. “No. That’s not at all what I meant. Don’t mind me; I’m just a little foolish sometimes. Yes, Amanda. I’d be honored if you were my friend. But you’ll have to start calling me Genevieve.”