Do you know what can be done to someone in custody?
Black water, thick and choking, so he could scarcely breathe. Pain that happened to someone else, someone who would believe anything to make it stop. He took a deep breath, shoving the memory away. All that had happened to Edward Delacey, and Edward Delacey scarcely existed any longer.
“So if that’s all you need to know,” Alvahurst was saying, “you might consider leaving before my wife wakes and asks what I’m doing.”
He was sitting in a darkened room, not in a black cellar. Still, Edward surreptitiously rubbed his right hand. “You’ve told me all I need.”
All that he needed, and yet still it was not enough. All he could do as Edward Clark was thwart his brother, plan by plan. He could spend the rest of his life bribing secretaries and blackmailing servants, and he’d only ever stay in one place.
Edward Delacey, on the other hand…
The thought made him feel almost feverish—that he could put on those old ideals, that old identity. Now there was an ill-fitting skin.
But if he didn’t…
You could do some good, he heard Patrick saying.
Edward didn’t do good. He had to remember that, no matter how he might try to fool himself. He left the home of his brother’s secretary, feeling dizzy and nauseated. No matter how hard he tried, one day James would succeed in hurting Free.
Do you know what can be done to someone in custody?
Maybe his brother didn’t intend anything more than a talking-to. But after everything Edward had seen James do? He wasn’t willing to wager on it. He had to stop this now. Any way he could.
All this time, he’d kept himself away from her by reminding himself what he was. There was no future in being with him, and he refused to let himself lie and believe otherwise. Now, for the first time, it all became clear.
He could have her. He could keep her safe. And—best of all—once she discovered what he’d done, what he hadn’t told her…
He wouldn’t have to tell himself lies about the future they wouldn’t have. She’d get rid of him herself.
HE ROUSED HIS SOLICITORS at four.
At eight in the morning, Edward presented himself at Baron Lowery’s London home.
The man he was about to become should have knocked on the front door. But he had enough of his old self to him that he went back to the mews. He roused a groom, who went into the house. Ten minutes later, Patrick came out.
“Edward.” Patrick came forward, grabbing hold of his arms. “You didn’t tell me you were in England. How did you know I was in London?”
“I surmised as much from the newspaper,” Edward said, his voice low. “You see, Baron Lowery is on the Committee for Privileges, and they’re meeting in two days.”
Patrick looked at him. They both knew why the Committee was meeting. The Committee always met when a man made a request to join the House of Lords. They did the boring work of listening to the evidence detailing a man’s right to take his seat.
Three days ago was the seventh anniversary of Edward’s last official correspondence with his family. James had been waiting for precisely this moment.
“Are you…” Patrick’s eyes widened.
“I am,” Edward said. He felt sick to his stomach. “I won’t do any good—don’t give me that look—but at least I can stop him from doing harm.”
Patrick let out a long sigh. “I’ll get George,” he said.
It took fifteen minutes before Patrick came down again, accompanied by a man in robe and slippers. Baron Lowery took one look at Edward. His nose wrinkled.
“You.” That might have been disgust in Lowery’s voice. It might have been curiosity.
“Me.” Edward came forward. His heart was pounding. He thought back to his childhood—to the Harrow-educated accent he had once had, one that he’d done his best to lose over the years.
He recalled years of privilege that he’d shed over the course of a fortnight. He made himself stand straighter.
“We were not properly introduced when last we met,” Edward said. He sounded like a caricature of himself, a stuffy, upright little snob, someone who deserved to have the stuffing beat out of him.
But he held out his gloved hand expectantly to Baron Lowery.
“I told you that I was Edward Clark. But I was born Edward Delacey,” he said. “I’m not dead. And I’m the current Viscount Claridge.”
Chapter Seventeen
FREE HAD KEPT EDWARD’S confusing telegram—both so straightforward and so utterly baffling—in her pocket for the last few days, pulling it out at odd hours, until the cheap paper had begun to fray at the edges.
He was coming back. She’d always known he would return in his own time, and yet now that it was happening, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.
She was standing out of doors now, with Amanda by her side. Together, they contemplated the replacement cottage some fifty feet distant. It had been completed a mere two weeks ago.
The last months had erased all evidence of the fire she had fought with Edward. Grass had grown over charred marks; trees had been replanted, flowers put back in boxes. Her memories of that night were rather more permanent.
Edward was coming back. She smiled.
“We should paint the cottage white,” Amanda said. “One can never argue with white.”
Free frowned. “What’s the point of doing something that nobody can argue with? Don’t you think yellow would be nice?”
“You would say that.” Amanda smiled faintly. “Well, I’m with Aunt Violet half the time now. Maybe we can compromise on a stately gray.”
“Gray! No, anything but gray. Gray is nothing but a white that can’t make up its mind.”
To anyone else, it would have sounded like an argument. But Free understood it for what it truly was—a distraction. She’d shown Amanda the telegram, and Amanda must have known how nervous she was.
Behind them, the sun was high in the sky, and the press was running, a comforting clatter at this distance.
That was when she saw a man coming up the track from the university. He was walking in that swift, direct way of his, long strides, arms swinging. It took less than a second for Free to recognize Edward. She didn’t need to see his face; she knew him deep in her bones, as if something resonated between them across even this distance.
She had a brief moment of panic—what was she to do?—and then she remembered that she didn’t panic. Good to know that; her heart must be racing for some other reason.
“Free,” Amanda asked, “why have you turned bright red?”
“No reason,” she said rather stupidly, as he would arrive in the next few minutes, and her lie would be obvious.
Amanda, no fool herself, peered down the road. “Ah,” she said sagely. “There’s your Mr. Clark after all. Right on time.”
Free had only that one too-brief telegram to guide her expectations. She didn’t know why he’d come back, what he intended with her, or if he’d walk away again. She didn’t know if she should hope or despair.
She looked back in his direction. “Ha, is it? No. It can’t be. He’s seen me, and he hasn’t so much as lifted a hand in greeting. But then, I’ve seen him, and I haven’t…” That logic would get her nowhere.
She lifted her hand, gave a little wave. A moment later, he saluted her in return.
“Free,” Amanda said. “I’d never thought I’d say this to you of all people, but are your nerves overwrought?”
“No,” Free wrung her hands together. “My nerves are neither over-nor underwrought. They are wrought to the precise degree demanded by this situation.”
Amanda snorted in disbelief.
“The situation,” Free admitted, “is one of both dreadful confusion and enormous anticipation.”
He’d turned off the main track, starting up the path that led to her press. Her heart pounded. Her palms prickled.
“That’s it, then,” Amanda said with a smile. “I’m going in.”
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“Wait…” But her protest was halfhearted. He was coming up to her now. His jacket was rumpled from travel and he was in desperate need of a shave. Free didn’t care—not one bit. She drifted down the path to him, holding out her hands.
Distance vanished. Time vanished.
“Mr. Clark.” Behind her, the press still thundered on. She could scarcely hear it for the ringing in her own ears.
He didn’t hesitate. He twined his fingers with hers, pulling her…not close, not really. Not when she’d imagined him so much closer for many months now. They were no closer than two people would be if dancing a country reel. But her pulse beat as if she’d just danced two sets with him, and she’d done nothing more than take a few steps down the path.
“Mr. Clark,” she repeated, looking up at him. “You are very tall.”
“And you,” he said in a low voice, “you, my most maddeningly beautiful, brilliant, Free. You are perfectly sized. If you Mr. Clark me once more, I shall be forced to do something dreadful, something like kiss you in public.”
Even her wildest fantasies had not had him saying something like that on arrival. She squeezed his hands and then looked up into his dark eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” she said. “What did you say, Mr. Clark? Mr. Clark, I fear that I have become rather hard of hearing. The noise of the press is terribly distracting. What was that you said you’d do if I called you Mr. Clark?”
His hands tightened on hers and he inhaled, leaning in. But despite the hungry look in his eye, he didn’t make good on his promise.
“Alas,” he said. “Business comes before pleasure. There’s something you must know.”
Business. She could hardly care about business when he’d called her maddeningly beautiful, when he’d taken her hands and threatened to kiss her.
He eyed her. “James Delacey is targeting you again.”
Of all the things she thought he might have come to tell her…
Free frowned in confusion. “And you heard this all the way in Toulouse?”
“I hear everything.” He said this with a small smile. “There are some things you ought to realize. First, they’ve quashed the permit for your demonstration tomorrow. You should have received notice of that, but he managed to quash that, too.”
“That’s an annoyance.” Free frowned. It was too late to call matters off. They had no way to contact the participants, not at this late a date. The last call had gone out in their papers two days before. And she couldn’t leave the women to face the consequences alone.
“It’s more than an annoyance.”
“Yes, it’s a crying shame. We had planned such a nice demonstration, too. For every four women wearing white, we’ll have ninety-six in black wearing gags, to represent the proportion of women who would be able to vote under the proposed bill. It’s going to make such a striking display. We’ll have photographs of it all.” She sighed, but then brightened. “And the only thing that could make it better would be if they arrested the lot of us. Then all the newspapers will cover the story.”
He didn’t smile. “This is different. The constables have orders not to release you. And Delacey has plans for what will happen afterward.”
She shrugged. “My brother will raise the biggest… Ah. Well. I suppose he won’t.” He couldn’t, at least not immediately. He was out of the country with his family. “My father?”
“A fine pugilist, but he hasn’t the political clout necessary to effect your release. Free, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. You don’t know what Delacey will do to you, and—”
She couldn’t think about that, not without a shiver of fear. Free shook her head. “What about the Duke of Clermont? He’s in town. He’s my brother’s brother. It’s complicated, and I’d hate to lean on him, but in a pinch, he’d do.”
He looked faintly annoyed. “I wasn’t thinking of Clermont,” he grumbled. “You’re making this difficult. You see, I had rather hoped that you might ask your husband to release you.”
Free’s mouth went dry. Her mind ceased to function.
“I haven’t got a husband.” But she could not look away from him, from his dark eyes resting on her. His hands still held hers. “And even if I did, he hasn’t any political clout.”
“Ah, but here’s the thing,” he said. “If you did have a husband, he might come up with any sort of political clout he wished. A signed, sworn statement of release from dead Prince Albert, if that would do the trick.”
Free choked. “Please don’t do that.”
“Of all the things that James might threaten, holding you in custody and doing you harm… I can’t bear thinking of the harm he might do.” His voice was low. “I’d learn necromancy and raise the dead myself, just to get you out.”
He was driving all possibility of thought from her. All thoughts of permits and arrest had been driven from her mind. She swallowed and looked up into his eyes. “Luckily, you don’t need to learn necromancy.”
“Luckily,” he agreed, “I don’t.”
“Even more luckily,” she heard herself say, “I don’t need a husband for that. I have you, and you could forge me false release papers without marrying me. Even if that were our only prospect. Which it isn’t.”
“Unluckily,” he said, without breaking into a smile, “you are right. There are several sad, gaping holes in my logic. I don’t suppose you’re interested in marrying a failed logician with necromantic tendencies, by any chance?”
Free took a deep breath. It didn’t seem to calm the whirl of her head. “That’s…a proposal of marriage? I just want to clarify matters. You see, it could also be a madman’s babble, and I want to be certain.”
“It’s a proposal.” His hands squeezed hers. “Of marriage. And this”—he reached into his pocket—“is a special license. Did you know the vicar will be around today until six?”
“Oh my God.” She dropped his hands. “Are you asking me to marry you today? Before you’ve had a chance to meet my parents? With nobody around to witness but Amanda and Alice?”
“I’m asking you to marry me within the next hour.” He simply looked at her. “I can’t think of a reason why you should. I have no moral sense to speak of. I lie, I cheat, I steal, and I’ll probably drive you away screaming within the week. But if you marry me, I’ll only do those things on your behalf.”
She shook her head reprovingly. “Edward.”
“Was that not any better as proposals go?”
“No. Not particularly. I can’t even tell if you mean it seriously.”
“Then try this one. I’ve spent all the last years of my life wandering around thinking, ‘This world is a terrible place; how can I take advantage of it?’ And then I met you.” He fell silent, but his eyes met hers.
Dark, deep pools. She’d only dreamed of him looking like that, looking at her as if she were everything to him. She felt her toes curl.
“I met you,” he continued, “and you said, ‘This world is a terrible place; how can I make it better?’ You kicked the foundation out from under me. You changed everything. You made me think that there might be more to my life than unending betrayal. So yes, Free. I want you. I want you to sit with me at breakfast and make me smile. I want you to lie with me at night and kiss me. I want you underneath me. I want everything about you.”
“Better.” Free squeezed his hands. “Keep going. I think that you can reduce me to a little puddle in another two minutes, if you keep at it. I’m halfway to liquid as it is.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning down to her. “Then I’d better stop. I love you with steel in your spine.”
She could not bring herself to let go of him. He was right. There were a thousand reasons she shouldn’t marry him. She didn’t even know the name he’d been born with. That hardly mattered; the family that had rejected him was nothing to her. Still…
“I have a handful of questions.”
“Only a handful?” His tone was light, but his hands tensed in hers.
/> “I’ll restrain myself for now,” she said, “and delay the other million for some later time. First, what of your business in Toulouse? Will we live here, and if so, what do you plan to do?”
He met her eyes. “I sold my business three days ago; I knew I was returning to England. As for what I am planning to do…” He let out a sigh. “There’s no hope for it, but I am going to pretend to be respectable. If I had my way, I’d start a metalworks here. I’d never interfere with your paper unless you wanted, and alas, I fear that general illicit activities would cause you problems. So I’ll abstain as best I can.”
She nodded. “Only one more question.”
She could feel the tension in him, every muscle from his shoulders on down going rigid.
“And that is: Do you love me?”
“That is a waste of a question.” He let go of her hands, but only to put his arm around her waist and draw her to him. “You know I do. I promised that if you Mr. Clarked me one last time, I’d take my retribution. And while I’m hardly the sort to keep inconvenient promises, this one…”
He leaned into her. His forehead touched hers; her lips warmed with the flow of his breath.
“This promise,” he whispered to her, “is the opposite of inconvenient.”
Free let out a soft sigh and brought her face up that last half inch, touching their lips together. He tasted so sweet that she could scarcely believe that she was kissing him again after all this time. But she set her hands on his shoulders, and he was real and solid. Her body pressed against his. Her mouth opened to him. Kissing him felt like sipping lamplight; she became more radiant with every touch of their tongues.
“Free, darling.”
“Edward,” she breathed.
“I still don’t have a good reason for you to marry me, but I have a multitude of bad ones. It’s impulsive. It’s foolish. I’m a scoundrel. There’s too much I haven’t told you, and no time for me to explain everything. You’ll hate me at least three times after this, before I convince you to love me.” His arm slipped down her body, pulling her even closer.
“But will you?” she asked. “Convince me?”