The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) Page 26

  “How often does the Duke of Clermont make himself dinner?” she asked.

  “Not very often,” he replied. “Maybe once every month or so, the family gets out the toasting forks and I do my best to wrangle up toast and cheese.”

  “Mmm.” She wished she could say more, but her mouth was full again.

  He poured himself a cup of tea one-handed, juggling the fork skillfully. “The trick,” he said, “to getting good toast is to try not to be too perfect. You won’t want to brown it too evenly, or to avoid singeing it. You don’t want to cut the bread too perfectly, either. It’s better if it has lots of jagged edges to blacken nicely.”

  “That’s the problem I always have, too,” Free said. “I have to try so hard not to be perfect.”

  He grinned at her.

  His cheese was beginning to bubble, and he was eyeing the piece with a hungry look. And that was when they heard a noise in the hall.

  They turned. A door was opening; voices murmured in the distance. For a moment, Free had the wildest idea that Edward—no, she couldn’t think of him that way—Viscount Claridge was here. He’d hunted her down. He was going to apologize, tell her how badly he’d treated her, and she was going to…

  She had no idea what she was going to do. Her tea sloshed onto her skirt, and she realized her hand had begun to tremble.

  But the figure who came into the room was a woman—the Duchess of Clermont, no less. She didn’t blink at the sight of her husband sitting before the fire. She didn’t ask what Free was doing here. She simply came into the room and took off her gloves.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “A toast and cheese night. I need one of those.”

  Her husband looked longingly at the slice on his toasting fork, but he didn’t even hesitate. He handed the bread to his wife.

  She slid down to sit on the floor beside him. “Want half?”

  “God, yes.”

  Maybe it was the toast, managed in so perfectly imperfect a fashion. Maybe it was the companionable silence. Maybe it was the fact that she’d expected to be treated like some distant, grasping relation, and now she was sitting on the floor with the duke and duchess, eating burned bread and dripping cheese. Maybe that was what prompted her to finally speak.

  “I got married,” she confessed.

  Robert’s hands stilled. He looked up at her, his eyes widening.

  “It was…it was a whim,” she said, speaking faster. “Or more than a whim. I don’t know what it was. We’ve corresponded for months. Maybe I was feeling reckless.” Maybe she’d thought herself in love. She didn’t say that, though. She shut her eyes. “I got married yesterday night.”

  Across from her, the duchess took a genteel bite of toast and looked down. “You married by special license, then?”

  “I should have asked how he’d obtained one so quickly.” Her hands were trembling again, so she set down her teacup. “I knew he was a scoundrel, you see. I knew that. But he had always been there for me. I thought I could trust him.”

  She felt sick to her stomach.

  “And then I went to the demonstration, and was arrested, and he…he…”

  Neither the duke nor the duchess spoke. They just watched her intently.

  “I was arrested,” she repeated. “As I’d known I would be. We were all crammed into the station. He came to get me out.”

  It didn’t sound awful when she told the story. It sounded sweet. Almost romantic.

  “But he didn’t forge papers falsifying my release.” And oh, there was a complaint for the ages. There wasn’t a wife in England today complaining about her husband’s failure to commit crimes. “He told me he was Edward Clark.”

  The duchess twitched at that name, her eyebrows lifting. She turned to her husband, but he set a quelling hand on her knee.

  “He told me he was a scoundrel and a metalworker,” Free said. “He’s a forger. I’ve seen him do it myself. But he didn’t tell me everything. He was…” She gulped.

  “Edward Delacey,” Robert said, his voice low.

  Beside him, the duchess let out a long, slow breath. “Huh. I was right.”

  “No.” Free’s hands balled into fists. “He doesn’t want to be called Delacey.” That much, at least, they agreed upon. “But he’s Viscount Claridge.”

  The duchess tilted her head to the side, to contemplate the ceiling, not quite looking at her husband. “There should be a rule somewhere that lords ought to act like lords. When they engage in forgery or, ah, general skulduggery, it can be very confusing to the rest of us.”

  Free nodded vigorously.

  “You start to think of them as normal people,” the duchess said. “And then the next thing you know, they’re being introduced.”

  “Hmph.” Robert snorted beside her.

  “And all you can think is, surprise! A lord!” She shook her head and patted Free on the shoulder. “I hate it when that happens.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  EDWARD FOUND THE LITTLE FARM at the end of the road. After he’d looked for Free last night—looked for her everywhere, with no hope and a feeling of sinking dread—he’d purchased a ticket out here. He’d spent the night in a tiny inn, and then come out in search of… Well, he wasn’t sure what he had hoped to find.

  Fields of lavender waved purple heads in the wind, wafting a delicious scent around. A kitchen garden closer to the house was coming up cabbages. Daisies planted at the edge of the path lifted their heads into the morning sun as if they had no thought but to rejoice in the moment. Foolish flowers; someone would come along to cut them down before long. Even if they didn’t, winter would freeze them out, leaf and root alike.

  But the flowers didn’t care about his dark mood. They rustled softly, swaying in a light breeze, whispering that this was a quiet, peaceful place. That frost could not come here unless Edward brought it himself.

  It was a cheery, homey place, not at all the sort of abode where he’d imagined the Wolf, the mighty pugilist of his childhood imagination, retiring.

  Edward walked slowly forward. Not reluctantly; he had a damned good idea what was about to happen to him, and quite frankly, he welcomed it. But there was something about the air that sparked his imagination, something that made him think of other possibilities. He might have been treading this path with Free by his side. She’d have interlaced her hand with his, looked up at him with that air of totally unwarranted trust…

  Ah, hell. He was tormenting himself. He shook his head at the daisies beside him, rejecting their foolish optimism.

  The front door opened. Edward looked up to see a man standing there, his head tilted as he contemplated Edward. Edward felt every muscle in his body tense.

  This. This was the Wolf. He’d imagined himself at the side of a ring with this man at the center. When he was a child, he’d pictured this man absorbing blow after crippling blow. He’d painted that long-ago fight in oils.

  But the Wolf—Hugo Marshall—didn’t look anything like the mighty fighter of his imagination. He was no Hercules; he wasn’t even handsome. He was much shorter than Edward. There were no patrician lines to his face; he was the sort of man who Edward had passed on the street a thousand times and never given a second glance. He was wearing a loose cravat and a jacket with faded patches over the elbows. His hair was steel gray.

  “Good morning,” the other man said politely. “You’ve been dawdling outside my house for the last fifteen minutes. Is there some way I can help you?”

  Edward took his hat off. He wasn’t sure if he intended it as a sign of respect, or if he simply wanted to hold something. All he knew was that he was turning it in his hands, end to end, his mouth so dry, he was unable to speak.

  “What is it?” Mr. Marshall took a step closer. “Are you well, sir?”

  No. Edward was not well. He didn’t know how he was ever to be well. “You…” He’d managed to get only the single word out. He could do a few more, surely. “You…you must be Mr. Hugo Marshall.”

  “I am.”
Marshall looked him over and frowned. “And you have the look of… Ah, my memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s been years since I had to sort out high society.” His eyes were sharp and penetrating, flickering over Edward’s features. “No. I don’t know you, although you remind me…” He shrugged. Then his gaze traveled to Edward’s coat—badly pressed—and his unshaven cheeks. “Hmm. Why am I so sure that you’re high society?”

  Oh, how Edward wished he could lie. “I am.”

  “Are you here about some dimly remembered family scandal that I ferreted out years ago? If so, go away.” The man waved a hand. “I don’t remember a thing from that time—as I’ve just amply demonstrated.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, sir.”

  Marshall’s eyebrows rose on the sir.

  “You see, I’m…” He took a deep breath and then raised his chin. “I’m Edward Clark.” He didn’t even know if Free had mentioned his existence to her parents.

  Apparently, she had. An amused grin swept over Marshall’s face. “Are you, then? That explains the nervousness. But don’t tell me you’ve come to ask for Free’s hand. She didn’t speak of you as if you were a stupid fellow. You must know she’d never forgive either of us, if we…” He paused. “Wait one moment. Free never mentioned to me that her Mr. Clark was high society.”

  Her Mr. Clark. God, those words cut him.

  “I’m Edward Clark. Born Edward Delacey. Now, apparently, Viscount Claridge.” He shut his eyes. “You can address me by my preferred title: you idiot.”

  Marshall’s eyes were narrowing on this. “What have you done to my daughter, you idiot?”

  “To my great regret, I…” Edward’s hands were clammy. “It’s…” God, it would be better if lightning could just strike him now. “I can’t—that is, I seem to have married your daughter.”

  Marshall looked about the yard, as if searching for Free. When he didn’t find her, he turned back to Edward.

  “You regret marrying my daughter.” His voice sounded calm, if one could call the cold, black embers after a fire had burnt out calm.

  “No,” Edward said. “Never that. She regrets marrying me.”

  “Ah, then.” There was steel in the other man’s words, an edge so sharp that Edward could almost feel it slicing into him. “That’s worse.”

  “It is.” Edward shut his eyes and tensed. But nothing happened—no blow to the stomach, no fist to his face. He waited, his muscles growing taut, but instead, a bird chirped merrily off in the distance. He finally opened one eye to see Marshall watching him quizzically.

  “Aren’t you—that is—having confessed what I just did, aren’t you going to…?”

  “To rough you up a little?” Marshall asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m imagining it right now. Give me a moment, and I’ll get through it. Then we can talk like rational beings.”

  Edward blinked. “Pardon?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Come now. All you’ve said is that my daughter regrets marrying you. I don’t know if she’d regret marrying you less if I beat you to a bloody pulp. She might not; she might feel sorry for you if you were laid up with your ribs broken and your eyes blackened. Then she might end up saying things she doesn’t mean and find herself in a worse spot than she is now. I only strike other men when I think there’s a chance it’ll do some good.”

  “That’s…that’s…” It was alarmingly rational.

  “Besides, if Free wanted you to have a black eye, you’d have one. When she was twelve, she used to get into fistfights with the boy next door, and we were always being called upon by Mrs. Shapright to come see what Free had done to him.”

  Edward felt the corner of his lip twitch.

  “So tell me. How is it that a viscount came to marry my daughter without my knowledge?”

  “I hadn’t been in England for a long while. I never intended to return, and when I did, I didn’t plan to make myself known. I didn’t want to be a viscount. I just wanted to finish my business and go away.”

  “I see.”

  “And then my business brought me into Free’s way.” He swallowed. “And… And…”

  “And she bowled you over.” There was a glint of a smile on Marshall’s face.

  “Precisely. I don’t even know how it happened. One moment, I was standing there, utterly cynical about everything in the world, and the next… I was standing there, utterly cynical about everything except her. It was the most ridiculous thing.”

  And yet it wasn’t ridiculous at all. He could remember every instant of their first weeks together. When she’d first told him about the Hammersmith-Choworth prizefight. When she’d knocked on the door of Stephen’s room, ushering in the charwoman, and he’d jumped for the window. When she’d looked him in the eyes and told him that he saw only the river, not the roses. It wasn’t ridiculous that he loved her; it was the most reasonable thing on the planet. He hadn’t realized that he was rifling through those first memories until Marshall gestured for him to continue.

  Edward shook his head. “The only thing I knew was that if she knew the truth—if she knew everything about me—she’d never have me. So…I didn’t tell her. And…” He swallowed. “Your daughter can be a bit impulsive sometimes.” He cleared his throat. “Hypothetically, if a man returns from a long absence with a special license and a terrible reason to marry, well…” He shrugged and steeled himself for what was to come. “Mr. Marshall. I don’t know what Free would want, but for God’s sake, don’t let me off. I lied to your daughter. I married her by trickery, and she’s miserable now. It would be much easier if you could just beat me into a bloody pulp.”

  Marshall shrugged. “I’m getting old. I never beat a man into a bloody pulp before breakfast anymore. It will do you some good to stew. Come on in and meet my wife.”

  Edward stared at him in confusion. “Don’t you understand? I spent the night with your daughter under the color of lies.”

  Marshall inhaled, shaking his head. “Have you spent any time at all talking to Free? If I pummeled a man for spending the night with her, she’d be furious with me. She would tell me that it implies that a father owns his daughter’s body, and we’ve had that fight twice already. I’m not about to repeat it.”

  “But—”

  Mr. Marshall made an annoyed noise. “Think of things from my point of view. I’ve only your report to go on, and by your own admission, you’re a liar. So I can hardly trust your account of the matter. You may be going through a rough patch in your marriage, but you might also make it up to her. I’m doing my damned best not to wound you permanently, because it could make Christmases awkward for many years to come. If she tosses you to the side, well.” Marshall gave him a not-quite pleasant smile. “Then I’ll have my chance.”

  For just a moment, Edward felt as if his head had burst into flames. This was not how he’d envisioned this conversation proceeding. Not at all.

  And that, strangely, was what made him finally feel as if he knew what he was doing, because that feeling of being utterly turned about was all too familiar.

  He screwed his eyes shut. “Free gets that from you, I see.”

  “Gets what?”

  “That ability to set the world on its head.”

  There was a long pause after that. “No,” Marshall finally said. “You should come in and meet her mother.”

  “SO YOU’RE HEADING BACK to Cambridge.” Genevieve sat next to Amanda on the long sofa. Their skirts did not quite touch—Amanda had twitched hers out of the way when Genevieve sat down. But they were close enough that Amanda’s heart was pounding in a low, insistent rhythm.

  “I must,” Amanda said. “Alice was running the paper all by herself yesterday, and if I’m not back by this afternoon, she’ll get no rest at all.”

  “Has Free returned yet?”

  Amanda considered this. She’d felt almost guilty yesterday when her sister had harangued the officers at the arrest. They’d been on the other side of the park from Free—and
Maria had taken hold of Amanda’s arm with one hand, and Genevieve’s with the other. She’d pleaded fatigue, pointed out her state of being with child—and consequently, Amanda had not been dragged to the station with those closer to Free.

  Amanda had used her unencumbered state to send a messenger to the station. Free had been released a scant few hours later, and so there were no worries on that end.

  “Free didn’t say anything about when she was returning,” Amanda said. “But she’s newly married. I suspect she was otherwise occupied last night.”

  “Married!” Genevieve’s eyes widened. “I’d heard nothing at all of that. Does her brother know yet? Does Jane?”

  “It was…sudden,” Amanda explained. “Although, not precisely sudden to me. We do share a house, after all. She’s been besotted for months, smiling every time one of his letters arrived, acting as if she’d won top prize in a contest. It will be great fun teasing her when…”

  It was at that point that Amanda realized something very important. Between planning for the demonstration, reconciling with her sister, and the enjoyment of spending a little time afterward with Genevieve, she’d failed to notice one thing.

  “Oh, no,” she groaned, putting her head in her hands. “I was going to say, when we’re both back in Cambridge. But I just realized.”

  “Oh dear.” Genevieve caught on, too, and she too grimaced. “You live with her. Will she…” She paused delicately.

  “Will Free throw me out?” Amanda shook her head. “No. She wouldn’t. But I’m not sure how I feel about living with a newly married couple. Things might be a little awkward.”

  More than a little, she suspected. Free had kissed Edward in public. God only knew what might happen behind a door.

  “What will you do?”

  “Spend more time in London. It would make sense, given what I write about.” Amanda swallowed. “But I suppose it’s just as well. It will mean seeing my sister more. And Maria says Toby wants to see me—I haven’t seen my eldest brother in ages.”

  But it wasn’t the thought of Maria that had her heart pounding. She didn’t look at Genevieve, but she blushed anyway.