The Suffragette Scandal

No wonder his brother was targeting Miss Marshall.

And no wonder Edward had failed to convince her. He’d huffed internally when she’d called him a womanthrope—but he’d underestimated her so badly that he had to wonder if he was the sort of person who couldn’t give a woman her due simply because of her sex.

A mistake he needed to correct instantly, if he was to deal with her at all.

Hell, he’d threatened to ruin her reputation as if she were a fussy, prim little debutante. No wonder she hadn’t blinked. It had been rather like waving a butter knife at an accomplished swordsman.

The door to the little room was open; he could see her flitting about as the day progressed. She and the other women spent much of the afternoon laying out type, sending a few sheets through the machine, and then poring over the resultant copy. He could hear them arguing over antecedents, a friendly little squabble. Miss Marshall left shortly thereafter.

Instead of turning back to the archives, Edward opened his small sketchbook. Other men kept journals; Edward kept drawings. There was something about reducing an experience to a sketch or two that engaged his memory of details.

He tried to recall her office as best as he could. He could envision every last scratch on her desk, could remember the exact stack of papers, the position of the inkwell and pen. These things he penciled with swift, sure lines.

But when he tried to draw Miss Marshall, his memory was not so good. She’d had her auburn hair up in a simple bun; she’d worn a plain gown of dark gray with black cuffs. But none of the lines he put on paper seemed to capture her. He was leaving something out—something vital. He didn’t know what it was.

At three in the afternoon, she returned. He shut his notebook, picked up another newspaper—he was nine months in, now—and pretended to be absorbed in it.

She came to his door. She was carrying a paper sack, which she held up.

“Sandwich, Mr. Clark?”

He set the newspaper down. “And you’re feeding me, too? Why, Miss Marshall. I could almost imagine that you care.”

“I have an older brother.” She came into the room. “He complains bitterly if he misses a meal. I’ve no desire to hear you whine all evening.”

He snorted. “I don’t whine. Ever.”

“Well, we can be sure you won’t now.” She handed him the sack. “There’s water and soap up front, if you care to…” She stopped and frowned. “You never removed your gloves. I should have warned you. It’s easier to wash ink off hands than fabric.”

“Really?” He looked at her. “Miss Marshall, I have seen your hands. Do you ever get all the ink off?”

She smiled proudly at him. “No. I’m marked for life.”

“I thought as much.”

“We have a paper that needs to be on the 4 a.m. mail train. If you’ll excuse me.” She gave him a nod in acknowledgment and then ducked away.

He flipped his notebook open again. The sketch was definitely missing…something. There must be some trick of the light or expression that had failed him. His drawing of her seemed pallid and insubstantial in comparison with the reality of Miss Marshall in the flesh. He’d underestimated her once; it would be poor tactics to do it a second time.

He was trying to figure out what was missing, when the main door to the business opened and a man walked in.

Edward’s attention was instantly riveted. He kept his gaze firmly on his notebook, but he could not help but watch out of the periphery of his vision. The man who went up to Miss Marshall was taller now than Edward remembered. Those muscles he’d developed rowing were new. But it was, without a doubt, Stephen Shaughnessy. Edward could hear the tone of his speech from here. His voice had deepened, but it had that same lilting sound to it, that touch of Irish, a hint of his mother’s accent softened by a life lived in England. It brought back a rush of unwelcome emotion.

Little Stephen. Annoying Stephen. The clod, he and Patrick had called him, when he was particularly amusing and they’d not wanted to admit it. He hadn’t become any less clod-like if his columns proved anything.

Calling the other man names didn’t change a thing. Edward still yearned. He didn’t even know what he was yearning for. He’d told himself a million times after he was thrown out of the consulate that he didn’t have a brother, that he didn’t have a family.

The sight of Stephen put the lie to that. Edward had a little brother after all—maybe not one who was related to him by blood, but a brother nonetheless.

Stephen bent his head to Miss Marshall. They stood close together, Miss Marshall barely coming up to Stephen’s chin. She tilted her head and pointed a finger at him, and slowly, Stephen raised his hands in surrender. He said something; she laughed.

Edward looked down and turned the page in his notebook. Every one of Stephen’s features was burned in his mind—that sharp nose, those mischievous eyes, the tilt of his smile. He could almost see him reduced to pencil marks on the blank page before him.

He wouldn’t sketch him. He sketched to remember, and this was hard enough as it was.

Get on with you, he thought. Go away. Be safe. I’m dead, but I won’t let my family hurt you again.

But he didn’t look up at Stephen as he thought that. Instead, Edward shook his head, took out the newspaper, and went back to reading.

STEPHEN HAD A ROOM on a building that backed onto the River Cam.

From the bank of the river, huddled in a bush along a pedestrian footpath, an opera glass in hand, Free could see inside. Mr. Clark had posed no objection to sitting in the leaves and twigs with her.

She could make no sense of him. He’d lied to her—and he’d cheerfully admitted as much with a smile. He’d tried to blackmail her—but had shrugged complacently when she’d refused to be blackmailed. He was no doubt an utter scoundrel, but he was the best-natured scoundrel she’d ever had call to work with.

“Did you go to Cambridge?” she asked him.

He gave her an incredulous look. “What do you take me for? One of those prancing dandies arguing over Latin clauses?” He shrugged. “If you’re going to hold the glasses, keep your eyes on the room. We don’t want to miss anything.”

He didn’t try to take the glasses from her, though. Free sighed and trained them on Stephen’s room. He’d left a lamp lit, but it was still dark enough that she could miss something if she didn’t pay attention.

“You’ve been somewhere,” she said. “Somewhere before you lived in France is my guess. Harrow, perhaps? You have that hint of something to your speech.”