The Suffragette Scandal

Not so the man who crouched next to him. He’d known her brother was a Member of Parliament, which was already one strike against him. From what Free had said, he’d expected a stodgy stickin-the-mud who constantly frowned at his exuberant sister.

Instead, he’d seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. He’d absorbed the details of the fire, and Edward’s role in it, with a darkening expression. When Edward had told him about Delacey, he’d growled and offered to beat the man into a pulp.

No; he wasn’t feigning that deep protectiveness for his sister. It was all the more obvious because he clearly treated Edward with suspicion. Which meant he was in possession of a working mind, something Edward could hardly begrudge him. He had volunteered to watch the study in secret with Edward when they’d left it empty—tantalizingly empty. They’d left the next advance proof that Free had sent along from Cambridge resting on his desk as bait.

That was how Edward found himself in a small, enclosed space with Oliver Marshall. Small, enclosed spaces still made him uneasy, but this one didn’t smell of smoke, and no choking plaster dust hung in the air. The door to the wardrobe was cracked open, letting in fresh air and light.

For the first few minutes, they sat in silence.

Then Marshall leaned forward and whispered. “If you hurt my sister, you’ll know pain like you’ve never known pain before.”

Edward glanced back at the man, amused. Marshall was soft. He probably thought that a few cross words and a fist in the face were the worst that humanity had to offer.

“I sincerely doubt that,” he answered in a low voice. “I’ve known a lot of pain.”

And yet he suspected that what the other man had said was true on some level. He wasn’t sure when all of this rigmarole had stopped being about revenge and started being about her. Hurting Free would be its own peculiar sort of pain.

Marshall growled.

“Really,” Edward responded, “you ought to save your breath. There’s no point threatening me. You’ll never be as good at it as your sister, and threats only work on men who fear. I don’t.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of doing.”

Edward smiled, and reached over and patted Mr. Marshall on the knee, being sure to turn his face so that the light caught the condescending edge of his smile. “There, there,” he said comfortingly. “You’re very frightening, I’m sure. But I’ve met your sister, and trust me, if Free doesn’t scare me, you can’t.”

He deliberately used her pet name to provoke the other man. He wasn’t sure why. He could have charmed the other man, smoothed his ruffled, outraged feathers. Instead, he was doing his best to avoid any sense of camaraderie. The last thing he needed was to earn the approval of Free’s brother. Once he had that, well… It was a short road to thinking that he could be a part of the family. Best to keep things at arm’s length.

Edward looked off through the crack in the wardrobe. “Free does many things well.”

There was a long pause. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

Edward didn’t answer.

“You are. I swear to God, I will never understand my sister.”

“Hardly surprising, as her understanding is superior to yours.”

Instead of taking offense at that blatant insult, Mr. Marshall looked greatly amused. He shook his head and looked away. “Of course. I should have realized what was happening the first time you attempted to insult me by complimenting my sister. She got to you.” It was Marshall’s turn to give Edward a condescending clap on the shoulder. “Don’t feel badly; she does that often.”

Edward managed to keep his face devoid of all expression.

“This may be the first time she’s had one of Delacey’s thugs following her about like a baby duckling, though. I take it all back, Mr. Clark. No pain for you. You’ve given me material to tease her with for years to come.”

One of Delacey’s thugs. That’s how he’d introduced himself to this man. Better that than telling him the truth.

“I object to being called a duckling,” Edward replied smoothly. “I consider myself a full-grown mallard.”

Marshall smirked. “How long did it take her? People usually react to her fairly swiftly—either love or hate, there’s rarely an emotion between. A day? A week?”

He thought of Free the way he’d first seen her: standing on the bank of the Thames, leaning forward.

“Two to five,” Edward muttered.

“Days?”

“Minutes.”

Marshall let out a crack of laughter.

“Hush, you,” Edward growled. “We’re being clandestine here.”

“So we are.” The other man dropped his voice back to a low whisper. “It’s almost sweet. Here you are, sitting in a closet, trapped with a man you dislike, stricken by adoration for my little sister.”

Edward supposed he deserved that after needling the man earlier. Marshall was trying to provoke him right back.

“Yes.” Edward rolled his eyes. “It’s a terrible secret, that. I am trying dreadfully to conceal it. I openly altered my life for weeks on end for your sister. I single-handedly stopped an arsonist from setting fire to her business. When confronted with that evidence, it took you a mere three hours to determine that I harbored an affection for her. Truly, you have a massive intellect.”

This was met with a long pause. “Are you really left-handed?” Mr. Marshall asked.

“No. I’ve just been pretending to use my left hand my entire life because I enjoy never being able to work scissors properly.” Edward rolled his eyes. “What do you think? My father tried to encourage me to use my right more but it never did take.” Thankfully. He’d hate to rely on his right hand now.

“I was just wondering if it was an attempt to worm your way into the Brothers Sinister. It won’t work; you had to be at Cambridge with us to be a member. Or be Violet.”

Edward looked at the other man. “Marshall,” he said levelly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but any organization that claims you for a member doesn’t get to call itself sinister, whether you’re left-handed or not. I would be insulted to be offered membership in such a namby-pamby organization. It would be like the Archbishop of Canterbury calling a select club of his compatriots ‘Bad, Bad Bishops’.”

Marshall sniggered.

“Watch out for the clergy,” Edward said. “They’re absolutely wild. Sometimes they have an extra biscuit at tea.”