The Suffragette Scandal

Marshall gave him a look that seemed faintly like approval. “You’re awful,” he said. “I finally begin to understand my sister’s interest.”

That was when Edward heard a faint noise from outside the closet. He reached over and clapped his hand over the other man’s mouth. Marshall went still. The door opened on a soft sigh, and then closed with quiet deliberation. Footsteps padded across the room. Edward smiled to himself. Whoever they were dealing with was a complete amateur. Sneaking about in a surreptitious manner drew far more suspicions.

Edward took his hand away from the other man’s mouth and held a finger up to his own lips.

A man crept into view, and beside him Marshall gave a low growl in his throat. Well he should; Edward had seen the man in the halls earlier. He’d been on the list of suspects that he’d drawn up with Free. It was Mark Andrews, Mr. Marshall’s undersecretary.

Andrews crept to the desk, looking from side to side as if he were a spy in a stupid novel. The little secretary reached out and took hold of the advance proof on the desk. This he folded, and then slid in his pocket.

“You’d better go,” Edward muttered.

Mr. Marshall swung the wardrobe door open. “I say, Andrews.” He stepped out as if he removed himself from wardrobes on a regular basis.

Andrews jumped at his appearance and emitted a high-pitched yelp.

Marshall straightened, patting his jacket into place. “What are you doing?”

“Sir!” Andrews scrambled a pace back from the desk. “I was just—straightening? Yes, I was straightening. Your desk. Because it was…not straight.”

“You were taking the advance proof my sister sent this morning,” Mr. Marshall said with a shake of his head.

“I—uh—no, see, the corner had ripped, and I intended to mend it.”

Marshall clucked sadly. “It’s no good, Andrews. We know you’ve done it before. You’ve been working with Delacey for months, and we can prove it.”

There was a long pause. Edward watched, curious to see if Andrews would manage to be more competent than he’d thus far observed. But no. The man sank into a chair and set his head in his hands. “Oh. That’s bad,” he muttered.

“I won’t press charges,” Mr. Marshall said gently, “so long as—”

Edward had—quite deliberately—not talked strategy beyond apprehension with Mr. Marshall. It was best to nip this in the bud. Edward stepped out of the wardrobe, interrupting this benevolence. “So long as you do as I say,” he said smoothly.

Mr. Marshall turned to him, scowling. “Wait. What are you doing?”

Edward waved his hand. “Free and I didn’t tell you the full plan. You’d have objected.”

“I’m objecting now.”

Edward ignored him. Instead, he walked up to his quarry.

“Here’s what you’re going to do to avoid a prison sentence, Andrews.” He let his voice drop to a deceptively gentle register. “First, you’re going to take this advance proof.” He tapped Andrew’s pocket. “And you’re going to deliver it to…who is it that you normally deliver these to?”

“Alvahurst,” Andrews said. “Delacey’s secretary.”

“Good. You’re going to give it to him, just as you always do.”

Andrews looked puzzled.

“But you’ll tell him that you’ve heard plans that might interest Delacey. Mr. Marshall, see, is holding a soireé in a few days—one for his sister, who as we all know, is terribly beleaguered. You’ve heard that she’s desperate, and you think that Delacey would find the gathering amusing. When Alvahurst asks you to see if you can obtain an invitation, give him this.” Edward handed over a thick card.

“I say. Where did you get that?” Mr. Marshall asked. Edward ignored him again.

“You’ll have more duties on the night of the gathering,” Edward told him. “But we’ll discuss those later. Now, are we clear on what you’re to do?”

Andrews winced. “But—sir.” His hands shook. “I don’t think I’ve the nerve for it.”

“Of course you have the nerve for it,” Edward said, pitching his tone to warm comfort. “You have the nerve right now to be contemplating telling Alvahurst that you’ve been discovered. If you have the nerve to lie to my face, you can lie to his.”

Andrews went green.

“But then, you’re a clever fellow. What can Alvahurst do for you, aside from offer you a few extra coins? I can do much, much more. You see, stealing from an employer is a bad business. I doubt the magistrates will show you an ounce of pity. Mr. Marshall’s sister here runs a newspaper. Your reputation will be ruined. Even if you escape imprisonment, you’ll never work again.”

“Wait,” Mr. Marshall said. “Are you blackmailing him? That’s illegal.” He looked frustrated. “I’m an MP now. I can’t support that.”

“No, you draw your ethical line at two biscuits with tea,” Edward said with a scoff. “I know you won’t support this. That’s why we didn’t tell you. Your condemnation, irrelevant as it is, is noted.”

Marshall took a step forward. “Don’t listen to him, Andrews.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Edward responded smoothly. “He’s no threat to you. He was willing to let you off at the first opportunity, that’s how understanding he is. The person you should be afraid of is me. I’m the one who knows where your banking records are kept. I can ferret out every payment that Delacey has made to you, match it up with the corresponding draft from his accounts.”

Andrews swallowed.

“I know all about your mother,” Edward said. “And your wife. Claudette, is it?”

Andrews paled.

“Marshall here is vaguely upset. He might talk sternly to you. I, on the other hand, am a very bad enemy to have, and a lovely friend. So tell me, what are you going to do?” Edward held out the invitation once more.

Andrews flinched back. His breath cycled. He stared at it and then slowly lifted his eyes to Mr. Marshall.

“Sorry, Mr. Marshall,” he said quietly. “But—but—”

Mr. Marshall folded his arms in disapproval.

“Here. Repeat after me what you must do,” Edward said, and when Andrews got it wrong, as Edward had suspected he would, he coached him once, twice, three times.