The Suffragette Scandal

“Oh,” Patrick said. “I have that letter he sent me in 1871. I’ve kept all his letters.”

There was a pause. “All his letters?”

“Yes. We’ve corresponded ever since.”

A clamor arose at that. Edward let out his breath and put his head in his hands. There truly was no going back after that proclamation, no pretending any longer.

“When was the last time you received a letter from Edward Delacey?”

“Two weeks past,” Patrick said. “But—”

“And how do you know that Edward Delacey has been writing these letters, and not some other man?”

“I know,” Patrick said, “because he saw those letters yesterday morning as we were compiling the evidence, and he did not disavow them.”

That was met with deafening silence. There was not even a shocked whisper in response.

“You saw him,” the questioner finally said. “Two days ago. He’s in England?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “He is. He’s—” He gestured at the room behind him. “He’s there. Waiting in the back chamber. I had to half-drag him here, your lordships.”

That much was true. Edward smiled sadly.

“James Delacey, would you recognize your brother?”

There was a long pause. “Of course I would,” his brother said, his voice sounding a little too hearty.

“Let Edward Delacey come forward, then.”

Edward stood. Some part of him wanted to run away, to escape England and leave Patrick to face the wrath of the lords on his own. But he wouldn’t do that to Patrick…and he couldn’t let Free linger on in a cell, at his brother’s nonexistent mercy.

He came forward. It had been a long time since he’d tried to walk like a lord—arrogant, occupying space as if all the room in the world belonged to him. These men were watching him, judging him.

He sat, hoping that his dazed state came across as bored arrogance.

“Are you Edward Delacey, the eldest living son of John Delacey?” the speaker asked.

“I am,” he said. “Although I have been called Edward Clark these last years, and I prefer that name.”

That got another murmur.

“James Delacey, is this man Edward Delacey, your brother?”

He looked over at James. James was watching him, a confounded expression in his eyes. No doubt he didn’t realize that this was not the only one of his plans that would unravel today. He’d understand it soon enough.

“I don’t know,” James demurred. “He—well—that is…” He trailed off.

“There’s no point lying now, James,” Edward said. “Whatever you claim, they’ll make you swear it under oath. You’ll not want to perjure yourself before the House of Lords.”

“Ah… If only I…”

“The alternative to your admitting this now,” Edward said, “would be to find the British consular secretary from Strasbourg, the one you wrote to. I suspect this body would find his testimony most instructive. Do you want that?”

He’d do it, too, if need be—expose his brother’s treachery to the world. He didn’t give a damn about gossip; he cared about Free. He could see the moment his brother gave in. James lowered his head, his skin pale. “I don’t understand. You said you didn’t want it. You said…”

Edward could now see the face of the man who had been asking the questions. He was the attorney general, the man tasked to present James’s credentials to the House of Lords. At this, the man hissed.

“Delacey,” he said, “are you telling me that you not only know this man is your brother, you spoke to him before these proceedings?”

James winced. “I. Ah.”

“You sent a letter to the queen detailing your claim two weeks ago. And you knew it was false?” There was a dangerous note to his voice.

“I—that is one way of looking at it, of course. But—”

“There is only one way of looking at it,” the man said severely.

And like that, there was nothing to do. Edward could scarcely pay attention. The proceedings were wound up, the vote taken. The committee decisively agreed not to refer James’s petition to the House of Lords.

Edward sat in place, barely hearing anything, unable to contemplate how his life had changed. The only thing he could think of was Free. She’d be furious once she found out.

But then, she’d not be in gaol. She wouldn’t be tortured. And that would be enough for him—it had to be.

He stood when the committee adjourned and began to leave.

“Claridge,” a voice called.

It took him a moment to understand that he was Claridge now. Not confirmed yet, but recognized. It was only a matter of time until he received all the accolades he’d never wanted.

Edward looked over. A man was striding toward him—thin, blond, and smiling.

“The majority of them are too shocked to say anything. I thought I’d say… Welcome to Bedlam.” The other man winked. “Don’t listen to a word they say. It really is as bad as you fear.”

“I hardly need instruction on that point.” Edward shook his head.

“Come by sometime and we’ll talk about what we can do about it.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Clermont, by the way.”

Clermont. It had been years since he’d memorized his peerage, but he knew that name. He didn’t remember the title from his dimly remembered lessons as a child; he remembered the man because Free had mentioned him just yesterday. This was her brother’s brother.

After Free realized how he’d misled her? This man would be his enemy.

Edward frowned. “You’re not on this committee.”

The other man shrugged one shoulder. “When my wife tells me that there’s been an interesting pair of witnesses sworn in for a routine hearing, I try to make it my duty to sit in. Now, shall I send a note around for dinner someday?” His hand was still outstretched.

Edward looked regretfully at the other man’s hand. “I won’t take you up on that until I’m sure you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“Now, yes,” Edward said. “In a day? Your Grace, what you just witnessed is not the worst mess I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours.”

Clermont raised an eyebrow. “Ah. You’ve been busy.”

“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go retrieve my wife from gaol.”