The Suffragette Scandal
Page 14

Free went to the door. “There’s one last thing I need to do.” They’d spoken all this time in hushed whispers; this time, she didn’t bother to moderate her tone.
He made a face. “Hush. You’ll be heard.”
That was rather the point. Free raised her hand. Mr. Clark took a step forward, but before he could reach her, she’d rapped—hard—on the inside of Stephen’s door.
“You can come in now, Mrs. Simms,” Free said in a carrying voice. “Let’s see what we have.”
Chapter Five
EDWARD HAD SWUNG HIMSELF out the window before he even had a chance to think what Miss Marshall was doing. His heart was pounding; his hands were clammy.
But instead of dropping to the ground immediately, he held on, his heels finding purchase against the rough rock of the building, his hands wrapped in the ivy.
“Well, dearie,” he heard an older voice saying. “Is it as you thought?”
“I’m afraid so. There’s a ring in here.”
The old woman—Mrs. Simms—clucked. “An ugly business, Miss Marshall. An ugly business. Good thing you caught wind of it. Stephen’s a dear.”
Not everyone hated him, then. Edward hadn’t spoken to Stephen in years, and yet he was unsurprised to discover that he was still winning women over.
This other woman was sniffing distastefully. “I can vouch for the fact that he’s not been in all evening. I went through his things at three this afternoon as he was leaving, and I saw nothing.”
Ah. Edward leaned his forehead against the cool stone. She’d arranged for a backup plan, in the event that they’d failed in their objective. Clever.
She hadn’t told him about that, of course. That was more clever still; he certainly wouldn’t have told himself, either. That must have been when she left her paper—she’d made certain that if he was lying to her, Stephen was protected anyway. And then she’d brought him a sandwich.
Damn, but he respected that.
“I’ll take it, then,” Mrs. Simms said. “And when the cry goes up about missing things, I’ll disclose everything. You can’t be found in here, Miss Marshall. You know what they’ll say. Go on.”
“You’re a dear. Have Mr. Simms send a message if there’s anything else I need to know.”
He could hear her coming to the window as she spoke. He dropped to the ground and waited.
She clambered over the edge, looked down, and caught sight of him. “You’re still here,” she said in surprised tones.
“Hang,” he told her in a low voice. “I’ll catch you.”
She didn’t hesitate. She swung her legs over the sill. He caught a flash of stockinged ankles and white petticoats—and then she lowered herself down. He wrapped his arms around her.
It was a little uncomfortable to let her slide down him. Uncomfortable for him in the best way possible: He was aware of every last shift of fabric. She had a lovely scent to her, something sweet and wild, like lavender on an empty hillside. He almost didn’t want to let her go when her toes touched the ground.
He did anyway, taking a few steps back.
When he glanced at her, she was smiling. “Are you angry at me?” she asked sweetly.
“Of course not. I told you not to trust me, and you didn’t.”
Every time he thought he knew what to expect from her, she upset his expectations. He felt buffeted about, unsure of his footing.
Also, she liked boxing.
God, this was bad. Very, very bad.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “we have to talk.”
Bad went instantly to worse. Talking was never a good thing. He glanced at her warily. “We do?”
“Yes.” She gave him a sudden grin. “But don’t give me that look. You’re the one who suggested it, after all. We’re supposed to talk about how attractive I find your muscles.”
His mouth went dry. No use pretending anymore. He wanted her—everything about her—from that saucy smile to the inner workings of her clever mind. He wanted her badly.
He took one step toward her.
“Alas,” she said, “we’ll have to postpone that discussion. After all, I have a newspaper that must be out with the 4 a.m. mail.”
He couldn’t believe it. She’d…toyed with him. Incomprehensibly, ridiculously, damnably. He was supposed to be the scoundrel here. He was supposed to be putting her on edge.
“No wonder you weren’t prepared to give me italics on either maddening or brilliant this afternoon,” he told her. “You were hoarding them all for yourself. Well played, Miss Marshall. Very well played.”
She gave him a smile—he could only call it maddeningly arousing—and then turned away. Her skirts swished around her ankles. She walked away from him with swift, sure strides, as if she knew her destination. As if it had nothing to do with him.
Edward had the odd notion that after years of drab motionlessness, his entire world had suddenly begun to spin about him. He’d had that feeling ever since he’d been pulled into her orbit on the bank of the Thames.
She gave him the most astonishing vertigo. He should have hated it.
But he didn’t—not one bit.
EDWARD HAD NEVER BEEN in Baron Lowery’s stable before, but he was struck by a sense of aching familiarity from the moment he entered. The tack hanging against the wall, the smell of oil and herbs, the arrangement of the tools… The best moments of his childhood had been spent in a stable laid out like this.
Familiarity was good after the extremely odd events of the last evening.
As he walked down the aisle, a groom popped up from a nearby stall, a puzzled expression on his face.
“May I help you?” The boy’s voice broke on the last syllable.
“I’m looking for Shaughnessy,” Edward said. He kept his expression calm and easy, even though his heart was racing. He hadn’t seen Patrick in years and years.
“He’s expecting you, then?” This was said dubiously.
“No, but he’ll want to see me.”
“Now?” The boy frowned. “Day’s almost over. Can the business wait?”
“I’m not here on business.”
There was a longer pause. The boy opened the stall door and shut it carefully behind him. Edward knew that gesture—this was a boy who’d been admonished to check the latch, to make sure. He knew that admonishment, too.
The boy brushed his hands together. “I’ll go see if he’ll come. Who should I say is calling?”