The Suffragette Scandal
Page 18

“Well, nothing happened.” Free looked away. “As Alice says, I’ve done more dangerous things for a story. If I went into hiding just because people sent me vile threats, I’d spend my entire life cowering beneath a blanket.”
“Oh, don’t do this.” Amanda huffed. “There’s a massive difference between hiding beneath a blanket and slipping out at night with a man you just met. I don’t care how sterling his credentials were.”
“Oh, they weren’t sterling at all,” Free said. “I’d never have trusted him if they were. They were more like tarnished brass, and we laughed at them together.”
“Even worse. You have to stop taking risks, Free. Learn to be afraid for once.”
As if that was a skill she had to learn. Free’s nostrils flared. “My entire life is a risk. That’s what it means when I put my name on a masthead and speak up. If someone decides to make an end of me, there’s nothing I can do about it—nothing at all but surround myself with the illusion of safety. If Mr. Clark had wanted to kill me, he could have simply crept into my room in the middle of the night with a garrote.”
That brought to mind a memory of one of Free’s nightmares, a dark, lurid image that lurked at the edge of her conscious thought. Oh, she was afraid. She never stopped being afraid. She just tried not to let it stop her in turn.
Years ago, her aunt had passed away, leaving Free a surprising legacy. But the money she’d received was not the most valuable thing her aunt had left her. Her Aunt Freddy had also written her a letter. One of these days, her aunt had written, you are going to learn to be afraid. I hope that what I’ve managed to save for you will help you move on from that in some small degree.
Free kept that letter on the table next to her bed. Freddy had been right; she had learned to be afraid. Sometimes, if a nightmare was particularly bad, Free took the paper out and held it, and it kept the worst of her fears at bay.
She shook her head, shoving this all away. “We can argue about the past all we like. But the truth is that nothing I did could have stopped a determined assailant—not my good sense, not my most demure choices.”
“Free,” Amanda protested.
But Alice leaned over the table and patted Amanda’s hand. “She’s right, Amanda. If she didn’t take risks, then she’d be a lot less like herself, and a lot more like…” She trailed off, perhaps realizing what she’d been about to say.
“Like me,” Amanda said bitterly.
“No,” Alice said. “You take risks. In your own way.”
Free wished she could say something in response to that. Instead, she swallowed and looked at her hands. Time for a change of subject. “You’re going down to London next week, aren’t you?”
Amanda gave her a jerky nod.
“Then I’d like you to take something to Jane, if you could.”
“I suppose. If you think you can manage to keep yourself from getting killed without a housemate,” Amanda muttered with ill grace. “Are you going to keep away from Mr. Clark?”
Free sighed. “There’s no point in promising. He won’t be back.” Yes, he’d flirted with her. He’d been shameless about it. But after the way she’d altered their plan and then put everything in the newspaper? It was unlikely. Even if he’d told her the truth, and she very much doubted that, men didn’t like women taking charge.
“Free,” Amanda said in exasperation. “Stop evading my question.”
“No,” Free said, rubbing her temples. “I won’t promise. He’d be a useful tool, if he did come back. But he won’t.”
Chapter Six
FREE HAD BEEN CERTAIN—almost certain—that she’d seen the last of Mr. Clark two weeks ago, on that night in March. As the days went on, she did her best to convince herself that it was true. Every time the door opened, she turned, her breath catching. Every time someone other than Mr. Clark entered, her heart sank. Foolishly, she told herself—entirely foolishly. After all, there was no reason to look forward to his return. Matching wits with him once had been enough for a lifetime.
And besides, the only man her paper really needed around was Stephen Shaughnessy. Free was sure that he was on her side, at least.
That incident involving him had sobered everyone, making them realize what was at stake. It had driven Stephen to write even more outrageous columns—and everyone else had followed suit, throwing themselves into their work.
No, they didn’t need Mr. Clark.
April was well and truly started. Amanda had gone down to London to report on the latest sessions of Parliament, and Free had stopped glancing up when the door to her business opened. She’d shrunk the foolish impulse to no more than a touch of interest—one she could push away, concentrating on the papers before her instead.
And then…
“Hullo, Miss Marshall,” someone said from the doorway of her office. Someone with a rich, dark voice, one that spoke of amusement and danger all in one breath.
Free jumped, dropping her pen and spattering ink across her sleeve. Not that it mattered; all her day gowns were well-inked.
She blotted at the stain anyway. “Mr. Clark. How do you do?”
He smiled at her, and she did her best to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t like him. She didn’t know his real name. He’d tried to blackmail her. He’d disappeared for weeks with no explanation.
But he had a very nice smile, and he seemed truly pleased to see her.
Damn him.
She tried not to smile back. “And here I thought that you took the piece I wrote about the events of the other night for what it was—a threat to expose you publicly. I thought you’d absconded in response.”
“Of course not.” He leaned against her doorframe. “I did take your warning. It was clever of you, Miss Marshall, to make it clear that you have yet another hold over me. I can hardly begrudge you that.”
He appeared to be serious about that.
Free shook her head. “On the contrary. That seems precisely the sort of thing a person usually holds a grudge about.”
“Ah, but if I were that sort of man, you wouldn’t find me nearly so compelling.” Without being invited, he walked into her office. He didn’t seat himself at one of her chairs; he leaned against her desk, as if he had every right to come so close. “A man must make choices: He can become enraged for no reason on the one hand, or he might impress men and women on the other.” He shrugged. “I’ve chosen to be charming. Is it working?”