The Suffragette Scandal
Page 37

He smiled faintly in response. “But we already know you’re too trusting. My list is one entry long: you. Are you certain about your brother? He’s an MP, is he not? How much of an embarrassment are you to him?”
“Oh, not much,” Free said. “He always bails me out of gaol. If he wanted to stop me, he would have just left me in the lock hospital. He always says that I’m extremely useful politically because I make him look like the reasonable Marshall.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Mr. Clark growled. “You’re extremely reasonable.”
“Mr. Clark, did you just use an exclamation point? I could have sworn I heard one.”
He didn’t even blink. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “I borrowed one of yours. It’s allowed, when I’m talking of you. But this is neither here nor there. You see, Miss Marshall, we know something now, and Delacey doesn’t know we know it. If your brother is not the culprit, it’s one of his staff. It’s likely someone who works closely with him.”
“That would make sense,” she said slowly.
“And while Delacey would never talk directly with an arsonist, my guess is that he might make himself known to a secretary or a man of business. And that…” He smiled, charmingly. “That, Miss Marshall, is where we can get the proof we need to publicly hold him responsible.”
“Do you have any suggestions as to how we will manage that?”
“As it happens, I do.” His smile spread, and his eyes glittered wolfishly. “It’s simple. Blackmail first, followed by a public accusation.” He glanced over at her. “That is, assuming that you don’t mind bending the rules a little?”
Odd, what a strange thing trust was. A week or so ago, she’d never have trusted Mr. Clark, not for the slightest instant. In that time, little had changed. He was still a blackmailer, still a forger. He was likely even still a liar.
But he’d saved her last night, and now they knew things of each other—things that seemed more important than such details as the name he’d been born with, or the nature of his revenge. He knew she had nightmares about the lock hospital; she knew he’d been in a fire brigade in Strasbourg.
He sketched out a plan; she pointed out where her brother would comply and where he might not. At the end, Edward took his leave. There was, after all, much more work to do. But she felt as if she’d been carrying a great burden a long distance, and the end was finally visible.
She watched him leave. Still, there was one last thing niggling at her.
She waited until he’d left the press before standing up. Stephen Shaughnessy was still on the floor, giving his column a final look-over. She gestured him over.
He came in. “Yes, Miss Marshall?”
He looked…so innocent. Stephen was good at looking innocent; a necessary skill for a man who had a dreadfully mischievous sense of humor. Most of the time, his humor served her. But now…
“Do you have some passing prior acquaintance with Mr. Clark?”
He glanced behind him, toward the front door where the man had disappeared. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t have a passing acquaintance with him. Why do you ask?”
“Just a thought.” And yet now that it had occurred to her, she realized it made a strange sense of things. The first time she’d met Mr. Clark, he’d asked her about Stephen. They’d formed their partnership when Delacey had put Stephen in imminent danger of arrest.
It could have been a coincidence.
“You know how terrible I am at recalling names and faces.” He spread his hands before him. “I could have met him a thousand times and not recognized him.”
Both Stephen and Mr. Clark had dealt with James Delacey in the past. And Stephen had suggested that Mr. Clark ask about Free’s father—and while she’d assumed that Stephen had been twitting her about blushing on Mr. Clark’s arrival, it would also have fit if he knew Mr. Clark idolized the man, and was teasing him about it.
“Are you absolutely certain?” she asked.
Stephen shrugged. “I’m never certain about something like this. But it wouldn’t make any sense. How would I have met him? How old would you say he is?”
“Maybe the tail end of his thirties?” It was impossible to guess, really. That white in his hair, she suspected, was deceptive. He didn’t act like an older man.
She’d felt him lift her, too—and he’d seemed young enough then.
“There you are,” Stephen said. “The only men I know who are above thirty-five are friends of my father and tutors at school. And while I know very little about Mr. Clark, I don’t think he’s a tutor.”
“Right.” She sighed. “Well, let me see your column again, and we’ll see if it’s up to snuff.”
EDWARD WAITED HALFWAY DOWN the path to the university, pacing up and down. It took Stephen twenty minutes to appear. He had his hands in his pockets and he was whistling some complicated ditty.
He caught sight of Edward as he drew nearer. But instead of frowning or jumping in surprise, Stephen gave him a brilliant smile. “Edward,” he called out. “Good to see you. I’m glad you’re not dead.”
That little… Edward shook his head in mock anger. Stephen had known it was him the entire time, and he’d given scarcely a hint.
“Delacey, eh?” Stephen came up to him. “You’re taking on James Delacey?”
Edward huffed. “Shut up, clod.” And then, because that seemed unduly harsh, he reached over, removed Stephen’s hat, and ground his knuckles in Stephen’s hair. Or at least he tried to. The angle was no longer quite so convenient; he scarcely managed to apply his knuckles to his head.
Stephen simply looked over at him with raised eyebrows. “Unimpressive, Edward. That doesn’t work so well when I’m no longer waist-high.”
“Why didn’t you say anything back there, if you knew?”
“Huh.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Look at me. I’m just a nobody, with neither sense nor discretion. Why would I keep my mouth shut? It’s not as if my brother corresponds regularly with a man named Clark, a man I’ve never heard of and who he refuses to answer questions about. But, no, there’s nothing suspicious about that.”
Edward glared at him.
“I was certainly not suspicious when I heard there was a mysterious Mr. Edward Clark hanging about the press. Said Clark appeared just in time to foil a plot to have me tossed out of school, if not worse. But do I know an Edward Clark? No, of course I don’t. I only know an Edward Delacey. That’s the man who saved my life when I jumped out of a tree into sucking mud.”