The Suffragette Scandal
Page 40

Miss Johnson turned to her. There was a wry look in her eyes. She shook her head a little.
Of course. It was one thing to claim acquaintance; it was quite another to be a friend, to be someone who would be seen with Amanda in public. Amanda drew back.
“Oh,” Miss Johnson said. “No. That’s not at all what I meant. Don’t mind me; I’m just a little foolish sometimes. Yes, Amanda. I’d be honored if you were my friend. But you’ll have to start calling me Genevieve.”
Maybe she was lying; maybe she was just being kind. But when she smiled, it was impossible to doubt her. And when Miss Johnson reached out and took Amanda’s hand in hers, she felt her own smile creep foolishly across her face.
“Very well, Genevieve,” Amanda said. She squeezed the other woman’s hand. “Very well.”
Chapter Twelve
“SO.” THE MAN ACROSS THE DESK from Edward folded his hands and frowned. “These are rather unusual circumstances, Mr. Clark. I find myself curious to see how you will explain them.”
It had been a mere twenty-four hours since Edward and Free had hashed out a plan—twenty-four hours during which he’d scarcely slept, after running back and forth between Cambridge and his brother’s estate. He’d finally ended up here in London. That was no reason to admit exhaustion. Edward leaned back casually, resting his hand against the brocaded arm of the chair. The man across from him didn’t look as much like Free as Edward had expected. His hair was brighter: almost orange. He was a great deal taller, his features less delicate. But his arms were crossed, and his suspicious glower could have been a twin for Free’s.
Marshall frowned, and Edward changed his mind. Free was much prettier when she glared at him.
Her brother sniffed and shuffled through the papers Edward had handed him. “So, you’re an Englishman who has spent some time in France.”
“Yes,” Edward said lazily.
“You’re doing some work with James Delacey.” Marshall grimaced at that.
“If you call it that,” Edward said.
“And you’ve come to see me.”
“You do appear to have basic literacy,” Edward said mockingly. “Well done, Marshall. You read your sister’s letter. Not everyone who has gone to Cambridge could manage so much.”
Mr. Marshall’s eyes narrowed further and he set down the papers. “My sister has never before mentioned you, does not live in France, and works mostly with women on women’s issues. Would you care to explain your acquaintance with her?”
Edward considered this carefully. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Free’s older brother made an annoyed noise in his throat. The silence stretched. Edward supposed it would have been uncomfortable to another man. Every tick of the clock no doubt was intended to make him feel more and more awkward. But he was tired enough that a rest—any sort of rest—was welcome.
He simply put on a pleasant smile, and when Marshall’s expression darkened, looked about the room and began to hum.
Marshall glared at him more fiercely.
“That tactic won’t work,” Edward said after a minute. “I’m not going to volunteer any more information than you have in front of you. I’m not scared of your glowers. I can sit here as long as I please without saying a thing. It’s your time, if you wish to waste it. If it makes you feel any better, your sister said to tell you that it’s none of your business who I am to her, and that she won’t have you barbarically assuming that she’s in need of protection from me.”
“Yes, well,” the other man said shortly. “Barbaric or not, I have some small idea what my sister endures, being what she is. If I can stop it in some small way, I will.”
“That’s good to hear,” Edward said. “But so far as I can tell, you haven’t stopped anything. I have. So set aside your masculine trumpeting. I haven’t come to pass whatever test of loyalty you want to mete out to me. You’re here to pass mine.”
Oliver Marshall was a Member of Parliament, well respected, liked by many. Even his enemies spoke highly of him. Mostly.
That likely meant that he played fairly—again, mostly. He probably told the truth, respected others, and gave his word and meant it. As such, Edward held a natural advantage over him.
“I beg your pardon,” Marshall was saying in faint outrage. “Are you questioning my devotion to my sister?”
Edward undid the twine holding another clump of papers together. “It’s not my pardon you’ll need. It’s hers. Has she told you about the duplications of her columns?”
“Yes. Of course. That’s the whole point of this whirlwind affair coming up, the one that’s driving my wife to distraction. I don’t know what you’re driving at, but—”
Edward snapped a sheet of newsprint out flat and held it up. “Do you recognize this?”
“Of course. That’s my sister’s paper. The edition that came out a few days past.”
“No,” Edward told him. “That’s the advance proof she sent to you. The precise page, mind you—there’s a note you scrawled in the corner, right there. Now, did you give this to Delacey yourself?”
“Delacey? That ass? Why would I give him this? Why would he…ah.” Free’s elder brother stopped talking and frowned, reaching for the paper. “Ah,” he repeated. His eyes grew darker. “Someone in my household is passing things on.” He shut his eyes and grimaced. “That’s extremely unfortunate.”
It was almost sweet how good-natured the man was. That all he could see was inconvenience in such a thing, instead of opportunity.
Edward smiled. “No. It’s going to be extremely useful, as soon as we can figure out who it is. If it isn’t you—and Miss Marshall believes it is not—then the number of people it could be is small. And we can use them.”
Mr. Marshall nodded. And then he frowned. “I still don’t understand. Why did my sister send you to tell me all this? Who are you?”
“She’s busy,” Edward said shortly. “As for me? I’m the one who is going to figure everything out. Let me tell you how.”
MISS MARSHALL’S BROTHER had the most comfortable wardrobe that Edward had ever hidden inside. It was spacious enough to fit two people, and, as it was apparently used as extra storage space for Mrs. Marshall’s gowns, was filled with colors so bright that the space seemed welcoming even in the dim light filtering in through the doors.