The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(101)

“You could learn.”

“Why should I? Neither of us want this. Why should we change our entire lives when there are people who already know this place better than I ever would? Let them run it.”

Free blinked. “Who do you mean?”

“All the land I showed you yesterday? Those hundreds of tenants, all the people in town who rely on the estate? They know what they need, and they surely don’t need us to explain it to them. Let them decide how to manage this all. It’s their life. Imagine what would happen if we simply got out of the way.”

Free let out a breath. She’d been trying to figure it all out—how to have this, and have her newspaper as well. It…it might be possible.

“Take this house, for instance,” he said. “We don’t want it. So why not find a better way to use the funds to keep it open? Ask the tenants what they’d want. Maybe they’ll choose to rent it out. Maybe they’ll convert it to a hospital or a school.”

“You’re right,” Free said slowly. “Would we choose a board of tenants, then?”

“Choose?” He smiled at her. “Come, my dear. It’s time you stopped being so acquisitive and started being more political.”

For one moment, her heart stopped. And then—as the future truly opened up to her—she began to smile.

“I rather think,” he said, “that they’re competent to vote on a board themselves.”

“They could.” She couldn’t breathe. “And who will get to vote, do you think?”

He reached out and took her hands. “Must you ask? It’s our estate. Our board. We can set any rules we wish.”

The bluebells shifted as another breeze ruffled them, thimble after thimble ringing out.

“So,” he finished, “I had rather assumed the women would vote, too.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. She reached out and pulled him to her. He was solid and real in her arms. And he was right—there was no need to compromise. Not with him. From here on out, there would be no almost—just more, and more, and more.

“That’s where we’ll start,” he said. “When the fabric of society fails to unravel in response… Well, we’ll take on the rest of the world.”

She pulled him down for a kiss. “They don’t stand a chance.”

Epilogue

IT WAS LATE AUGUST, and the archive room at the Women’s Free Press was miserably hot. In part that was because the weather was deucedly warm. In part, it was because no breeze came in through the window, even though they’d opened it as wide as it would go. But mostly, it was because there were seven people—counting Edward—crammed into the tiny space.

The chair and the desk that had once stood here had been pressed into service in the adjacent meadow, bearing food and drink.

That meant that everyone sat on the floor.

To Edward’s left, Oliver Marshall’s knee jammed into his thigh. On his right, Patrick Shaughnessy sat, quietly contemplating his cards. Violet and Sebastian Malheur sat shoulder-to-shoulder across the room. Opposite them sat the Duke of Clermont, with Stephen Shaughnessy at his side.

“So is someone going to explain to me,” Edward asked, “why we must all play cards in a closet?”

“Tradition.” That came from Sebastian Malheur.

Sebastian Malheur was precise and amusing. He’d glanced once at each card as it was dealt, and then never looked at them again. Edward had met him first a few weeks ago, when Free had taken him down to London on her brother, Oliver’s return.

“Tradition?” Edward looked dubiously around the space.

They were crammed in every which way. Marbles—which Clermont had insisted were the only tokens to be used—took the place of cash bets. Clermont had explained the matter of those tokens solemnly. Apparently, marbles were a serious business in these parts.

Edward shook his head. “You lot have terrible traditions.”

“The cramped space is not part of the usual way of things,” Clermont said. “It’s more that when one of the Brothers Sinister gets married, we get together the night before and play cards.”

“Discomfort, however, does seem to be the norm.” Sebastian grinned. “Particularly on the part of the groom.” He looked off in distant memory. “And Oliver did say you could use a little discomfort.”

Edward pushed back against the wall—as much as he could in these maddeningly close quarters—shaking his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “Just because I’m left-handed and married to Oliver’s sister doesn’t mean I’ll join your ridiculous organization of entirely non-sinister proportions. I will not be dragooned into such a thing.”

“Don’t worry,” Robert said. “We’re not dragooning you. You’re not really a Brother Sinister. You’re just a convenient excuse.”

“That’s a relief.”

“And Stephen and Patrick may be left-handed, but they’re not even relations. So unfortunately, we can’t include them.” That came from Free’s brother.

“Also you’re not really marrying Free today,” Violet pointed out. “You’re just holding a late wedding breakfast.”

“While we’re at it, it isn’t even the night before.” That was Sebastian. “So you see, it all comes out right. All the ways in which this is almost the right circumstance, and yet not, cancel one another perfectly. Ergo, we must all sit in this closet while I win at cards.”