The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(16)

“Hmm.” Mr. Clark snorted. “Unfair.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that though, the door to Stephen’s room opened. Free waved him to silence and focused her glasses on the window. A man was slipping inside. He wore a dark, knit cap pulled low over his head.

“There’s someone there,” she told Mr. Clark.

“Damn.”

She had wondered if all his good humor was a deception—if, perhaps, he hated her and was just extremely good at hiding it.

That one syllable convinced her otherwise. There was a quiet fury in it. Beside her, he tensed, his eyes glittering.

“Damn,” he repeated. “I was hoping—really hoping—that he’d call it off.”

This, too, might be an act. This was, after all, the man who had dashed off a brazen forgery in front of her without blinking an eye.

Free kept her gaze trained on the man in Stephen’s room. The fellow stopped in front of Stephen’s dresser, turned toward his desk, and then, after another pause, slipped out the door once again.

She stood. “Let’s go.”

They scrambled down the path over the bridge. He didn’t try to outrun her—even though it would have been an easy prospect with her in heavy skirts and a corset. He kept pace with her instead, jogging easily at her side. When they came to the outer wall of the dormitory, he paused.

“If I give you a lift, can you get up to his window?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

Before she could ready herself, he took hold of her by the waist and swung her up. She had only the briefest sensation of his strength, the power of his muscles, before her fingertips caught the edge of Stephen’s windowsill. She scrabbled for a firm hold; his grip on her shifted, sliding down. One hand came under her foot as support. Then he boosted her up, and she pulled herself into Stephen’s room.

“Do you need me to help you up?” she whispered out the window.

“You’re too precious,” came the reply. And so saying, he swung himself up, finding a foothold here, a handhold there. Before she knew it, he was hauling himself over the sill of the window, scarcely out of breath.

Her eyes widened.

“I can tell you’re not a gentleman,” she said as he pulled himself into the room. “You’re far too strong.”

“Ah, you noticed.” He straightened, brushing his hands off, and gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve done some metalwork. But we can talk about how attractive my muscles are at some time when we are not illicitly entering a building.”

From another man, that casual boast would have been downright disturbing. But Mr. Clark didn’t leer or wink. He didn’t waggle his brows to make sure she’d understood his lewd implications. He simply turned away and studied the room as if he hadn’t been outrageous at all. As if he’d spoken the simple truth.

And maybe he had.

Free covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

“You’d better search,” he said. “That way, you can be sure I didn’t place anything. I’ll keep watch.”

It felt odd, rifling through Stephen’s chest of drawers. Even though he’d given her permission, it felt like an invasion on her part. She finally found a ring—an ugly thing of tarnished gold and amber—among his cravats.

“There,” she said. “That’s it. You were right about that much.”

She still wasn’t going to trust him.

He gestured. “Take it. Let’s get out of here before we’re discovered.”

She didn’t trust him, but if she let herself, she could like him. He was clever, easygoing, and utterly unoffended by her intelligence.

It was such a shame that she was going to have to ruin their temporary camaraderie.

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.