The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(18)

The door behind him opened.

“Edward, you great oaf,” a man said.

Edward turned. Before he could catch a glimpse of his friend, Patrick was on him, wrapping his arms around him.

“Not a word in response to my letter,” Patrick said, “not a telegram, not a note, not even so much as a semaphore flag waved at a hazy distance. I thought you would—”

“You thought I wouldn’t help?” Edward asked gravely.

Patrick pulled away, holding Edward at arm’s length. “Don’t be ridiculous. I knew you’d come through for me. But when I realized you must be in England, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t visit.”

Edward had considered it. There wasn’t a person on the planet who knew him as Patrick did, and Patrick had an unreasonably rosy outlook on Edward’s flaws. It made him uncomfortable being around the man. It wasn’t just the things Edward had done; it was the way Patrick was. Patrick didn’t lie. He didn’t cheat. He was honorable, fair, and reliable—everything that Edward was not.

It was only an accident of history that they were friends at all—history, and Patrick’s staunch refusal to turn his back on his onetime friend. Edward felt almost guilty about maintaining that friendship. His very presence was corrupting.

He’d eradicated guilt from every other aspect of his life, but he couldn’t be rid of it here. He loved his friend far too well to let a little guilt stop him.

“I was in the vicinity,” Edward said idly. “I thought I’d stop by.”

“Oh, the vicinity.” Patrick smiled knowingly. “You’re here on a whim, then?”

It had been several hours by railway.

Patrick punched Edward in the shoulder. “Idiot. At least this way I can thank you in person. It’s late enough that I might consider knocking off work. Come have supper with me.”

“You’re knocking off?” Edward raised an eyebrow in mock incredulousness and took out a pocket watch. He examined this in mock seriousness. “But it’s not quite six. Do you dare leave a full nine minutes early?”

Patrick’s face sobered in contemplation of this. “No, no. You’re right. I should do one last set of rounds, make sure everything is in proper order.”

“I’m joking.”

Patrick shook his head ruefully. “I’m not.”

So Edward waited while his friend puttered about, conscientiously checking oats and water. That was Patrick. That had been Patrick’s father, too—the stable master on the estate where Edward had grown up.

Strange that the lessons Edward had learned from that man had made him into such a competent scoundrel. Do everything in your search for perfection. Think about matters from everyone’s point of view. A few seconds spent checking can forestall a day of disaster. It didn’t matter if it was forgery or horse trading; it was still excellent advice.

When Patrick was finished—at sixteen minutes after six—he conducted Edward to his quarters, a small two-room cottage half a mile from the stables. He washed his hands and then put a kettle on the hob.

“You still have the miniature,” Edward said.

The painting sat on a shelf over the hearth—two boys sitting on the banks of a river, the branches of trees behind them rendered inexpertly in oil. The younger version of Patrick—short and wiry, brown-haired, pointed up at the sky. Edward had painted himself looking at the viewer.

That had been from a lack of imagination—he’d been looking in the mirror as he painted—rather than artistic choice.

Looking into the eyes of the child he’d once been gave him a strange feeling. That boy had dark, innocent eyes and a smile that had nothing of cynicism to it. Those eyes belonged to some other person. They were an illustration of a story he’d once been told about himself—too simple and sweet to be real. He wished he could blot himself out of the picture.

“Of course I have the miniature,” Patrick said. “Why would I get rid of it?”

He disappeared momentarily into a cellar and came back with a pair of sausages. He set these to roast over the fire.

Edward looked away with a shake of his head. “I don’t suppose you have my other painting.”

“What, the one of Byron the Bear being taken down by the Wolf?” It was a prizefight that they’d read about in one of the books they’d devoured. It had captured both their imaginations. They’d reenacted it many a time, and when Edward had graduated to painting on full canvases, capturing that moment had been one of his first triumphs.

“No,” Patrick said softly. “I couldn’t take that one with me when we…left.”

When Edward’s father had him whipped, Patrick meant, because Edward had coaxed him into speaking up when he shouldn’t have. When his family had been thrown out after twelve years of service.

“But enough of old times.” Patrick straightened from turning the sausages on the fire. “I only asked you to speak with your brother after Baron Lowery told me he’d overheard some disturbing things from him. But I detect your hand in the latest round.”

“Stephen told you already, did he?”

Patrick blinked. “Uh. No. I read it in the paper.”

Edward’s eyes widened. “You read about me in the paper? Oh, for G—” He remembered, just in time, that Patrick didn’t curse, and he covered his blasphemy with a cough. “For good George’s sake,” he continued more mildly, even though he knew he wasn’t fooling his friend. “What did the paper say?”