The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(19)

“It wasn’t about you,” Patrick said slowly. He crossed the room to his desk and opened the drawer. “Ah. Here. Read it for yourself.”

Edward went to him. It was a two-inch column on the second page of the Women’s Free Press, and it was sparse on details. A charwoman had seen a man slipping into a student’s room. She’d helped that very student pack for a sudden visit that afternoon, so her suspicions were roused. Upon further inspection, she found that the man had left behind a ring—which she knew had not been present when the student quit his room, as she’d examined his drawers herself while packing the bags.

We do not speculate as to the motive of those who attempted to falsely lay the blame on the innocent student, the paper ended piously. We note, however, that said student is known to our readers as Stephen Shaughnessy, the author of a regular column in this paper.

Miss Marshall had said nothing to him about reporting the event in her paper. Of course it was a brilliant idea. She’d obtained witnesses to Stephen’s innocence. And her story had been released first; future attempts to implicate Stephen would be colored by this and met with greater skepticism. She’d not been lying when she left him last night: She did have a paper to get out.

Of course, it was also her way of letting Edward know that she would not do his bidding quietly, that whatever he tried, she could do better. She had a circulation of—he flipped the paper over and checked—some fifty thousand subscribers. She had years of using her business as a weapon, and if he crossed her, that weapon would be at his throat.

And he’d foolishly thought that he could walk into her life and dictate to her what to do.

“You’re smiling,” Patrick said.

“Of course I’m smiling.” Edward set the paper down. “You subscribe to a paper that advertises itself as being by women, for women, and about women.”

Patrick’s nose wrinkled.

“That wasn’t meant as an aspersion on your tastes,” Edward hastened to add.

“You may recall that my brother writes for said paper,” his friend said stiffly. “I subscribe out of fraternal pride.”

“Indeed.”

“And Miss Marshall is exceedingly clever,” Patrick said. “The fact that she is a woman, writing for women, doesn’t change that.”

That, Edward was beginning to realize, was an understatement. “Indeed,” he said shortly.

“I met her once,” Patrick continued. “I gather that now you have as well. I like her. Have you told her who you are?”

“A woman who ferrets out secrets for public consumption? Of course I haven’t told her. I lie to everyone. In another few months, the whole matter will be moot anyway. Edward Delacey will be officially dead, and James will be the viscount. If I keep lying long enough, it won’t even be a lie.”

Patrick’s lips pinched. Of course he didn’t approve. But he’d come for Edward after Strasbourg, and he understood.

Patrick knew James had lied to the Consul, leaving Edward in the path of the advancing army. He’d been told about the shells and percussion fuses, about the weeks on the fire brigade. That would have been enough to torment any man, but then, there’d been what happened after the city was surrendered. Patrick might not approve of Edward’s lie, but he understood why he didn’t wish to go back.

Patrick sighed now. “At least let me tell Baron Lowery—”

“No.” Edward stood. “That would be almost as bad as telling Miss Marshall. I don’t care how deep your…friendship is with him, how much you trust him. Your employer sits on the Committee for Privileges. James must present his petition to join the House of Lords to them before he can address the entire body. Do you think Lowery will remain silent when James states that his elder brother must be presumed dead?”

Patrick looked away. “It’s unlikely. That’s precisely why I think you should tell him.”

“Oh, no. No. I won’t.”

“You’ll let James be the next viscount, knowing that this”—James smacked his hand against the paper—“is how he’ll use that power? I know the idea of taking over is anathema to you, but Edward, you could do some good. Think about it.”

“You think about it,” Edward snarled. “You, of all people, should understand. I don’t do good.”

Patrick tapped the paper once more. “What was this, then?”

Edward felt his throat close. He’d planned to steal into a room like a thief, to simply foil his brother. It was Miss Marshall who’d enlisted others. She had chosen to make their private choices into a public maneuver, designed to shield Stephen.

Edward? Well, he’d tried to blackmail her.

“Your sausages are burning,” he said instead.

They were. They’d lain too long on one side. The casing had charred, peeling away from the innards. Patrick made an annoyed noise in his throat and rescued the meat.

“What would be the point?” Edward asked. “Do good? We both know better than that. I’m no longer a hotheaded idealist, and even if I were, I’d be suffocated in a sea of old men determined to protect their prerogatives. I have no desire to spend my life railing against that particular futility.”

Patrick speared the sausages on a fork. “You don’t really believe that.”