The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(22)

Free wished she could say something in response to that. Instead, she swallowed and looked at her hands. Time for a change of subject. “You’re going down to London next week, aren’t you?”

Amanda gave her a jerky nod.

“Then I’d like you to take something to Jane, if you could.”

“I suppose. If you think you can manage to keep yourself from getting killed without a housemate,” Amanda muttered with ill grace. “Are you going to keep away from Mr. Clark?”

Free sighed. “There’s no point in promising. He won’t be back.” Yes, he’d flirted with her. He’d been shameless about it. But after the way she’d altered their plan and then put everything in the newspaper? It was unlikely. Even if he’d told her the truth, and she very much doubted that, men didn’t like women taking charge.

“Free,” Amanda said in exasperation. “Stop evading my question.”

“No,” Free said, rubbing her temples. “I won’t promise. He’d be a useful tool, if he did come back. But he won’t.”

Chapter Six

FREE HAD BEEN CERTAIN—almost certain—that she’d seen the last of Mr. Clark two weeks ago, on that night in March. As the days went on, she did her best to convince herself that it was true. Every time the door opened, she turned, her breath catching. Every time someone other than Mr. Clark entered, her heart sank. Foolishly, she told herself—entirely foolishly. After all, there was no reason to look forward to his return. Matching wits with him once had been enough for a lifetime.

And besides, the only man her paper really needed around was Stephen Shaughnessy. Free was sure that he was on her side, at least.

That incident involving him had sobered everyone, making them realize what was at stake. It had driven Stephen to write even more outrageous columns—and everyone else had followed suit, throwing themselves into their work.

No, they didn’t need Mr. Clark.

April was well and truly started. Amanda had gone down to London to report on the latest sessions of Parliament, and Free had stopped glancing up when the door to her business opened. She’d shrunk the foolish impulse to no more than a touch of interest—one she could push away, concentrating on the papers before her instead.

And then…

“Hullo, Miss Marshall,” someone said from the doorway of her office. Someone with a rich, dark voice, one that spoke of amusement and danger all in one breath.

Free jumped, dropping her pen and spattering ink across her sleeve. Not that it mattered; all her day gowns were well-inked.

She blotted at the stain anyway. “Mr. Clark. How do you do?”

He smiled at her, and she did her best to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t like him. She didn’t know his real name. He’d tried to blackmail her. He’d disappeared for weeks with no explanation.

But he had a very nice smile, and he seemed truly pleased to see her.

Damn him.

She tried not to smile back. “And here I thought that you took the piece I wrote about the events of the other night for what it was—a threat to expose you publicly. I thought you’d absconded in response.”

“Of course not.” He leaned against her doorframe. “I did take your warning. It was clever of you, Miss Marshall, to make it clear that you have yet another hold over me. I can hardly begrudge you that.”

He appeared to be serious about that.

Free shook her head. “On the contrary. That seems precisely the sort of thing a person usually holds a grudge about.”

“Ah, but if I were that sort of man, you wouldn’t find me nearly so compelling.” Without being invited, he walked into her office. He didn’t seat himself at one of her chairs; he leaned against her desk, as if he had every right to come so close. “A man must make choices: He can become enraged for no reason on the one hand, or he might impress men and women on the other.” He shrugged. “I’ve chosen to be charming. Is it working?”

God, she’d forgotten how utterly outrageous he was. Time to wrestle this conversation back under her control. “Mr. Clark,” she said as sternly as she could manage, “never tell me that you’re doing that again.”

“Which of my myriad flaws is making you uneasy, Miss Marshall?” He gave her a long, slow smile. “Is it my arrogant conceit or my wicked sense of humor?”

“Neither,” Free answered. “I rather like both of those. It’s just that you’re trying to use my attraction to you to set me on edge.” She smiled at him. “It won’t work. I’ve been attracted to you since the moment I laid eyes on you, and it hasn’t made me stupid once.”

He froze, his hand on the edge of her desk.

“Did you expect me to deny it?” Free shrugged as complacently as she could. “You should read more of my newspaper. I published an excellent essay by Josephine Butler on this very subject. Men use sexuality as a tool to shut up women. We are not allowed to speak on matters that touch on sexual intercourse—even if they concern our own bodies and our own freedom—for fear of being labeled indelicate. Any time a man wishes to scare a woman into submission, he need only add the question of sexual attraction, leaving the virtuous woman with no choice but to blush and fall silent. You should know, Mr. Clark, that I don’t intend to fall silent. I have already been labeled indelicate; there is nothing you can add to that chorus.”