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

Proof was one of the two reasons he’d come.

The file he was looking for turned out to be hidden in the leftmost drawer, underneath a sheaf of mortgages. Edward untied the twine wrapped around the papers and sorted through a mess of little notes and tantalizing bits of correspondence. But the series of newspaper clippings particularly caught his eye.

The first was just over six months old.

Ask a Man, he read. The inaugural release of a column of weekly advice by Stephen Shaughnessy.

So. Patrick had the right of it. Someone here was paying attention to Stephen. His friend had mentioned that Stephen wrote for a paper, but Edward hadn’t realized he had a regular column—and a column of advice, at that.

Frankly, the thought of taking advice from the twelve-year-old he’d once known sounded rather horrifying. But even Stephen must have matured somewhat in the intervening years.

There was a note of explanation before the column started.

It has come to the attention of the editorial staff that our newspaper, with its determination to be “by women, about women, and for women,” cannot possibly impress anyone as we lack the imprimatur of a man to validate our thoughts. To that end, we have procured an Actual Man to answer questions. Please address all inquiries to Man, care of Women’s Free Press, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire. —F.M.

It took Edward a moment to check the head of the paper. Indeed. Women’s Free Press, it read. That was the name of the business on the card he’d received that morning. F.M. was almost certainly Frederica Marshall, the spitfire he’d met on the banks of the Thames. It made sudden sense of her behavior. She was Stephen’s employer. There was no reason that should make Edward feel glad; he was unlikely to ever see her again, and even if he did, he’d no intention of entangling himself in any sense. A kiss, a cuddle, a quick farewell—that’s all a man like him ever hoped for.

Still.

He shook his head and read on.

Dear Man, someone had written. I have heard that women are capable of rational thought. Is this true? What is your opinion on the matter?

Breathlessly awaiting your manly thoughts,

A woman

Edward tilted his head and shifted the paper so that the answer lay in the dim circle of lamplight.

Dear Woman,

If I were a woman, I would have to cite examples of rational thought on the part of women, which would be awfully tiresome. Once we got through the example of the ancient Greeks, matriarchal rulers in China, Africa, and our own country, once we passed from Aglaonike the astronomer, to Cleopatra the alchemist, and on through our very modern Countess of Chromosome, we’d scarcely have time to talk about how great men are. That simply won’t do.

Luckily, I am a man, so my mere proclamation is sufficient. Women can think. This is true because a man has said it.

Yours,

Stephen Shaughnessy

Certified Man

God. Edward stifled laughter. Stephen hadn’t changed one bit. It had been years since he’d seen him, but Edward could still hear his voice, irrepressible as ever, always arguing, always winning, pushing everyone to the very brink of rage and then defusing the anger he’d aroused with a joke.

It was good to know that Edward’s father hadn’t managed to completely crush his spirit.

It was even more interesting that Miss Marshall had chosen to print this particular column.

He flipped to the next clipping, dated one week later.

Dear Man,

Is this column a joke? I cannot honestly tell.

Signed,

Another Man

Dear Other Man,

Why would you think my column a joke? A paper written by women, for women, and about women obviously needs a man to speak on its behalf. If it is a joke for men to speak on behalf of women, then our country, our laws, and our customs must all be jokes, too.

Surely you are not so unpatriotic as to suggest that, sir.

Yours in one-hundred-percent-certified seriousness,

Stephen Shaughnessy

Verified Man

Ah, he was going to enjoy reading these. Edward flipped to the next page. This would be an excellent way to pass the time while he waited.

Dear Man—

The door to the room opened. Edward’s pulse leapt—this was, after all, the second reason he had paid this visit—but he did not move. He sat in the chair that had once belonged to his father and waited.

“What is this?” The man in the doorway was just a silhouette, but his voice was achingly familiar. “How did you get in?”

Edward didn’t say anything. Instead he turned up the lamp, letting the light flood the room.

The other man simply frowned. “Who the devil are you?”

For a moment, Edward was taken by surprise. He’d been gone more than nine years, and he’d been thought dead for the last seven. But he had always assumed that his own brother would at least recognize him. They’d had their differences, more than most brothers did. The years that passed had severed any sickly bond that might have subsisted between them, leaving them to wobble away on their own separate paths. But until this moment, Edward hadn’t realized how physical those differences had become.

Once, they’d looked much alike. James Delacey had been a shorter, younger version of himself. James’s hair was still dark and glossy and his face was soft and smooth. By contrast, Edward’s once-dark hair was shot through with strands of white. His hands were all calluses; he suspected that the only skin on his brother’s hand that wasn’t soft was a little rough mark from holding a pen.