The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(43)

“What do you wish?” Miss Marshall asked.

Stephen looked up, past Miss Marshall. Right past her, straight into Edward’s eyes. “I wish his elder brother was still alive.”

Stephen could have just been addressing Edward out of politeness. They were part of the same conversation; people conversing with one another looked at each other. Still, Edward felt a cold chill run down the back of his neck.

Stephen continued. “He was a much better sort. Just goes to show that life isn’t fair. People like Ned Delacey perish, while his brother gets the title. That right there is everything that is wrong with the House of Lords. In any event, I didn’t mean to interrupt. If the two of you are talking about how best to deal with Delacey, I’ll let you get on with it.”

“Do you think you’d have anything to add to the conversation about him?” Miss Marshall asked.

Stephen looked straight at Edward. “Clark,” he said, “have you had a recent conversation with Delacey?”

“I have,” Edward said solemnly.

Stephen waved them off. “Then I trust you to deal with him. My knowledge of the man is far in the past. Clark’s your man, Free.”

Miss Marshall simply accepted this with a nod and gestured to her office. “Mr. Clark. If you will.”

Edward brushed past Stephen. But he’d gone only three steps when Stephen spoke again. “Oh, Mr. Clark.”

Edward turned.

Stephen was smiling—that sure smile he employed when he was certain he was about to say something very clever.

Edward felt a dreadful sense of foreboding. “Yes?”

“Ask Miss Marshall who her father is.” And then, while Edward was frowning in confusion, Stephen winked.

Chapter Eleven

FREE FOUND HERSELF BLUSHING as she entered her office. It was the same room as always: desk, chair, papers kept in careful stacks. But the last time they’d been in this office together, she’d kissed him. Even though everything had changed—it was broad daylight, instead of dark night; she was fully clothed instead of dressed for sleep—somehow, the echo of that kiss still connected them, a solid, visceral thing.

Apparently, she’d let enough of her interest show when greeting Mr. Clark that Stephen had noticed, if that last cryptic comment meant anything.

Mr. Clark came in behind her. She seated herself safely behind the desk, smoothing her skirts into place.

He stood on the other side of the desk and watched her intently. “Who is your father, Miss Marshall?”

“Don’t listen to Stephen,” she huffed. “He’s a bit of a jokester. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“No?”

She sighed. “My father was once a pugilist. I told you he used to take me to matches when I was younger.”

His face went completely blank.

“Stephen was teasing me,” she explained to him. “Implying that I needed to let you know that my honor would be protected. Which is ridiculous, frankly. If you intended to force me, you’ve already had the chance, several times over. As for what happened…” She was blushing again, and she hated blushing. Blushing implied shyness; shyness meant that whatever she felt could be used against her.

He was looking at her lips. “As for that?” he asked quietly.

“That is not any of my father’s business.” And she wouldn’t have minded repeating that kiss.

Mr. Clark didn’t seem to agree. He lowered himself gingerly into the chair, but kept his eyes on her desk. His expression had gone grim.

“Marshall.” He shook his head. “I should have thought. I don’t suppose your father is Hugo Marshall, then.”

“Oh, do you know of him?” That was unusual. “He only fought for a few years, and as he was never in the heavyweight class, he’s not much remembered.”

Mr. Clark sighed and rubbed his chin. “There’s an account of his fight with Byron the Bear in PrizeFighting Through the Ages.” At that, he finally looked up at her—but his glare seemed almost accusatory. “My childhood friend and I used to reenact that one. That fight was the subject of one of my first decent oil paintings.” The glint in his eyes brightened. “I named my first horse Wolf after him.”

Free huffed. “It’s hardly my fault you made a hero of my father.”

“No,” he said softly. “But every bloody time I convince myself I ought to walk away from you…”

“Well,” she said simply, “you wouldn’t have that problem if you stopped convincing yourself of stupid things.”

He blinked at that, his mouth working, but there was no point leaving him time to protest. Free moved on briskly. “Now, I’ve been thinking about our next move. We must connect this fire and the copying to James Delacey. Somehow.”

He took a breath, looked in her eyes. There was a beat, as if he were considering repeating his complaint, and then he shrugged.

“As to that, I have an idea. I’d have told you last night, but we were…busy.” He smiled, a languid, suggestive smile that sent a little shiver down her spine. “And then we were…busier. Between all our busyness, it completely slipped my mind.”

“What slipped your mind?”

His fingers went to the buttons of his jacket, and her mouth dried. His buttons were simple cloth and metal affairs, scarcely worth a second thought. And yet as he undid them, she had second thoughts and third thoughts, none of them proper. His gloved fingers were long and graceful, and every button he undid revealed another inch of creamy linen, one that hinted at broad shoulders and strong muscles.