The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(5)

And then there was the fact that Edward had spent his last years at manual labor and had gained the shoulders to match.

James wore sober black. He was in mourning, Edward realized with surprise. Odd. Edward’s father had been lost to him years ago. For James, it had only been nine months.

“The last time I saw you,” Edward said gravely, “was on the London docks. You told me that it was for the best that I left and that you’d keep Wolf exercised until I changed my mind and was allowed back.”

Silence met this proclamation.

“Well?” Edward leaned back in the chair, affecting laziness. “It’s been almost a decade since then. How is my horse, James?”

James set his hand against the doorway as if to hold himself upright. “Ned?” His voice shook. “My God, Ned. I must be dreaming this. You’re not here.”

Edward grimaced. “How many times have I told you? I prefer Edward. For God’s sake, James, come in and shut the door.”

After a moment’s hesitation, James did just that. Of course he wouldn’t call the servants. Not now, not with a handful of months remaining. It had been six years and some eight months since last he’d written to his family. At the seven-year mark, James would officially inherit everything. He probably had the date marked with stars and rainbows on his calendar.

“Ned.” James stumbled forward, fell into a chair. He was shaking his head in confusion. “My God. You’re dead. We had a ceremony.” He looked up, his eyes dark with some unspoken emotion. “We sold your horse. I’m sorry.”

Of all the things his brother had to apologize for, selling an unused stallion seemed the most foolish.

James frowned. “We put up a monument, too, at some bloody expense. If you were going to turn up alive, could you not have done so in a respectable time?”

Edward could not help but smile. Yes, he had heard that correctly. His brother had just complained to him about the expense associated with his death.

“I just visited my grave,” Edward assured him. “The monument is lovely. I’m sure it was worth every penny.”

“What have you been doing with yourself? Why haven’t you said anything? By God, if you’d only known how I have suffered these last years. I’ve been telling myself that I sentenced you to death.”

Edward’s hands twitched. How James had suffered? His brother sat across from him, whole and hearty. His suffering had involved neither missing meals nor cowering under military bombardments. He’d not been kept in a basement, hadn’t had everything taken from him in one long, unending nightmare. He was sleek and handsome, a version of Edward who hadn’t walked through hell.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said dryly, “for any discomfort I caused you.”

“Yes.” James frowned. “And it’s not over yet, is it? This is damned inconvenient.”

Personally, Edward would have found it more inconvenient to be dead. But he could hardly begrudge his younger brother his point of view. “Do say why.”

“This will be the most immense scandal.” James looked at the desk, drew a deep breath. “You’ll want the title, then. That’s why you’ve come.” His hands clenched in his lap, as if he were preparing himself for a fight.

Ah, yes. Another thing James had that Edward lacked: the illusion that this family had some semblance of honor. Edward could remember believing that. Barely.

“If I had wanted to be Claridge,” Edward said, “I’d have returned the day I heard of Father’s death. No, James. Keep the title. It’s yours.”

James frowned, as if he could not believe his ears. No doubt he couldn’t conceive of a world in which a man walked away from a viscountcy. “Speaking of the city, how did you ever survive?”

There were a great many things his brother might have meant by that question. How did you get on after Father left you stranded? Or, perhaps: Did you by any chance go to the British Consul before the siege started?

How had he survived? He’d survived any way he could.

But he simply smiled at his brother. “I survived by luck,” Edward told him. “When I had it.”

James’s eyes widened. “Was it bad?”

“No,” Edward lied. “But only because I learned to be worse in response. Trust me, James. I’m no longer fit company. I know who Viscount Claridge is supposed to be. I had enough lectures on the meaning of our family honor to recall that. I can’t be him.”

He’d had enough of people making him into someone else, and the boy who had grown up in this house might as well stay dead, for all the use he’d been.

“You, on the other hand,” he finished smoothly, “can. You will.”

James blinked, taken aback, but seemed to take this as simple truth. He seemed, even, to think that Edward had given him a compliment. He nodded, looking faintly relieved to discover that his entire world was not going to be upended.

God, James was so simple to read. Relief was evident first in the slump of his shoulders. That was followed by an intake of breath and a narrowing of his eyes. He looked at Edward in sudden suspicion. He was no doubt wondering why his brother had returned from the dead after all these years if not to claim the title. Soon enough, James would realize this was a negotiation, not a reunion.

“You need an allowance, then.” James sounded resigned.