The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(50)

Edward managed to keep his face devoid of all expression.

“This may be the first time she’s had one of Delacey’s thugs following her about like a baby duckling, though. I take it all back, Mr. Clark. No pain for you. You’ve given me material to tease her with for years to come.”

One of Delacey’s thugs. That’s how he’d introduced himself to this man. Better that than telling him the truth.

“I object to being called a duckling,” Edward replied smoothly. “I consider myself a full-grown mallard.”

Marshall smirked. “How long did it take her? People usually react to her fairly swiftly—either love or hate, there’s rarely an emotion between. A day? A week?”

He thought of Free the way he’d first seen her: standing on the bank of the Thames, leaning forward.

“Two to five,” Edward muttered.

“Days?”

“Minutes.”

Marshall let out a crack of laughter.

“Hush, you,” Edward growled. “We’re being clandestine here.”

“So we are.” The other man dropped his voice back to a low whisper. “It’s almost sweet. Here you are, sitting in a closet, trapped with a man you dislike, stricken by adoration for my little sister.”

Edward supposed he deserved that after needling the man earlier. Marshall was trying to provoke him right back.

“Yes.” Edward rolled his eyes. “It’s a terrible secret, that. I am trying dreadfully to conceal it. I openly altered my life for weeks on end for your sister. I single-handedly stopped an arsonist from setting fire to her business. When confronted with that evidence, it took you a mere three hours to determine that I harbored an affection for her. Truly, you have a massive intellect.”

This was met with a long pause. “Are you really left-handed?” Mr. Marshall asked.

“No. I’ve just been pretending to use my left hand my entire life because I enjoy never being able to work scissors properly.” Edward rolled his eyes. “What do you think? My father tried to encourage me to use my right more but it never did take.” Thankfully. He’d hate to rely on his right hand now.

“I was just wondering if it was an attempt to worm your way into the Brothers Sinister. It won’t work; you had to be at Cambridge with us to be a member. Or be Violet.”

Edward looked at the other man. “Marshall,” he said levelly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but any organization that claims you for a member doesn’t get to call itself sinister, whether you’re left-handed or not. I would be insulted to be offered membership in such a namby-pamby organization. It would be like the Archbishop of Canterbury calling a select club of his compatriots ‘Bad, Bad Bishops’.”

Marshall sniggered.

“Watch out for the clergy,” Edward said. “They’re absolutely wild. Sometimes they have an extra biscuit at tea.”

Marshall gave him a look that seemed faintly like approval. “You’re awful,” he said. “I finally begin to understand my sister’s interest.”

That was when Edward heard a faint noise from outside the closet. He reached over and clapped his hand over the other man’s mouth. Marshall went still. The door opened on a soft sigh, and then closed with quiet deliberation. Footsteps padded across the room. Edward smiled to himself. Whoever they were dealing with was a complete amateur. Sneaking about in a surreptitious manner drew far more suspicions.

Edward took his hand away from the other man’s mouth and held a finger up to his own lips.

A man crept into view, and beside him Marshall gave a low growl in his throat. Well he should; Edward had seen the man in the halls earlier. He’d been on the list of suspects that he’d drawn up with Free. It was Mark Andrews, Mr. Marshall’s undersecretary.

Andrews crept to the desk, looking from side to side as if he were a spy in a stupid novel. The little secretary reached out and took hold of the advance proof on the desk. This he folded, and then slid in his pocket.

“You’d better go,” Edward muttered.

Mr. Marshall swung the wardrobe door open. “I say, Andrews.” He stepped out as if he removed himself from wardrobes on a regular basis.

Andrews jumped at his appearance and emitted a high-pitched yelp.

Marshall straightened, patting his jacket into place. “What are you doing?”

“Sir!” Andrews scrambled a pace back from the desk. “I was just—straightening? Yes, I was straightening. Your desk. Because it was…not straight.”

“You were taking the advance proof my sister sent this morning,” Mr. Marshall said with a shake of his head.

“I—uh—no, see, the corner had ripped, and I intended to mend it.”

Marshall clucked sadly. “It’s no good, Andrews. We know you’ve done it before. You’ve been working with Delacey for months, and we can prove it.”

There was a long pause. Edward watched, curious to see if Andrews would manage to be more competent than he’d thus far observed. But no. The man sank into a chair and set his head in his hands. “Oh. That’s bad,” he muttered.

“I won’t press charges,” Mr. Marshall said gently, “so long as—”

Edward had—quite deliberately—not talked strategy beyond apprehension with Mr. Marshall. It was best to nip this in the bud. Edward stepped out of the wardrobe, interrupting this benevolence. “So long as you do as I say,” he said smoothly.