The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(59)

It had been three days since he’d left Free in the mews. Three days, in which he’d tried to convince himself to walk away as he should. Three days, during which he’d heard her words ringing in his ears. Y’ll return.

No.

He knew what he did, and what he did well. If he came back to her—really came back—he’d start telling himself lies, just like Alvahurst here. He’d tell himself he was noble, that he was doing things for her.

He could feel the tug of all his old dreams.

Free wasn’t naïve and she wasn’t stupid. But she believed in a future—believed in it so hard that she made him want to believe, too. He could almost see that garden she’d talked about, blossoming with every step she took.

And he’d told her the truth of himself: There was nothing left to him but a scoundrel.

And so the scoundrel in him smiled at Mr. Alvahurst. “So just send a message, a short one, if he mentions Miss Marshall. We both know he’ll do it, so you won’t be telling me anything I don’t already know.”

Only now, when Alvahurst was most vulnerable, did Edward add that third banknote. That made the stack on the table worth half a year’s wages to the man. Alvahurst shut his eyes. And then slowly, as if savoring the moment, he reached out and pulled the notes to him.

Edward simply smiled. He might not be able to keep Frederica Marshall, but at least he could keep her safe.

And maybe, just maybe, he could give her one last thing before he walked away from her for good.

FREE HAD NEVER QUITE believed that Edward would disappear entirely, but days passed with no word from him.

So when he appeared late one afternoon, she felt a frothy, bubbly joy, one that could scarcely be contained.

He stood in the doorway of her office. He was, as always, the consummate scoundrel. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling—almost smirking—at her, as if he knew how rapidly her heart had started beating.

If that was how they were going to do this…

She simply raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Oh,” she said with a sniff. “It’s you.”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” he said.

She could feel the corner of her mouth twitch up. Last time she’d seen him, he’d kissed her so thoroughly she had not yet recovered.

“I’m not?”

“I heard it most distinctly,” he told her. “You might have said ‘It’s you,’ but there was a distinct exclamation mark at the end. In fact, I think there were two.”

“Oh, dear.” Free looked down, fluttering her eyelashes demurely. “Is my punctuation showing once more?”

His eyes darkened and he took a step into her office. “Don’t hide it on my account,” he growled. “You have the most damnably beautiful punctuation that I have ever seen. You make a man feel greedy.”

She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

“It’s a shame,” he continued, “that I’m not here to be greedy. I’m here to say farewell and to leave you a memento.”

All that bubbly, incandescent joy turned to sharp crystal. She inhaled slowly, looking up at him. He was smiling still, but there was a sadness to that smile.

“Shall we go for a walk?”

“You mean,” he said pitching his voice low, “should we escape the view of your employees and find a nice, empty field hereabouts where I can kiss you senseless?”

“Yes.” She would not blush. “That is what I mean.”

That flare of want, the way his hand clenched at his side before flattening against his trousers… She could almost feel him on the verge of acquiescing. But instead, he shook his head. “We’d better not. It was painful enough stopping the first time. As I said, I’m here to give you a present.”

“How exciting.” It wasn’t. She didn’t want a present. “So you brought me a present. Is it a nice present? Will I like it?”

“Not particularly,” he responded. “And I don’t know.”

She laid her hands on her desk and sighed. “Drat. I was so hoping that you’d somehow procured the right to vote for women. That would have been lovely.”

That won her another smile. And oh, what a lovely smile it was, lighting his entire face, lighting the entire room. But he simply shook his head again. “Miss Marshall, you had better learn to be more acquisitive and less political. Until then, I suspect any presents you receive will always disappoint you. Do you wish to be the sort of curmudgeon who hates Christmas?”

Even now, she couldn’t work up a proper outrage against him. “Oh, very well. You’ve convinced me. I don’t wish to hate Christmas.” She gestured; he entered her office, shut her door, and then seated himself. This was as far as they’d come since their first meeting weeks ago: They were still on opposite sides of this desk.

She looked away from him, lining up her inkwell with her pens and pencils. “I knew you would come back.”

He leaned over and deliberately turned one of her pens at an angle askew with all the other implements. “When we finish this conversation, I’m going to stand up and walk out of this room. I won’t stop until I reach the train station. I’ll be across the Channel by tonight.”

Her chest squeezed. She let out a long, slow breath. But he returned her pen to a straight line and leaned back in his chair.