The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(9)

Free rather enjoyed the feeling. There was nothing wrong with a man who enjoyed a light flirtation, and Mr. Clark was no hardship to look at. So long as he understood that it would go no further, they’d get on famously.

But he simply said, “I have a business proposition to put to you.”

She pursed her lips. “As a preliminary… This is a newspaper by women, for women, and about women. I’m unlikely to hire you to write a column.”

“I don’t write columns,” he said. “I can do some creditable illustrations, but I would make a dreadful employee. It’s not that sort of proposition. Is there somewhere we might discuss this in private?”

She gestured to the side of the room. “I have an office in here.”

He followed her. Her office was nothing more than a converted storage room—one where she’d had a portion of the wall adjoining the main room knocked out and replaced with glass, so that she might be able to have privacy for business meetings precisely like this while still leaving her safely in her employees’ view. He took in the surroundings—the old, chipped desk that she placed herself behind, the stack of grammatical texts and population reports on the bookshelf behind her. She realized, with a hint of chagrin, that a draft of yet another column—one that was scheduled to appear in three days’ time—sat out in plain sight. She placed a stack of blank paper on top of it and sat behind her desk.

But he was looking through the window out to the floor of her business. “The lady in the light blue,” he said in an idle tone, “I presume is Lady Amanda. And the woman with the pinched expression must be Mrs. Halifax.”

“Should I have performed introductions?”

“No,” he said. “I’m only making a point. I’ve done my research over the last few days. I know who you are.” Those last words came out low, and his eyes cut back to her as he spoke. They had a startling effect on Free—as if he were making a declaration, one that made her feel just a little fluttery inside.

It had been so long since anyone had made her feel fluttery. It felt like winter sunshine—something to be savored because it surely wouldn’t last. She hoped he didn’t say something awful to ruin it.

“Consider your point made,” she said with a nod. “You know who I am.”

“And when I came in,” he said, “the three of you were no doubt discussing the plot to discredit you. You’ve at least discovered what they’re doing with your editorials, then. Good for you, Miss Marshall. You’ve made my work that much easier.”

Free winced. “So you’ve noticed as well.” If he—a random man off the street—had made the connection, others would, too. It would only be a matter of time until someone wrote about it. She would have to figure out a course of action, and she had no time to waste.

“Noticed it?” He shook his head. “No, Miss Marshall. I was apprised of it.”

“So it’s already being discussed in public.” Damn it all. She didn’t need more to do. “Well, thank you for letting me know. We’ve no acquaintance to speak of, and I appreciate the warning. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” She began to rise.

“I won’t excuse you.” He gestured at her. “Sit down. This is not a matter of public discussion. My information comes directly from the man responsible for the copying.”

She paused, halfway frozen between sitting and standing.

“Directly from him?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “I know many of his plans. He thinks I’m on his side. And it’s a lucky thing that I’m not, because if I actually were, you’d have no advance notice of what is about to happen. And that would be very, very bad for you.”

Free sank back into her chair.

“Shall we fetch your box of question marks?” he inquired. “It’s quite simple. There is a man who wants to do you harm. He trusts me enough to disclose his plans. As I don’t wish for him to do you harm, I offer you my help.”

He had such a lovely smile, such a warm manner. It was really too bad that it was all a lie.

Free shook her head. “Your story does not inspire trust. You don’t know me, and so I can’t believe you care what happens to me. A tale of some shadowy man who wishes me harm is entirely plausible. Half of England wishes me harm. Yet you offer no proof except information that I have already discovered. You claim that this man trusts you, but you’ve just offered to betray that trust. That tells me you are not trustworthy. I don’t know what you’re about, Mr. Clark, but go about it elsewhere.”

She expected that he would get a little angry in response. Men didn’t like to be called liars, especially when they were lying.

But he simply smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Good. You’re not as foolishly naïve as I’d originally supposed. That will make things a little easier. Let’s start with the basics. You’re right. I don’t know you, and I don’t give a damn what happens to you.” He said that with a brilliant smile on his face, one so at odds with his words that she had to remind herself what he’d said. He’d said it charmingly, sweetly, seductively even: He didn’t give a damn about her.

“That,” Free said, “is very likely the first true thing you’ve told me. If I can see through the flimsy allure of your charisma, I suspect others can, too. Why would anyone trust you enough to divulge their secret plots?”