The Suffragette Scandal
Page 36
“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.
He’d not shown her the slightest bit of skin, but the act of unbuttoning his coat sparked indecent thoughts—memories of his arm coming around her, his mouth on hers…
He stopped undoing buttons, and she realized he’d only wanted to reach the inside pocket. She sat back in disappointment.
“I stole this from Delacey the other night,” he told her, “before I became distracted by thoughts of fire and other perfidy on his part. We made those advance proofs, as you may recall, so that we could tell how they were going astray. Tell me, Miss Marshall.” He handed her the paper. “Who did you send this one to?”
She took the page from him, spreading it out on her desk.
She could see him doing up his buttons out of the corner of her eye. Terrible, terrible man. Teasing her with the prospect of more. But if he could pretend it was nothing, she could, too. There—this was the one with the transposed lines.
“This is the one I sent to my brother.”
He nodded as he did back the last of his buttons. Alas.
“Do you think there is any chance your brother is personally sending them on? Perhaps he wishes to bring you in line.”
“No,” she said automatically. “Oliver would never do that.”
“Can you be absolutely sure of it? He’s not your full brother, is he? Only half, and from what I understand, the other half-brother is a duke. He doesn’t sound trustworthy to me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’d as soon mistrust you.” It took her a moment to understand how she’d meant that: She’d talked about mistrusting him the same way she might have talked of pigs taking flight, or hell acquiring icicles—as if it were such an obvious impossibility that anyone would scoff at it.
But he didn’t take it that way. He smiled brightly at her, as if he didn’t expect trust, as if last night hadn’t happened at all. “You’re right. I waited with the mails. Easy enough for me to filch out one copy and return with it just now.”
An untrustworthy man would have protested his innocence. But surely a trustworthy man would have been annoyed at being doubted. He was the oddest enigma: a man who neither expected nor wanted her trust. A man who kissed her, told her he wanted more, and made no move to secure it.
“If you really want to know for sure,” he said, “you can send a telegram and ask. That way you can make sure it arrived at least.”
She looked him in the eyes. “Mr. Clark,” she said, “there are six people I am sure are not at fault here. My brother. His wife. Amanda. Alice. Myself.” She swallowed. “You.”
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.
He’d not shown her the slightest bit of skin, but the act of unbuttoning his coat sparked indecent thoughts—memories of his arm coming around her, his mouth on hers…
He stopped undoing buttons, and she realized he’d only wanted to reach the inside pocket. She sat back in disappointment.
“I stole this from Delacey the other night,” he told her, “before I became distracted by thoughts of fire and other perfidy on his part. We made those advance proofs, as you may recall, so that we could tell how they were going astray. Tell me, Miss Marshall.” He handed her the paper. “Who did you send this one to?”
She took the page from him, spreading it out on her desk.
She could see him doing up his buttons out of the corner of her eye. Terrible, terrible man. Teasing her with the prospect of more. But if he could pretend it was nothing, she could, too. There—this was the one with the transposed lines.
“This is the one I sent to my brother.”
He nodded as he did back the last of his buttons. Alas.
“Do you think there is any chance your brother is personally sending them on? Perhaps he wishes to bring you in line.”
“No,” she said automatically. “Oliver would never do that.”
“Can you be absolutely sure of it? He’s not your full brother, is he? Only half, and from what I understand, the other half-brother is a duke. He doesn’t sound trustworthy to me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’d as soon mistrust you.” It took her a moment to understand how she’d meant that: She’d talked about mistrusting him the same way she might have talked of pigs taking flight, or hell acquiring icicles—as if it were such an obvious impossibility that anyone would scoff at it.
But he didn’t take it that way. He smiled brightly at her, as if he didn’t expect trust, as if last night hadn’t happened at all. “You’re right. I waited with the mails. Easy enough for me to filch out one copy and return with it just now.”
An untrustworthy man would have protested his innocence. But surely a trustworthy man would have been annoyed at being doubted. He was the oddest enigma: a man who neither expected nor wanted her trust. A man who kissed her, told her he wanted more, and made no move to secure it.
“If you really want to know for sure,” he said, “you can send a telegram and ask. That way you can make sure it arrived at least.”
She looked him in the eyes. “Mr. Clark,” she said, “there are six people I am sure are not at fault here. My brother. His wife. Amanda. Alice. Myself.” She swallowed. “You.”
