The Suffragette Scandal
Page 72
But the flowers didn’t care about his dark mood. They rustled softly, swaying in a light breeze, whispering that this was a quiet, peaceful place. That frost could not come here unless Edward brought it himself.
It was a cheery, homey place, not at all the sort of abode where he’d imagined the Wolf, the mighty pugilist of his childhood imagination, retiring.
Edward walked slowly forward. Not reluctantly; he had a damned good idea what was about to happen to him, and quite frankly, he welcomed it. But there was something about the air that sparked his imagination, something that made him think of other possibilities. He might have been treading this path with Free by his side. She’d have interlaced her hand with his, looked up at him with that air of totally unwarranted trust…
Ah, hell. He was tormenting himself. He shook his head at the daisies beside him, rejecting their foolish optimism.
The front door opened. Edward looked up to see a man standing there, his head tilted as he contemplated Edward. Edward felt every muscle in his body tense.
This. This was the Wolf. He’d imagined himself at the side of a ring with this man at the center. When he was a child, he’d pictured this man absorbing blow after crippling blow. He’d painted that long-ago fight in oils.
But the Wolf—Hugo Marshall—didn’t look anything like the mighty fighter of his imagination. He was no Hercules; he wasn’t even handsome. He was much shorter than Edward. There were no patrician lines to his face; he was the sort of man who Edward had passed on the street a thousand times and never given a second glance. He was wearing a loose cravat and a jacket with faded patches over the elbows. His hair was steel gray.
“Good morning,” the other man said politely. “You’ve been dawdling outside my house for the last fifteen minutes. Is there some way I can help you?”
Edward took his hat off. He wasn’t sure if he intended it as a sign of respect, or if he simply wanted to hold something. All he knew was that he was turning it in his hands, end to end, his mouth so dry, he was unable to speak.
“What is it?” Mr. Marshall took a step closer. “Are you well, sir?”
No. Edward was not well. He didn’t know how he was ever to be well. “You…” He’d managed to get only the single word out. He could do a few more, surely. “You…you must be Mr. Hugo Marshall.”
“I am.” Marshall looked him over and frowned. “And you have the look of… Ah, my memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s been years since I had to sort out high society.” His eyes were sharp and penetrating, flickering over Edward’s features. “No. I don’t know you, although you remind me…” He shrugged. Then his gaze traveled to Edward’s coat—badly pressed—and his unshaven cheeks. “Hmm. Why am I so sure that you’re high society?”
Oh, how Edward wished he could lie. “I am.”
“Are you here about some dimly remembered family scandal that I ferreted out years ago? If so, go away.” The man waved a hand. “I don’t remember a thing from that time—as I’ve just amply demonstrated.”
“That’s not why I’m here, sir.”
Marshall’s eyebrows rose on the sir.
“You see, I’m…” He took a deep breath and then raised his chin. “I’m Edward Clark.” He didn’t even know if Free had mentioned his existence to her parents.
Apparently, she had. An amused grin swept over Marshall’s face. “Are you, then? That explains the nervousness. But don’t tell me you’ve come to ask for Free’s hand. She didn’t speak of you as if you were a stupid fellow. You must know she’d never forgive either of us, if we…” He paused. “Wait one moment. Free never mentioned to me that her Mr. Clark was high society.”
Her Mr. Clark. God, those words cut him.
“I’m Edward Clark. Born Edward Delacey. Now, apparently, Viscount Claridge.” He shut his eyes. “You can address me by my preferred title: you idiot.”
Marshall’s eyes were narrowing on this. “What have you done to my daughter, you idiot?”
“To my great regret, I…” Edward’s hands were clammy. “It’s…” God, it would be better if lightning could just strike him now. “I can’t—that is, I seem to have married your daughter.”
Marshall looked about the yard, as if searching for Free. When he didn’t find her, he turned back to Edward.
“You regret marrying my daughter.” His voice sounded calm, if one could call the cold, black embers after a fire had burnt out calm.
“No,” Edward said. “Never that. She regrets marrying me.”
“Ah, then.” There was steel in the other man’s words, an edge so sharp that Edward could almost feel it slicing into him. “That’s worse.”
“It is.” Edward shut his eyes and tensed. But nothing happened—no blow to the stomach, no fist to his face. He waited, his muscles growing taut, but instead, a bird chirped merrily off in the distance. He finally opened one eye to see Marshall watching him quizzically.
“Aren’t you—that is—having confessed what I just did, aren’t you going to…?”
“To rough you up a little?” Marshall asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m imagining it right now. Give me a moment, and I’ll get through it. Then we can talk like rational beings.”
Edward blinked. “Pardon?”
Marshall shrugged. “Come now. All you’ve said is that my daughter regrets marrying you. I don’t know if she’d regret marrying you less if I beat you to a bloody pulp. She might not; she might feel sorry for you if you were laid up with your ribs broken and your eyes blackened. Then she might end up saying things she doesn’t mean and find herself in a worse spot than she is now. I only strike other men when I think there’s a chance it’ll do some good.”
“That’s…that’s…” It was alarmingly rational.
“Besides, if Free wanted you to have a black eye, you’d have one. When she was twelve, she used to get into fistfights with the boy next door, and we were always being called upon by Mrs. Shapright to come see what Free had done to him.”
Edward felt the corner of his lip twitch.
“So tell me. How is it that a viscount came to marry my daughter without my knowledge?”
“I hadn’t been in England for a long while. I never intended to return, and when I did, I didn’t plan to make myself known. I didn’t want to be a viscount. I just wanted to finish my business and go away.”
It was a cheery, homey place, not at all the sort of abode where he’d imagined the Wolf, the mighty pugilist of his childhood imagination, retiring.
Edward walked slowly forward. Not reluctantly; he had a damned good idea what was about to happen to him, and quite frankly, he welcomed it. But there was something about the air that sparked his imagination, something that made him think of other possibilities. He might have been treading this path with Free by his side. She’d have interlaced her hand with his, looked up at him with that air of totally unwarranted trust…
Ah, hell. He was tormenting himself. He shook his head at the daisies beside him, rejecting their foolish optimism.
The front door opened. Edward looked up to see a man standing there, his head tilted as he contemplated Edward. Edward felt every muscle in his body tense.
This. This was the Wolf. He’d imagined himself at the side of a ring with this man at the center. When he was a child, he’d pictured this man absorbing blow after crippling blow. He’d painted that long-ago fight in oils.
But the Wolf—Hugo Marshall—didn’t look anything like the mighty fighter of his imagination. He was no Hercules; he wasn’t even handsome. He was much shorter than Edward. There were no patrician lines to his face; he was the sort of man who Edward had passed on the street a thousand times and never given a second glance. He was wearing a loose cravat and a jacket with faded patches over the elbows. His hair was steel gray.
“Good morning,” the other man said politely. “You’ve been dawdling outside my house for the last fifteen minutes. Is there some way I can help you?”
Edward took his hat off. He wasn’t sure if he intended it as a sign of respect, or if he simply wanted to hold something. All he knew was that he was turning it in his hands, end to end, his mouth so dry, he was unable to speak.
“What is it?” Mr. Marshall took a step closer. “Are you well, sir?”
No. Edward was not well. He didn’t know how he was ever to be well. “You…” He’d managed to get only the single word out. He could do a few more, surely. “You…you must be Mr. Hugo Marshall.”
“I am.” Marshall looked him over and frowned. “And you have the look of… Ah, my memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s been years since I had to sort out high society.” His eyes were sharp and penetrating, flickering over Edward’s features. “No. I don’t know you, although you remind me…” He shrugged. Then his gaze traveled to Edward’s coat—badly pressed—and his unshaven cheeks. “Hmm. Why am I so sure that you’re high society?”
Oh, how Edward wished he could lie. “I am.”
“Are you here about some dimly remembered family scandal that I ferreted out years ago? If so, go away.” The man waved a hand. “I don’t remember a thing from that time—as I’ve just amply demonstrated.”
“That’s not why I’m here, sir.”
Marshall’s eyebrows rose on the sir.
“You see, I’m…” He took a deep breath and then raised his chin. “I’m Edward Clark.” He didn’t even know if Free had mentioned his existence to her parents.
Apparently, she had. An amused grin swept over Marshall’s face. “Are you, then? That explains the nervousness. But don’t tell me you’ve come to ask for Free’s hand. She didn’t speak of you as if you were a stupid fellow. You must know she’d never forgive either of us, if we…” He paused. “Wait one moment. Free never mentioned to me that her Mr. Clark was high society.”
Her Mr. Clark. God, those words cut him.
“I’m Edward Clark. Born Edward Delacey. Now, apparently, Viscount Claridge.” He shut his eyes. “You can address me by my preferred title: you idiot.”
Marshall’s eyes were narrowing on this. “What have you done to my daughter, you idiot?”
“To my great regret, I…” Edward’s hands were clammy. “It’s…” God, it would be better if lightning could just strike him now. “I can’t—that is, I seem to have married your daughter.”
Marshall looked about the yard, as if searching for Free. When he didn’t find her, he turned back to Edward.
“You regret marrying my daughter.” His voice sounded calm, if one could call the cold, black embers after a fire had burnt out calm.
“No,” Edward said. “Never that. She regrets marrying me.”
“Ah, then.” There was steel in the other man’s words, an edge so sharp that Edward could almost feel it slicing into him. “That’s worse.”
“It is.” Edward shut his eyes and tensed. But nothing happened—no blow to the stomach, no fist to his face. He waited, his muscles growing taut, but instead, a bird chirped merrily off in the distance. He finally opened one eye to see Marshall watching him quizzically.
“Aren’t you—that is—having confessed what I just did, aren’t you going to…?”
“To rough you up a little?” Marshall asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m imagining it right now. Give me a moment, and I’ll get through it. Then we can talk like rational beings.”
Edward blinked. “Pardon?”
Marshall shrugged. “Come now. All you’ve said is that my daughter regrets marrying you. I don’t know if she’d regret marrying you less if I beat you to a bloody pulp. She might not; she might feel sorry for you if you were laid up with your ribs broken and your eyes blackened. Then she might end up saying things she doesn’t mean and find herself in a worse spot than she is now. I only strike other men when I think there’s a chance it’ll do some good.”
“That’s…that’s…” It was alarmingly rational.
“Besides, if Free wanted you to have a black eye, you’d have one. When she was twelve, she used to get into fistfights with the boy next door, and we were always being called upon by Mrs. Shapright to come see what Free had done to him.”
Edward felt the corner of his lip twitch.
“So tell me. How is it that a viscount came to marry my daughter without my knowledge?”
“I hadn’t been in England for a long while. I never intended to return, and when I did, I didn’t plan to make myself known. I didn’t want to be a viscount. I just wanted to finish my business and go away.”
