The Suffragette Scandal
Page 8
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?”
He leaned forward. “Ah, that’s the thing, Miss Marshall. I come with sterling references.”
She looked him over dubiously. His jacket was not firmly pressed; it had been a few too many hours since his last shave. His hair was disreputably long. Those things could be fixed by a maid and a razor, but nonetheless… “You’ve just offered to double-cross the men you’re working with. What sort of references can you possibly have?”
“Well, that’s the beauty of it. I can have any references I want. Shall I show you one of my best ones?”
“By all means. I doubt it will change my mind.”
Instead of producing a letter from a pocket, he reached across her desk and filched a blank piece of paper from her stack. Then, before she could protest, he swiped her pen and inkwell.
“Let us see.” He looked off into the distance, tapping one end of the pen against his lip. And then he began to write. “To whom it may concern: I have had the opportunity to work with Edward Clark for many years. He is honest, upright, and intelligent. He will serve you well in all things.” He shrugged. “Normally, of course, I would be more effusive and specific. Specificity is the trick to a good forgery. But in this instance, the substance of the reference is not the point. It’s about the form.” He signed the paper with a flourish and slid it across the table to her with an easy grace.
“I just saw you write this myself,” she said. “Why would I believe…” And then she looked at the page. Really looked at it—at the letters before her, at the signature that he’d dashed off with such easy confidence. Her mouth went dry.
“Precisely the point,” he said. “You shouldn’t believe me. But perhaps, looking over this particular reference, you can understand why people rely on me.”
If she hadn’t seen him write it just now, she would have thought she had written it herself. That was her handwriting, her name. That precise carefree curve of the F, the casual loops of her last name… He’d captured them perfectly.
“I’m wanted by two governments for forgery,” he said cheerfully. “Luckily for me, one of them no longer exists. And the other, in case you are wondering, is not part of the British Commonwealth. You would not be harboring a known fugitive.”
“That may be so.” She pushed the paper away from her. “Maybe you could convince someone else to trust you. But after that demonstration, I am rather less likely to trust you than the reverse.”
“Excellent,” he said cheerily. “I’m not a trustworthy man. I’ve lied to you a half-dozen times over the course of this conversation, and I’ll no doubt do it again. For instance, the name I was born with is not Edward Clark—although I have used that name regularly for the last six years or so, and I think of it as mine now. By all means, Miss Marshall, don’t trust me. But do work with me. On this, our interests are aligned. You don’t want to be ruined, and I’d rather your enemy not ruin you either.”
“Why? You don’t give a damn about me.”
His smile didn’t slip, but it grew just a touch darker. “You’re right,” he said. “But as it turns out, my indifference to you is overbalanced by my dislike of him.”
Or—equally likely—he’d been tasked with charming her, learning her plans.
“No, thank you.” She smoothed her skirts over her lap and met his gaze directly. “I’ll take my chances on my own. I do not need help from a self-professed liar who might betray me at any moment.”
“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?”
He leaned forward. “Ah, that’s the thing, Miss Marshall. I come with sterling references.”
She looked him over dubiously. His jacket was not firmly pressed; it had been a few too many hours since his last shave. His hair was disreputably long. Those things could be fixed by a maid and a razor, but nonetheless… “You’ve just offered to double-cross the men you’re working with. What sort of references can you possibly have?”
“Well, that’s the beauty of it. I can have any references I want. Shall I show you one of my best ones?”
“By all means. I doubt it will change my mind.”
Instead of producing a letter from a pocket, he reached across her desk and filched a blank piece of paper from her stack. Then, before she could protest, he swiped her pen and inkwell.
“Let us see.” He looked off into the distance, tapping one end of the pen against his lip. And then he began to write. “To whom it may concern: I have had the opportunity to work with Edward Clark for many years. He is honest, upright, and intelligent. He will serve you well in all things.” He shrugged. “Normally, of course, I would be more effusive and specific. Specificity is the trick to a good forgery. But in this instance, the substance of the reference is not the point. It’s about the form.” He signed the paper with a flourish and slid it across the table to her with an easy grace.
“I just saw you write this myself,” she said. “Why would I believe…” And then she looked at the page. Really looked at it—at the letters before her, at the signature that he’d dashed off with such easy confidence. Her mouth went dry.
“Precisely the point,” he said. “You shouldn’t believe me. But perhaps, looking over this particular reference, you can understand why people rely on me.”
If she hadn’t seen him write it just now, she would have thought she had written it herself. That was her handwriting, her name. That precise carefree curve of the F, the casual loops of her last name… He’d captured them perfectly.
“I’m wanted by two governments for forgery,” he said cheerfully. “Luckily for me, one of them no longer exists. And the other, in case you are wondering, is not part of the British Commonwealth. You would not be harboring a known fugitive.”
“That may be so.” She pushed the paper away from her. “Maybe you could convince someone else to trust you. But after that demonstration, I am rather less likely to trust you than the reverse.”
“Excellent,” he said cheerily. “I’m not a trustworthy man. I’ve lied to you a half-dozen times over the course of this conversation, and I’ll no doubt do it again. For instance, the name I was born with is not Edward Clark—although I have used that name regularly for the last six years or so, and I think of it as mine now. By all means, Miss Marshall, don’t trust me. But do work with me. On this, our interests are aligned. You don’t want to be ruined, and I’d rather your enemy not ruin you either.”
“Why? You don’t give a damn about me.”
His smile didn’t slip, but it grew just a touch darker. “You’re right,” he said. “But as it turns out, my indifference to you is overbalanced by my dislike of him.”
Or—equally likely—he’d been tasked with charming her, learning her plans.
“No, thank you.” She smoothed her skirts over her lap and met his gaze directly. “I’ll take my chances on my own. I do not need help from a self-professed liar who might betray me at any moment.”
