The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (8 page)

E
DWARD HAD NEVER BEEN
in Baron Lowery’s stable before, but he was struck by a sense of aching familiarity from the moment he entered. The tack hanging against the wall, the smell of oil and herbs, the arrangement of the tools… The best moments of his childhood had been spent in a stable laid out like this.

Familiarity was good after the extremely odd events of the last evening.

As he walked down the aisle, a groom popped up from a nearby stall, a puzzled expression on his face.

“May I help you?” The boy’s voice broke on the last syllable.

“I’m looking for Shaughnessy,” Edward said. He kept his expression calm and easy, even though his heart was racing. He hadn’t seen Patrick in years and years.

“He’s expecting you, then?” This was said dubiously.

“No, but he’ll want to see me.”

“Now?” The boy frowned. “Day’s almost over. Can the business wait?”

“I’m not here on business.”

There was a longer pause. The boy opened the stall door and shut it carefully behind him. Edward knew that gesture—this was a boy who’d been admonished to check the latch, to make sure. He knew that admonishment, too.

The boy brushed his hands together. “I’ll go see if he’ll come. Who should I say is calling?”

“Mr. Clark.”

Not a flicker of recognition. The boy shrugged and disappeared, and Edward waited.

It had been years since he’d imposed on Patrick. His friend had never breathed a word of the debt that Edward had incurred. He wouldn’t—Patrick wasn’t the sort to parcel out who owed what to whom. That’s why Edward had to keep score on his behalf. Those debts would never balance. All Edward could hope was to keep them at bay.

The door behind him opened.

“Edward, you great oaf,” a man said.

Edward turned. Before he could catch a glimpse of his friend, Patrick was on him, wrapping his arms around him.

“Not a word in response to my letter,” Patrick said, “not a telegram, not a note, not even so much as a semaphore flag waved at a hazy distance. I thought you would—”

“You thought I wouldn’t help?” Edward asked gravely.

Patrick pulled away, holding Edward at arm’s length. “Don’t be ridiculous. I knew you’d come through for me. But when I realized you must be in England, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t visit.”

Edward had considered it. There wasn’t a person on the planet who knew him as Patrick did, and Patrick had an unreasonably rosy outlook on Edward’s flaws. It made him uncomfortable being around the man. It wasn’t just the things Edward had done; it was the way Patrick was. Patrick didn’t lie. He didn’t cheat. He was honorable, fair, and reliable—everything that Edward was not.

It was only an accident of history that they were friends at all—history, and Patrick’s staunch refusal to turn his back on his onetime friend. Edward felt almost guilty about maintaining that friendship. His very presence was corrupting.

He’d eradicated guilt from every other aspect of his life, but he couldn’t be rid of it here. He loved his friend far too well to let a little guilt stop him.

“I was in the vicinity,” Edward said idly. “I thought I’d stop by.”

“Oh, the
vicinity.”
Patrick smiled knowingly. “You’re here on a whim, then?”

It had been several hours by railway.

Patrick punched Edward in the shoulder. “Idiot. At least this way I can thank you in person. It’s late enough that I might consider knocking off work. Come have supper with me.”

“You’re knocking off?” Edward raised an eyebrow in mock incredulousness and took out a pocket watch. He examined this in mock seriousness. “But it’s not quite six. Do you dare leave a full
nine minutes
early?”

Patrick’s face sobered in contemplation of this. “No, no. You’re right. I should do one last set of rounds, make sure everything is in proper order.”

“I’m joking.”

Patrick shook his head ruefully. “I’m not.”

So Edward waited while his friend puttered about, conscientiously checking oats and water. That was Patrick. That had been Patrick’s father, too—the stable master on the estate where Edward had grown up.

Strange that the lessons Edward had learned from that man had made him into such a competent scoundrel.
Do everything in your search for perfection. Think about matters from everyone’s point of view. A few seconds spent checking can forestall a day of disaster.
It didn’t matter if it was forgery or horse trading; it was still excellent advice.

When Patrick was finished—at sixteen minutes after six—he conducted Edward to his quarters, a small two-room cottage half a mile from the stables. He washed his hands and then put a kettle on the hob.

“You still have the miniature,” Edward said.

The painting sat on a shelf over the hearth—two boys sitting on the banks of a river, the branches of trees behind them rendered inexpertly in oil. The younger version of Patrick—short and wiry, brown-haired, pointed up at the sky. Edward had painted himself looking at the viewer.

That had been from a lack of imagination—he’d been looking in the mirror as he painted—rather than artistic choice.

Looking into the eyes of the child he’d once been gave him a strange feeling. That boy had dark, innocent eyes and a smile that had nothing of cynicism to it. Those eyes belonged to some other person. They were an illustration of a story he’d once been told about himself—too simple and sweet to be real. He wished he could blot himself out of the picture.

“Of course I have the miniature,” Patrick said. “Why would I get rid of it?”

He disappeared momentarily into a cellar and came back with a pair of sausages. He set these to roast over the fire.

Edward looked away with a shake of his head. “I don’t suppose you have my other painting.”

“What, the one of Byron the Bear being taken down by the Wolf?” It was a prizefight that they’d read about in one of the books they’d devoured. It had captured both their imaginations. They’d reenacted it many a time, and when Edward had graduated to painting on full canvases, capturing that moment had been one of his first triumphs.

“No,” Patrick said softly. “I couldn’t take that one with me when we…left.”

When Edward’s father had him whipped, Patrick meant, because Edward had coaxed him into speaking up when he shouldn’t have. When his family had been thrown out after twelve years of service.

“But enough of old times.” Patrick straightened from turning the sausages on the fire. “I only asked you to speak with your brother after Baron Lowery told me he’d overheard some disturbing things from him. But I detect your hand in the latest round.”

“Stephen told you already, did he?”

Patrick blinked. “Uh. No. I read it in the paper.”

Edward’s eyes widened. “You
read
about
me
in the paper? Oh, for G—” He remembered, just in time, that Patrick didn’t curse, and he covered his blasphemy with a cough. “For good George’s sake,” he continued more mildly, even though he knew he wasn’t fooling his friend. “What did the paper say?”

“It wasn’t about you,” Patrick said slowly. He crossed the room to his desk and opened the drawer. “Ah. Here. Read it for yourself.”

Edward went to him. It was a two-inch column on the second page of the
Women’s Free Press,
and it was sparse on details. A charwoman had seen a man slipping into a student’s room. She’d helped that very student pack for a sudden visit that afternoon, so her suspicions were roused. Upon further inspection, she found that the man had left behind a ring—which she knew had not been present when the student quit his room, as she’d examined his drawers herself while packing the bags.

We do not speculate as to the motive of those who attempted to falsely lay the blame on the innocent student,
the paper ended piously.
We note, however, that said student is known to our readers as Stephen Shaughnessy, the author of a regular column in this paper.

Miss Marshall had said nothing to him about reporting the event in her paper. Of course it was a brilliant idea. She’d obtained witnesses to Stephen’s innocence. And her story had been released first; future attempts to implicate Stephen would be colored by this and met with greater skepticism. She’d not been lying when she left him last night: She did have a paper to get out.

Of course, it was also her way of letting Edward know that she would not do his bidding quietly, that whatever he tried, she could do better. She had a circulation of—he flipped the paper over and checked—some fifty thousand subscribers. She had years of using her business as a weapon, and if he crossed her, that weapon would be at his throat.

And he’d foolishly thought that he could walk into her life and dictate to her what to do.

“You’re smiling,” Patrick said.

“Of course I’m smiling.” Edward set the paper down. “You subscribe to a paper that advertises itself as being
by women, for women, and about women.”

Patrick’s nose wrinkled.

“That wasn’t meant as an aspersion on your tastes,” Edward hastened to add.

“You may recall that my brother writes for said paper,” his friend said stiffly. “I subscribe out of fraternal pride.”

“Indeed.”

“And Miss Marshall is exceedingly clever,” Patrick said. “The fact that she is a woman, writing for women, doesn’t change that.”

That, Edward was beginning to realize, was an understatement. “Indeed,” he said shortly.

“I met her once,” Patrick continued. “I gather that now you have as well. I
like
her. Have you told her who you are?”

“A woman who ferrets out secrets for public consumption? Of course I haven’t told her. I lie to everyone. In another few months, the whole matter will be moot anyway. Edward Delacey will be officially dead, and James will be the viscount. If I keep lying long enough, it won’t even be a lie.”

Patrick’s lips pinched. Of course he didn’t approve. But he’d come for Edward after Strasbourg, and he understood.

Patrick knew James had lied to the Consul, leaving Edward in the path of the advancing army. He’d been told about the shells and percussion fuses, about the weeks on the fire brigade. That would have been enough to torment any man, but then, there’d been what happened after the city was surrendered. Patrick might not approve of Edward’s lie, but he understood why he didn’t wish to go back.

Patrick sighed now. “At least let me tell Baron Lowery—”

“No.” Edward stood. “That would be almost as bad as telling Miss Marshall. I don’t care how deep your…friendship is with him, how much you trust him. Your employer sits on the Committee for Privileges. James must present his petition to join the House of Lords to them before he can address the entire body. Do you think Lowery will remain silent when James states that his elder brother must be presumed dead?”

Patrick looked away. “It’s unlikely. That’s precisely why I think you should tell him.”

“Oh, no. No. I won’t.”

“You’ll let James be the next viscount, knowing that
this”
—James smacked his hand against the paper—“is how he’ll use that power? I know the idea of taking over is anathema to you, but Edward, you could do some good. Think about it.”

“You think about it,” Edward snarled. “You, of all people, should understand. I don’t do good.”

Patrick tapped the paper once more. “What was this, then?”

Edward felt his throat close. He’d planned to steal into a room like a thief, to simply foil his brother. It was Miss Marshall who’d enlisted others. She had chosen to make their private choices into a public maneuver, designed to shield Stephen.

Edward? Well, he’d tried to blackmail her.

“Your sausages are burning,” he said instead.

They were. They’d lain too long on one side. The casing had charred, peeling away from the innards. Patrick made an annoyed noise in his throat and rescued the meat.

“What would be the point?” Edward asked. “Do good? We both know better than that. I’m no longer a hotheaded idealist, and even if I were, I’d be suffocated in a sea of old men determined to protect their prerogatives. I have no desire to spend my life railing against that particular futility.”

Patrick speared the sausages on a fork. “You don’t really believe that.”

“Look at what I’ve done with my life, Patrick, and tell me I don’t believe that.”

His friend glared at him.

And that’s when the door to the cottage opened. Edward didn’t know the man who stood there, looking at him, but he could guess his identity by the tight expression that crept over the man’s face.

“Oh,” the newcomer said. “Uh. Mr. Shaughnessy. I’m…interrupting something, then? I…had a question about the gray mare.”

Patrick’s nostrils flared. He set his besausaged fork on a table. “Hello, George,” he said. “This is Edward Clark.” He cast Edward an annoyed look. “I was
so
hoping to introduce you two. Might I do it
properly?”

That emphasis on the last word left little question as to what he meant. It no doubt rankled Patrick to lie at all. To tell such a lie to Baron Lowery, of all people, must have burned him.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said. “There’s nothing proper about me.”

Baron Lowery was blinking at Edward, a quizzical look on his face. “So. The mythical friend is real.”

“Not at all,” Edward said lightly. “I’m like a unicorn: You’ll convince yourself in a few days that I was nothing but a horse, misapprehended in dim light. I must be leaving.”

“Edward.” Patrick sighed. “You just
got
here. You can’t—”

“I can. I must get back to my latest task, after all. We haven’t reached the end of it.”

“Yes, but—”

“You asked me to help. I can’t do anything else you asked for, but this…” Edward smiled sadly. “This task needs someone like me. Don’t worry about Stephen. I’ll make sure he’s safe.” Edward nodded. “Baron. Patrick.”

He slipped through the door before he could think better of it. Dark had come, a thick gloom that was broken only by faint, indistinct starlight. Edward stumbled down the path, making his way toward the main drive as best as he could in the dusk.