The Suffragette Scandal

by Courtney Milan

  The first was just over six months old.

  Ask a Man, he read. The inaugural release of a column of weekly advice by Stephen Shaughnessy.

  So. Patrick had the right of it. Someone here was paying attention to Stephen. His friend had mentioned that Stephen wrote for a paper, but Edward hadn’t realized he had a regular column—and a column of advice, at that.

  Frankly, the thought of taking advice from the twelve-year-old he’d once known sounded rather horrifying. But even Stephen must have matured somewhat in the intervening years.

  There was a note of explanation before the column started.

  It has come to the attention of the editorial staff that our newspaper, with its determination to be “by women, about women, and for women,” cannot possibly impress anyone as we lack the imprimatur of a man to validate our thoughts. To that end, we have procured an Actual Man to answer questions. Please address all inquiries to Man, care of Women’s Free Press, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire. —F.M.

  It took Edward a moment to check the head of the paper. Indeed. Women’s Free Press, it read. That was the name of the business on the card he’d received that morning. F.M. was almost certainly Frederica Marshall, the spitfire he’d met on the banks of the Thames. It made sudden sense of her behavior. She was Stephen’s employer. There was no reason that should make Edward feel glad; he was unlikely to ever see her again, and even if he did, he’d no intention of entangling himself in any sense. A kiss, a cuddle, a quick farewell—that’s all a man like him ever hoped for.

  Still.

  He shook his head and read on.

  Dear Man, someone had written. I have heard that women are capable of rational thought. Is this true? What is your opinion on the matter?

  Breathlessly awaiting your manly thoughts,

  A woman

  Edward tilted his head and shifted the paper so that the answer lay in the dim circle of lamplight.

  Dear Woman,

  If I were a woman, I would have to cite examples of rational thought on the part of women, which would be awfully tiresome. Once we got through the example of the ancient Greeks, matriarchal rulers in China, Africa, and our own country, once we passed from Aglaonike the astronomer, to Cleopatra the alchemist, and on through our very modern Countess of Chromosome, we’d scarcely have time to talk about how great men are. That simply won’t do.

  Luckily, I am a man, so my mere proclamation is sufficient. Women can think. This is true because a man has said it.

  Yours,

  Stephen Shaughnessy

  Certified Man

  God. Edward stifled laughter. Stephen hadn’t changed one bit. It had been years since he’d seen him, but Edward could still hear his voice, irrepressible as ever, always arguing, always winning, pushing everyone to the very brink of rage and then defusing the anger he’d aroused with a joke.

  It was good to know that Edward’s father hadn’t managed to completely crush his spirit.

  It was even more interesting that Miss Marshall had chosen to print this particular column.

  He flipped to the next clipping, dated one week later.

  Dear Man,

  Is this column a joke? I cannot honestly tell.

  Signed,

  Another Man

  Dear Other Man,

  Why would you think my column a joke? A paper written by women, for women, and about women obviously needs a man to speak on its behalf. If it is a joke for men to speak on behalf of women, then our country, our laws, and our customs must all be jokes, too.

  Surely you are not so unpatriotic as to suggest that, sir.

  Yours in one-hundred-percent-certified seriousness,

  Stephen Shaughnessy

  Verified Man

  Ah, he was going to enjoy reading these. Edward flipped to the next page. This would be an excellent way to pass the time while he waited.

  Dear Man—

  The door to the room opened. Edward’s pulse leapt—this was, after all, the second reason he had paid this visit—but he did not move. He sat in the chair that had once belonged to his father and waited.

  “What is this?” The man in the doorway was just a silhouette, but his voice was achingly familiar. “How did you get in?”

  Edward didn’t say anything. Instead he turned up the lamp, letting the light flood the room.

  The other man simply frowned. “Who the devil are you?”

  For a moment, Edward was taken by surprise. He’d been gone more than nine years, and he’d been thought dead for the last seven. But he had always assumed that his own brother would at least recognize him. They’d had their differences, more than most brothers did. The years that passed had severed any sickly bond that might have subsisted between them, leaving them to wobble away on their own separate paths. But until this moment, Edward hadn’t realized how physical those differences had become.

  Once, they’d looked much alike. James Delacey had been a shorter, younger version of himself. James’s hair was still dark and glossy and his face was soft and smooth. By contrast, Edward’s once-dark hair was shot through with strands of white. His hands were all calluses; he suspected that the only skin on his brother’s hand that wasn’t soft was a little rough mark from holding a pen.

  And then there was the fact that Edward had spent his last years at manual labor and had gained the shoulders to match.

  James wore sober black. He was in mourning, Edward realized with surprise. Odd. Edward’s father had been lost to him years ago. For James, it had only been nine months.

  “The last time I saw you,” Edward said gravely, “was on the London docks. You told me that it was for the best that I left and that you’d keep Wolf exercised until I changed my mind and was allowed back.”

  Silence met this proclamation.

  “Well?” Edward leaned back in the chair, affecting laziness. “It’s been almost a decade since then. How is my horse, James?”

  James set his hand against the doorway as if to hold himself upright. “Ned?” His voice shook. “My God, Ned. I must be dreaming this. You’re not here.”

  Edward grimaced. “How many times have I told you? I prefer Edward. For God’s sake, James, come in and shut the door.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, James did just that. Of course he wouldn’t call the servants. Not now, not with a handful of months remaining. It had been six years and some eight months since last he’d written to his family. At the seven-year mark, James would officially inherit everything. He probably had the date marked with stars and rainbows on his calendar.

  “Ned.” James stumbled forward, fell into a chair. He was shaking his head in confusion. “My God. You’re dead. We had a ceremony.” He looked up, his eyes dark with some unspoken emotion. “We sold your horse. I’m sorry.”

  Of all the things his brother had to apologize for, selling an unused stallion seemed the most foolish.

  James frowned. “We put up a monument, too, at some bloody expense. If you were going to turn up alive, could you not have done so in a respectable time?”

  Edward could not help but smile. Yes, he had heard that correctly. His brother had just complained to him about the expense associated with his death.

  “I just visited my grave,” Edward assured him. “The monument is lovely. I’m sure it was worth every penny.”

  “What have you been doing with yourself? Why haven’t you said anything? By God, if you’d only known how I have suffered these last years. I’ve been telling myself that I sentenced you to death.”

  Edward’s hands twitched. How James had suffered? His brother sat across from him, whole and hearty. His suffering had involved neither missing meals nor cowering under military bombardments. He’d not been kept in a basement, hadn’t had everything taken from him in one long, unending nightmare. He was sleek and handsome, a version of Edward who hadn’t walked through hell.

  “I’m sorry,” Edward said dryly, “for any discomfort I caused you.”

  “Yes.” James frowned. �
��And it’s not over yet, is it? This is damned inconvenient.”

  Personally, Edward would have found it more inconvenient to be dead. But he could hardly begrudge his younger brother his point of view. “Do say why.”

  “This will be the most immense scandal.” James looked at the desk, drew a deep breath. “You’ll want the title, then. That’s why you’ve come.” His hands clenched in his lap, as if he were preparing himself for a fight.

  Ah, yes. Another thing James had that Edward lacked: the illusion that this family had some semblance of honor. Edward could remember believing that. Barely.

  “If I had wanted to be Claridge,” Edward said, “I’d have returned the day I heard of Father’s death. No, James. Keep the title. It’s yours.”

  James frowned, as if he could not believe his ears. No doubt he couldn’t conceive of a world in which a man walked away from a viscountcy. “Speaking of the city, how did you ever survive?”

  There were a great many things his brother might have meant by that question. How did you get on after Father left you stranded? Or, perhaps: Did you by any chance go to the British Consul before the siege started?

  How had he survived? He’d survived any way he could.

  But he simply smiled at his brother. “I survived by luck,” Edward told him. “When I had it.”

  James’s eyes widened. “Was it bad?”

  “No,” Edward lied. “But only because I learned to be worse in response. Trust me, James. I’m no longer fit company. I know who Viscount Claridge is supposed to be. I had enough lectures on the meaning of our family honor to recall that. I can’t be him.”

  He’d had enough of people making him into someone else, and the boy who had grown up in this house might as well stay dead, for all the use he’d been.

  “You, on the other hand,” he finished smoothly, “can. You will.”

  James blinked, taken aback, but seemed to take this as simple truth. He seemed, even, to think that Edward had given him a compliment. He nodded, looking faintly relieved to discover that his entire world was not going to be upended.

  God, James was so simple to read. Relief was evident first in the slump of his shoulders. That was followed by an intake of breath and a narrowing of his eyes. He looked at Edward in sudden suspicion. He was no doubt wondering why his brother had returned from the dead after all these years if not to claim the title. Soon enough, James would realize this was a negotiation, not a reunion.

  “You need an allowance, then.” James sounded resigned.

  “God, no.” Ongoing blackmail was never his preference. There were too many opportunities to get caught. Edward thought of the file underneath his fingertips. “There’s only one thing I want from you.”

  James leaned forward. “Well?”

  Edward flattened his hand on the newspaper clippings. “You’re going to leave off whatever it is you’re plotting to do to Stephen Shaughnessy.”

  James let out a long, slow breath. He reached up and rubbed his forehead. “I see.”

  “Your word that you won’t hurt him, directly or indirectly. That’s all I want; give me that, and I’ll let you live out your life in peace.”

  “I see,” James repeated more sharply. “It was his fault you were sent away in the first place, or have you forgotten? But that’s how it is. You’ve been alive these last seven years. In all that time, you’ve sent not one note to your own brother, not one word indicating that you were alive. But I can see you’ve spoken with Shaughnessy. Regularly enough to know that his little brother has landed himself in water too hot for his taste. That does rather clarify matters.”

  “You left me to die,” Edward heard himself snap out. “You can hardly complain because I chose to gratify your desires.”

  James paled. “I didn’t,” he said too swiftly. “You must know I didn’t. What I told the British Consul… It was true, in a sense.”

  A sense. When the declaration of war had come, Edward had written to his father, asking for the means to return to England. It had been a blow when his father refused. He’d said that if Edward didn’t believe in the family honor, he needn’t rely on the family’s help.

  But it was James who had taken matters two steps further. When Edward had arrived at the British Consulate in Strasbourg two steps ahead of the advancing army, the consular secretary had declared him an impostor. The secretary had received a letter to that effect, after all—a letter signed by James himself. Edward had been called a liar and a profiteer and he’d been tossed out on his ear.

  With that had vanished Edward’s last hope of financial assistance or a pass of safe-conduct.

  Old news, now. They’d both been little more than boys when that happened. Edward steepled his fingers. “What you told the British Consul,” he repeated calmly. “It was true. In a sense.” He didn’t make the words a question. He didn’t need to.

  “It was just that you were singularly unrepentant, Ned, and—”

  “I prefer Edward.”

  James swallowed. “Yes. Edward. I didn’t think… That is, it was for your own good, and…” He seemed to realize that this was not a fruitful line of argument. He shook his head, as if he could shake off what had happened to his brother with so simple a motion. “You’re not dead after all. So…” He let out a long breath. “All’s well that ends well, eh?”

  Too bad for James that Edward was not the sort to be won over with meaningless platitudes.

  “I agree,” he said smoothly. “All’s well that ends well. These are old events, and you and I find ourselves in agreement after all these years. It’s in everyone’s best interests that I remain dead. Yours. Mine.”

  He smiled and waited for that threat to sink in. His brother shifted uneasily on the seat across from him.

  “So once again, I ask you: Will you leave off plotting against Stephen Shaughnessy?”

  James let out a long, shaky breath. “It’s not that simple. I have a place in this world. If I am going to be Viscount Claridge for the rest of my life, I’ll need to maintain a certain reputation.” He pressed his lips together. “It’s like with dogs. If you don’t give them a good slap on the head from time to time, they’ll never think you’re in charge.”

  “Are we still talking about Stephen Shaughnessy? He’s a boy with a silly column, not a dog.”

  “Yes,” James said flatly. “He’s completely unimportant on his own. But you asked me not to hurt him indirectly either, and I can’t do that unless I let Miss Marshall and her damned paper alone.”

  Edward inhaled and thought of the card in his pocket. But he didn’t let his brother see that his interest was piqued. He managed a dubious frown instead. “Who is Miss Marshall? Am I supposed to care about her?”

  James’s lips thinned. “She is the prime example of everything that is wrong with England. Writing those damned reports, getting the women all heated up, forcing Parliament to spend valuable time on irrelevant matters. Do you know how much time was wasted on the inquiry she forced regarding the government lock hospitals?” His brother made a disgusted noise. “Decades ago, a pretty girl with pleasant conversation, a mild competence, and a taste for independence would have set herself up in London as some man’s mistress. Look at her now.” There was an angry edge to James’s voice. “Beholden to no man, putting her nose in where it’s not needed, setting wife against husband, servant against master. Most of these women, well…” He shrugged. “They’re relatively harmless. Let them natter on; it gives them something to occupy their time. But Marshall? She’s real trouble.”

  It was interesting to know his brother so well and yet not know him at all. Edward could still tell when James protested too much. “When did you ask her to be your mistress?”

  His brother flushed crimson. “It was a generous offer! The best that someone of her breeding could expect. And she turned me down without any consideration for my feelings. In any event, that’s years in the past—hardly relevant now—and I wouldn’t have her at this point, not if she begged
me.”

  Strange that he and James had that much in common. It might have been the only thing. Miss Marshall was precisely his sort, too.

  “I understand,” Edward said mildly. “She sounds a right terror.”

  James wouldn’t know that he intended that as a compliment.

  Indeed, his brother nodded in relief. “This thing with Miss Marshall… Well, we’re months into the planning. Father started it. It was one of his grand plans—you should see what she wrote about him. I can’t see it left undone.” He frowned. “If you’d like me to leave Stephen alone, you could convince him to separate himself from Miss Marshall.”

  “I could.” Edward pretended to consider this. “That might be an acceptable compromise.”

  But then he would have to talk to Stephen directly. He’d have to reveal the truth of his continued existence, and that was far too dangerous. The more people who knew of him, the greater the likelihood that someone would tell. And once the secret was out, Edward would be forced to come forward. It was one thing to abandon the viscountcy to his brother, who would see to the estates. It was another entirely to leave the properties uncared for. Even Edward was not so vile a scoundrel as to accept that. If the truth came out, he’d have no choice but to take James’s place here. He’d spend the rest of his days in this cloying, smelly room, suffocated by his father’s title.

  Besides, knowing Stephen, a simple confrontation wouldn’t do any good; the boy he’d known would never leave a friend—or an employer—in the lurch simply because he was threatened.

  And more importantly… Asking Stephen to run away went very much against Edward’s grain.

  Edward could threaten his brother with ease. But helping him to achieve his goals? After what James had done? No. Everything in Edward revolted at that.

  He scarcely knew Miss Marshall. She had struck him as naïve and optimistic. She was not the sort of ally he would normally seek out; he generally preferred to work with more cynical types.

  But—not entirely irrelevantly—he’d liked her. He couldn’t say the same for James.

  “There are a few small things already in motion,” his brother said airily, “but they’re of little consequence, and I’ll try to make sure they don’t hurt Stephen more than they must. Will that do?”