Free let out a long breath. Amanda was right, and it was a calming thought. But then Amanda always was a calming influence. They’d met almost a decade before, when Amanda’s Aunt Violet—Violet Malheur now, the former Countess of Cambury, and a brilliant, successful woman—had announced a series of scientific discoveries, upsetting all of England in the best way possible. Amanda had attended Girton a year behind Free. After years of being friends, it had seemed easy to ask Amanda to join her when she started her newspaper. Now Amanda reported on various Acts of Parliament. She spent half her time in London, taking notes in the Ladies’ Gallery.
When she was here, though, she and Amanda shared this house and a charwoman. The land they had built the house on—leased for as many years as Free had been able to get—had once been a cow pasture on the edge of Cambridge. The space also housed the building where her press stood, some fifty feet away. That way, when the press was running late at night, they’d not be bothered by the noise. Her dwelling was scarcely a cottage—three small rooms—but she felt secure here, surrounded by her friends.
She shook her head. “Then we’ll figure out who is doing it, and we’ll stop them.” She hesitated. “In fact… Along those lines, do you recall the man who was here the other day?”
“Mr. Clark.” Amanda frowned. “Is that right? Is he advertising with us?”
“Yes. Well.” Free grimaced. “He wasn’t really here about advertising.”
“What a shame. With Gillam’s pulling out—”
“He was here because he claims that the Honorable James Delacey”—Free gave the word Honorable a sarcastic twist as she spoke—“is behind the copying. I’m not sure we can trust Mr. Clark. In fact, I’m certain we can’t. But he may be telling the truth about that.”
She spilled the whole story. Almost the whole story. She left off mention of the blackmail and the forgery. She also—somehow—didn’t mention the compliments he’d given her or the solid feel of Mr. Clark’s hands on her waist as he’d boosted her to the window.
Amanda listened with increasing disapproval. “Free,” she finally interrupted, “whatever were you thinking? Going off alone at night with a strange man? What if—”
“She’s taken bigger risks,” Alice said with less rancor.
“I told Mrs. Simms where I would be,” Free said. “I left a letter, so if anything happened to me—”
“Oh, good.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “If my best friend had been killed, I could have avenged her death. What a comfort that would be! You have to be more careful, Free. I’ve seen some of the letters sent to you. There was that incident two years ago with the lantern, and just three weeks ago, those letters painted on our door in the dead of night.”
“Well, nothing happened.” Free looked away. “As Alice says, I’ve done more dangerous things for a story. If I went into hiding just because people sent me vile threats, I’d spend my entire life cowering beneath a blanket.”
“Oh, don’t do this.” Amanda huffed. “There’s a massive difference between hiding beneath a blanket and slipping out at night with a man you just met. I don’t care how sterling his credentials were.”
“Oh, they weren’t sterling at all,” Free said. “I’d never have trusted him if they were. They were more like tarnished brass, and we laughed at them together.”
“Even worse. You have to stop taking risks, Free. Learn to be afraid for once.”
As if that was a skill she had to learn. Free’s nostrils flared. “My entire life is a risk. That’s what it means when I put my name on a masthead and speak up. If someone decides to make an end of me, there’s nothing I can do about it—nothing at all but surround myself with the illusion of safety. If Mr. Clark had wanted to kill me, he could have simply crept into my room in the middle of the night with a garrote.”
That brought to mind a memory of one of Free’s nightmares, a dark, lurid image that lurked at the edge of her conscious thought. Oh, she was afraid. She never stopped being afraid. She just tried not to let it stop her in turn.
Years ago, her aunt had passed away, leaving Free a surprising legacy. But the money she’d received was not the most valuable thing her aunt had left her. Her Aunt Freddy had also written her a letter. One of these days, her aunt had written, you are going to learn to be afraid. I hope that what I’ve managed to save for you will help you move on from that in some small degree.
Free kept that letter on the table next to her bed. Freddy had been right; she had learned to be afraid. Sometimes, if a nightmare was particularly bad, Free took the paper out and held it, and it kept the worst of her fears at bay.
She shook her head, shoving this all away. “We can argue about the past all we like. But the truth is that nothing I did could have stopped a determined assailant—not my good sense, not my most demure choices.”
“Free,” Amanda protested.
But Alice leaned over the table and patted Amanda’s hand. “She’s right, Amanda. If she didn’t take risks, then she’d be a lot less like herself, and a lot more like…” She trailed off, perhaps realizing what she’d been about to say.
“Like me,” Amanda said bitterly.
“No,” Alice said. “You take risks. In your own way.”
Free wished she could say something in response to that. Instead, she swallowed and looked at her hands. Time for a change of subject. “You’re going down to London next week, aren’t you?”
Amanda gave her a jerky nod.
“Then I’d like you to take something to Jane, if you could.”
“I suppose. If you think you can manage to keep yourself from getting killed without a housemate,” Amanda muttered with ill grace. “Are you going to keep away from Mr. Clark?”
Free sighed. “There’s no point in promising. He won’t be back.” Yes, he’d flirted with her. He’d been shameless about it. But after the way she’d altered their plan and then put everything in the newspaper? It was unlikely. Even if he’d told her the truth, and she very much doubted that, men didn’t like women taking charge.
“Free,” Amanda said in exasperation. “Stop evading my question.”
“No,” Free said, rubbing her temples. “I won’t promise. He’d be a useful tool, if he did come back. But he won’t.”
Chapter Six
FREE HAD BEEN CERTAIN—almost certain—that she’d seen the last of Mr. Clark two weeks ago, on that night in March. As the days went on, she did her best to convince herself that it was true. Every time the door opened, she turned, her breath catching. Every time someone other than Mr. Clark entered, her heart sank. Foolishly, she told herself—entirely foolishly. After all, there was no reason to look forward to his return. Matching wits with him once had been enough for a lifetime.
And besides, the only man her paper really needed around was Stephen Shaughnessy. Free was sure that he was on her side, at least.
That incident involving him had sobered everyone, making them realize what was at stake. It had driven Stephen to write even more outrageous columns—and everyone else had followed suit, throwing themselves into their work.
No, they didn’t need Mr. Clark.
April was well and truly started. Amanda had gone down to London to report on the latest sessions of Parliament, and Free had stopped glancing up when the door to her business opened. She’d shrunk the foolish impulse to no more than a touch of interest—one she could push away, concentrating on the papers before her instead.
And then…
“Hullo, Miss Marshall,” someone said from the doorway of her office. Someone with a rich, dark voice, one that spoke of amusement and danger all in one breath.
Free jumped, dropping her pen and spattering ink across her sleeve. Not that it mattered; all her day gowns were well-inked.
She blotted at the stain anyway. “Mr. Clark. How do you do?”
He smiled at her, and she did her best to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t like him. She didn’t know his real name. He’d tried to blackmail her. He’d dis
appeared for weeks with no explanation.
But he had a very nice smile, and he seemed truly pleased to see her.
Damn him.
She tried not to smile back. “And here I thought that you took the piece I wrote about the events of the other night for what it was—a threat to expose you publicly. I thought you’d absconded in response.”
“Of course not.” He leaned against her doorframe. “I did take your warning. It was clever of you, Miss Marshall, to make it clear that you have yet another hold over me. I can hardly begrudge you that.”
He appeared to be serious about that.
Free shook her head. “On the contrary. That seems precisely the sort of thing a person usually holds a grudge about.”
“Ah, but if I were that sort of man, you wouldn’t find me nearly so compelling.” Without being invited, he walked into her office. He didn’t seat himself at one of her chairs; he leaned against her desk, as if he had every right to come so close. “A man must make choices: He can become enraged for no reason on the one hand, or he might impress men and women on the other.” He shrugged. “I’ve chosen to be charming. Is it working?”
God, she’d forgotten how utterly outrageous he was. Time to wrestle this conversation back under her control. “Mr. Clark,” she said as sternly as she could manage, “never tell me that you’re doing that again.”
“Which of my myriad flaws is making you uneasy, Miss Marshall?” He gave her a long, slow smile. “Is it my arrogant conceit or my wicked sense of humor?”
“Neither,” Free answered. “I rather like both of those. It’s just that you’re trying to use my attraction to you to set me on edge.” She smiled at him. “It won’t work. I’ve been attracted to you since the moment I laid eyes on you, and it hasn’t made me stupid once.”
He froze, his hand on the edge of her desk.
“Did you expect me to deny it?” Free shrugged as complacently as she could. “You should read more of my newspaper. I published an excellent essay by Josephine Butler on this very subject. Men use sexuality as a tool to shut up women. We are not allowed to speak on matters that touch on sexual intercourse—even if they concern our own bodies and our own freedom—for fear of being labeled indelicate. Any time a man wishes to scare a woman into submission, he need only add the question of sexual attraction, leaving the virtuous woman with no choice but to blush and fall silent. You should know, Mr. Clark, that I don’t intend to fall silent. I have already been labeled indelicate; there is nothing you can add to that chorus.”
His mouth had dropped open on sexuality; it opened wider on intercourse, and wider still on attraction.
“I’ve found,” Free said, “although Mrs. Butler would hardly agree, that the best way to deal with the tactic is to speak of sexual attraction in terms of clear, unquestionable facts. The same men who try to make me feel uneasy by hinting at an attraction can never live up to their own innuendos. Once I show that I will not be cowed, that facts are facts and I will not hide from them, they’re always the ones who blush and fall silent.”
“I’ve mentioned before that I’m not like the rest of them.” He shifted on her desk, turning to face her. “I have only fallen silent because listening to you admit an attraction to me is far more pleasant than speaking myself.” He gestured. “Please continue on. What else do you like about me?”
There was something about him that made her feel daring.
“Alas,” Free said briskly. “There’s nothing more. I’ve run through all the praise I can muster. You have an admittedly splendid physique, but it is unfortunately wasted on a man burdened with your abysmal personality.”
He laughed at that. “Brava, Miss Marshall. That is my besetting sin, is it not?”
He was the only man she’d ever met who was stymied by compliments and yet accepted her worst insults as his due.
“So you see,” Free said, “we’re all better off if we can just admit these things without putting too much significance on the matter. Let’s skip that rigmarole and get down to business. Why are you here, Mr. Clark?”
“Does anyone ever get the best of you?”
“Yes,” she returned, “but only when I choose to give it to them.”
“Ah.”
“Now, tell me, Mr. Clark. Did you come here to allow me the chance to once again demonstrate my intellectual superiority, or did you have some actual business?”
“You don’t need to demonstrate your superiority to me. I take it as a given on all fronts.” He reached into his coat, removed a notebook, and began to flip through it.
He was arrogant. And conceited. And yet… He had never denied her credit for any thought she’d had. It was hard to remind herself that she didn’t dare like him.
He creased the spine of his notebook. “I’ve not been idle these last weeks. I’ve been doing some work on your behalf. Here we are. I introduced myself to Mr. Calledon, owner of the Portsmouth Herald, and asked him how he came to write that extraordinary column mirroring yours.”
“And he simply told you?”
“After that glowing letter of reference I gave him from his former mentor at the London Times? Of course he did, Miss Marshall. He practically fell over himself to do so.”
Free raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, I suspect that his former mentor wrote no such letter.”
He winked at her. “And yet if you showed it to him, he’d find the writing so achingly familiar that he’d be hard-pressed to disavow it. I am good.”
“Bad,” she corrected. “We might recall, from time to time, that forgery is generally not accounted good.”
His smile widened. “Then I am excellent at being bad. In any event, Calledon admitted that he had been paid a sum to run the article. The text was provided by a solicitor shortly before press time. I even managed to obtain this.”
He took a folded piece of paper from his notebook and set it before her.
She unfolded it. It was a typewritten page containing the text of an article. Free recognized it as her own. A handwritten note atop offered it with the sender’s compliments.
Free narrowed her eyes. “Is that real?”
He shrugged. “Real enough that the participants themselves wouldn’t know the difference. With this in hand, we could, ah…convince Calledon to publicly admit that he’d copied you. Surely you can see the benefit in that. But then, perhaps you’re too good to put pressure on others.”
“Mr. Clark.” Free almost wanted to laugh. “Do you suppose I had myself committed to a hospital for prostitutes afflicted with venereal disease by telling everyone the truth all the time? Sometimes, the truth needs a little assistance.”
He smiled in satisfaction. “Precisely. No wonder we get along so well, Miss Marshall.”
“So is that what you’ve been doing all this time?”
He flipped the page back. “You must think me the most inefficient fellow. Here’s Lorring of the Charingford Times.” He held up another bit of paper. “Chandley of the Manchester Star.” Yet another note. “Peters from the Edinburgh Review. Have I impressed you yet, Miss Marshall? I may have an abysmal personality, but I do have my advantages.”
“I’ll grant you that.” She leaned forward, thinking about those bits of paper he’d showed her. She could use them—but at this point, nobody had yet noticed the duplications. Was it better to point them out herself and thus forestall the inevitable story? If she did, she might lose all chance at catching her enemy publicly. And without proof of a motive, the copying might seem a mere childish prank.
That was when she caught a glimpse of Mr. Clark’s notebook. She had expected a few notes, perhaps a page in some scrawled code that only he could unravel.
But she saw nothing like that.
She reached over the table and plucked the book from his hands.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
There were no words at all in his notebook—just a simple drawing of a bearded man in an office. “That is exactly Peters from the Review,” she
breathed.
“Yes.” His hands twitched. “I make sketches. It helps my memory.”
“You’re good.” Free turned the page. There was a penciled drawing of a café in Edinburgh, gray clouds threatening overhead.
“Of course I’m good,” he told her. “I’m excellent. I should think you would have noticed by now. Might I have that back, or are you not done violating my privacy yet?”
“When you put it that way, then… No. I am not finished. Ah, here’s Chandley.” She smiled. “Oh, you got his mustache just right.” She flipped the next page. “And here’s a train car.” She flipped it again and then stopped. The next page was her—a pencil sketch of her standing on a stool, wearing one of her favorite walking gowns, and leaning forward.
She swallowed. “Right. This.” She flipped the page again.
But that was her, too, head bent over her metal type, her fingers closing around an exclamation point. The next was her gesturing at some unknown person, smiling. And the next was her, too.
He reached forward and smoothly took the notebook from her. “I had to keep sketching you,” he told her, his tone mild. “I never could get any of them to look right, and I do hate failing at any endeavor.”
Her mouth was dry. “On the contrary.” She did her best not to sound shaken. “They seemed…very well done, to my eye.”
“Yes.” His mouth twitched up. “Of course they are. I am something of a genius, after all. Likely the only reason I found the drawings inadequate is the sexual attraction.”
She felt her stomach twist. His eyes met hers, held them for far too long. But no, she wasn’t looking away.
“It’s rather more difficult for me to grapple with than it is for you,” he said politely, almost courteously. “You see, you don’t have an abysmal personality.”
She’d heard the expression playing with fire before. She’d never before been tempted to employ the expression. Fire was a dangerous enough tool; any reasonable person kept it safely locked away when they could. But this was a heat she could enjoy.
She had to say something, anything, to bring back that necessary distance between them. It was a game between them, nothing more. She’d challenged him, and naturally he’d responded.
The Suffragette Scandal Page 7
