The Suffragette Scandal

by Courtney Milan

  He doubted the full committee was in attendance. Likely, they all thought this a fairly routine matter. After all, they were merely seating a lord who had presented his claim to the queen and had the particulars duly approved by the attorney general. Under ordinary circumstances, there would be nothing for them to do but vote at the end. Half had probably sent their proxies by way of one or another member.

  Edward was about to make matters deviate from the ordinary.

  In the back chamber, a man came up to the two of them. “You’re on the list of witnesses?” He brushed his thinning hair away from his eyes and peered at a page in his hand. “Your names?”

  “Edward Clark,” Edward said. “And Patrick Shaughnessy. We were sworn in yesterday morning.”

  The man nodded, checking them off the list he held. “If they need you, you’ll be called. Until then, you can have a seat.” He gestured at a handful of chairs and bustled off.

  Edward recognized the names that were being recited in the other chamber, loud enough for them to hear even in here. There was a deposition referenced from the vicar who’d baptized his brother. A family servant attested to a continuing acquaintance. He wondered if James had noticed the additions to the witness list, or if he’d brushed them aside.

  The man droned on. “As to the immediate family, the eldest son of John Delacey, the fourth Viscount Claridge, was Peter Delacey, who died an infant on August 2, 1849. The second eldest son, Edward Delacey, was born on March 15, 1850. He was in Strasbourg at the time that hostilities broke out between France and Prussia; all attempts to discover him after the region once again became stable were fruitless. Hundreds were killed, the bodies not all recovered. The last letter received from Edward Delacey, presented to this body as evidence by James Delacey, was dated July 6, 1870. Under our law, after seven years have passed without word, Edward Delacey is presumed dead. That brings us to the third rightful son of John Delacey, James Delacey, who is before us now.”

  There was an indistinct murmur, one that Edward could not make out.

  Then a different voice spoke up. “The chair recognizes Baron Lowery.”

  “Thank you. As I understand the law, Edward Delacey is merely presumed dead at the moment. Is that correct?”

  “For all legal purposes, yes.”

  “But that presumption can be rebutted for legal purposes. Including, I suppose, right now.”

  There was a pause and then another murmur.

  “Do you believe that presumption can be rebutted?” someone asked.

  “I believe I am honor-bound to rebut it,” Lowery said. “You see, it has come to my attention that Edward Delacey is alive.”

  Edward’s hands were shaking. He pressed them against his trousers, but it didn’t help. He’d avoided this as long as he could. The thought of being called by that name again, of taking his father’s seat…

  Yet here he was. It was too late. Even if he stood and left the room, they’d know now, and he’d never escape again.

  There was a long pause in the other room.

  “I have been presented with evidence to that effect,” Lowery continued, “which I shall present to this body, if I am so allowed.”

  He could hear murmured voices in the other room—his brother, no doubt, coming alive and objecting. He couldn’t hear their words, didn’t care about the objections James lodged or the matters of procedure he argued. He just wanted this over with.

  After five minutes, the man who had been reciting facts before spoke again, loud enough for him to hear once more. “Lowery may proceed.”

  “But—” That was James, speaking loudly enough that Edward was certain of the identification.

  “James Delacey, you are not a member of the committee, and may only speak before it when duly called upon.”

  Silence. And then, the voice of Baron Lowery. “I call Patrick Shaughnessy, my stable master, to testify.”

  Beside him, Patrick shut his eyes and heaved a great breath.

  “Go,” Edward said. “It will be all right.”

  The man who had greeted them eyed them with a far more avid interest now. The door to the hearing room had been scarcely ajar; he opened it wide and gestured Patrick forward. Patrick stood, clenching his fists. He had never been easy speaking to a crowd. But he marched forward bravely into the high-walled hearing room in the House of Lords.

  The greeter didn’t close the door this time. Through the opening, Edward could see Patrick make his way slowly to the front. He lowered himself gingerly into the seat that had been pulled forward.

  “State your name, sir.”

  Patrick leaned forward; Edward could see his lips moving, but nothing more.

  “Loud enough for the lords to hear, if you please.”

  “I’m Patrick Shaughnessy,” his friend said more loudly. “If it please you.”

  “Can you tell us where you were born?”

  “I grew up on the estates of Viscount Claridge.” His back was a rigid line. “My father was stable master there. My mother was a seamstress.”

  “Did you know Edward Delacey?”

  “We met when I was five, when my parents came over. We became friends almost instantly. My father taught Edward how to ride; Edward taught me how to read. From the time we were young until the day he was sent to school, we were inseparable.”

  “Did that friendship continue after he went to school?”

  “His father didn’t wish it to,” Patrick said slowly. “But Edward wasn’t the sort of child to turn his back on a former friend. We would sneak out together when he was home on holidays—going to boxing matches and the like.”

  “Do you have any proof of this friendship?”

  “Edward Delacey was accounted a competent artist,” Patrick said. “He painted a miniature of the two of us when we were thirteen. I’ve brought it with me.” Patrick groped through the bag he carried and handed over an item.

  “Did Edward maintain this friendship with you?”

  “We got into a spot of trouble when we were seventeen,” Patrick said. “My father was injured.” The line of his back bowed momentarily. “Our family was sent away. Edward protested the treatment and was sent to Strasbourg in punishment.”

  That was one way to describe what had happened—a way that left out the radical sentiment and Edward’s own foolish choices. But Patrick’s revelation had caused another murmur in the adjoining room. The men out there likely hadn’t heard that Strasbourg was a punishment.

  “Did he write you while he was there?”

  “A few letters, yes. And then hostilities broke out, and I heard nothing for months.”

  “For months,” the man said, sounding somewhat perplexed.

  “Months,” Patrick repeated. “Not quite a year. He sent me a letter in April of 1871 saying that he was in a bad way. At the time, I was only a groom for Baron Lowery.”

  Patrick had become more easy as he spoke on, but Edward grew tense. That April had been awful. He’d been wounded. Desperate. Destitute. He hadn’t known who he was, had only known that he’d done some terrible things. His entire world had been ripped to shreds. He’d had nothing at all.

  “He asked me to help. So I sold everything I had and got on a steamer.”

  “Everything you had, even though you were only a groom?” the man said dubiously. “Really?”

  No, Edward realized. He’d never had nothing.

  “We’re that sort of friends,” Patrick insisted. “He’s like a brother.”

  Even at his worst, there had been constants in his life: Patrick. Stephen. People he couldn’t eradicate from his heart and hadn’t wanted to. He’d always had that much.

  The questions continued on. “And did you find him?”

  “I did. He was alive, but…” Patrick shook his head. “He barely talked, and he’d been hurt. Badly. He wasn’t well.”

  They would no doubt imagine that Patrick spoke of physical harm. But the physical harm had been minimal—his fingers, a lingering cough in his lung
s from the water. It was his mind that had been splintered.

  “So I took care of him for a few weeks, and reminded him…” Patrick stopped, coughing.

  Edward knew what he’d been about to say. He’d reminded Edward that he wanted to live. But while Patrick was no liar, even he wouldn’t announce to the House of Lords that Edward had harbored thoughts of suicide.

  “I reminded him,” Patrick said, “that war had ended and life went on. When he was well enough to be left on his own, he told me to get back to England, but that he was not coming with me. His family had left him in Strasbourg, you see. He felt they’d abandoned him, and he had no wish to return to them.”

  This was met with a longer pause. “So the last you heard from Edward Delacey was when you left him in 1871 then? Do you have proof of any of this remarkable tale?”

  “Oh,” Patrick said. “I have that letter he sent me in 1871. I’ve kept all his letters.”

  There was a pause. “All his letters?”

  “Yes. We’ve corresponded ever since.”

  A clamor arose at that. Edward let out his breath and put his head in his hands. There truly was no going back after that proclamation, no pretending any longer.

  “When was the last time you received a letter from Edward Delacey?”

  “Two weeks past,” Patrick said. “But—”

  “And how do you know that Edward Delacey has been writing these letters, and not some other man?”

  “I know,” Patrick said, “because he saw those letters yesterday morning as we were compiling the evidence, and he did not disavow them.”

  That was met with deafening silence. There was not even a shocked whisper in response.

  “You saw him,” the questioner finally said. “Two days ago. He’s in England?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “He is. He’s—” He gestured at the room behind him. “He’s there. Waiting in the back chamber. I had to half-drag him here, your lordships.”

  That much was true. Edward smiled sadly.

  “James Delacey, would you recognize your brother?”

  There was a long pause. “Of course I would,” his brother said, his voice sounding a little too hearty.

  “Let Edward Delacey come forward, then.”

  Edward stood. Some part of him wanted to run away, to escape England and leave Patrick to face the wrath of the lords on his own. But he wouldn’t do that to Patrick…and he couldn’t let Free linger on in a cell, at his brother’s nonexistent mercy.

  He came forward. It had been a long time since he’d tried to walk like a lord—arrogant, occupying space as if all the room in the world belonged to him. These men were watching him, judging him.

  He sat, hoping that his dazed state came across as bored arrogance.

  “Are you Edward Delacey, the eldest living son of John Delacey?” the speaker asked.

  “I am,” he said. “Although I have been called Edward Clark these last years, and I prefer that name.”

  That got another murmur.

  “James Delacey, is this man Edward Delacey, your brother?”

  He looked over at James. James was watching him, a confounded expression in his eyes. No doubt he didn’t realize that this was not the only one of his plans that would unravel today. He’d understand it soon enough.

  “I don’t know,” James demurred. “He—well—that is…” He trailed off.

  “There’s no point lying now, James,” Edward said. “Whatever you claim, they’ll make you swear it under oath. You’ll not want to perjure yourself before the House of Lords.”

  “Ah… If only I…”

  “The alternative to your admitting this now,” Edward said, “would be to find the British consular secretary from Strasbourg, the one you wrote to. I suspect this body would find his testimony most instructive. Do you want that?”

  He’d do it, too, if need be—expose his brother’s treachery to the world. He didn’t give a damn about gossip; he cared about Free. He could see the moment his brother gave in. James lowered his head, his skin pale. “I don’t understand. You said you didn’t want it. You said…”

  Edward could now see the face of the man who had been asking the questions. He was the attorney general, the man tasked to present James’s credentials to the House of Lords. At this, the man hissed.

  “Delacey,” he said, “are you telling me that you not only know this man is your brother, you spoke to him before these proceedings?”

  James winced. “I. Ah.”

  “You sent a letter to the queen detailing your claim two weeks ago. And you knew it was false?” There was a dangerous note to his voice.

  “I—that is one way of looking at it, of course. But—”

  “There is only one way of looking at it,” the man said severely.

  And like that, there was nothing to do. Edward could scarcely pay attention. The proceedings were wound up, the vote taken. The committee decisively agreed not to refer James’s petition to the House of Lords.

  Edward sat in place, barely hearing anything, unable to contemplate how his life had changed. The only thing he could think of was Free. She’d be furious once she found out.

  But then, she’d not be in gaol. She wouldn’t be tortured. And that would be enough for him—it had to be.

  He stood when the committee adjourned and began to leave.

  “Claridge,” a voice called.

  It took him a moment to understand that he was Claridge now. Not confirmed yet, but recognized. It was only a matter of time until he received all the accolades he’d never wanted.

  Edward looked over. A man was striding toward him—thin, blond, and smiling.

  “The majority of them are too shocked to say anything. I thought I’d say… Welcome to Bedlam.” The other man winked. “Don’t listen to a word they say. It really is as bad as you fear.”

  “I hardly need instruction on that point.” Edward shook his head.

  “Come by sometime and we’ll talk about what we can do about it.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Clermont, by the way.”

  Clermont. It had been years since he’d memorized his peerage, but he knew that name. He didn’t remember the title from his dimly remembered lessons as a child; he remembered the man because Free had mentioned him just yesterday. This was her brother’s brother.

  After Free realized how he’d misled her? This man would be his enemy.

  Edward frowned. “You’re not on this committee.”

  The other man shrugged one shoulder. “When my wife tells me that there’s been an interesting pair of witnesses sworn in for a routine hearing, I try to make it my duty to sit in. Now, shall I send a note around for dinner someday?” His hand was still outstretched.

  Edward looked regretfully at the other man’s hand. “I won’t take you up on that until I’m sure you mean it.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Now, yes,” Edward said. “In a day? Your Grace, what you just witnessed is not the worst mess I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours.”

  Clermont raised an eyebrow. “Ah. You’ve been busy.”

  “Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go retrieve my wife from gaol.”

  His Grace lifted his other eyebrow, but all he said to this was, “You’ll find that substantially easier now, I’ll warrant.”

  As if rescuing women from prison cells were a part of a duke’s regular affairs. And hell, if Clermont had any acquaintance with Free at all, it probably was.

  Chapter Twenty

  IT TOOK EDWARD THIRTY-THREE MINUTES to convince the sergeant on duty of his identity. In the end, the man sent a runner to the House of Lords to ascertain the truth. When the boy came back, breathless and wild-eyed, Sergeant Crispin became substantially more helpful.

  “A rough business,” Crispin said. “Rough indeed. I—uh—know your brother.”

  “Oh, do you?” Edward asked in a low voice. His brother had worked out an arrangement with Crispin with regards to Free, and God help the man if he�
�d done anything to her in the hour and fifteen minutes he’d had her in his custody.

  “We’d an arrangement.” The sergeant licked his lips. “I don’t suppose you’re here to, ah, agree to the same thing?”

  “I don’t know.” Edward said blandly. “What sort of arrangement did you have?”

  The man blanched. “Um. Nothing, really. Why are you here, my lord?”

  My lord. People were already calling him my lord, and it would only get worse from here.

  If he had to take the reins, he might as well get all he could from the part. Edward stood straighter. “Your arrangement with my brother is of little importance to me. Carry on with that as you will.”

  The man looked faintly relieved.

  “I’m only interested in a prisoner who is being held here.”

  “Ah?” The sergeant looked about. “In these front cells?”

  “No.” He’d glanced through them when he came in.

  “Are you sure he’s here, then? We’ve only a handful of cells in the back, and those won’t be of much interest to you.”

  “Well, show me them, if you would.” Edward did his best to look bored. “I’ll judge whether they’re of interest; you needn’t decide for me.” God, that was exactly the sort of self-indulgent tripe that a lord spouted—as if he were the center of the universe.

  But the man didn’t punch him in the face for his condescension. Instead, he ducked his head. “Of course, my lord. I only wish to be of assistance. But there’s nobody back there but the suffragettes.”

  “Nonetheless.”

  The man neither sighed nor rolled his eyes at this. Edward was conducted through a maze of desks, down a back hall, into a back room containing a handful of holding pens filled with women in black gowns. Edward scanned them quickly, his eyes coming to rest on the very one he was looking for. She sat on a bench talking to another woman. She glanced up as he came in, but then looked away.

  It took him a moment to realize that she didn’t recognize him. Since he’d left her at the station, he’d cut his hair close. He’d shaved. He’d donned a fine wool coat and a gentleman’s top hat, and he carried a gold-topped walking stick. If she’d heard him talking to the sergeant, she’d have heard his sleekest, poshest accent.