The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister 4)

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.”