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?”
“Is that port over there?” Edward motioned to the other side of the room.
His brother turned away. “Why—no. It’s brandy.”
“Just as good. Pour us a glass, then, and we’ll drink to our accord.”
His brother crossed the room, a pleased smile on his face. No doubt he thought the whole thing had been worked out.
While James’s back was turned, Edward rolled the contents of the thick file he’d been perusing before James came in—newspaper clippings, letters, and all—into a bundle and stashed it inside his coat. He’d go through it all and slip it back in place by morning. James would never know.
All things being equal, Edward would rather not betray his little brother. Even after what James had done. But then, life was a series of hard choices. He could walk away from England and leave his best friend’s younger brother to the mercy of his family’s plan. Or he could make Miss Marshall’s better acquaintance and upset the whole thing.
He could see her in his mind’s eye for a moment—that all too delightful smile on her face. Call on me if you ever find yourself in need of an exclamation point.
No exclamation points.
But then, he’d never needed punctuation to get his revenge. He’d found lies and forgery to be much more effective tools.
Hell, he’d be doing Miss Marshall a favor. She didn’t need to know any of the details—and maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get that cuddle after all.
Chapter Three
Cambridge, a few days later
“ONCE IS COINCIDENCE. Twice is suspicious. Three times?” Frederica Marshall tapped her pen viciously against the pages of newsprint in front of her. “Three times demands an explanation. Well, my dears?”
Two women sat beside her, examining the pages for themselves. The room was warm—almost overly so—but they were all used to that by now. Lady Amanda Ellisford, one of Free’s dearest friends, sat on her right, frowning, her eyes darting back and forth between the two columns. Mrs. Alice Halifax, Free’s cousin, sat on the other side. Alice’s lips moved slightly; she took longer to read the words. Rather unsurprising as she’d only learned to read three years ago. But her face darkened as she did.
“It’s like looking at two gowns made from the same pattern,” Alice said. “Different cloth, different seamstress. But it’s still a copy.”
The headline of the article Free had written was “Why Women Should Vote.” The headline of the article opposite was “Why Women Shouldn’t Vote.”
Same number of paragraphs. Same arguments addressed in each paragraph—raised in hers, discarded in the opinion piece printed in the London Star. But the piece in the Star had been printed nine hours before Free’s newspaper had gone to press.
“Someone is going to notice,” Amanda said quietly. She chewed her lip nervously, and then sighed. “More than one someone. Once they do notice, they’ll talk.”
Well might Amanda be nervous. This was the third time that something like this had happened in the last month. The first, Free had dismissed as coincidence. The second had left her suspicious. But this? This looked like confirmation.
“I know just what they’ll say,” Alice said. “They’ll say women are capable of only aping men, that we do nothing but take the words that men write and put ‘not’ in front of them. They say it enough as it is.”
They’d say it in public this time though, with something that looked like proof. Free would get another spate of angry, accusing letters. Some of them would no doubt be ugly indeed. She shook her head, dispelling that thought. Ugly letters were inevitable. They came no matter what she did; they were the price for accomplishing anything. There was no point worrying about them.
“We need to figure out how this is happening. Three different papers echoing words that I’ve written, printing counterpoints to my pieces before we’ve even gone to press.” Free shook her head. “If it’s not a coincidence, it’s a deliberate attack. And if it’s a deliberate attack, someone has access to what I’ve written.”
“It could be someone going through our rubbish,” Amanda said. “Finding your drafts—that would do it.”