Over the years, she’d added on writers, a second page to her paper. Her newspaper featured pieces from female thinkers like Emily Davies and Josephine Butler. Advertisements had bloomed. The columns covered everything from mundane advice on how to grow a few extra vegetables in a tenement to biting criticism of the newly-established colony on the Gold Coast. And it was all written by—and about—women. Stephen Shaughnessy’s acerbic column on Wednesdays was matched against a woman by the name of Sophronia Speakwell, who gave equally biting advice on Saturday.
No wonder his brother was targeting Miss Marshall.
And no wonder Edward had failed to convince her. He’d huffed internally when she’d called him a womanthrope—but he’d underestimated her so badly that he had to wonder if he was the sort of person who couldn’t give a woman her due simply because of her sex.
A mistake he needed to correct instantly, if he was to deal with her at all.
Hell, he’d threatened to ruin her reputation as if she were a fussy, prim little debutante. No wonder she hadn’t blinked. It had been rather like waving a butter knife at an accomplished swordsman.
The door to the little room was open; he could see her flitting about as the day progressed. She and the other women spent much of the afternoon laying out type, sending a few sheets through the machine, and then poring over the resultant copy. He could hear them arguing over antecedents, a friendly little squabble. Miss Marshall left shortly thereafter.
Instead of turning back to the archives, Edward opened his small sketchbook. Other men kept journals; Edward kept drawings. There was something about reducing an experience to a sketch or two that engaged his memory of details.
He tried to recall her office as best as he could. He could envision every last scratch on her desk, could remember the exact stack of papers, the position of the inkwell and pen. These things he penciled with swift, sure lines.
But when he tried to draw Miss Marshall, his memory was not so good. She’d had her auburn hair up in a simple bun; she’d worn a plain gown of dark gray with black cuffs. But none of the lines he put on paper seemed to capture her. He was leaving something out—something vital. He didn’t know what it was.
At three in the afternoon, she returned. He shut his notebook, picked up another newspaper—he was nine months in, now—and pretended to be absorbed in it.
She came to his door. She was carrying a paper sack, which she held up.
“Sandwich, Mr. Clark?”
He set the newspaper down. “And you’re feeding me, too? Why, Miss Marshall. I could almost imagine that you care.”
“I have an older brother.” She came into the room. “He complains bitterly if he misses a meal. I’ve no desire to hear you whine all evening.”
He snorted. “I don’t whine. Ever.”
“Well, we can be sure you won’t now.” She handed him the sack. “There’s water and soap up front, if you care to…” She stopped and frowned. “You never removed your gloves. I should have warned you. It’s easier to wash ink off hands than fabric.”
“Really?” He looked at her. “Miss Marshall, I have seen your hands. Do you ever get all the ink off?”
She smiled proudly at him. “No. I’m marked for life.”
“I thought as much.”
“We have a paper that needs to be on the 4 a.m. mail train. If you’ll excuse me.” She gave him a nod in acknowledgment and then ducked away.
He flipped his notebook open again. The sketch was definitely missing…something. There must be some trick of the light or expression that had failed him. His drawing of her seemed pallid and insubstantial in comparison with the reality of Miss Marshall in the flesh. He’d underestimated her once; it would be poor tactics to do it a second time.
He was trying to figure out what was missing, when the main door to the business opened and a man walked in.
Edward’s attention was instantly riveted. He kept his gaze firmly on his notebook, but he could not help but watch out of the periphery of his vision. The man who went up to Miss Marshall was taller now than Edward remembered. Those muscles he’d developed rowing were new. But it was, without a doubt, Stephen Shaughnessy. Edward could hear the tone of his speech from here. His voice had deepened, but it had that same lilting sound to it, that touch of Irish, a hint of his mother’s accent softened by a life lived in England. It brought back a rush of unwelcome emotion.
Little Stephen. Annoying Stephen. The clod, he and Patrick had called him, when he was particularly amusing and they’d not wanted to admit it. He hadn’t become any less clod-like if his columns proved anything.
Calling the other man names didn’t change a thing. Edward still yearned. He didn’t even know what he was yearning for. He’d told himself a million times after he was thrown out of the consulate that he didn’t have a brother, that he didn’t have a family.
The sight of Stephen put the lie to that. Edward had a little brother after all—maybe not one who was related to him by blood, but a brother nonetheless.
Stephen bent his head to Miss Marshall. They stood close together, Miss Marshall barely coming up to Stephen’s chin. She tilted her head and pointed a finger at him, and slowly, Stephen raised his hands in surrender. He said something; she laughed.
Edward looked down and turned the page in his notebook. Every one of Stephen’s features was burned in his mind—that sharp nose, those mischievous eyes, the tilt of his smile. He could almost see him reduced to pencil marks on the blank page before him.
He wouldn’t sketch him. He sketched to remember, and this was hard enough as it was.
Get on with you, he thought. Go away. Be safe. I’m dead, but I won’t let my family hurt you again.
But he didn’t look up at Stephen as he thought that. Instead, Edward shook his head, took out the newspaper, and went back to reading.
STEPHEN HAD A ROOM on a building that backed onto the River Cam.
From the bank of the river, huddled in a bush along a pedestrian footpath, an opera glass in hand, Free could see inside. Mr. Clark had posed no objection to sitting in the leaves and twigs with her.
She could make no sense of him. He’d lied to her—and he’d cheerfully admitted as much with a smile. He’d tried to blackmail her—but had shrugged complacently when she’d refused to be blackmailed. He was no doubt an utter scoundrel, but he was the best-natured scoundrel she’d ever had call to work with.
“Did you go to Cambridge?” she asked him.
He gave her an incredulous look. “What do you take me for? One of those prancing dandies arguing over Latin clauses?” He shrugged. “If you’re going to hold the glasses, keep your eyes on the room. We don’t want to miss anything.”
He didn’t try to take the glasses from her, though. Free sighed and trained them on Stephen’s room. He’d left a lamp lit, but it was still dark enough that she could miss something if she didn’t pay attention.
“You’ve been somewhere,” she said. “Somewhere before you lived in France is my guess. Harrow, perhaps? You have that hint of something to your speech.”
He snorted and looked away. “Eton.”
She snorted right back at him. “My brother went to Eton. I’d recognize that. You’re lying to me.”
“Of course I am. We’re reluctant partners, Miss Marshall, not friends swapping childhood stories.” Another man might have snapped out those words. He said them with a trace of humor, as if it were a great joke that they were forced to be in each other’s company.
“Ah. Shall we sit in stony silence, then?”
“No,” he said. “I’m perfectly happy to have you entertain me, if you prefer. Tell me, what was the result of the Hammersmith-Choworth match that took place this morning? I was rather isolated this afternoon and hadn’t the chance to find out.”
Free let the glasses fall and turned to him. “We’re reluctant partners, Mr. Clark,” she mimicked. “I’m not your secretary to relay the news to you.”
He shrugged. “How like a wom
an. You don’t know. Do you think pugilism is too violent, that it’s beneath you?”
Free burst into laughter. “Oh, no. If you think you can set me off with a poorly placed ‘how like a woman‘, you’re much mistaken. It’s terribly unoriginal. Everyone does it. I had thought better of you than that.”
There was a short pause. Then he shook his head ruefully. “You’re right. That was a dreadful cliché. Next time I attempt to provoke you to respond, I’ll do better.”
Free took pity on him. She raised the glasses once more and trained them on the lighted window. “Choworth fell after twelve rounds to Hammersmith.”
“Hammersmith won! You’re making that up. Did he manage to outdodge him, then? I know Hammersmith is faster, but Choworth has the punch. And the strength! I’ve seen him—”
“Careful, Mr. Clark.” Free smiled. “You’re using exclamation points.”
There was a pause. “So I am.” He sighed. “Do you know, boxing is the only thing I missed about England? I’d track down English papers just so I could find the results of my favorites. I was mad about fighting as a boy. I think it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.”
“Choworth apparently landed a few cuts to the right in the ninth round,” Free said after a pause. “Hammersmith was down; he struggled to his feet, but the account in the afternoon Times said the onlookers thought he was done for.”
He tilted his head at her. “Do you know that because you read all your rival papers as a matter of course, or because you actually follow the sport?”
“My father used to take me to matches when I was a child.” Free smiled. “We still go together. Take from that what you will.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Clark snorted. “Unfair.”
Before she could ask what he meant by that though, the door to Stephen’s room opened. Free waved him to silence and focused her glasses on the window. A man was slipping inside. He wore a dark, knit cap pulled low over his head.
“There’s someone there,” she told Mr. Clark.
“Damn.”
She had wondered if all his good humor was a deception—if, perhaps, he hated her and was just extremely good at hiding it.
That one syllable convinced her otherwise. There was a quiet fury in it. Beside her, he tensed, his eyes glittering.
“Damn,” he repeated. “I was hoping—really hoping—that he’d call it off.”
This, too, might be an act. This was, after all, the man who had dashed off a brazen forgery in front of her without blinking an eye.
Free kept her gaze trained on the man in Stephen’s room. The fellow stopped in front of Stephen’s dresser, turned toward his desk, and then, after another pause, slipped out the door once again.
She stood. “Let’s go.”
They scrambled down the path over the bridge. He didn’t try to outrun her—even though it would have been an easy prospect with her in heavy skirts and a corset. He kept pace with her instead, jogging easily at her side. When they came to the outer wall of the dormitory, he paused.
“If I give you a lift, can you get up to his window?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”
Before she could ready herself, he took hold of her by the waist and swung her up. She had only the briefest sensation of his strength, the power of his muscles, before her fingertips caught the edge of Stephen’s windowsill. She scrabbled for a firm hold; his grip on her shifted, sliding down. One hand came under her foot as support. Then he boosted her up, and she pulled herself into Stephen’s room.
“Do you need me to help you up?” she whispered out the window.
“You’re too precious,” came the reply. And so saying, he swung himself up, finding a foothold here, a handhold there. Before she knew it, he was hauling himself over the sill of the window, scarcely out of breath.
Her eyes widened.
“I can tell you’re not a gentleman,” she said as he pulled himself into the room. “You’re far too strong.”
“Ah, you noticed.” He straightened, brushing his hands off, and gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve done some metalwork. But we can talk about how attractive my muscles are at some time when we are not illicitly entering a building.”
From another man, that casual boast would have been downright disturbing. But Mr. Clark didn’t leer or wink. He didn’t waggle his brows to make sure she’d understood his lewd implications. He simply turned away and studied the room as if he hadn’t been outrageous at all. As if he’d spoken the simple truth.
And maybe he had.
Free covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
“You’d better search,” he said. “That way, you can be sure I didn’t place anything. I’ll keep watch.”
It felt odd, rifling through Stephen’s chest of drawers. Even though he’d given her permission, it felt like an invasion on her part. She finally found a ring—an ugly thing of tarnished gold and amber—among his cravats.
“There,” she said. “That’s it. You were right about that much.”
She still wasn’t going to trust him.
He gestured. “Take it. Let’s get out of here before we’re discovered.”
She didn’t trust him, but if she let herself, she could like him. He was clever, easygoing, and utterly unoffended by her intelligence.
It was such a shame that she was going to have to ruin their temporary camaraderie.
Free went to the door. “There’s one last thing I need to do.” They’d spoken all this time in hushed whispers; this time, she didn’t bother to moderate her tone.
He made a face. “Hush. You’ll be heard.”
That was rather the point. Free raised her hand. Mr. Clark took a step forward, but before he could reach her, she’d rapped—hard—on the inside of Stephen’s door.
“You can come in now, Mrs. Simms,” Free said in a carrying voice. “Let’s see what we have.”
Chapter Five
EDWARD HAD SWUNG HIMSELF out the window before he even had a chance to think what Miss Marshall was doing. His heart was pounding; his hands were clammy.
But instead of dropping to the ground immediately, he held on, his heels finding purchase against the rough rock of the building, his hands wrapped in the ivy.
“Well, dearie,” he heard an older voice saying. “Is it as you thought?”
“I’m afraid so. There’s a ring in here.”
The old woman—Mrs. Simms—clucked. “An ugly business, Miss Marshall. An ugly business. Good thing you caught wind of it. Stephen’s a dear.”
Not everyone hated him, then. Edward hadn’t spoken to Stephen in years, and yet he was unsurprised to discover that he was still winning women over.
This other woman was sniffing distastefully. “I can vouch for the fact that he’s not been in all evening. I went through his things at three this afternoon as he was leaving, and I saw nothing.”
Ah. Edward leaned his forehead against the cool stone. She’d arranged for a backup plan, in the event that they’d failed in their objective. Clever.
She hadn’t told him about that, of course. That was more clever still; he certainly wouldn’t have told himself, either. That must have been when she left her paper—she’d made certain that if he was lying to her, Stephen was protected anyway. And then she’d brought him a sandwich.
Damn, but he respected that.
“I’ll take it, then,” Mrs. Simms said. “And when the cry goes up about missing things, I’ll disclose everything. You can’t be found in here, Miss Marshall. You know what they’ll say. Go on.”
“You’re a dear. Have Mr. Simms send a message if there’s anything else I need to know.”
He could hear her coming to the window as she spoke. He dropped to the ground and waited.
She clambered over the edge, looked down, and caught sight of him. “You’re still here,” she said in surprised tones.
“Hang,” he told her in a low voice. “I’ll catch you.”
She didn’t hesitate. She swung her leg
s over the sill. He caught a flash of stockinged ankles and white petticoats—and then she lowered herself down. He wrapped his arms around her.
It was a little uncomfortable to let her slide down him. Uncomfortable for him in the best way possible: He was aware of every last shift of fabric. She had a lovely scent to her, something sweet and wild, like lavender on an empty hillside. He almost didn’t want to let her go when her toes touched the ground.
He did anyway, taking a few steps back.
When he glanced at her, she was smiling. “Are you angry at me?” she asked sweetly.
“Of course not. I told you not to trust me, and you didn’t.”
Every time he thought he knew what to expect from her, she upset his expectations. He felt buffeted about, unsure of his footing.
Also, she liked boxing.
God, this was bad. Very, very bad.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “we have to talk.”
Bad went instantly to worse. Talking was never a good thing. He glanced at her warily. “We do?”
“Yes.” She gave him a sudden grin. “But don’t give me that look. You’re the one who suggested it, after all. We’re supposed to talk about how attractive I find your muscles.”
His mouth went dry. No use pretending anymore. He wanted her—everything about her—from that saucy smile to the inner workings of her clever mind. He wanted her badly.
He took one step toward her.
“Alas,” she said, “we’ll have to postpone that discussion. After all, I have a newspaper that must be out with the 4 a.m. mail.”
He couldn’t believe it. She’d…toyed with him. Incomprehensibly, ridiculously, damnably. He was supposed to be the scoundrel here. He was supposed to be putting her on edge.
“No wonder you weren’t prepared to give me italics on either maddening or brilliant this afternoon,” he told her. “You were hoarding them all for yourself. Well played, Miss Marshall. Very well played.”
She gave him a smile—he could only call it maddeningly arousing—and then turned away. Her skirts swished around her ankles. She walked away from him with swift, sure strides, as if she knew her destination. As if it had nothing to do with him.