The Suffragette Scandal

Miss Marshall was wearing a ghastly green gown, one that had no doubt been lent to her by a friend. It fit rather poorly, gaping at the bosom and stretching at the hips. The color dimmed the fire of her hair—which, without her normal pins, refused to stay in place. Little strands made an auburn halo around her head.

He’d never seen anything quite so lovely.

Miss Marshall nodded to Stephen. “This part is good here, but this introduction strikes me as too serious. It won’t do.”

“Aw, Free.”

God, Edward knew that phrase. How many times had they heard Aw, Edward or Aw, Patrick when they were younger?

Stephen turned wide, begging eyes on her. “Can’t I—”

“No,” she said severely. “You can’t. Stop whining and do it right. Now do I have to glower at you for the next ten minutes, or can you produce a creditable paragraph on your own?”

Edward should leave now, while Stephen was still occupied. Before he was recognized. And yet now that he stood this close, he didn’t want to go.

Besides, what was the likelihood that Stephen would recognize him? Edward’s own brother hadn’t. Stephen still thought him dead, and Edward’s mirror told him how much his looks had altered. Even his accent had shifted. Nine years living on the Continent, scarcely speaking English at all, had changed the natural cadences of his speech.

Miss Marshall looked up at that moment and made his decision for him. She looked at him and then her whole face lit up. He almost staggered back under the force of her smile. It made him feel…reckless. A man couldn’t disappoint a smile like that.

“Mr. Clark. You’ve returned.”

She sounded almost surprised. As if he were the sort to assist her in her predicament, kiss her, and then walk away.

He was. That was precisely the sort of man he was, and there was no losing sight of it.

He smiled at her nonetheless. “I have. This time. It turns out there’s something we forgot last night—”

At that moment, Stephen looked up from his paper. Every muscle Edward possessed tensed involuntarily, waiting.

“Wait, Miss Marshall,” Stephen said. “I don’t need ten minutes. I have it…” His eye fell on Edward, and he trailed off, frowning.

Only one way to handle this. Tell the lie before the other man had a chance to recognize it for falsehood.

Edward stepped forward. “I’m Clark,” he said casually. “I’m an admirer of your column.”

Stephen blinked at him quizzically, as if trying to figure out why he seemed familiar.

“Shaughnessy,” he said faintly, by way of introduction. “So you’re the Edward Clark that I’ve been hearing so much about.”

Miss Marshall colored faintly at that, and Edward felt gratified despite himself.

“I’m assisting Miss Marshall with a delicate matter,” Edward said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

Stephen simply smiled. “No, not yet. I have to run this by Free.”

Stephen used her pet name far too readily for Edward’s comfort. It gave him a sense of domestic tranquility, as if the three of them might become friends. As if they might spend evenings together, laughing and telling stories.

“By all means,” Edward said disparagingly. “If you can’t pen a simple paragraph without Miss Marshall’s supervision, far be it from me to hinder you.”

Stephen cast him an amused look, but he turned back to Miss Marshall.

“It goes like this.” Stephen cleared this throat. “Miss Muddled, your mistake lies in thinking that your voice deserves to be heard. You should first think of things from a lord’s point of view. Who, in all of England, is more powerless than a duke?”

Edward’s eyebrows rose.

“Technically,” Stephen continued, “we all know the answer to that question: Everybody is. But everyone below a duke is also, from said duke’s perspective, a nobody. That makes the duke the most powerless man in England. The nobility controls the House of Lords, commands the highest social respect, and yet they control a mere ninety-five percent of the wealth. If people like you continue to demand living wages, how will a duke hire the hundreds of servants to which he is entitled? The very fabric of our society unravels in horror at such a thought.”

“Better.” Miss Marshall nodded. “I still don’t like the last sentence. It’s too overblown. Continue more in the same vein as the first part—perhaps something like, ‘Won’t someone think of the dukes?’”

Stephen made a note on his paper. “Right.”

“Do the nobility really control ninety-five percent of the wealth? That figure seems high. One would think that the industrialists’ holdings—”

“Oh, no,” Stephen said with an easy smile. “I just made that up right now.”

Miss Marshall set a hand on her hip. “Stephen Shaughnessy,” she threatened. “You may write a satire column, but by God, you will write an accurate satire while you’re working with me.”

“I was standing here the whole time!” Stephen said. “You saw me. I didn’t have a chance to go and look up facts. Besides, it’s much more fun just making things up about lords. That’s what they do in Parliament; why shouldn’t I have the opportunity to return the favor?”

“Stephen.” She glared at him, doing her best to look annoyed, and Edward wanted to laugh out loud.

Thus had all his interactions with Stephen played out—trying not to laugh when Stephen said the things he did. He was impossible to reprimand. But…

“By the by,” Stephen said, “what is the difference between a viscount and a stallion?”

Miss Marshall shook her head. “What is it?”

Stephen gave her a broad smile. “The first is a horse’s arse. The second is an entire horse.”

She buried her head in her hands. “No. You cannot distract me with terrible jokes. You are supposed to be looking up facts. Shoo!”

But Stephen didn’t stop. “What’s the difference between a marquess and a paperweight?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“One of them can’t do anything unless a servant helps it along. The other one holds down papers.”

Miss Marshall simply looked at him and shook her head. “They’re getting worse.”

“Is there an entire series of these uncivil jokes?” Edward put in. “And if so, can I hear more of them?”