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 woman. 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.”