“After that glowing letter of reference I gave him from his former mentor at the London Times? Of course he did, Miss Marshall. He practically fell over himself to do so.”
Free raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, I suspect that his former mentor wrote no such letter.”
He winked at her. “And yet if you showed it to him, he’d find the writing so achingly familiar that he’d be hard-pressed to disavow it. I am good.”
“Bad,” she corrected. “We might recall, from time to time, that forgery is generally not accounted good.”
His smile widened. “Then I am excellent at being bad. In any event, Calledon admitted that he had been paid a sum to run the article. The text was provided by a solicitor shortly before press time. I even managed to obtain this.”
He took a folded piece of paper from his notebook and set it before her.
She unfolded it. It was a typewritten page containing the text of an article. Free recognized it as her own. A handwritten note atop offered it with the sender’s compliments.
Free narrowed her eyes. “Is that real?”
He shrugged. “Real enough that the participants themselves wouldn’t know the difference. With this in hand, we could, ah…convince Calledon to publicly admit that he’d copied you. Surely you can see the benefit in that. But then, perhaps you’re too good to put pressure on others.”
“Mr. Clark.” Free almost wanted to laugh. “Do you suppose I had myself committed to a hospital for prostitutes afflicted with venereal disease by telling everyone the truth all the time? Sometimes, the truth needs a little assistance.”
He smiled in satisfaction. “Precisely. No wonder we get along so well, Miss Marshall.”
“So is that what you’ve been doing all this time?”
He flipped the page back. “You must think me the most inefficient fellow. Here’s Lorring of the Charingford Times.” He held up another bit of paper. “Chandley of the Manchester Star.” Yet another note. “Peters from the Edinburgh Review. Have I impressed you yet, Miss Marshall? I may have an abysmal personality, but I do have my advantages.”
“I’ll grant you that.” She leaned forward, thinking about those bits of paper he’d showed her. She could use them—but at this point, nobody had yet noticed the duplications. Was it better to point them out herself and thus forestall the inevitable story? If she did, she might lose all chance at catching her enemy publicly. And without proof of a motive, the copying might seem a mere childish prank.
That was when she caught a glimpse of Mr. Clark’s notebook. She had expected a few notes, perhaps a page in some scrawled code that only he could unravel.
But she saw nothing like that.
She reached over the table and plucked the book from his hands.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
There were no words at all in his notebook—just a simple drawing of a bearded man in an office. “That is exactly Peters from the Review,” she breathed.
“Yes.” His hands twitched. “I make sketches. It helps my memory.”
“You’re good.” Free turned the page. There was a penciled drawing of a café in Edinburgh, gray clouds threatening overhead.
“Of course I’m good,” he told her. “I’m excellent. I should think you would have noticed by now. Might I have that back, or are you not done violating my privacy yet?”
“When you put it that way, then… No. I am not finished. Ah, here’s Chandley.” She smiled. “Oh, you got his mustache just right.” She flipped the next page. “And here’s a train car.” She flipped it again and then stopped. The next page was her—a pencil sketch of her standing on a stool, wearing one of her favorite walking gowns, and leaning forward.
She swallowed. “Right. This.” She flipped the page again.
But that was her, too, head bent over her metal type, her fingers closing around an exclamation point. The next was her gesturing at some unknown person, smiling. And the next was her, too.
He reached forward and smoothly took the notebook from her. “I had to keep sketching you,” he told her, his tone mild. “I never could get any of them to look right, and I do hate failing at any endeavor.”
Her mouth was dry. “On the contrary.” She did her best not to sound shaken. “They seemed…very well done, to my eye.”
“Yes.” His mouth twitched up. “Of course they are. I am something of a genius, after all. Likely the only reason I found the drawings inadequate is the sexual attraction.”
She felt her stomach twist. His eyes met hers, held them for far too long. But no, she wasn’t looking away.
“It’s rather more difficult for me to grapple with than it is for you,” he said politely, almost courteously. “You see, you don’t have an abysmal personality.”