Edward wouldn’t laugh. God, to be such a fool, imagining that manual labor was the worst a man could do. Running the metalworks was the most respectable thing Edward had managed in his years away. He had a sudden, wicked desire to show his brother his skills at forgery, just to see him choke. Instead, he filled his brother’s glass with brandy and turned back.
“Here.” But as he returned, he knocked his foot against the rubbish bin, tipping it over. “My pardon.” He reached over and righted it, shifting the contents as he did. “How clumsy of me.”
He caught a glimpse of Miss Marshall’s masthead as he rearranged the papers. Just as he’d thought.
James waved this away. “I’m glad we had this chance to talk. I’ve been worried, to tell the truth. We were a bit at odds as children.”
An understatement.
“But I see that won’t persist. We’ve each found our place. You’re happy, are you not?”
Happier than ever, now that he’d found his way into James’s confidences. “I am,” Edward said. “And I, too, am glad we spoke. But I must be getting on. I won’t be in England much longer, and you’ve still work to do.”
“Of course.” A frown passed over James’s face. “Do you mean to stay here for the night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. The family can’t risk my recognition, can we?”
Relief flickered over his brother’s face.
Edward shrugged. “I’ve a room for the night in a place by the station. I’ll be taking the train back to London first thing tomorrow. Speaking of which, is that today’s Gazette?” He gestured to the rubbish bin.
“Yes.”
“They still print the rail schedules, don’t they? Mind if I take that copy from you and bring it along with me? It’ll save me from having to look up the timetables tomorrow morning.” Edward gestured toward the rubbish bin.
“Of course.” James reached for it himself, but Edward beat him in bending down. He picked up the entire jumbled sheaf of newspapers, rummaging through them with a little more clumsiness than necessary until he found the proper one. “Ah. Here we are.” He gave the newspaper a tug, rolled it up, and smiled at his brother. “Thank you. I’ll be out of England soon enough—business will take me back to France, I’m afraid.”
James made a face, as if business was a dirty word.
“But I’m glad we had a chance to speak.”
“Of course,” James said. “No matter what you’ve done, you’re still my brother.”
“How generous of you.” Edward inclined his head. “You’re too good.”
And so saying, he slid the newspaper into the inner pocket of his coat—both the Gazette and Free’s proof rolled into one. There. His primary object for the evening was accomplished. “Good night.”
“Good night.” But as Edward started to leave, his brother grimaced. “Wait.”
Edward paused. “Yes?”
“Have you separated Shaughnessy from Miss Marshall yet?”
“No,” Edward said slowly. “I haven’t. He’s stubborn.” He’d not thought that his careful lies would bear fruit so soon. He stood in place, willing his brother to say more.
James sighed. “Can you keep a secret?”
“James.” Edward shook his head slowly, patiently. “I am a secret. Who would I tell?”
“True, true. Well. In the interest of brotherly rapport, you might want to make sure that Shaughnessy is not at the press late tomorrow evening.”
“Of course. Is there some reason?”
James hesitated, so Edward fed him another lie.
“No, no, don’t tell me,” he said. “I can see there is another reason. You’ve done something rather clever, haven’t you?”
That was enough to push his brother over the edge. “Oh, not so clever,” James demurred. “It’s taken me ages to build up to this. It’s just that tomorrow is when they’re supposed to set the fire.”
FREE HAD BEEN BURIED under a veritable onslaught of telegrams—seventy-three by four that afternoon—and the courier on his cycle brought more every hour.
That number didn’t count the notices that would come in the mails. After the exposé that had been printed in the London Review this morning and echoed in papers around the country by noon, advertisers throughout England had been desperate to sever their ties with her. Subscribers would no doubt follow suit.
Free had left the headlined paper out on the front table, a reminder of what she needed to accomplish by the end of the day.
WOMEN’S FREE PRESS FOUND COPYING COLUMNS FROM OTHERS.
“Your response won’t hold up.” Amanda had come back from London that morning, and she was examining Free’s hastily hand-scrawled defense. “This piece sounds like the thinnest of excuses. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t watched you write those columns.”
“Mr. Clark has proof,” Free said.