Like this—intense and serious—she was even more beautiful than before. She tossed her head, and he wanted to grab hold of her and kiss her.
It wasn’t as if he wanted to marry her; God forbid that he contemplate anything so permanent. But he’d entertained the idea. Viscount Claridge, he was sure, would have been able to woo her. It had been a strange sort of comfort—that even though he couldn’t have her as himself, some other version of himself might have accomplished it.
But there they were. Edward Clark, liar and blackmailer extraordinaire, had a better shot at Frederica Marshall than Viscount Claridge. It was the worst of his damned luck that they happened to be the same person.
He was saved from having to come up with an answer by Stephen.
“Hold on one moment,” Stephen said, setting a hand on Free’s arm. “Do you mean to tell me that James Delacey is causing you difficulties?”
Miss Marshall glanced over at Edward, and then sighed and looked back. “We believe he was behind the fire.” She sounded tired once again. “We think he’s behind the charge of copying, too. And that ugliness with you the other day.”
“I know James Delacey.” Stephen’s lips thinned. “He used to delight in tormenting me as a child. I would follow my brother around all the time, just so I wouldn’t find myself alone with him.”
Stephen had never said a word of that as a child.
“He whipped a skittish mare that he shouldn’t have been riding. It reared and kicked my father in the chest, and then he told everyone that my father had mishandled it. No surprise that he’s still an ass.” Stephen glowered bitterly. “I do wish…” He trailed off, giving his head a shake.
“What do you wish?” Miss Marshall asked.
Stephen looked up, past Miss Marshall. Right past her, straight into Edward’s eyes. “I wish his elder brother was still alive.”
Stephen could have just been addressing Edward out of politeness. They were part of the same conversation; people conversing with one another looked at each other. Still, Edward felt a cold chill run down the back of his neck.
Stephen continued. “He was a much better sort. Just goes to show that life isn’t fair. People like Ned Delacey perish, while his brother gets the title. That right there is everything that is wrong with the House of Lords. In any event, I didn’t mean to interrupt. If the two of you are talking about how best to deal with Delacey, I’ll let you get on with it.”
“Do you think you’d have anything to add to the conversation about him?” Miss Marshall asked.
Stephen looked straight at Edward. “Clark,” he said, “have you had a recent conversation with Delacey?”
“I have,” Edward said solemnly.
Stephen waved them off. “Then I trust you to deal with him. My knowledge of the man is far in the past. Clark’s your man, Free.”
Miss Marshall simply accepted this with a nod and gestured to her office. “Mr. Clark. If you will.”
Edward brushed past Stephen. But he’d gone only three steps when Stephen spoke again. “Oh, Mr. Clark.”
Edward turned.
Stephen was smiling—that sure smile he employed when he was certain he was about to say something very clever.
Edward felt a dreadful sense of foreboding. “Yes?”
“Ask Miss Marshall who her father is.” And then, while Edward was frowning in confusion, Stephen winked.
Chapter Eleven
FREE FOUND HERSELF BLUSHING as she entered her office. It was the same room as always: desk, chair, papers kept in careful stacks. But the last time they’d been in this office together, she’d kissed him. Even though everything had changed—it was broad daylight, instead of dark night; she was fully clothed instead of dressed for sleep—somehow, the echo of that kiss still connected them, a solid, visceral thing.
Apparently, she’d let enough of her interest show when greeting Mr. Clark that Stephen had noticed, if that last cryptic comment meant anything.
Mr. Clark came in behind her. She seated herself safely behind the desk, smoothing her skirts into place.
He stood on the other side of the desk and watched her intently. “Who is your father, Miss Marshall?”
“Don’t listen to Stephen,” she huffed. “He’s a bit of a jokester. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“No?”
She sighed. “My father was once a pugilist. I told you he used to take me to matches when I was younger.”
His face went completely blank.
“Stephen was teasing me,” she explained to him. “Implying that I needed to let you know that my honor would be protected. Which is ridiculous, frankly. If you intended to force me, you’ve already had the chance, several times over. As for what happened…” She was blushing again, and she hated blushing. Blushing implied shyness; shyness meant that whatever she felt could be used against her.
He was looking at her lips. “As for that?” he asked quietly.
“That is not any of my father’s business.” And she wouldn’t have minded repeating that kiss.