Instead, as he had so often in the months since he’d met her, he tried to sketch her. His memory of her seemed as sharp as ever. Her eyes, mobile and intelligent. Her lips, sweet and smiling. He’d tried to draw all his memories: Free crouching next to him on the bank of the River Cam, opera glasses raised to her eyes. He’d attempted to capture her standing in the mews, the moonlight shifting across her skin.
His sketches never came out right. No matter what he did, how he tried, they were always missing some unknown element. He still didn’t know what it was. He put his notebook away in disgust.
But the letter that arrived from England early one July morning was not from Miss Marshall. Edward opened it curiously and then froze.
Mr. Clark,
This last week, the Honorable James Delacey sent not one letter mentioning Miss Marshall, but seven.
Sincerely,
A.
In the end, Edward didn’t even take time to answer any questions. The first letter he sent was in French.
July 6, 1877
M. Dubuque—
I’ll take thirty thousand francs for the metalworks after all. Five thousand in earnest money will do; we can arrange the rest at some later date. Correspond with my solicitor in London, please; the direction is below.
Clark
On his way out of town, he sent one last telegram.
FREE
WILL BE THERE IN THREE DAYS
EDWARD
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Alvahurst hissed.
Edward shouldered past his brother’s secretary into the dark room beyond.
He had spent the last two days traversing France by rail, arranging passage across the Channel, and racing to London. Every hour that passed was an hour in which his brother could cause Free harm.
“You can’t come in here,” Alvahurst was saying. “We’ll wake my wife.”
“We’ll whisper,” Edward told him. “Or we could stand outside. It’s quite simple, Alvahurst. I need to know what Delacey wrote about Miss Marshall.”
Alvahurst rubbed bleary eyes and looked around the front room of the flat. There were, Edward noted, dozens of items that could be used as weapons. Alvahurst, however, didn’t reach for a one of them. Instead, he gestured to a chair next to the fireplace.
Edward sat next to the poker.
“You told me you’d never ask after the contents of the letters.” Alvahurst looked ridiculous, his limbs sticking out from a nightshirt and cap. He sounded even worse.
Edward had neither the time nor the patience to indulge him.
“I lied,” Edward said. “If you don’t tell me everything, I will go to James Delacey and tell him the truth. I have a letter in your own hand, in which you violate his confidences. How long will your employment last if Delacey discovers what you’ve done?”
Alvahurst winced. “But—”
“I have no time to be gentle,” Edward told him. “You knew the instant you took my money that you’d agreed to be my creature. We might have told some lies to each other during the negotiations, but we both knew what was happening. Now start acting like it.”
Alvahurst sighed, and then slowly, revealed what he knew.
When he’d finished, Edward frowned. “That makes no sense,” he said. “Even James is not so stupid. She’s been to gaol before. Another arrest will hardly make a difference, and she’ll be released—”
“Ah, that’s it,” the secretary said. “It’s not the imprisonment itself that he cares about, but what will happen once she’s held. The station has instructions not to release her. Her brother—the only one she knows who could raise a fuss—is abroad on some kind of a trip. When the sergeant there is finished with her, she’ll know how to keep her mouth shut. Do you know what can be done to someone in custody?”
A pool of dark fury rose up, threatening to choke Edward.
Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. The room receded around him. He held on to the arms of his chair, gripping them as he felt himself enveloped in dark, clammy fog.
Do you know what can be done to someone in custody?
Black water, thick and choking, so he could scarcely breathe. Pain that happened to someone else, someone who would believe anything to make it stop. He took a deep breath, shoving the memory away. All that had happened to Edward Delacey, and Edward Delacey scarcely existed any longer.
“So if that’s all you need to know,” Alvahurst was saying, “you might consider leaving before my wife wakes and asks what I’m doing.”
He was sitting in a darkened room, not in a black cellar. Still, Edward surreptitiously rubbed his right hand. “You’ve told me all I need.”
All that he needed, and yet still it was not enough. All he could do as Edward Clark was thwart his brother, plan by plan. He could spend the rest of his life bribing secretaries and blackmailing servants, and he’d only ever stay in one place.
Edward Delacey, on the other hand…
The thought made him feel almost feverish—that he could put on those old ideals, that old identity. Now there was an ill-fitting skin.
But if he didn’t…
You could do some good, he heard Patrick saying.
Edward didn’t do good. He had to remember that, no matter how he might try to fool himself. He left the home of his brother’s secretary, feeling dizzy and nauseated. No matter how hard he tried, one day James would succeed in hurting Free.