The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) by Courtney Milan Page A

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.”
    This, too, might be an act. This was, after all, the man who had dashed off a brazen forgery in front of her without blinking an eye.
    Free kept her gaze trained on the man in Stephen’s room. The fellow stopped in front of Stephen’s dresser, turned toward his desk, and then, after another pause, slipped out the door once again.
    She stood. “Let’s go.”
    They scrambled down the path over the bridge. He didn’t try to outrun her—even though it would have been an easy prospect with her in heavy skirts and a corset. He kept pace with her instead, jogging easily at her side. When they came to the