The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) by Courtney Milan Read Free Book Online Page B

where they held prostitutes suspected of carrying venereal diseases. Miss Marshall had stayed for twenty-six days. She’d been examined, mistreated, starved, and frozen. When she’d finally been sprung by her brother, she’d written a scathing report on the conditions inside.
    Nobody had been willing to print it, so she’d started her own newspaper.
    Her report on the mistreatment of suspected prostitutes gave her material for her first week in operation. In subsequent weeks, she’d taken work in a cotton factory. She’d worked as a maid in the home of a peer rumored to despoil the virtue of his servants. She’d interviewed courtesans and prostitutes on the one hand, and the great dames of society on the other. She wrote about all these things in plain, simple, damning language.
    Over the years, she’d added on writers, a second page to her paper. Her newspaper featured pieces from female thinkers like Emily Davies and Josephine Butler. Advertisements had bloomed. The columns covered everything from mundane advice on how to grow a few extra vegetables in a tenement to biting criticism of the newly-established colony on the Gold Coast. And it was all written by—and about—women. Stephen Shaughnessy’s acerbic column on Wednesdays was matched against a woman by the name of Sophronia Speakwell, who gave equally biting advice on Saturday.
    No wonder his brother was targeting Miss Marshall.
    And no wonder Edward had failed to convince her. He’d huffed internally when she’d called him a womanthrope—but he’d underestimated her so badly that he had to wonder if he was the sort of person who couldn’t give a woman her due simply because of her sex.
    A mistake he needed to correct instantly, if he was to deal with her at all.
    Hell, he’d threatened to ruin her reputation as if she were a fussy, prim little debutante. No wonder she hadn’t blinked. It had been rather like waving a butter knife at an accomplished swordsman.
    The door to the little room was open; he could see her flitting about as the day progressed. She and the other women spent much of the afternoon laying out type, sending a few sheets through the machine, and then poring over the resultant copy. He could hear them arguing over antecedents, a friendly little squabble. Miss Marshall left shortly thereafter.
    Instead of turning back to the archives, Edward opened his small sketchbook. Other men kept journals; Edward kept drawings. There was something about reducing an experience to a sketch or two that engaged his memory of details.
    He tried to recall her office as best as he could. He could envision every last scratch on her desk, could remember the exact stack of papers, the position of the inkwell and pen. These things he penciled with swift, sure lines.
    But when he tried to draw Miss Marshall, his memory was not so good. She’d had her auburn hair up in a simple bun; she’d worn a plain gown of dark gray with black cuffs. But none of the lines he put on paper seemed to capture her. He was leaving something out—something vital. He didn’t know what it was.
    At three in the afternoon, she returned. He shut his notebook, picked up another newspaper—he was nine months in, now—and pretended to be absorbed in it.
    She came to his door. She was carrying a paper sack, which she held up.
    “Sandwich, Mr. Clark?”
    He set the newspaper down. “And you’re feeding me, too? Why, Miss Marshall. I could almost imagine that you care.”
    “I have an older brother.” She came into the room. “He complains bitterly if he misses a meal. I’ve no desire to hear you whine all evening.”
    He snorted. “I don’t whine. Ever.”
    “Well, we can be sure you won’t now.” She handed him the sack. “There’s water and soap up front, if you care to…” She stopped and frowned. “You never removed your gloves. I should have warned you. It’s easier to wash ink off hands than fabric.”
    “Really?” He looked at her. “Miss Marshall, I