The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(10)
He leaned forward. “Ah, that’s the thing, Miss Marshall. I come with sterling references.”
She looked him over dubiously. His jacket was not firmly pressed; it had been a few too many hours since his last shave. His hair was disreputably long. Those things could be fixed by a maid and a razor, but nonetheless… “You’ve just offered to double-cross the men you’re working with. What sort of references can you possibly have?”
“Well, that’s the beauty of it. I can have any references I want. Shall I show you one of my best ones?”
“By all means. I doubt it will change my mind.”
Instead of producing a letter from a pocket, he reached across her desk and filched a blank piece of paper from her stack. Then, before she could protest, he swiped her pen and inkwell.
“Let us see.” He looked off into the distance, tapping one end of the pen against his lip. And then he began to write. “To whom it may concern: I have had the opportunity to work with Edward Clark for many years. He is honest, upright, and intelligent. He will serve you well in all things.” He shrugged. “Normally, of course, I would be more effusive and specific. Specificity is the trick to a good forgery. But in this instance, the substance of the reference is not the point. It’s about the form.” He signed the paper with a flourish and slid it across the table to her with an easy grace.
“I just saw you write this myself,” she said. “Why would I believe…” And then she looked at the page. Really looked at it—at the letters before her, at the signature that he’d dashed off with such easy confidence. Her mouth went dry.
“Precisely the point,” he said. “You shouldn’t believe me. But perhaps, looking over this particular reference, you can understand why people rely on me.”
If she hadn’t seen him write it just now, she would have thought she had written it herself. That was her handwriting, her name. That precise carefree curve of the F, the casual loops of her last name… He’d captured them perfectly.
“I’m wanted by two governments for forgery,” he said cheerfully. “Luckily for me, one of them no longer exists. And the other, in case you are wondering, is not part of the British Commonwealth. You would not be harboring a known fugitive.”
“That may be so.” She pushed the paper away from her. “Maybe you could convince someone else to trust you. But after that demonstration, I am rather less likely to trust you than the reverse.”
“Excellent,” he said cheerily. “I’m not a trustworthy man. I’ve lied to you a half-dozen times over the course of this conversation, and I’ll no doubt do it again. For instance, the name I was born with is not Edward Clark—although I have used that name regularly for the last six years or so, and I think of it as mine now. By all means, Miss Marshall, don’t trust me. But do work with me. On this, our interests are aligned. You don’t want to be ruined, and I’d rather your enemy not ruin you either.”
“Why? You don’t give a damn about me.”
His smile didn’t slip, but it grew just a touch darker. “You’re right,” he said. “But as it turns out, my indifference to you is overbalanced by my dislike of him.”
Or—equally likely—he’d been tasked with charming her, learning her plans.
“No, thank you.” She smoothed her skirts over her lap and met his gaze directly. “I’ll take my chances on my own. I do not need help from a self-professed liar who might betray me at any moment.”
He sighed. “This would be far easier if you were less clever.” It sounded like a complaint, but he winked at her at the end. “Damn it, Miss Marshall, I’m trying to be a little honorable. But very well. Since I must.” He raised his eyes to her. “You need to work with me because I will betray you.”
She sucked her breath in. “Pardon?”
“How precarious is your position in society, Miss Marshall? You’re young, unmarried, and reasonably good-looking.” He said the last with no emotion, as if he were just reciting facts.
He was. She had to remember that. No matter how flirtatious his tone, that was all she meant to him: a collection of facts.
“I have two possible plans to foil my enemy. One is to work with you to defeat him. The other is to shut down your operations here so thoroughly that he doesn’t get the pleasure of doing it himself. A forged letter of credit sold to your enemy? A missive in your handwriting, written to a lover and indiscreetly left for someone else to find?” He shrugged. “It would take me half an afternoon to make your life utterly miserable and maybe a few days to make it impossible.”
Her heart had begun to thud in a low, heavy rhythm. Strange, how the system of nerves could so overtake the mind, that a man sitting before her and speaking in such an easy tone could make her feel as if she were a hare faced by a pack of wolves. He looked at her with a small smile on his face. It seemed as if he could hear her pulse, and its thready beat was music to his ears.
She wasn’t going to rabbit away. This was her business, her life, and she wasn’t about to let this man ruin it for her. She steepled her fingers, willing them not to tremble, and gave her best impression of a bored sigh. “So this is blackmail.”
The smile Mr. Clark gave her felt like a weapon—one that he’d chosen carefully from his massive arsenal. It was the smile of a man who knew that he could charm and devastate, and he employed it with the precision of a master. He leaned forward. “Miss Marshall, I believe you are mispronouncing that word.”