The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) (11 page)

A strange way to say it—
they were eventually convinced
. Another person would have said
I convinced them,
thus claiming the credit. Robert steepled his fingers.

All he could see of her was the back of her head, the lovely flare of her waist, that small hint of hip before her bustle and crinolines obscured all her natural curves. As she spoke, she turned her head. She was still faced three-quarters away from him. He couldn’t see her eyes—just her cheek and that faint web of a scar. But she was wearing her spectacles and reading from the papers in front of her.

Oh, yes. He’d thought of her in the intervening week. He’d thought of her so much that he was no longer put off by her quiet speech, her downcast eyes. No matter how unlikely it seemed, Miss Pursling had convinced everyone here that she was next to nothing. The truth of her competence seemed an intimate secret between them.

“What’ll be the cost of the solution, then?” one of the working girls asked. Her voice was normal, but next to Miss Pursling’s quiet tones, she sounded almost loud.

“A shilling per bottle. If used sparingly, that amount ought to last a household of six or seven a full month. Miss Peters, is that a reasonable sum to expect of a working family, or must we find a way to further subsidize the cost?” Miss Pursling tilted her head toward the youngest of the working girls.

The other girl bent down to a notebook and flipped through it. “Mm,” she said. “That…should be sufficient.”

“Foolishness,” Stevens interrupted. “It’s all foolishness, as I’ve said—the instructions on disinfection, the solution, the handbills.” He cast a hard look at Miss Pursling. It was a look that said that he’d not taken Robert’s last warning to heart—that he still thought ill of her.

“Surely not
all
foolishness,” Miss Peters put in. “After all—”

Robert leaned forward.

Stevens slammed his hand on the table. “There’d be no need for disinfection if those infernal monkey workers would just vaccinate their children as required by law.”

The man in patched tweed shot to his feet. “Blast me if I let some vaccinator stick my children with pins made of some disease!”

“My mum, she was inoculated and died the next week!”

The plump woman leaned across the table. “Well, I had my Jess get the vaccine, and he still took sick of the smallpox and lost his sight. Turned out the vaccinator had run out when we came, so he just used spirits and charged the same anyway!”

Half the people at the table had come to their feet; they glowered uniformly at the captain. One wrong word, and the whole thing might explode into violence.

In that tense atmosphere, Miss Pursling slid back in her seat, her back utterly straight. Her hand rose to touch the scar on her face, fingering it as if it were a talisman against future harm.

“Stevens,” said a man with a low drawl, “surely I have as much interest in vaccinations as you do.”

That came from a dark-haired man sitting near the foot of the table—Doctor Grantham, a young man who had a practice on Belvoir Street. His words cut through the gathering tension, and Miss Pursling let out a little sigh, leaning against the back of her seat.

Grantham toyed idly with his fountain pen. “But in my practice, I’ve learned that I must treat the patients I have, not the ones I
wish
I had.”

Stevens glowered. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Grantham shrugged. “I wish I had patients who had meat and vegetables at every meal, clean water to wash with, and windows in every room. I wish I had patients who didn’t need to stoop to work.” His pen tapped against his knuckles as he spoke. “Hard on the spine and the internal organs, stooping.” He shrugged. “I wish I had patients who made twice as much in the factories, too. But alas, I take the patients I have.”

“You tell him, Doctor,” murmured the widow.

“Letting them make such decisions on their own leads to thoughts of self-governance,” Stevens hissed. “Talk of making their own rules. Next you know, we’ll have another episode of the Chartists to put down. Already people are talking about the vote. This town is a powder-keg of unrest, and you lot are waving a torch.” By his gesture, Stevens implicated not only Grantham, but Miss Pursling as well. “All this talk is giving them
ideas.”

Grantham smiled and leaned forward. “In the course of my medical training, did you know that I learned that all people use brains? Even paupers and working men. They don’t need a wealthy person to give them ideas. They get them all on their own.”

“Gentlemen.” Miss Pursling rapped the table with her knuckles, the first loud sound she’d made. “The question of vaccination is one we must put off for later. The topic for the moment is
disinfectant
—and might I remind you both that disinfectant helps prevent cholera and influenza, two diseases we cannot inoculate against in any event.”

“Ah, Miss Pursling,” Grantham said softly. “Using facts to settle disputes. How bold of you.”

Miss Pursling didn’t blink in response, but Robert rather thought she was discomfited by even that much recognition.

“It’s settled then,” she said. “Marybeth Peters and I will post the handbills—”

“Two women, wandering the streets alone?” Stevens said. “I should think not.”

“If it comes to that,” Grantham put in, “I’ll come along. And Miss Pursling, perhaps you could bring your friend—Miss Charingford, is it not?”

That would be the woman who had so recently baptized Stevens with her drink. At that jab, Stevens’s face mottled almost as red as the punch that had been tossed in his face more than a week ago.

“The three of you posting leaflets about the Cooperative?” he sneered. “I won’t allow such a gathering of radicals in my town. Not under my nose. No,
I’ll
accompany them—and tell Miss Charingford to stay home where she belongs.”

“As you’re afraid of a solitary woman,” Grantham said silkily, “I doubt you’ll be able to provide the protection that the ladies require. I’ll do it.”

“To h—Hades with you,” Stevens snarled. “In fact, to Hades with this entire—”

“I’ll do it,” Robert said.

At the sound of his voice, they all turned to look at him. Miss Pursling’s eyes widened; Doctor Grantham looked at him quizzically. But Stevens turned utterly pale.

“Surely,” Robert said, “you don’t suspect
me
of radical tendencies, do you, Stevens?”

“Your Grace!” Stevens shot to his feet. “Of course not, Your Grace. But we wouldn’t dream of discommoding you. And…and, what are you doing here?”

Robert waved the question away. “No inconvenience. It will give me a chance to see the town on foot.”

Miss Pursling shot him a repressive look.

“Miss Pursling has gone to all the trouble of convincing the Cooperative to sell this solution at a good price,” Robert said. “It would be my pleasure to see all her hard work vindicated.”

If anything, Miss Pursling looked vexed at having credit so clearly assigned to her.

But—“Agreed,” said Doctor Grantham.

“Agreed,” growled Stevens.

And that left only the details to sort out with Miss Pursling. She gave him only the one venomous look before looking off into the distance and folding her hands. She didn’t glance his way again through the remainder of the discussion—not even to glare at him. She didn’t acknowledge him as they stood. Instead, she started to gather up her things.

He came up to her before she had a chance to disappear.

“Shall I send a note, then, to determine an appropriate time to distribute the handbills?”

She didn’t look at him, putting papers and a pencil into a slim satchel. “If it suits you, Your Grace.”

“We could decide it now.”

“If that is your wish, Your Grace.”

She was pointedly giving him her profile—the side with the scar again. Objectively, he knew that the scar was the kind of failure in perfect symmetry that would have most men looking away from her, unwilling to even glance at the mark. But it didn’t bother him. She wore it like a mask at a ball, as if she could use it to push him away.

“I am going to be out of town for the next few days,” he told her. “I’ve agreed to accompany my cousin…well, never mind.”

Miss Pursling ducked her head. “As you require, Your Grace. The corrected handbills won’t be printed for a few days in any event.”

“Shall we say Thursday, then?”

“Whatever is easiest for you.”

“Then let’s meet at two in the morning,” he suggested. “When the bears come out to play.”

She finally glanced up at that, a quick flashing look of anger that was just as quickly suppressed. Robert sighed. She did her best not to draw attention to herself—that quiet voice, that understated way of discussing her accomplishments. He wondered if there was any connection between that mark on her cheek and her reticence. Hers was not the quiet of the naturally shy, after all, but a silence of a different quality altogether.

“Come, Miss Pursling,” he said. “You can do better than all of this. I didn’t think you were the sort to make idle threats.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She turned away from him slightly. And was that a
lift
to her nose?

It was. She’d actually turned her nose up at him.

Robert suppressed a grin.

“We had a deal,” he said. He spoke low—so quietly that Doctor Grantham, now standing at the door and adjusting his coat, would not hear. “I flirt with you, and you try to destroy my reputation. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. You haven’t done anything to me at all. I never took you for a welcher.”

She tilted her head to look at him sidelong. “A thousand pardons, Your Grace.” She sounded anything but sorry. “Were you actually expecting me to give you progress reports?” As she spoke she did up the buckles on her satchel.

“I figured you’d get a few preliminary jabs in, yes.”

She gave him a frosty look. “Clearly you hold yourself to low standards. Whatever your faults may be,
I
do not jab prematurely.”

He choked on a sputtering, outraged laugh and looked about. But there was no longer anyone around to hear that little remark.

She folded up the sample handbill that she’d brought with her, now marked up with the Commission’s notes, and put it in her skirt pocket. “I surely don’t parade my strategy before my enemies. That would be idiotic.”

“What you mean is that you’ve not yet discovered any kind of proof.”

She gave him a level look and a shake of her head. “What I mean is that I’m not so foolishly prideful that I’ll disclose everything I’ve learned just because of a little inept needling on your part.”

“Ouch,” he said ruefully. “You accuse me first of jabbing prematurely, and then of inept needling. Take pity on a man’s pride.”

She smiled a little at that and leaned over and patted his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “I had no notion that you would be so susceptible to the wilting of your…pride.” Said in a low, certain tone, that much innuendo sent a flash of heat through him.
Wilting
was the opposite of what he was doing. She hefted the satchel on her shoulder and headed for the door. She’d taken two steps before she turned around and gave him a low smile, one that seemed to stab straight through his gut. “I’m sure your prick is as massive as your head is thick.”

There was no way he was going to let her walk out on that condescending, sexually-charged note, leaving him stewing in lust.

He took three steps after her, setting his hand on her sleeve. “Wait.”

But she didn’t, and so he found himself following after her, keeping silent as they made their way through the hostelry out onto the street. When they came out into the daylight, when they’d walked far enough that nobody was close enough to hear them, Robert spoke again.

“What I meant to say was—I
know
you’ve discovered nothing. Under the guise of obtaining bids for that little handbill of yours, you’ve been to every printer in town, looking for evidence that they’re working with me. And you haven’t found a thing.”

She paused at that, her head cocking, and turned to him. “You’ve been watching me,” she finally said.

“Not as such. That would be rather sordid, having you followed about. But I have asked a few business acquaintances to let me know what you ask about.” He smiled at her. “As I didn’t precisely expect you to give me progress reports.”

She shrugged. “It would be sordid if you had a lover followed about in a fit of jealous suspicion. But we’re enemies, recall. Keeping me under watch is merely prudent. I applaud it.”

She started walking away again. Robert stared after her in bemusement.

He tried to be honest with himself. He had to be, as so few others were. His friend, Sebastian, could charm the bloomers off even the most upright dragons of the
ton
—and had, on occasion. His brother had a razor-sharp wit on the one hand, and a way of making others comfortable on the other. Oliver could make ladies laugh.

For himself… He could rarely think of how to respond when immersed in that heady back-and-forth. Sometimes he thought of clever things to say…hours later. Usually, he committed the worst sin possible: He said what he was really thinking. That was why he came out with gems like,
I like your tits.
Not one of his finest moments, that.

“No,” he said, with a shake of his head, falling in step beside her. “Why do we have to be enemies? We could be…allies.”

She squinted at him suspiciously. “Why? Because you need more half-blind near-spinsters on your side?”

He winced.

Her lips twitched. “Never mind. I saw you at the Finneys’. Clearly, you do.”

He ignored this. “Because when you set out to prove that I was the author of the handbills, you first made a list of every printer in town, and then systematically visited them. You have a sense of…tactics. I appreciate that.”

She tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “You keep saying that I found nothing,” she mused. “You’re wrong. I discovered that the handbills weren’t being printed in Leicester. As there’s only one possible suspect who is not a native, I think I’ve made quite an advance.”