The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(83)

If Frederica Marshall turned into Lady Claridge, she might stop being the person that would make her Aunt Freddy proud.

“Freddy, what do I do?” She trailed her fingers in the grass.

But her aunt didn’t answer, and the rain continued on.

If Free wanted to not be afraid—if she wanted to truly look that potential future in the face, and make a real decision, it wasn’t Amanda or Violet Malheur she needed to speak with.

It was someone else entirely.

THE DOOR OPENED and a waft of warm air, perfumed by beeswax and lemon, drifted out. Free stood frozen on the doorstep, already doubting her choice.

But it was too late. She was already here, garbed in a dripping wet gown, trying to figure out what to say to the manservant looking down his nose at her.

He barred the way between her and that wide expanse of marble tile in the entryway. She could see chairs upholstered in luxurious cream-colored velvet just beyond. A painting larger than her two arms outstretched graced the entry wall.

Meanwhile, Free’s hair dripped water down her back.

To his credit, the man did not slam the door in her face. He simply raised an eyebrow. “Are you in need of assistance, madam?”

That gentle tone suggested that the duke had a charity policy, and that Free appeared so bedraggled that he’d judged her a beggar.

“No.” Free said. “I mean, yes. I’m here…”

Oh, it had been stupid to think that she should come here, stupid to imagine that simply because she’d met the duke a handful of times and he’d been polite, that he’d take her in for the night and answer a few questions.

Free raised her chin. “I’m here to see the Duke of Clermont.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. Wordlessly, he held out a silver salver.

She dipped one chilled hand into her pocket and pulled out… Well, it had been her card once. The rain had turned the cardstock to near-mush; the ink was bleeding into incoherence. She set it gently on the silver plate and tried not to wince.

He peered at the almost-dissolved ink. “Miss…Felicia? Perhaps you could provide some assistance on the pronunciation of your family name.”

He was being too kind. The card was an unreadable mess.

“It’s Frederica Marshall,” she said hopefully. “Oliver Marshall’s younger sister. I do know His Grace. A little.”

The man’s expression went from kindly charitable to understanding. “Of course,” he said, although his tone suggested that there was nothing of course about it. “I missed the family resemblance. Would you care to wait in the…”

A beat passed as he considered the available options. Free felt sorry for him. He couldn’t very well put her in the front parlor with all that near-white velvet. She looked like a dog that had run through a field of mud; she wouldn’t allow herself in that stately room even if she were dry.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “I can drip in the entryway. But I wouldn’t mind a towel.”

He nodded and gestured her in. It took a scant few moments for not one, but two towels, to be brought by a maid. The woman helped her take off her cloak; she opened the door and unemotionally wrung the article of clothing out on the front step, before taking it off to drip dry in some more appropriate place. Free was doing her best to rub warmth back into her limbs when steps sounded above her.

She turned to see the Duke of Clermont standing at the top of the staircase. He was tall and thin, his blond hair fluffed up as if he’d been ruffling it.

God, this had been a stupid idea. His waistcoat probably cost as much as her rotary-press drum. His eyes fell on her; he frowned, and then he was striding toward her, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Free,” he was saying. “Good God, Free, what on earth happened to you?”

She shook her head, sending droplets flying. One landed on his upper lip, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Louisa, fetch her some tea. And you should be in front of a fire.” He set his arm about her towel-draped shoulder and pushed her into the parlor. She tried to dig her heels in. The carpet beneath her feet seemed to glitter with gold threads, and she could hear her shoes squelch with filthy water with every step. She refused to look down, for fear that she’d find a string of muddy footprints across that white expanse.

But he was determined. He pulled a chair up for her, one of those gorgeously embroidered chairs. She didn’t dare do anything so brazen as to sit in it, but then her knees stopped working and she did anyway. He took a towel from her and started rubbing her hands.

“You’re freezing,” he told her in an accusing tone of voice.

“I’ll be a-all right.” There was a tremor to her speech. “I just n-need to get a little warm, ask you a few questions, and then I’ll be out of your h-hair.”

He made a reproachful sound. “It’s eight at night. Have you a place to stay? Any money at all?” He glowered at her. “Do you even have an umbrella?”

“I—that is—I was arrested, and I seem to have misplaced my coin purse.”

He clearly knew enough of her that he didn’t find this surprising or even unusual. He clucked instead and kept rubbing her hands.

“Have you had supper? Tea?” He was shaking his head at her, but he abruptly stopped. “Have you been crying? What has happened to you? How can I help?”