By the time she made her way to the cemetery, it was full-on pouring rain. She had no umbrella, but it didn’t matter. It was summer; the rain was not that cold, and the water obscured the tears on her cheeks.
She traversed the graves carefully—up three rows, then down the line, until she found the simple stone her family had erected years ago.
Frederica Barton
1804-1867
Beloved sister
Devoted aunt
Her family had added a line after her funeral, when they had all discovered the truth.
Author of twenty-nine books of high adventure.
Free bowed her head. She couldn’t yet face the living; she couldn’t stand to deliver those convoluted explanations. Her Aunt Freddy would have to do. Some people thought she’d named her paper the Women’s Free Press as a sly reference to herself. In a way, she had. But she shared her name with another woman—a woman whose bequest had made this all possible.
It had felt like her Aunt Freddy’s posthumous blessing on Free’s life. She’d tried to use it wisely: to never back down, to never let fear stop her from moving forward. Aunt Freddy’s money from those twenty-nine novels had paid for Free’s education, her home, the press she loved.
Every time Free was afraid, she thought of her aunt. But until now, Free had only feared what others might do to her. This was the first time she’d feared herself.
She sank to her knees beside the grave. “Hullo, Freddy.”
She could almost hear her aunt’s annoyed response. You’re far too casual. Don’t call me Freddy. And what are you doing, kneeling in all that mud? Get up before you dirty your gown.
“Right. Aunt Frederica. I suppose I ought to call you that.” But she didn’t stand. Instead, she trailed her fingers through the wet grass. There were a few stray dandelions sprouting up. She pulled them, making a pile of green leaves and white roots. That was how you got through life: one weed at a time. It was how she’d get through this.
When she was done here, she’d take the train back to Cambridge. She would write to Edward. They could handle the details of their separation through the mail.
Even the thought of that smarted.
And, she realized, her plan had one terrible flaw. The constables had confiscated her coin purse at the station, and she’d been too distracted to demand its return. She had no money for a ticket. Or—her stomach rumbled—even for a meal. Night would come all too soon.
Edward would no doubt be willing to remedy all that. For a moment, she imagined herself waiting on his doorstep, imagined his reaction at finding her there. He’d pull her to him and hold her tight, and she’d never feel alone again.
The thought was far too alluring to contemplate. It was a good thing she didn’t know where his doorstep was.
She had other friends in London. Genevieve was here. Amanda. Violet Malheur. Her brother’s house might not be completely shut up. There were any number of people who might take her in.
But for some reason, her thoughts slid back to the last time she’d visited Freddy, back when her aunt was alive. She’d been with Oliver, then, and he’d brought her to the place where he’d been staying at the time—his half-brother, the duke’s house. That had been before Oliver had married and purchased his own home. Free had gawked at the surroundings, laughed at her brother’s casual acceptance of luxury.
Now that same casual luxury had come for her, and she was afraid.
She was afraid of herself. Not just that she would accept Edward back and forgive him. She was afraid of who she might become if she did that. Oliver lived in a massive home. He tried to do almost everything right. She was afraid that she, too, would start caring about propriety and stop caring about her newspaper. She would back down and make herself small to fit into the role of viscountess.
She was afraid that she’d bite her tongue and swallow her nausea when presented with James as her brother. She might keep her newspaper, yes, but in what form?
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 p
ushed 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?”
She shook her head. She’d come here to talk to him, and now she didn’t know how to do it. She had hoped to ask a few impersonal questions, but he wasn’t treating her impersonally. If she started her story now, under the weight of all his kindness, she would burst into tears. And she’d already left water everywhere. “I’m so sorry,” she heard herself say, “so sorry, Your Grace. I won’t be a bother. I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I never intended to presume on so slight an acquaintance. I just didn’t know where else to go.”
His hands froze on hers. He was on his knees before her—which seemed impossibly strange given that it was his cream carpet that she was befouling. He looked up at her, and let out a long, slow breath before he sat back on his heels.
“You’re not a bother,” he said.
“You’re busy. You’re important. You have a wife and children, and—”
“And I have a brother,” he said.
Her throat closed up. “Yes, but—”
“No buts.” He gave her a short smile. “You may have a slight acquaintance with me. I suppose I should be calling you Miss Marshall. I suppose we should even keep Louisa here in the room to safeguard your reputation. But as strange as it might seem to you, Oliver is my brother, and I am deeply grateful to you for sharing him with me.”
Free let in a breath. “Yes, but—”
“As I said, you have a slight acquaintance with me.” He looked away. “I know you somewhat better. He used to read me all his letters from home when we were at school together. I didn’t have any of my own, you see.”
She felt a faint flush rise in her cheeks.
“It’s how I knew what I wanted.” He wrapped her feet in the towel, tying it off. “It’s how I knew what it looked like to have a loving family and a little sister who sent her brother her first scribbles before she could write. I remember the first letter you sent him.”
“Oh, God.” She put her head in her hands. “This is going to be embarrassing.”
“You dictated it to your father,” the duke continued. “And you said: ‘Dear Oliver, please come home. What are you going to bring me? Love, your Free.’ And I remember thinking…”
Frederica felt herself blush. “How mercenary.”
“I remember thinking,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “that I would give everything that I had for a little sister.”
The heat died away from her cheeks. She found herself staring at the top of his head in surprise and puzzlement.
“For anyone,” he continued, “who rejoiced when I came home for any reason at all. I would have sent you a million presents if you would have agreed to be my little sister, too.” He sighed. “Alas, after the way my father treated your mother, I didn’t think the offer would go over well. So I never made it.”
She searched his face for signs that he was joking. Perhaps poking fun at her a little. He looked serious.
“But you have a family now. Everyone respects you.”
He raised a dubious eyebrow.
“Well, they may call you names,” she amended, “but they’re mostly respectful names. You have a wife, and unless Oliver is completely wrong, it’s a love match. You have children who must adore you. And…” She trailed off and looked at him.
He looked away. “I spent years imagining you were my little sister. Love is not a finite quantity.” He smiled at her. “And yes, I know you’re not my sister—you’re Oliver’s. Still, I’m glad you came to me. Whatever it is you need…” He spread his hands. “It’s yours. Even if it’s just a towel and a room for the evening.”
She hadn’t known quite what she’d been hoping for. She’d imagined posing him a few abstract questions, receiving a few desultory answers. She certainly hadn’t expected…this.
She swallowed hard and looked away.
“I was hoping you’d have dinner with me,” he said. “Minnie is out for the evening with some friends; she’ll be back in a few hours. London is dreadful in the summer, and the children are with Minnie’s aunts for the next two weeks. I’m at loose ends and was just feeling a mite lonely.”
“Your Grace—”
“I wish you’d call me Robert. If you keep Your-Graceing me, I’ll have to stop thinking of you as Free, and as much as Oliver has talked of you, I don’t think that’s possible.”
“But—”
“Or call me Your Grace, if you must, and I’ll invent you a title of your own to match. Something that fits you. If you call me Your Grace, I shall have to call you…” His finger tapped his lip in contemplation.
She felt an unaccountable urge to laugh. She had a title now. She was Lady Claridge, a stuffy, stupid peeress. She’d never wanted anything to do with the nobility. And yet here she was, accepting a duke as her brother and a viscount as her husband. The entire day was completely impossible.
“I shall have to call you Your Fierceness,” he was saying. “Like this: Would you like anything to eat, Your Fierceness? You must be starving, Your Fierceness.”
“Stop, Your Grace.”
“As Your Fierceness wishes.” His eyes twinkled at her.
“Have it your way. But I’ll have to go in stages.” She took a deep breath. “Can I just call you…you for the next little bit?”
“Yes, Your Fierceness,” he said. He stood. “Louisa, is Miss Marshall’s bath ready?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the maid, who’d been standing in the corner, said. “Mary signaled to me not a minute past.”
“Very well, then,” the duke—Robert—said. “If you could conduct Miss Marshall there?”
She wasn’t Miss Marshall any longer. She didn’t know who she was.
The maid bowed her head and then turned to Free. “If you would care to come with me, Your Fierceness?” There was a glint of a smile in the woman’s eyes, just that tiny hint of a sense of humor. And somehow, it was that—that tiny indication that the Duke of Clermont’s servants felt free to express humor in their employer’s presence, rather than turning into empty shells of themselves—that decided her.
Free pushed herself to her feet and wobbled across the room.
“Come along, miss,” Louisa said to her indulgently. “Come along.”
A WARM BATH AND DRY CLOTHING did a great deal to restore Free’s good humor. When she came down the stairs, back into the parlor, the Duke of Clermont—Robert, she reminded herself with a strange feeling—was sitting in front of the fire, slicing bread. It was such an odd thing to see: a man of his stature wielding a knife. He cut a thick, clumsy slice of bread as she watched from the doorway, the crumbs spilling haphazardly onto the carpet.
She paused, not sure what to say.
“Come,” he said, motioning
to her. “Sit down.”
She drifted toward him.
“I don’t know anything about cheering up sisters,” he said, sliding the bread onto the waiting tines of the toasting fork. “I don’t know anything about cheering up anyone except children between the ages of six and fourteen. But maybe this will work on you.”
She glanced over at him curiously. “What are you doing?”
“We,” he corrected her. “We’re making dinner. We’ll toast bread and cheese over the fireplace and have some tea.” He gestured with the toasting fork, and the bread dipped perilously close to the flames. He shrugged guiltily. “Oh, dear. I’ll take this one.”
“No, it’s better singed,” Free heard herself say. “I always like that extra smoky flavor.”
His smile grew. “Come on, then.” He patted the cushion on the other side of the fireplace. “Have some toast.”
She’d known she was hungry, but her stomach growled in anticipation at the aroma of toasting bread. After he’d singed one side—only a bit black—he added cheese to the top and leaned in again. The cheese on top began to bubble and drip off the edges. He seemed to have infinite patience for waiting, turning the toast this way and that to try and get an even melt.
He handed her the slice of bread when he was satisfied.
“Don’t wait for me,” he told her and speared another piece of bread.
She wished she could be polite enough to demur, but she was too ravenous to think. Instead, she broke off a piece and put it in her mouth. The cheese was the perfect temperature—hot enough to be glorious, barely managing to escape burning the top of her mouth. The bread crunched between her teeth, soft in the middle, toasted to a crisp on the edges. She almost let out a moan.
“I know,” Robert said beside her. “I’ve had toast for breakfast made ingloriously on the racks of the kitchen oven. That’s just browned bread. It’s not really toast if it hasn’t been cooked over an open flame.”
“Mmm.”
A cup of tea was put into her hand. She took a sip—liquid that was sweet and milky and bitter all at once filled her mouth.
“How often does the Duke of Clermont make himself dinner?” she asked.