His Grace lifted his other eyebrow, but all he said to this was, “You’ll find that substantially easier now, I’ll warrant.”

As if rescuing women from prison cells were a part of a duke’s regular affairs. And hell, if Clermont had any acquaintance with Free at all, it probably was.

Chapter Twenty

IT TOOK EDWARD THIRTY-THREE MINUTES to convince the sergeant on duty of his identity. In the end, the man sent a runner to the House of Lords to ascertain the truth. When the boy came back, breathless and wild-eyed, Sergeant Crispin became substantially more helpful.

“A rough business,” Crispin said. “Rough indeed. I—uh—know your brother.”

“Oh, do you?” Edward asked in a low voice. His brother had worked out an arrangement with Crispin with regards to Free, and God help the man if he’d done anything to her in the hour and fifteen minutes he’d had her in his custody.

“We’d an arrangement.” The sergeant licked his lips. “I don’t suppose you’re here to, ah, agree to the same thing?”

“I don’t know.” Edward said blandly. “What sort of arrangement did you have?”

The man blanched. “Um. Nothing, really. Why are you here, my lord?”

My lord. People were already calling him my lord, and it would only get worse from here.

If he had to take the reins, he might as well get all he could from the part. Edward stood straighter. “Your arrangement with my brother is of little importance to me. Carry on with that as you will.”

The man looked faintly relieved.

“I’m only interested in a prisoner who is being held here.”

“Ah?” The sergeant looked about. “In these front cells?”

“No.” He’d glanced through them when he came in.

“Are you sure he’s here, then? We’ve only a handful of cells in the back, and those won’t be of much interest to you.”

“Well, show me them, if you would.” Edward did his best to look bored. “I’ll judge whether they’re of interest; you needn’t decide for me.” God, that was exactly the sort of self-indulgent tripe that a lord spouted—as if he were the center of the universe.

But the man didn’t punch him in the face for his condescension. Instead, he ducked his head. “Of course, my lord. I only wish to be of assistance. But there’s nobody back there but the suffragettes.”

“Nonetheless.”

The man neither sighed nor rolled his eyes at this. Edward was conducted through a maze of desks, down a back hall, into a back room containing a handful of holding pens filled with women in black gowns. Edward scanned them quickly, his eyes coming to rest on the very one he was looking for. She sat on a bench talking to another woman. She glanced up as he came in, but then looked away.

It took him a moment to realize that she didn’t recognize him. Since he’d left her at the station, he’d cut his hair close. He’d shaved. He’d donned a fine wool coat and a gentleman’s top hat, and he carried a gold-topped walking stick. If she’d heard him talking to the sergeant, she’d have heard his sleekest, poshest accent.

He wasn’t anyone she knew any longer.

“What was it you said you had back here?” he asked the sergeant.

“Just some suffragettes,” the sergeant replied. “Nobody important or dangerous. They were making a racket earlier, and we’re having them cool their heels until their men can come get them. You understand how it is.”

“I thought that’s what you said.” Edward felt a smile tweak his lips. “That’s why I didn’t understand you at first. You’re mispronouncing the word.”

“What word? Suffragettes?” The sergeant frowned. “It’s my accent, my lord—a thousand pardons, I know it’s low, and I do try to talk proper, but—”

“It’s not your accent.”

“It’s not?” Bafflement flitted across the sergeant’s eyes.

“It’s definitely not your accent.”

His voice carried, and this time, Free did look up. Her eyebrows came down; her lips narrowed. She came half up from her seat, staring at him.

Edward spoke a little louder. “It’s the way you’re saying it. Didn’t you know? ‘Suffragette’ is pronounced with an exclamation point at the end. Like this: ‘Huzzah! Suffragettes!’”

Behind the sergeant, Free glowed. He could see the smile taking over her face, lighting her until he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her. It was the first thing he’d seen all day that had given him hope—hope that once she understood the lies he’d told, she might forgive him yet. That he might spend tonight in her arms, and tomorrow, and the day after.

“Huzzah,” the sergeant repeated in confusion. “Suffragettes?”

“That’s a question mark,” Edward said sharply. “Try it again: Suffragettes!”

“Suffragettes!”

“That’s it. You’ve got it!”

“Oh, excellent!” The sergeant smiled in pleasure—a pleasure that lasted only a few seconds. “My lord, why are we huzzahing suffragettes?”

“That requires a little more explanation.” He turned and extended his hand toward Free. “Bring that one here.”

There was a long pause. “If my lord insists.”

Free’s eyes widened, and Edward realized that this was the first time she’d noticed the sergeant calling him “my lord.” She glanced down, almost demurely—she’d have fooled him, except he knew there was nothing demure about her—and then looked up at him. She didn’t quite quirk an eyebrow; that would have been too obvious. Still, he could make out the words she didn’t say writ in her expression. Edward, what on earth are you playing at?

Edward kept his face fixed in an expression of bland, arrogant superiority. The sergeant nodded hastily. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He turned and clapped his hands. “You heard his lordship. Fetch that woman at once.”

“Gently!” Edward admonished.

His lordship? Free mouthed at him. The palms of his hands grew clammy, but he ignored her. A guard fumbled out a set of keys and motioned for Free to step forward.

“Let’s see,” the sergeant muttered, fluttering pages. “She’s number 107, and that makes her…ah, 105, 106, here she is. Miss Marshall.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you know nothing of, ah, my arrangement with your brother?”