“All? But they hadn’t a lawful permit!”
Edward gave him a supercilious little smile. “Come, sergeant. We’ve had this discussion already. When I say ‘all,’ you don’t add a question mark at the end. You say, ‘yes, my lord,’ and you snap to it.”
Free could hardly believe her eyes or her ears. He played the role of viscount so perfectly. His accent… God, if he’d spoken to her like that, with that snobbish public-school-affected mouth full of mush, she’d never have married him.
“Yes, my lord,” the sergeant said. And then he raised his voice. “You heard his lordship. Let them go. Let them all go!”
“My lady?” Edward smiled at Free. There was nothing of the rascal in his smile. It was highborn and stuffy, and she wanted no part of it. Especially since once this mess caught up with them, they’d both be arrested. And this time, there would be real cause behind it, not just some ridiculous quashing of permits.
This was not the time to have that argument.
“My lord,” Free said.
He held out his arm to her and she took it. He conducted her through the station like the best of stuffy husbands—guiding her around debris with a gentle touch, as if she couldn’t figure out not to step in refuse on her own. Her teeth ground, but if this was the act they had to put on…
Of all the lords to impersonate, why on earth had he chosen Claridge? James Delacey hated them enough as it was. It was a good thing that the sergeant knew nothing about the rarified heights of the ton. Delacey would never marry a suffragette, and if his wife had expressed a wish to attend a demonstration, he’d have starved her into compliance rather than fetched her from gaol. Delacey would never joke about exclamation points. He didn’t have a puppy-cannon. He’d never declare his affection for her by saying that he gave a very small damn about her. Edward was nothing, absolutely nothing like Delacey, thank God, because that man made her skin crawl.
Except…
Now that Edward had cut his hair, now that he was wearing that stiff suit of navy superfine…
He looked like him. A little. And she’d mistaken James Delacey for him once. While it had seemed ridiculous at the time, it no longer seemed so impossible. With that stance, with his hair cut in that sober, respectable way, he looked a bit like an older, thinner version of Delacey.
She shook her head, dispelling that awful illusion.
Edward conducted her outside, handed her into a carriage marked with, of all things, the Delacey family crest: a hawk clutching a rose. Stealing, or more forgery? It had to be forgery, she told herself. Had to be. But if so, he must have planned this for longer than a few hours. Why hadn’t he told her?
She entered the carriage and found the family crest tooled in the butter-soft leather of the squabs.
“Edward,” Free said dangerously. “Edward, I don’t know what you’ve done, but this is madness.”
He nodded to the footman—the footman! As if she’d ever want anything so ridiculous as a man to do nothing but open and close doors for her!—as insouciantly as if he were a lord, and the kind who sprung his wife from gaol on a regular basis. He followed her into the carriage and waited until the door was shut.
“Impersonating a lord,” Free continued, taking the seat across from him. “That has to be a felony. And Claridge, of all people—now there’s a man who will press charges, if ever I saw one. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not impersonating James Delacey,” Edward said. He’d dropped that false, stuffy tone, thank God. She’d have hit him if he hadn’t.
“Oh, really.” She frowned at him. “I was with you back there, recall. You’re doing a very bad job of not impersonating him. Next time you try not to impersonate a man, don’t give out his title as your own.”
He folded his hands. “If I were impersonating James,” he explained, “I would have introduced myself as the Honorable James Delacey. I would not have called myself Claridge.”
She shook her head. “A technical matter of forms of address. Besides, Delacey was supposed to have been seated…soon. I’m not sure when. There may not even be a technical difference at this point.”
“I told them I was his elder brother,” he said.
“His elder brother?” That flustered her for some reason. “He doesn’t have an elder brother.” No, but Stephen had mentioned there was one awhile back. She frowned in memory. “His elder brother is dead.”
Edward shrugged and looked away. “I did promise you necromancy. Here you are.”
She was beginning to have a headache. “This is a terrible idea. Claridge will still come after you. If Edward Delacey were really alive, his brother wouldn’t be the rightful viscount any longer. He would tear an impostor to shreds.”