Free Sins of a Wicked Duke by Sophie Jordan

word as if she had never heard it before. For long moments she simply stared at Fallon in mute confusion.
    Fallon kicked the bag near her feet. “I’ve become Francis.”
    Marguerite looked down at the bag. Gesturing to it, she asked, “What is in there?”
    “Clothing.” She grimaced, reluctantly confessing, “My footman’s livery.”
    Marguerite pressed a hand to her heart as though it threatened to gallop free of her chest. “Why?”
    Fallon smoothed her hands over her wool skirts. “I think my reasons should be obvious. For two years we’ve met nearly every week at this park bench.” She waved a hand around them. “You know all I’ve gone through.”
    “But you never even hinted that you were considering this! Isn’t it a tad…extreme?”
    “You remember when we were at Penwich?”
    Some of the light diminished from Marguerite’s eyes. She may not have gotten into trouble like Fallon and Evie, but her time at Penwich had been no less difficult. As petite as she was, she was a target among the bigger girls. Fallon and Evie could not look out for her every moment of the day. Marguerite had been bullied, her food stolen. Sick from malnourishment and susceptible to disease, she had spent a great deal of time in the infirmary—no doubt where her interest in the healing arts began. At times, Fallon feared she would perish like so many other Penwich girls.
    Fallon swallowed against the lump in her throat. “We did whatever we had to in order to survive. All of us.”
    “I remember,” she intoned, her voice soft, subdued as her mind doubtlessly traveled the dark roads of their past, of the girls they used to be, struggling for life. “And when your deception is revealed?” Her gold-brown eyes locked on Fallon. “What then? They could arrest you…perhaps even commit you to an asylum. They will say you are a sick woman…unhinged.”
    “I’m simply pretending to be a footman. I’m not impersonating Prince Albert. Besides.” She adopted a cheeky grin. “Who says I shall be caught? I’m tall enough. I’ve never been the delicate, petite sort.” She scanned Marguerite almost enviously. “Not like you.”
    “Not delicate, true, but you’re all woman.” Marguerite assessed her. “From everything I’ve heard of this duke, he’s a connoisseur of womanhood. He’ll sniff you out. Mark my words. You will be caught.”
    “He hasn’t yet. In fact, he warned me against flirting with the women on his staff.”
    “What?” The word strangled on laughter. Marguerite shook her head, the thick sausage curl on her shoulder dancing, glinting blue-black as it caught the sunlight.
    Fallon waved a hand in dismissal. “Enough of me. I want to hear about you.” Anything to distract, to ease her attention from the voice whispering across her mind, insisting that Marguerite was right, that it was only a matter of time.He’ll sniff you out .
    A tremor skittered up her spine, and she couldn’t be quite certain if was fear or excitement.
     
    Fallon rose and stepped aside as a carriage pulled up in front of the townhouse, the horse’s clattering hooves slowing to a stop. Setting aside the oil canister she had been using to grease the creaky iron gate, she clicked her heels together and opened the gate for the visitor, curious to see who would descend from the carriage. Anotherlady —for lack of a better word—calling on the duke?
    A footman dropped down from his perch to open the carriage door, and a dignified-looking gentleman in black broadcloth stepped down. Tall and thin, he raked a haughty stare over the house, nostrils quivering as if he smelled something foul from within.
    Using a brass-headed cane, he strode ahead at a firm clip, not sparing her a glance where she stood. Almost as if she did not exist. As if she were merely a statue holding the gate open for him. But then that was the rule of thumb with servants. The more unnoticeable, the better. Dipping her head, she smiled in satisfaction, watching