She finally understood why the Duke of Branmere had painted Hermia so scandalously, and why Isabella and her husband snuck off during many parties, returning flushed and unable to stop touching one another.
But those feelings were dangerous. Sibyl had far greater things to think about, so she glanced towards the window where pink curtains fluttered.
A figure vanished from view, and she thought once more about the Finchwood being a safe place for women.
Was it truly, or was that safety hard-fought? Did someone keep vigil over the women who boarded there?
Stepping inside, they found a spacious lounge with four armchairs in a semi-circle that faced an empty fireplace. A reception area stood at the far side of the wall, the desk circular and piled with ledgers and presumably booking sheets. The colors of the wallpaper were muted—cheerful without being overly bright.
Behind the desk, a buxom woman leaned against the back of a chair, her eyes already fixed on Sibyl and the Duke. Notably, she sized up the Duke more.
“Well, hello there,” she greeted, her voice dropping to a sultry tone. “Welcome to the Finchwood. Tell me, what can I get you both?” Her eyes flicked to Sibyl. “A couple’s room, perhaps? The Finchwood hosts many discreet meetings, rooms that will let you indulge?—”
“We are here for information,” Sibyl cut her off. She had no time for the spiel. “I am Lady Kerrington, and I am looking for my husband.”
There. She had dropped her disguise. She only hoped it would finally give her answers.
But the woman only looked at the Duke, her smile growing.
“Then that means the gentleman is available,” she murmured, tilting her head in a way that let her hair fall into her cleavage, as if she was trying to direct his attention there. “I recognize you. You are the Duke of Stonehelm. What are you doing in my establishment?”
Her tone was teasing, and she leaned forward, pushing out her chest as if trying to give him the answer.
Sibyl gritted her teeth and looked away. To her surprise, the Duke did not play along.
“I am looking for a patron of yours,” he said, all business-like, cutting to the chase and ignoring the receptionist’s advances. “Are you Miss Catherine Tremaine?”
“I am.” The woman pushed her chest out further, and Sibyl resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Who are you looking for?”
“Like I said earlier, Lord Kerrington,” Sibyl interjected, growing more impatient. “I am his wife, and I demand to know whatever you do about his stay here. I believe he receives certain bills here.”
Miss Tremaine finally looked at her. Her flirtatious smile dropped, twisting into a sneer. “So you’re the neglected wife. He doesn’t use the word, but he laughs about the feeble Countess he won’t go home to. And truly, who can blame him? You’re very young… and I doubt you have much experience.”
Pointedly, her eyes flicked to Sibyl’s cloaked chest.
Sibyl fought the urge to pull her cloak tighter around her. Instead, she steeled herself.
If Isabella could suffer mockery in the ballrooms throughout her Seasons, then Sibyl could endure an insufferable woman for a few moments.
Think of Rosie.
“I care very little about who my husband chooses to bed, or how he speaks of me, Miss Tremaine,” she said, her voice steady. “What concerns me are his debts and my release from them.” She slapped her palm against the reception desk, the sound sharp in the small room. “So you will assist us, and cease wasting both my time and His Grace’s. Unless, of course, you would prefer the newspapers to learn that your boarding house regularly hosts illicit meetings. I imagine such a report would empty your rooms by the week’s end.”
That did the trick.
Miss Tremaine drew back and began shuffling papers, not meeting Sibyl’s eyes.
At that moment, Sibyl glanced at the Duke, her breath catching when she found him already looking at her. There was an unreadable look in his eyes, but his mouth had turned up at one corner ever so slightly.
She looked away quickly.
“Follow me,” Miss Tremaine said, stepping out from behind the desk through a swinging door.
She led them through double doors to a single staircase. Up they went, stopping on the second floor. Then she led them to a room several doors down and paused to gather her keys.
“Lord Kerrington has not come out in several days,” she told them, not even glancing back. “It is not usual for him to remain upstairs, but he always frequents the tavern across the street at least once a night. Then again, when he has accumulated a few bottles, he rarely even does that.”
“A few bottles?” Sibyl asked sharply.
