Page 46 of Never Besmirch a Wallflower: Dukes and Wallflowers

“But Miss Webb’s fiancé does.”

Helena shook her head. “I cannot ask a duke for money.”

A dark smile crossed Miss Drummond’s face. “I didn’t say to ask him.”

“Theft is punishable by imprisonment, and to steal from a duke…” Helena swallowed. “The sentence will be quite severe.”

“Then don’t allow anyone to catch you.” Miss Drummond turned and sashayed toward the street.

“How simple,” Helena murmured, trudging toward the door.

Prison or ostracization? Which was worse?

Chewing on her lower lip, she grasped the door handle and pushed, but it didn’t open. She grabbed the brass lever with both hands and, pressing down, drove her shoulder into the wood panels. Again, the door wouldn’t budge.

It was locked!

She couldn’t knock… How would she explain why she ventured outside, alone, at this time of night?

Helena cursed, the soft word floating over her head and crystalizing in the frigid temperatures, which would continue dropping as the evening progressed toward morning. If she didn’t find a way inside, she’d freeze to death before anyone discovered her absence.

Tucking her hands under her arms, she hastened around the side of the house, her gaze sliding over the first floor’s darkened windows. Hopefully, one of the locks wasn’t strong enough to withstand a bit of force.

To prevent handprints on the glass, she covered her hands with her sleeves, placed her palms flat on the pane, and shoved. Nothing. Repositioning her stance, she braced herself and tried a second time, adding a low growl as she pushed upward, but the lock refused to snap.

With a grimace, she turned, trudged through the ankle-deep snow toward the next window, and repeated the process. Neither the second nor the third window yielded any respite from the bitter cold. As Helena rounded the side of the building, she stumbled on a rock buried beneath the snow and fell forward, landing on a thinly covered patch of ice and knocking the breath from her lungs.

Slush seeped into her clothing.

Lifting up with a grunt, she glowered at her hidden assailant, then pushed backward onto her legs and gingerly climbed to her feet.

Another burst of light appeared in an upstairs window, as though the tiny flame she’d seen earlier traversed the hallway and stopped at—Helena counted the windows, bobbing her head with each number—Miss Webb’s chamber.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing a bubble of laughter. Despite Miss Fernsby-Webb’s threat, the Duke of Roxburghe chose to risk her ire and call upon his fiancée at this inappropriate hour.

It also meant the Duke of Mansfield was alone in the chamber.

Inching over to the house, Helena closed her eyes, issued a silent prayer, set her palms on the window, and pushed upward. A soft creak met her attempt. Her breath caught between her teeth. She reset her hands and shoved.

The lock snapped, and the window slid upward. Expelling a quiet whoop, Helena grabbed hold of the sill, then dragged herself over the apron, tumbling gracelessly onto the library floor and entangling her legs in the adjacent cream-colored drapes.

Biting back a curse, she pulled herself free of the material, grimacing when a large tear appeared in the delicate fabric.

Nothing could be done now.

Helena scrambled to her feet, closed the window, and darted across the floor. Opening the library door just wide enough to stick her head through the space, she craned her neck to the left and right, verifying the corridor was empty, then slipped through the opening and closed the door behind her.

Before she could sway herself to a different plan, she dashed down the hallway, up the staircase, and stopped when she reached the Duke of Mansfield’s chamber. Inhaling a deep breath to calm her racing heart, Helena leaned her ear against the door, listening for sounds of movement.

When none came, she cautiously depressed the handle and pushed the door open. Peeking over her shoulder at the hallway to ensure it was empty, she crept into the chamber and shut the door but couldn’t cross the room.

Her body, pressed against the door’s smooth wood, ignored every command she issued, refusing to move one inch closer to the Duke of Mansfield’s sleeping form.

He’d fallen asleep in his clothing, his coat half-pulled from his shoulders and one arm flung over his face as though he’d given up on the effort of removing the garment and collapsed on the bed.

Groaning, the Duke of Mansfield rolled to his side, his face highlighted by the warm fire crackling in the fireplace. His eyes opened, and his unfocused dark brown gaze slid across her, then they closed again without registering that she’d entered the chamber.

She could still leave. She could endure Miss Drummond’s wrath and deal with the consequences of being outed as a liar and fraud… but she couldn’t marry Humphrey. Ever.