‘With pleasure,’ Thomas replied, never taking his eyes from Sir Francis’s face, ‘though I am quite fascinated by your views on the female mind. Why don’t we discuss it over another glass, and I shall endeavour to recall from whence it came.’
Josephine willed Thomas to look at her as she and Matilda responded to their cue to leave, but he only nodded at a footman in the manner of a gentleman ready to do business. Another wave of anxiety rose within her. She knew Thomas as well as any of her other siblings and there were only two things he ever spared the time to talk about– horses and wedding matches. Yet dinner was at an end, and she had no excuse to linger.
‘Thank you, we shall wait for you in the drawing room.’ She nodded, before turning and leaving the gentlemen to talk. It was usual practice, but all Josephine could think was that Thomas had seen an opportunity, and if he had the chance to enact another stage of his Monstrous Marriage Masterplan, he would.
She glanced at Matilda, her burnished ringlets aglow in the lowlight, as they made their way down the flagstone corridor. She might be next in line to be wed, but her clear ability to endure three whole seasons, without so much as a single suitor to show for them, had given her the faintest of hopes that Thomas might just leave her in peace with her books. Yet now it seemed he had his eyes on a match with Sir Francis Dashton too!
A rise of fear and chagrin stole through her. Sir Francis might be the most perfect gentleman she’d ever known, but the idea of him ever liking her enough to make an offer was preposterous. He could have his choice of any of the eligible young ladies this season, and undoubtedly the next too. Additionally, he’d given no indication of liking her in any special way, so the thought of her unfeeling brother trying to persuade him of the virtues of her spinster self was torturous. Not only would everyone know that she was an abject failure on the marriage mart, she would also have to suffer a flat refusal from the Adonis of her dreams.
‘Are you feeling quite well, Jo?’ Matilda asked in concern, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
‘Yes, of course,’ Josephine replied, reminding herself that, by his own tongue, Sir Francis was not looking for a wife, and her brother might not be able to progress the conversation at all. ‘It’s only I cannot bear the thought of Thomas discussing the female mind. It unnerves me.’
‘It unnerves us all,’ Matilda replied, raising her eyebrows. ‘Best not think on it too long, dearest, lest it give you the headache.’
Josephine smiled, though she knew she’d have little rest until she knew exactly what had been said.
* * *
It was the early hours of the morning when Josephine finally heard the gentlemen stumble up the staircase and make their way towards the opposite wing. She’d spent the evening in the drawing room but, while the gentlemen had been amiable enough, there had been no mention of their dinnertime discussions at all. This lack of information had only agitated Josephine’s feelings further, and by the time she and Matilda withdrew for the night, she could think of only one course of action.
Pensively, she lay down her quill and stared at the clumsily written passages on the paper before her. Usually, the act of writing provided her with inner peace and calm, but not tonight. Tonight, the words seemed barely her own at all but belonged instead to the wind and rain outside. With a heavy heart, she pulled her shawl tight, picked up her candle and trod to her door, where she paused to listen carefully. The house was silent, and when she stepped out into the hallway, the only movement was the flicker of candlelight on the sideboard.
Stealthily, she descended the staircase and crossed the hall floor towards the library, her chest thumping. She knew her brother’s routine as well as her own, and there was little risk he’d retired yet, especially since he rarely slept in his bedchamber anyway. She inhaled deeply as she drew to a halt, and then knocked before she could change her mind.
‘Shouldn’t you be asleep?’ came his dry response.
Josephine pushed open the door and Thomas was exactly where she expected him to be: in his favourite armchair beside the fire, a brandy in his hand and his gundog at his feet. Anxiously, she acknowledged his sullen expression and wondered if she should have waited until morning. Then his eyes lowered in the same way as at the dinner table, and she felt a surge of fresh determination.
‘Thomas, you cannot pressure Sir Francis into marrying me!’ she blurted, forcing her feet forward, and wishing she had Phoebe’s authoritative tone. ‘I have no desire to leave Matilda, and I am quite certain Sir Francis does not wish to wed at all.’
His answer was a curt bark of laughter. ‘And what makes you think I would match you with that great fop?’ he replied, his lip curling.
Josephine felt a curious mix of relief and indignation flood her limbs. Sir Francis Dashton was the least fop-like gentleman she’d ever met. In fact, she was pretty sure he was the living embodiment of every fictional hero she’d ever read and imagined for her own. She felt her cheeks flush. ‘He wouldn’t have me?’ she asked, trying not to let him glimpse her inner turmoil. ‘He is young and has ambitions before getting wed, I’m sure.’
‘No, it’s not that he wouldn’t have you,’ he replied, his smirk deepening, ‘for I didn’t ask him. Dashton is a coxcomb and a dandy, but he’ll be a decent enough catch when he’s looking for a wife. He just needs a little more time to realise it.’
Josephine exhaled quietly as Thomas tossed back a swift drink.
‘Not that it matters,’ he added, swirling his glass, ‘for I have different plans brewing, anyway.’
Josephine felt a dart of cold fear as she conjured the only other gentleman Thomas had mentioned of late.
‘Lord Huntingly, heir to Huntingly Manor and about two hundred acres of rolling Somerset countryside is anything but boring… The news he is looking for a wife to help restore Huntingly Manor’s position was interesting indeed.’
She stepped closer until she could better read his face, noting the half empty bottle beside his chair. He was drunk, but not without reason.
‘Tell me,’ she asked, trying to keep a tremble from her voice and failing, ‘have you made a match with the disgraced Lord Huntingly?’
He tossed back the remainder of his brandy, before reaching forward with the fire poker to nudge the smouldering logs. ‘And what if I have?’ he muttered. ‘Why should it matter to you, when all you care for is books?’
‘Thomas, you can’t!’ she replied, aghast. ‘I know I’ve failed, but I haven’t met anyone I liked well enough to marry. And I can be of use here… to Matilda… and to you. We don’t know anything about Lord Huntingly, except that his reputation is clouded by rumour and he is most likelya murderer!’she whispered emphatically. ‘Why would you make such a match? Even if you have no care for me, what of the Fairfax name?’
He turned back to her slowly, his lips twisting into a smile of disdain. ‘What a goose you are, Josephine,’ he replied mockingly. ‘Of course I haven’t arranged for you to marry Huntingly! Why would I waste my time trying to make a match that three expensive seasons amid a hundred potential suitors have failed to achieve?’ He drained his glass. ‘Have no fear, sister, I’m entirely in agreement with you. Your best course now is to live a quiet life here at Knightswood and, if I should exit this mortal coil before you, I’m sure one of your sisters will welcome the assistance of a spinster aunt with their growing broods.’
His cold words resonated through the room as Josephine lowered her gaze, wavering between relief and humiliation that her brother should dismiss her quite so readily.
‘However, your younger sister is a very different matter,’ he added, making Josephine still in her place. ‘Huntingly is rich and in need of a respectable name to align with his own, while Matilda needs a strong hand. He is prepared to keep a wife in the most comfortable style, and I won’t have another Fairfax costing money Knightswood doesn’t have. The matter is quite settled– she will be presented and wed at the beginning of the season.’
