“This does not mean I forgive you,” she said.
He did not look over. “I should be alarmed if you did. You forgive too quickly when you wish to forget. I would rather be remembered.”
She made a small sound. “You are insufferable.”
“So you have told me,” he said. “Frequently.”
Chapter 22
The second day out from Wexford dawned grey and damp, the sort of morning that could not make up its mind whether to rain or simply sulk. Edward rode a little ahead of the trap, cloak buttoned tight at his throat, collar turned up against the chill.
The road had widened into the Great North Road proper now, hard-packed and busy with the traces of wheels and hooves left by coaches and carts ahead of them. To his left, Isla handled the reins with her usual stubborn confidence, the little trap skimming along obediently as Morrow took the miles in her stride.
For the first time since leaving Hampshire he felt something like order settling in his bones. A purpose. The rhythm of the road soothed him. He did not look at Isla often. When he did he saw the set of her mouth, the line of her shoulders, tense, but no longer wound to breaking. They had argued themselves into a kind of truce. An armed one, perhaps, but a truce all the same.
The morning had almost worn into afternoon when another rider appeared on the horizon, approaching at a brisk canter, cloak flapping. Edward narrowed his eyes.
“Another admirer?” Isla called, without turning her head.
“If so, you are remarkably unconcerned,” he replied.
The rider raised an arm in greeting, spurring his horse to close the distance faster. Edward’s hand went instinctively toward the pistol at his belt, then dropped as the man’s features resolved.
“Is that …” Isla began.
“Henry,” Edward finished.
Henry drew alongside with a grin. “By God, Wexford, I thought I would never catch you. You ride like the devil is at your heels.”
“He may be,” Edward said. “Or my mother. Which is much the same.”
Henry laughed, then doffed his hat to Isla. “Your Grace.”
“Captain,” Isla said. “You appear to have lost your regiment.”
“Temporarily,” Henry said. “May I beg leave to join this most respectable procession?”
Edward frowned. “To what end? I did not know you were bound north.”
“Nor did I, until last night,” Henry said cheerfully. “But I find it suits me very well. I have business not far beyond York. I thought a little company on the road might make the miles more tolerable.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Business.”
Henry’s gaze slid away, toward the trap. “Among other things.”
Isla’s curiosity sparked. “You are welcome,” she said, before Edward could speak again. “We have had only Edward’s temper and my own to keep us entertained. A third opinion will be refreshing.”
“Or damning,” Henry said lightly. “Very well. I shall endeavor not to shock you, Your Grace.”
“I should like to see you try,” Isla replied.
Henry chuckled, moved his horse to the other side of the trap, and fell into step with them, launching into an anecdote about a coachman who had attempted to race a cavalry column down the road to Portsmouth and regretted it. Edward listened with half an ear, the rest of his mind circling around Henry’s sudden appearance like a wary cat around a closed door.
Henry’s business “not far north.” His earlier confession at the club:
There is only Libby for me.
His father’s threat to cut him off. Edward’s stomach sank. There was, in truth, only one sort of business that led an officer of unimpeachable family to gallop unexpectedly up the Great North Road with that particular brightness in his eyes. He decided to keep his suspicions to himself until Henry chose to reveal them. It did not take long.
