Page 12 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

Once they were out of London, the carriage maintained a steady speed. Servants and baggage had been sent ahead to their first stop along the way. They would first stay at an estate near Hitchin, a mere forty miles north of the city proper. Then they would travel another fifty miles to Peterborough and finally arrive home at Clairvoir Castle, the family’s ancestral seat on the border of Leicestershire and Rutland.

Josephine sat in the forward-facing seat next to her grandmother. Her sisters sat on either side of their governess opposite. The long journey, normally made with the entire family, was as monotonous as it was familiar.

At the end of the first leg, they arrived at the home of a family friend who was presently residing in London. When the dowager duchess traveled, she never stayed at inns. They had enough acquaintances and relatives in England to make that a surety.

“The Barrington servants have been instructed to see to our needs and provide fresh horses for tomorrow,” Josephine’s grandmother reminded them as they turned up the lane to the Earl of Barrington’s country house. “I expect the three of you ladies to conduct yourselves as befitting your father’s title. Give the servants nothing to gossip about.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” all three of them, including Josie, chorused.

When the carriage stopped at the beautiful house, Josephine peered out the window. The sun would sink in a matter of hours, keeping her in the house with the others until she could turn in for the night. She couldn’t wander about the Barrington house when they were not home, so she would likely be trapped in the same room with her grandmother, sisters, brother, and Sir Andrew.

The carriage door opened, and Simon appeared, his usual stoic smile in place as he held his hand out to the dowager duchess. “Grandmother. I hope the trip was not too taxing for you.”

“Too taxing?” She took his hand and stepped out. “Young man, when the day comes that a simple carriage ride is taxing on me, I will go to my grave. I would hazard a guess that you will regret the day’s travel more than I.”

Simon cast an amused glance back at Josephine as he escorted their grandmother to the front doors.

Andrew took Simon’s place, his hand outstretched to Josephine. In precedence, she came next. She did not hesitate to accept his help out of the carriage. They had known one another too long, and many situations had forced him to play her escort over the years.

A footman would help her sisters and governess from the carriage, and they would make their path up the steps of the house unescorted.

For all his hours in the saddle, Andrew appeared remarkably chipper. “How did you pass the hours today, my lady?” he asked. “Reading poetry to one another? Embroidery?”

“Mostly in pleasant conversation,” she answered him. “Not that you would know much about such things.”

“Are you implying I am unable to converse intelligently?” he asked, a challenge in his voice.

“Of course not.” She smiled, keeping her voice light and pleasant as they started up the steps into the house. “I know of your intelligence and would not insult it. It is the pleasing nature of the conversation that you would know nothing of, since speaking with you is often a trial of patience.”

He chuckled, and she frowned. Her dart had missed the mark, as it so often did with him. She amused him, while he exasperated her. They were forever on uneven footing in their verbal sparring matches. Someday, she would get the upper hand.

Thankfully, they parted company soon enough, and Josephine retired to her guest room until dinner. Susan, her maid, had gone ahead with the other personal servants and their trunks, leaving Josie alone until she rang for a maid to help her prepare for the evening meal.

She ought to have read. Or written a letter. Or done something productive. Instead, she laid down upon the bed and stared up at the canopy. Thinking through the story she had written, from beginning to end.

The tale wasn’t too unlike those that she had read before. She wrote about a poor gentlewoman who lived with a spinster aunt, detailing her place in village society. Her heroine dutifully helped others yet experienced little kindness herself. Until a handsome vicar appeared and noticed her efforts, then fell deeply in love with her.

Josephine thought it a perfect story. But then, mothers often thought her children perfect, without full awareness of their flaws. But where had she gone wrong? It was a tale with a moral. Kindness and gentleness of heart was rewarded fairly. There was an element of romance and prior tragedy.

The room grew dark before Josephine found a satisfactory answer to her problem. Alas, she summoned a maid and prepared for dinner no closer to a solution than when she’d arrived.

* * *

Though Andrew would never admit it, given his love for horses and riding, Simon’s grandmother was right. He sunk into a hot tub of water in the dressing room provided for his use and sighed with gratitude. The water was almost hot to the point of discomfort, which meant he’d have extra time to enjoy a soak before having to dress for dinner.

Dressing for dinner in the middle of a journey struck him as somewhat unnecessary, but Her Grace, the dowager duchess, was insistent that they maintain the strictest of standards. He had the greatest respect for the woman, but he’d gladly forgo dressing in stiff formality for the comfort of eating alone in his room.

Andrew did not leave his tub until the water cooled and his muscles protested. As he dressed for dinner, his eye caught on the small narrow box in his trunk. The box that held the pen he’d purchased for Josephine—an impulsive thing to do, surely. If they’d all stayed in London, he could have presented it to her at the family dinner given in honor of her birthday. Now he was carting it about with him. Somehow, that made the gift seem ridiculous.

Why had he bothered with it in the first place?

He dressed quickly and left his room, despite the early hour, and went in search of Simon.

He found the duke’s eldest son and heir in the sitting room adjoining the dining room. The only public room designated for the family’s use during their one evening at the estate.

Simon wasn’t using the sitting room to sit. He was marching from one side of the room to the other. In his hand, he held his stylized walking stick, which concealed a blade longer that Andrew’s forearm.

“Are you pacing or patrolling?” Andrew leaned against the doorway. “Sterling is in the hall. Would you like to change guard positions with him?”