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Not daring to open her mouth to respond for fear of what might pour forth, Faith made an affirmative sound in her throat.

All she wanted was for the constant motion to stop and then to crawl into bed for a week. After a long soak in a tub of scented water, of course, to wash the travel grime from her person.

Realizing her dream of becoming a scrivener didn’t seem very jolly at the moment. Nevertheless, the obstinate man across from her would not triumph. He had hinted many times he didn’t think she was up to the task. By heavens, a little sick stomach and a wee headache would not provide him the victory he sought.

“I intend to commandeer my father’s study while we are at Dovetonwick.” Lord Constantine’s melodic baritone interrupted the silence.

Faith opened her eyes, her gaze colliding with his lordship’s bottle-green glance.

The duke might have different thoughts about his son and associates taking over his private space.

“It’s the only place that won’t be overrun with guests,” Lord Constantine explained.

Which was precisely why the duke would likely kick up a fuss.

“Unless I can persuade Mother to let us use the dower house.”

Had he considered the impropriety of such an arrangement?

But then again, there was nothing proper about a lord employing a female scrivener, and Faith had known that from the beginning. She’d chosen to follow her dream rather than submit to outdated and repressive social expectations.

Lord Constantine glanced out the window and rubbed his square chin. He wore no gloves, and, for the umpteenth time, Faith tried to decide if he cocked a snook at propriety or if he was oblivious to the oversight.

Likely, the latter.

“Yes, the dower house,” he mused to himself. “That would be ideal. No guests poking about. More privacy and fewer interruptions.”

Faith hadn’t thought to ask what her role would be beyond a scrivener.

Would she be housed with the servants?

House parties tended to swell estates to bursting with guests bringing their essential servants, from valets and abigails to coachmen.

In truth, it was rather poor form for Lord Constantine to drag his assistant and scribe to a family affair—particularly something as illustrious as a wedding and an extended house party.

Faith would vow he’d not have nearly as much time to work on his research as he anticipated. Which begged the question, what was she to do with herself?

Well, if he wanted to pay her wages when she had little to do, that was his concern.

As if reading her mind, he swept his firm mouth into a mocking grin. “I assure you, my family is accustomed to me disappearing for hours on end for my research. You’ll not be left to your own devices.”

“More’s the pity,” Mr. Camberg-Trainer complained with a good-natured grin. “I’d hoped the duchess would keep you so engaged that I might have myself a holiday. I’m certain Miss Roth wouldn’t mind a few days to recreate.”

He winked at Faith, and she managed a weak smile.

Gilly stirred, stretched, and then passed wind.

“Good God above,” Mr. Camberg-Trainer gasped as he struggled to lower the window.

“What did you feed the mongrel, Con?”

“Must’ve been the mutton,” Lord Constantine mumbled beneath the handkerchief clamped over his nostrils. His eyes danced with a combination of hilarity and apology.

Faith held her palm over her nose and encouraged the animal from the seat.

Given her unsettled stomach, enduring Gilly’s digestive disorders might have her casting up her accounts after all. Grateful for the fresh air the lowered window provided, she drew a steadying breath and focused on the men.

Mr. Camberg-Trainer was the opposite of Lord Constantine in almost every way. Immaculately attired, small and wiry, dark-haired and eyed, he was kind, possessed a refreshing sense of humor, and didn’t take himself too seriously.