Page 7 of Duke of Sapphire

He glanced behind him. The inn yard was noisier now, forcing him to climb into the carriage to prevent a scene. As he moved and tugged the door behind himself, the young lady shifted so that she took up only a small bit of space on the cushioned seat. “You entered uninvited into a stranger’s carriage, spent several hours hiding, and now you will not tell me your name. I want you to hear how that sounds.”

“It sounds desperate,” she said. “Which is accurate.”

“It sounds like a problem I did not cause and do not intend to inherit.”

She folded her arms. “You are cold-hearted.”

“I am rational. There is a distinction.”

“From where I am sitting, the distinction is difficult to locate.”

“From where you are sitting,” Henry said, “you are in my carriage without invitation, refusing to tell me who you are, and demanding I assist you in whatever scheme you have arranged.” He paused. “The cold-heartedness, if present, is entirely warranted.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue and was selecting her best argument before deploying it. “At least tell me,” she said, “who you are. Since we are sharing a carriage.”

Henry blinked. In twenty years of navigating London Society, no one had ever demanded his credentials as though they were exchanged on equal footing. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You seem surprised,” she said.

“I am,” he admitted. “Mildly.”

“Is it so unusual a question?”

“For someone in your position? Yes.”

She waved a hand. “My position is temporary. Yours presumably is not. So—who are you?”

He straightened. “Henry Kingswell,” he said. “Duke of Sappherton.”

There was silence.

He had learned, over the years, that the announcement of his title produced a fairly predictable effect. People went still. Some bowed even when already seated. Some apologized for whatever they had been doing in the previous thirty seconds. Once, a young lord had knocked over an entire dinner service.

This young woman looked at him as though he had told her the carriage had lost a wheel.

“A duke,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“Of course you are.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Of course. Of all the carriages in all the inn yards in all of England⁠—”

“You chose mine.”

“I chose this one because I heard the driver telling the groom it’d be heading north.” She dropped her hand. “I did not stop to check the crest.”

“That was careless of you.”

“Yes,” she said, with feeling. “I see that now.” She stared at the window, at the blurry shapes of the yard outside, and something shifted in her face. She did not look frightened, exactly. She looked like someone recalculating a sum and not enjoying the answer.

Henry gave her a moment. Then, he prodded, “Your name.”

She turned back and looked at him for a beat. “Lady Charlotte Ashford.”

The name landed. Henry turned it over.

Ashford.

Ashford’s family seat was in Bedfordshire, he knew. He had driven through the county last night.