Page 2 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

Simon opened the door and entered first with Andrew directly behind him. In appearance, the study was an extension of the library. Deep green wallpaper covered the walls not hidden by tall bookcases, and thick rugs with patterns of twisting vines and flowers covered the dark-planked floors. Along two walls were tall windows. One set of windows looked into the courtyard, the other looked over the street below.

Gregory Dinard, the fifth Duke of Montfort, stood with his back to them. His hands were clasped behind him, and he stared out the window to the carriages and people below. “Simon. Andrew.” The brief greeting had both younger men instantly pausing in their steps.

The duke never addressed them by their Christian names except when they were together as a family. In his political meetings with them, he used their titles. While the difference might be subtle to some, it immediately indicated the nature of their conversation was not what they had expected.

“Father.” Simon waited until the duke turned around, and Andrew watched as the man he admired above all others slowly faced them. His shoulders rounded, as though bearing a weight, and his eyes looked from one man to the other with solemnity.

“Please, sit. There is something we need to discuss.”

They sat in the chairs across from the duke’s desk. Rather than retake his own seat, the duke went to his desk only to take a paper from its drawers. He came around to their side and held it out to Simon. “Read this.”

Andrew waited as Simon read in silence, then took the paper and read it for himself. The letter, signed by none other than the Earl of Liverpool, who currently served as Prime Minister, informed the duke of acts of sedition and rebellion across England. It strongly urged the duke to reconsider his stance on renewing the bill to prevent public gatherings—something the duke had disagreed with when a temporary law was put in place two years before.

But what His Grace likely wanted to discuss was near the end of the letter. Along with the information and plea, the prime minister warned that several members of Parliament had been attacked on the street. What started as members of the public shouting slurs outside of Parliament itself, according to the letter, had escalated to stones hurled at carriage windows.

Andrew read the last line of warning aloud. “‘It is no secret that the Duke of Montfort is a powerful voice in the government. Guard yourself and your family as best you can.’”

“I cannot think we have much to concern ourselves over,” Simon said when Andrew lowered the letter. “Rockwell follows me everywhere. Mother has two of your men with her whenever she leaves the house, the governess and children never leave unescorted. Josephine, too.”

Andrew nodded in agreement without thinking. When Andrew joined the family after his father’s death, the duke had informed him of the measures he took to secure their safety. Former soldiers stood as guards throughout the house, though they dressed and acted as footmen. His carriage drivers were always armed. Every private room in the house had expensive locks installed. There were hidden passageways for family to step into and disappear entirely from sight if necessary. Even Simon rarely went anywhere unarmed—his walking stick concealed a blade he wielded with expertise.

“I have always guarded against the possibility of a threat,” the duke said, accepting the letter from Andrew. “We have had little to trouble us due to my precautions. But this is different. Our countrymen are spoiling for a fight. And I cannot say I blame them,” he added, voice low.

Their previous conversations in this room had given Andrew enough knowledge to understand the duke’s frustration. Corn laws, new taxes and tariffs, Luddites, rotten boroughs, and a people wanting more from their government than the government was willing to give, had brought them to the edge of a precipice.

Would the government topple? Would the people? Or would everyone slowly back away and return to a discontented quiet?

They had France to look to for an example of what could happen. Revolution. Treason. Death. Battle in the high streets of their cities. The government couldn’t ignore the rising voices of its citizens. Yet no one offered solutions except to press the people back into submission.

“I must ask you both for greater vigilance,” the duke said into the thick quiet, his words pressing into Andrew’s grim thoughts. “When you are out, look after each other. When you can, look after the others in this household. Andrew, anyone with a knowledge of my family knows I consider you as a son. I fear you might be in some danger because of that.”

Andrew’s heart swelled with pride, and his head spun with the impact of the duke’s words. Though he had always felt part of the family, on an intimate level with them that was difficult to explain, it had never been stated so boldly by the duke before. “The affection you and your family have shown me are worth any danger, Your Grace.”

The duke’s smile appeared, though tempered still by the atmosphere. “We have months left in London yet. I fear as the weather grows warm, so too will tempers rise. Be wary. Stay alert when you are not within the safety of this house.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I will speak with the duchess to determine how much of the circumstances we will share with the children. I have no wish to frighten those under my care, but I cannot think it wise to leave them without any word of this.” The duke walked around to the other side of the desk and took his seat. “Now then. We have a circumstance in Parliament regarding the right to trial by combat—an ancient law yet to be repealed.”

The subject changed. The three men began a different conversation altogether. Andrew took the duke’s warnings to heart, of course. Right along with the knowledge that His Grace, the Duke of Montfort, thought of him as a son.

CHAPTER 2

Rain pattered against the cobblestones outside for the third day in a row. Josie watched as the droplets ran down the window pane, joining one another to create long trails of water as they raced across the glass. She sat at her writing desk, leaning against the back of her chair, her pen forgotten atop the letter on the desk’s surface.

Lady Josephine had written three letters of regret that day. As though anyone would question whether she would come for their picnics and park walks, given the constant weeping of the sky.

She rubbed at her eyes and left her chair, knowing the last letter she needed to write would keep until later. She had to move. Sitting still for hours at a time did not agree with her. Not here in London. Not when every moment of being still reminded her of her failure.

Without meaning to, Josie glanced at the top of her wardrobe. There, concealed by the furniture’s ornately carved peacock, was a box filled with paper. A whole stack of expensive, beautiful paper onto which she had poured out her imagination and all the lovely words she knew. And at the top of the stack, much smaller and cheaply made, was a letter from a publisher. Rejecting the work of her nom de plume as “unpublishable.”

She turned away, her cheeks burning anew with shame, and left her room.

Immature.

Inexperienced.