Page 34 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

He exchanged a sardonic look with Josephine. “I am not certain if that is meant to be a compliment or something else entirely.”

“Then take it as a compliment,” Josephine said, lowering herself into the chair a footman held out for her. “Simon, did you invite Hartwell?”

“I expected to see him in London, if we were still there, and I wrote only last week to tell him we had removed to the country.” He held the letter across the table to his sister. “This arrived today. He said he’d rather be at the castle than in London anyway.”

“That’s a Yorker for you.” Andrew looked over Josephine’s arm to read the letter. “He’d rather be in his walled city than on the Thames.” He spoke in jest, as he’d long counted Roman Eastwood, Baron Hartwell, a friend. The three of them—Simon, Roman, and Andrew—had gone to school together. In Roman Eastwood’s first week at school, he’d been bullied mercilessly for his Yorkshire accent.

Andrew and Simon had intervened when one particularly vitriolic battle turned to fisticuffs, and the three had become fast friends. Roman had eventually shed the accent his Yorkshire upbringing had given him, adopting the “refined” elocution of the English upper ranks.

“I have been to York,” Josephine said, handing him the letter. “It is a beautiful city, and certainly less crowded than London. I cannot fault him for enjoying himself there.” She picked up the letter waiting for her and gasped. “It’s from Emma! At last.”

“She wrote you and not me?” Andrew asked, pretending to gaze at the letter with longing. “What of familial duty?”

“I sincerely doubt you want a letter from her that is doubtless filled with details of her honeymoon.” Josephine lifted her fork and raised her eyebrow at him, but when Andrew only smirked, she realized what her words implied. Her cheeks turned a rosy hue he found most satisfying. “That is not—I did not mean—”

Mrs. Robinson, the governess, cleared her throat. “If you young ladies have finished your breakfasts, let us adjourn to the morning room for sewing and poetry.”

Andrew kept his lips pressed together until the governess had withdrawn with her charges, and then he let himself laugh loud and long at Josephine’s mortification.

Simon, for his part, barely glanced up from the letter he read as he said, “We all know what you meant, Josephine.”

She stared gloomily at her plate, stabbing at a fried potato with vehemence. “Scold Sir Andrew if you must scold anyone.”

Anytime she used formal address on him, Andrew knew he’d put himself in her black books. They’d gone days without much arguing—ever since he’d found her in the tower. It was something of a relief to see he could still tease a reaction from her, and with little effort.

“It isn’t my place to scold anyone. Thank goodness.” Simon put the paper down. “The girls are right, of course. Grandmother’s presence, and mine, means that Hartwell’s coming isn’t at all indecent. But make certain your behavior is above reproach, all the same.”

“Lord Hartwell doesn’t care a ha’penny for me, Simon.” Josephine made a dismissive gesture with the hand not holding an eating utensil. “He never has. And he is far better behaved than this one.” She nodded to Andrew.

“Me?” Andrew protested, hand going to his chest as though wounded. “I am the very model of politeness and good manners.”

She scoffed. “Perhaps in the medieval ages, where you would’ve made a fine jester.”

Simon groaned. “Can we not go a quarter hour without you two badgering each other?” He folded his letter. “The point I am trying to make, Josephine, which you force me to speak plainly, is that this visit might be different from others. Particularly for you.”

She blinked, and Andrew turned fully in his chair to face Simon. He could not mean—

Josephine spoke Andrew’s very thought. “You do not mean Hartwell has another motive besides seeing you?” She sounded as shocked by the idea as Andrew felt. “Did Papa put him up to this?”

Andrew waited, watching as his friend folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“Father has nothing to do with this. Hartwell hasn’t seen you in a few years, is all. You’ve grown up a bit. And I know he’s started to consider marriage. I’m not saying that’s his design in coming—because, so far as I know—it isn’t. But what if the two of you like each other?”

Hartwell wouldn’t be able to help noting all the ways Josephine had grown. She wasn’t an adorable child anymore, but a beautiful woman. She was graceful. Intelligent. Compassionate. Kind. All things that a man of Hartwell’s character would admire. All things that Andrew couldn’t help admiring. But Hartwell had one benefit Andrew didn’t—no one in the family thought of Hartwell as a brother. That would make it far easier for him to offer romance to Josephine than it would be for Andrew.

No. Andrew couldn’t imagine it. Hartwell and Josephine? The two wouldn’t suit at all. He relaxed into his chair and smirked over his shoulder at Josephine, burying his thoughts as deep as possible. “You could spend the entire time he’s here hiding from him, like you did with Atella last autumn. That was most effective.”

She gasped and tossed her napkin at him. “I didn’t hide from Luca.”

He raised his eyebrows and mouthed, knowing Simon couldn’t see him, the word tower. Josephine’s cheeks flamed, and her nostrils flared.

Continuing with little regard for his safety, Andrew added, “It is too bad you do not have another companion to throw at him. That worked out in Emma’s favor, considering her new role as countess.”

Josephine scowled at him, and Andrew could have sworn twin blue flames had appeared in her eyes. But instead of pitching his words back at him, her expression calmed. She turned her face to her brother and spoke with measured, polite tones. “I will make certain Lord Hartwell enjoys his time at Clairvoir. When do we expect him to arrive?”

Simon hesitated before speaking, perhaps sensing the same strangeness in the air as Andrew. “Four days from now.”

“Very good. I will inform Grandmama of our coming guest.” She stood from the table, her breakfast barely touched, snatched up the letter from Emma, and left the room at an unhurried pace.