Page 6 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“As you say.” Andrew looked down the long, covered pathway to the end opposite where she and her friends had entered. The Burlington Arcade stretched from Piccadilly to Burlington Gardens. At nearly two-hundred yards in length, it had been quite an ambitious undertaking by the Earl of Burlington. Andrew, however, seemed unimpressed.

Josie walked in an unhurried manner to the next storefront—a window full of books. She scowled at the bound covers and went on again, irritably aware that Andrew followed behind. She stopped in front of the next window to find it full of fine paper and cleverly displayed dipping pens. Small signs shared what they made the paper of, whether it had a linen finish or something the seller called a ‘cotton soft sheet.’

The pens were what fascinated her. The duke had the best quills in every desk of his houses. They were from peacocks and swans, and double-quilled. But the idea of a pen which one could use over and over instead of continually reshaping and eventually discarding—it appealed to her.

“What has your attention now?” Andrew asked from over her shoulder, standing nearer than strictly necessary. He likely attempted to annoy her.

“Pens,” she said. “Have you used one? Father has always insisted on quills.”

Andrew leaned closer to the glass and nearer her shoulder. When he spoke, his breath tickled the bare skin of her neck. “It seems more economical to use something like this. Which isn’t something a duke need worry about, is it?”

She stiffened. “My father is hardly a spendthrift.” She had to turn nearly all the way to see him around the edges of her bonnet, but it was worth it to better look daggers at him.

He rocked back on his heels, moving away to a more respectable distance. “I would never say such a thing of him, either. I mean to say that your father has no need to change habits. If a quill suits him, because he can afford the finest available, why rely upon metal-tipped rods of wood?”

“Hm.” She cast one more look at the pens, then tried to find her companions in the milling crowd again. They were nowhere in sight. Where had they gone off to? And why had they not thought to bring her with them? Though conditioned to ignore Sterling, as someone of her standing must ignore a servant, she prepared to summon him to ask after her friends—but her guard glared fixedly down the Arcade’s length.

That was when she heard the shouts.

“Gormless nobs,” someone yelled, voice echoing through the covered lane. “Buyin’ up your fancies and baubles while men starve on the street!”

Most of the people in the arcade were women from fine houses. Like Josephine. There were gasps and cries of outrage, but no one moved toward the person shouting. Instead, the shouts grew louder as three men stormed down the pathway, dressed in clothing marking them as part of the working class.

One of them spit near the feet of a finely dressed woman, who withdrew to press against a shop window. Other women were darting into the shops, faces pale.

Sterling had crossed to Josephine, standing between her and the approaching men.

“Get her inside,” Sir Andrew growled to Sterling, watching the oncoming men with a fierce glare. Then he stepped directly into the path of the oncoming men. They were only a third of the way through the arcade where Josephine stood.

Sterling nodded to the shop behind her. “If you would, my lady.”

If she didn’t do as the guard said, her father would hear of it, and she would be the one facing a displeased duke. Josephine slipped backward to the shop door and ducked inside. Her guard remained at the door, on the outside.

The man behind the countertop immediately greeted her with cheer. Josie smiled tightly at him and went to the window to peer out. Andrew wouldn’t really confront anyone, would he? The men would pass by, venting their displeasure, and that would be an end to it.

But as she looked between the display shelves of paper and metal-tipped pens, she saw the baronet standing in the center of the arcade, legs apart, chin up, and posture rather like a tiger waiting to spring. She could not make out his words, muffled as they were by the glass and the sounds outside.

“May I help you find something in particular, miss…?” the pen merchant asked from behind her.

Josie waved in his direction, not taking her eyes from the three men Andrew addressed. “Yes, in one moment. I am looking at this display.”

Her single comment induced him to a great deal more chatter. “Oh, yes. The new pens. They are a marvel. A perfect gift, too, for any gentlemen in your life. A father, perhaps, or a brother. I have others with fine carving in the wood, dyed to any color you wish.”

Outside the shop, the three men all glared at Andrew, flexing their hands and appearing ready to charge him. But then Andrew barked, the single word at a volume loud enough even for her to hear clearly. “Enough!” He gestured back the way they had come. The men startled, as did Josephine.

* * *

Though teaching the three ruffians in front of him a lesson through fisticuffs would prove satisfying, it certainly would not be appropriate. Especially given the number of females already watching the verbal altercation.

“Enough,” Andrew shouted when one of them dared drop a slur against the innocent women shopping that day. “By now, someone has called a constable to deal with your petulant whining. Your display before these women, wives and daughters as gentle as your own, is at an end. Only cowards would assault those who dare not oppose them, speaking filth and acting lower than dogs. Leave now, peacefully, or I will take it upon myself to throw you into the street as you deserve.”

The man standing in the middle, broader than the other two but still a head shorter than Andrew, sized him up with slitted eyes and his chin thrust forward like a weapon. His gaze flicked from Andrew to the Arcade’s patrons on one side and Sterling on the other.

He spat on the ground again, then jerked his head back. “You wait, Lord Muck. The people won’t let your kind rule us forever.” He backed up a step, the men on either side of him doing the same, then they turned and went back the way they came. One of them whistled as he went, and another laughed raucously until they passed out onto the street.

What were rough men like that doing, walking down Piccadilly in this neighborhood at this time of day? How did they even dare cross beneath the ceiling of the Arcade? Burlington had built the thoroughfare—some said—specifically so the women of his acquaintance might enjoy high-end shops without having to travel to the less-savory streets of London.

“Burlington ought to employ guards,” Andrew muttered, then turned his attention to Sterling, Josephine’s guard for the day. He held open the door to the shop, and his charge came out with wide eyes and a quick glance in the direction the men had exited.