Page 10 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Sir Andrew,” he said in return. “Though you should know, we are already well acquainted.”

The bothersome man! Perhaps she ought to throw her opera glasses at him. Of course, that might damage the beautiful accessory her father had gifted her the year she entered Society. So instead, she took her fan in hand, turned around, and shook it at him in as threatening a manner as she could.

“Will you please be silent while I enjoy the play?”

“The play that just ended, you mean?” he asked, eyes twinkling and grinning like a tiger.

“What?” She turned around just as the hero clasped the heroine to him, saying something about eternal love, and then the applause began. Her mouth fell open, and she turned around, ready to berate Andrew, only to find him laughing at her while clapping his hands.

Drat him. He had made her miss the ending and whatever speech of love the principal characters had given each other. That would be one less thing to write in her letter to Emma.

She stood and gave his shoulder a hard whack with her fan—which did absolutely no damage to him, nor made any impact on the others in their box. The duke and duchess were already speaking to an acquaintance the next box over, and Simon stood at the back of their box speaking to the manservant waiting for them. All but one guardsman remained outside the theater, because His Grace, Simon, and Andrew were with them that evening.

Andrew stood, his height making him half-a-head taller than she. “Your fan is not a suitable weapon, Josie. Maybe you ought to carry a stick like your brother.”

“If I did, I would run you through with the concealed blade,” she promised. “Why must you always be so vexing?”

“Me? Vexing?” He placed a hand upon his chest, eyes widening with comic confusion. “I am told I am quite charming.”

“Agitating,” she said in return. “Disagreeable, and provoking. That is what you are.”

“Provoking?” His grin returned, one side of his mouth going higher than the other as he leaned toward her. “And what is it that I provoke from you, Lady Josephine?”

Why was he standing so close? And why did he have to be so tall? She stood on her toes to answer him, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose as she hissed, “Exasperation, Sir Andrew.”

His lips tightened to conceal his smile, though that one side remained tilted upward. His eyes sparkled at her, his amusement making her cheeks grow warm as a strange, twisting-sort of feeling took hold of her stomach. His gaze momentarily fell from hers and drifted lower to her mouth. Her lips parted, but she could not find another disdain-laden word to say, though she became increasingly aware of the rapid thrum of her pulse.

What was happening?

“Father.” Simon’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts, and she quite suddenly remembered they were in public, where anyone might see her behaving like a child.

She stepped away at the same moment Andrew turned to look at her brother.

Simon’s expression was more somber than usual. “There is a disturbance outside the theater. Rockwell says a small crowd has gathered across the street. We should go. Now.”

Her father rose from his seat, taking leave from the people he and her mother had been chatting with since the play’s end. His face was a mask of confidence, and her mother’s was just as poised.

Josephine swallowed back her nerves and stepped forward to follow them—only to stop when Andrew offered her his arm. “Let Simon and Rockwell take up the rear.”

Simon had his walking stick. Rockwell carried a long knife and a concealed pistol. It made sense to have them at the back of the party. She nodded and accepted Andrew’s arm. As much as they bickered, she trusted him the same as her father trusted him.

He would keep her safe.

* * *

Andrew drew Josephine along with him, keeping her close by tucking his arm to his side. He didn’t have time to think on what had happened in the box. How near he’d come to—what? Kissing her? No. Of course that wasn’t where their debate would lead. And there was certainly no use following that line of thought.

He kept one eye on the duke and the other on their surroundings as he followed His Grace and Her Grace out of the theater. Perhaps half of the ladies and gentlemen in attendance that night had already spilled from the doors of the theater into the street. There were shouts for carriages, laughter as friends gathered in little circles to talk, and enough chatter to create a din too loud to hear anything clearly.

And it seemed no one except the duke’s men were paying any attention to the crowd of men across the street. Some were dressed roughly, others wore the clothing of the middle-class. But they all stared grimly at the theater.

Someone shouted, “Fair representation!”

Another, “No more corn tax!”

And then the chanting started, a variation of both shouts taken up by the men across the street from the theater.

Rockwell, the same age as the duke, looked grim. He signaled with one hand above the crowd and one of his men, Sterling, appeared at the duchess’s side.