Page 7 of Hearts of Briarwall

Andrew glanced back at him. “He’s at home, likely eating my lunch.”

Spencer chuckled. It felt good to laugh. Still, the tightly wound coil inside him wouldn’t relax yet. Andrew approached a double brougham and two matched bays. Beautiful horses. Beautiful carriage. But not a motorcar.

“Not a Daimler man, eh, Wooding? No TK limousine?”

Andrew heaved Spencer’s trunk into the enclosed plush passenger cabin and offered to do the same with the travel case. He smirked. “I’ll leave the Daimlers to His Royal Highness.”

Spencer surrendered his case, and the luggage and carriage door were secured. Both men hopped up front to the driving seat.

To Spencer’s surprise, Andrew pursued the subject as he took up the reins and urged the carriage forward. “I’ve a Singer at home. A solid tourer. Nothing splashy, but my steward suggested it would be good to have on hand if needed.”

Spencer nodded, listening to what his old friend was not saying. “Excellent idea.”

“You can have a go at it while you’re here.”

“You’re certain? I have to admit, I’d enjoy that.”

“Consider it at your disposal. I’ll let Warren know. He’s my stableman, but he’s taken to the garage as well. You should get on swimmingly.”

Spencer paused, deciding to wait to accept the offer of the motorcar untilafterthey’d conducted their business, and only if it went well.

“Do you have any business in London before we get a move on?” Andrew asked before the next crossing.

“No.”

“Good.” He turned the carriage west. “I’d cut through Hyde Park, but the timing is abysmal for a day like today. Nothing but phaetons, bicycles, and suffragettes. You don’t mind the detour, do you?”

“Not at all. Those bicyclists with their sashes and placards—and the chanting ...” He threw his gaze heavenward.

Andrew laughed, shaking his head.

Both men grew quiet as Andrew focused on maneuvering the carriage away from the hub of the station.

Andrew cleared his throat. “Spencer, I know you’ve come here with a business proposition, and you know I’m open to hearing it. But I want you to understand, no matter what, it’s good to see you, and I’m sorry it’s been so long. Too long. How is your family, might I ask?”

Spencer shifted in his seat, his old friend’s words a mixed bag of relief and unease. “Nell is a secretary for a medical practice in Coventry.”

“Little Nell. I remember her pounding away at those typing tests.”

He allowed a smile at the thought of his sister, barely three years his junior.

“Is it a good situation for her?”

Spencer nodded. “I believe so.” He frowned in thought. “She was to be married, you see. But the chap changed his mind.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I think taking the job in Coventry—even though it’s farther from Mother—has been good for her. Ihopeit’s good for her. There was no changing her mind. She’s a woman of five-and-twenty, and I’ve never seen my sister so shattered from a broken heart, and so determined to make a new start.” Yes, he was immensely proud of her.

Andrew frowned.

“I apologize,” Spencer said. “I’ve shared too much.”

“No. I’m glad you did. I feel neglectful for not having kept in touch with you through the years. What has it been—five, six years?”

Spencer nodded. Life had a way of skipping over time between distant friends. Like a stone on a pond. “Six, if you can believe it.” He and Andrew had kept in touch for a year after the elder had graduated Oxford. But then things had gotten ... complicated.

“I’m sorry for your sister’s disappointments. But I’m glad she’s thriving.”

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