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She beat Valebrook to the base of the staircase, a fact she would have rubbed in his face had he not pressed his hand to the small of her back when he reached her side. A bubbly feeling took up in her chest.

“You’re here!” The housekeeper and her husband looked no worse for wear after the storm.

She leaned closer to Valebrook, her fingers brushing his thigh. “You said the bridge was washed out.”

Mrs. Keenan spotted their proximity, and her eyes narrowed.

“The bridge is hanging on by a thread. It’ll be some time before it’ll be usable,” Mr. Keenan said. “We took the horses over the footpath. Took us an age, but we managed.”

“There’s a footpath?” Valebrook asked.

“Nearly impossible to navigate in a storm like that,” the groundskeeper clarified. “But we needed to see how the building kept up.”

Valebrook’s chuckle was low as he turned to Bridget, a mere rumble. “That’s how you beat me up here from the tavern.”

She couldn’t restrain her smug smile as she looked over her shoulder. “You can’t stand being beaten, can you?”

Mrs. Keenan cleared her throat. Loudly. “We have a letter for you, my lord.” She thrust an envelope forward, her mouth creased at the edges. “From a Lord Dalton. Something to do with Parliament, perhaps?”

Valebrook stared at the envelope for a long moment before removing his hand from her back to accept it. “Ah, yes. I suspect it is.” He glanced down at Bridget. “I should read this. I may need to respond.”

Her stomach plummeted. Nothing had changed in the three days he’d been at Ashveil. He still wanted to punish mediums like her and cause her ruin. He would leave.

And she’d let herself expect otherwise. She’d convinced hundreds of people to believe she could summon spirits, but convincing him she was worth staying for? Impossible.

“Of course you should,” she croaked. She shifted to put more space between them. “I should start cleaning up the sitting room.”

Mr. Keenan’s bushy brows shot up. “What happened in the sitting room?”

Mrs. Keenan grabbed Bridget’s hand. “We can look together.” She fixed Valebrook with a stare that could send Napoleon’s armies fleeing in terror. “You should see to that letter.”

Valebrook stood silently on the bottom stair, lips parted softly, as the housekeeper dragged her from the room. Mr. Keenan trailed behind, muttering about storm damage as he went.

They didn’t stop until they reached the kitchen and Bridget collapsed onto a stool. Mr. Keenan helped himself to a biscuit abandoned on the plate Bridget had prepared the night before. Her makeshift supper with Valebrook seemed like a lifetime ago.

Mrs. Keenan eyed the wine bottle, then focused her piercing gaze on Bridget. “Your hair is down.”

Bridget blinked. “I—uh, yes. I didn’t braid it.”

“Looks nice,” Mr. Keenan said through a mouthful of biscuit.

Mrs. Keenan ignored him. “Why is the earl not wearing a tie?”

She twisted her fingers in her lap. “We… it’s not what it looks like.” It’s far worse.

“You’re an adult,” Mrs. Keenan said haltingly, “and what you do is your own business⁠—”

Mr. Keenan shoved to his feet. “Did that man take advantage of you?” He swung his attention to his wife. “I can have him dead and tossed off the cliff in a quarter hour. No one would find the body.”

Bridget grabbed his arm and pulled him into his seat. “He didn’t take advantage of me. There’s no need for murder.”

He scowled, clearly unconvinced.

Mrs. Keenan sighed and pressed two fingers to the center of her forehead. “Husband, why don’t you see what happened to the parlor ceiling?”

He grabbed another biscuit and shoved it into his trouser pocket as he pushed to standing. “The west wall is a mess, too, just like I said it would be. Cliffs are worse than ever…” He ambled out of the kitchen, mumbling under his breath, and Bridget stood, intent on accompanying him.

“You’ll stay here.” Mrs. Keenan’s tone brooked no argument, and Bridget reluctantly sat once more.