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“He came by Oak Hall last evening. Said Richmond wanted to know when my lovely young daughter would return home.”
Fear shocked his heart like lightning. “But she’s dead.”
“Not that daughter.” Cambertson shook his head. “My little Mary. That heartless wretch hasn’t even let us grieve a month!”
Oh, of course. Little Mary. “Did this Bram ever meet Cynthia?”
Cambertson shot him an exasperated look. “Course he did
.”
Well, damnation. If he got a look at Cynthia, things would come quickly to a head.
“I heard she fell upon you while you slept.”
“Um…pardon?”
“The ghost. I heard she assaulted you bodily. Was it the witching hour?”
“Well…I’m sure it was. It must have been.”
Cambertson grunted in thought, then darted his gaze around, touching on each corner of the room before he began to back toward the door. “Perhaps you could let her know that I’ve forgiven her. I wouldn’t like her to stop by Oak Hall.”
“You’ve forgiven her, hm? Well, I’ll pass the message along the next time she visits my bed.”
“Aye. Well.” Cambertson slapped his hat against his palm a few times before shoving it onto his head. “You’re a braver man than I. Good day then.”
When the front door closed, a panel in the hall jumped open as if pulled by the vacuum. Cynthia emerged, face flushed with anger. “He’s forgiven me?”
Lancaster rubbed his chin. “Who is this Bram fellow?”
Cynthia stopped her angry pacing and hugged her arms to her chest. “You heard my stepfather. He’s Richmond’s man.”
“What does he do for Richmond?” Lancaster couldn’t say he’d exactly kept a close eye on Lord Richmond over the years, but he’d never heard any whispers of an accomplice.
“I don’t know.”
“Your stepfather implied that he might have been Richmond’s son.”
“He could be. They certainly look related.”
Cynthia’s frown distracted him from his puzzlement. He didn’t like the way she rubbed her hands over her arms. “Why does it make you nervous to speak of him?”
“I don’t like to speak of either of them!”
Well, he could certainly understand that. Especially when Cynthia’s hand went to her mouth. He’d noticed the scar before. Still pale pink, the jagged line bisected her perfect bottom lip like a reminder of fresh pain.
Lancaster crossed the room and touched his fingers to hers. The distance vanished from her eyes as she snapped her hand away from her mouth and backed away. He followed.
When her back touched the wall, he put his fingers to her cheek and feathered his thumb over the scar. “He did this to you, didn’t he?”
She made no pretense of answering. Her eyes blazed a bright combination of sorrow and frustration.
“Richmond or his man?”
Her lips parted, and the heat of her breath on his skin shocked him. “Richmond,” she whispered. “Bram never touched me.”
“But Richmond did?” Fury sprang loose in his chest, the perfect complement to the new lust she was inspiring. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.
