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“Bram.”
Well, that was disturbing. Bram had little reason to be looking in the direction of Cantry Manor. “What did he ask?”
“Asked who you were and why you’d returned.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him you were the viscount and I expected you could visit your estates anytime you liked. And I figured you were hiding from your creditors.”
“Ah. There you have it, then.” A perfectly logical reason for him to remain on this lonely coast. Certainly more logical than keeping company with a dead girl who wasn’t actually dead.
Cyn’s stepfather cleared his throat so loudly that Lancaster jumped in surprise. “So,” Cambertson drawled. “Did you tell her?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you tell the ghost what I said?”
Lancaster watched him rub his hands together in nervousness. He felt utterly ridiculous even answering the question, but Cambertson was all serious attention. “I shouted it out at midnight in a darkened room, but I can’t confirm the absence or presence of any spirits.”
“Hm,” he grunted. “She didn’t respond?”
“A strange feeling of warmth did come over me.”
His eyebrows flew up. “Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
“A friendly feeling?”
“Decidedly so.”
Cambertson nodded sagely. “A good sign. Perhaps she’ll be at peace if she knows I won’t hate her.”
“She did seem happier.” Tired of toying with the man, Lancaster shifted toward the edge of his seat. “Do you know if Bram is still about?”
“He said he would explain my position to Richmond, so I gather he meant to return home.”
“Send a note if he shows up again, will you? I’ll see myself out.” He paused in the doorway to glance down at the old butler. “Is your man quite well? Looks a bit pale.”
Cambertson snorted and waved him on, so Lancaster left the old man to his nap, hoping it wasn’t a permanent rest.
As he started around the corner of the hall, Lancaster stopped in his tracks and pivoted toward the closed door of the music room. He pushed with the flat of his hand and the door swung in to reveal the bright square of the portrait of Cynthia. He’d thought it would look different now, knowing who the artist was, but it only seemed more beautiful. This time, looking at that stubborn jaw and those slanted eyes, he felt a warm swell of comfort.
He leaned forward to peer at the signature. Munro, it said. James Munro.
Bastard he might have been, but the artist had captured that elusive shimmer of beauty about her. Something that glowed from her eyes. Something not born of perfect features, but of spirit. She was stubborn, yes, but grounded in peace all the same.
Staring at that portrait, Lancaster felt a certainty snap into place inside him. He would marry her, family and fortune be damned. He’d find a way.
Bram was gone, at least temporarily, so they could spend the whole day tomorrow searching the cliffs. They’d find that bloody treasure or he’d die trying. And if it truly was a fortune…Well, the gold that would purchase Cyn’s freedom could purchase his as well.
“Scoundrel,” Cynthia growled as Nick raised a glass of wine triumphantly in her direction. “Beast.”
He pursed his lips in mock sympathy. “Poor dear. Taken advantage of by a worldly gentleman.”
While Cyn glared, Mrs. Pell shook her head and tapped the tabletop. “You two act as if you’re playing for coin instead of beans.” She slid one card toward Nick and then laid her hand down, face up. “And it’s a good thing you’re not or you’d both be beggared. That’s in, then.”
She and Nick both looked down in time to watch the housekeeper sweep the last few dried beans into her pile.
