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“You’ve been seen with her.”
He raised his brow in mock surprise. “The girl is dead, or so I’ve been told.”
Bram took a step toward the carriage, but when Lancaster shot out a hand to catch his arm, the man backed up and pulled away. As if he liked being touched as little as Lancaster did.
“As you haven’t seen fit to introduce yourself, I’ll be on my way.” With those words, he expected Bram to offer his name, perhaps volunteer that he worked for Richmond in whatever capacity that was, and then pepper Lancaster with further questions. But Bram did none of that, he simply watched Lancaster for ten seconds, then twenty. He watched him with his dead eyes, then turned and remounted his horse.
He didn’t ride off, he only waited. It seemed they were about to be followed.
So be it.
There was a garden sculpted into the ceiling.
Cynthia craned her neck, trying not to look like a complete rustic while still getting a view of the plaster ivy. And the roses. Each individual petal visible even from fifteen feet below.
“Nick,” she whispered. “We shouldn’t be here.”
Nick, pacing the length of the reception room, didn’t seem to hear her. He hadn’t noticed the ceiling at all as far as she could tell. Likely he lounged about in homes like this as a matter of habit.
“He’s sure to toss us out on our ear, showing up unannounced in the middle of the night!”
“It’s eight P.M.,” he muttered.
“What about the duchess?”
“What about her?”
Cynthia clenched her hands hard together. “How am I to speak with a duchess?”
Nick finally glanced toward her. One side of his mouth lifted. “She seems to have a good grasp of the English language.”
“What? What does that mean? Is she French? Mercy, she must be so elegant.”
“No, she’s not French. Cynthia, I’m teasing you.”
“Well, stop it. Can’t you see I’m terrified? Maybe she isn’t here.”
He stepped closer to pull her hands apart and stroke a thumb over her wrist. “As far as I can tell, Somerhart never leaves her side, so I’d imagine she’s here. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. Emma is…Well, she’s rather exceptional, but very kind.”
“Emma?” she said. Exceptional? she thought.
“Her Grace, of course.”
“Her Grace,” Cynthia muttered, practicing. “Your Grace.” What if she forgot? What if she called her “my lady” or, horror of horrors, Emma? “Oh, why did you tell me her name?”
“I apologize.” Nick chuckled. “I knew her before she was so lofty and imposing.”
“She
is imposing?” She realized even before he began to laugh that Nick was teasing again. Incensed, she stalked across the room to the fireplace to stare at the plaster vines that climbed up to the mantel.
At least there wasn’t silence between them anymore. At least he was laughing. After rocking the carriage with his abrupt entrance, he’d explained that Bram was following them to the Somerhart estate, but he could only go so far onto the duke’s land without permission, after all, and there was nothing to worry over.
Then he’d smiled and apologized for his earlier rudeness in polite words that invited no question.
But she’d forgotten that worry now. There was a larger one looming. A duke. The grandest of all grand gentlemen. And he had no previous connection to Cynthia, no inclination to set aside his gentlemanly honor and offer help. She belonged to her stepfather for nine more days, and the Duke of Somerhart would be obligated to send her back to him, or at least jot out a letter inquiring if he wanted his daughter back.
“Nick, please,” she tried one more time. “I think we should continue on. Stay at an inn. Perhaps you could call on His Grace in the morning. Test his mood. I—”
