13

The telegram sat on her dressing table, yellow and watchful. Proof that even from hundreds of miles away, Libby’s mother still knew when she was tempted to bow out of an engagement and stay home with her books and microscope. If she didn’t attend the Wights’ dinner party tonight, Mama would know. Somehow she would know, and another telegram would come, or a letter—or worst case, she herself would appear at the door, reproof in every lovely line of her face.

It was a fear bigger than that of sitting through a boring dinner that kept Libby’s bottom planted on the stool while Mabena fussed with her hair. And fussed some more. And fussed again.

Libby scowled at her friend in the mirror. Nothing made her half so cross as having unending hairpins jabbed into her scalp. “Why are you going to so much trouble? I don’t care if I impress these people.”

Mabena flicked a gaze to her reflected one, then back to what she was doing. “You’ve worn nothing but a braid since you arrived. If you’re going to dress for dinner, we’re going to do it right. Besides.” She flashed a grin. “Maybe you’ll steal the attention of the one that chatty gossip wants.”

“Amusing.” As if she’d ever stolen the attention of any man. And as if she’d want to.

“Well, why not? Look at yourself, my lady.” Mabena pushed Libby’s shoulders into their proper posture, positioned her head just so, and nodded beside her in the mirror. “You’re as lovely as any other young lady when you try.”

A blatant lie. Other young ladies—like Edith, for example—didn’t need to try to be pretty. They just were. Even when their hair was in a braid and they were wearing cotton.

Or perhaps it was that they always tried. Which sounded exhausting. Libby blinked at her reflection, tempted to screw up her lips to ruin the image. She didn’t look like herself. Didn’t feel like herself in this beaded evening gown. The only thing she liked was that it was purple. And even that only made her smile because it reminded her of Mamm-wynn. “Are you finished yet?”

Mabena rolled her eyes and turned to root through the box of doodads and whatnot on the dressing table. It held all the dreaded hairpins and the ribbons and pearls Libby had begged her not to put into the coiffure, along with bracelets and rings and necklaces.

The digging and shifting went from lazy to panicked. “Where are your necklaces?”

Libby wrinkled her nose at her reflection, tempted to stick out her tongue at herself too. “How am I to know? You did the packing.” She sounded petulant. But it was the corset’s fault. Mabena hadn’t let her keep it tied as loosely as she usually did. Probably because the purple gown wouldn’t have fit otherwise. And she’d made her put on the ridiculously long satin gloves. She hated gloves, unless it was cold outside. They made it hard to write or sketch.

A knock came from the front door, bringing Libby to her feet. It would be Oliver, here to spend the evening poring over maps and history texts and every record of the legends surrounding Vice Admiral Sir John Mucknell, pirate extraordinaire. Sure enough, many of the books she and Mabena thought might be Beth’s touched on the pirate and had been taken, Oliver was certain, from the Tremayne library.

And though history wasn’t Libby’s primary interest, she would have far preferred spending the evening learning about the East India Company’s rather justified argument with the king and their leaning toward the Puritan Roundheads than going to a dinner party.

She scrambled to her feet while Mabena was still distracted with the hunt for the necklace, before she could decide she needed more hairpins. “I’ll let him in.”

Mabena was still mumbling about missing pearls and how she knew she’d packed a selection of three necklaces as Libby hurried into the main room. She pulled the door open, offering a smile to Oliver, who stood there with a briefcase in one hand, the other hand in his pocket.

And utter stupefaction on his face as he blinked at her. “Pardon me. I must have the wrong cottage.”

“You’re hilarious.” After spending the last two evenings with him, she could very nearly ignore the fluttering he caused in her midsection and focus instead on the tease. Stepping back, she gestured him inside.

He entered, but without taking his eyes from her. Which very nearly made her think the hairpins were worth it. And the corset. Though if he liked this version, which wasn’t the real her . . . She pressed a hand to her ribs.

His smile was right at least. Soft. Knowing. Altogether Oliver. “The viscount is going to be completely enchanted.”

“I have no interest in enchanting the viscount. Or his wealthy cousin. I’ll bore them with talk of Latin nomenclature to prove it.”

From the bedroom, Mabena called out, “I thought Miss Gossip said the viscount was fascinated by scientific things.”

Libby wrinkled her nose at the memory of when Lottie had found her cottage on Thursday and spent three eternal hours there chattering about people Libby didn’t know. Or want to know. “Then I’ll bore him with talk of pirates.”

Oliver raised a finger. “Talk of pirates is never boring, my lady.”

She sighed. “I’m sure I’ll find some other way to lose their interest then. It never takes me long.”

“How could that possibly be?” He slid his satchel onto the table, as he’d done last evening, and the one before. She rather liked how it looked there—so masculine and comfortable. “I could talk to you for hours and be riveted every moment of it.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she found herself rather glad that his words had been too quiet for Mabena to hear from the bedroom. He was probably being kind, trying to bolster her confidence before the dinner she’d already admitted she didn’t want to attend. He seemed like that sort of man. And Mabena, who knew him better, would no doubt say as much, which would rob it of a bit of its effect.

She also had no idea how to respond to such a compliment. She could only smile her thanks and try to nudge Darling away from the beaded hem of her dress that had been tempting him since she put it on. And then snicker a bit when Mabena came stomping out with obvious frustration, muttering, “I thought for certain I’d packed them. I must have put them down again when I considered adding the silver set.”

Oliver turned to greet the newcomer with a grin. “Problem, Mabena?”

“No, I’m muttering for my health.”

Libby tamped down a grin of her own. The salt air seemed to have made Mabena more sarcastic. Perhaps she shouldn’t have found it so entertaining.

“Anything I can help you with?” Oliver asked.

Mabena gave him a withering look. “Only if you happen to have a pearl necklace in your pocket.”

His face went blank for a moment, then a strange look flitted over it. “Actually . . .” He reached for his satchel, opened it, and fished around in the interior pouch.

Coming up with, of all things, a pearl-and-gold necklace.

Mabena just stared at it. “And you’re carrying your grandmother’s necklace around with you because . . . ?”

“She forced it on me before I left. Said—well, frankly, she said, ‘Libby needs it.’”

“How could she have known that?” The oddity made it far more intriguing than it would have been otherwise. Libby stepped closer to get a better look.

It was prettier than hers, honestly. Rather than a simple string of pearls, this one was a double strand, choker length. In the middle, there was a cameo—only, instead of the expected woman’s profile, an eight-petaled flower had been carved. Perhaps a Dryas octopetala.

But she couldn’t accept. All Mama’s lessons in etiquette had at least taught her that much. “It’s lovely—and lovelier still of Mamm-wynn. But I can’t—”

“Of course you can. It will make her happy to know you did so.” Rather than hand it to Mabena, Oliver turned to her himself, moving behind her and draping the necklace into place in one swift move. “For Mamm-wynn, my lady.”

She touched a finger to the cameo while he fastened it in place, afraid to move any more than that lest . . . lest . . . well, lest she do something wrong somehow. “All right. Anything for Mamm-wynn.” Mama never even needed to know.

His fingers were warm as they grazed her skin, probably making her neck and cheeks flush again. His hand moved from her neck to her satin-encased elbow as he stepped around her again. “Would you like me to walk you to the Wights’ cottage?”

Yes! She nearly shouted it. Anything to keep his hand on her elbow a little longer, to be at his side a bit more, to . . . “No, thank you. Though I thank you.” She was such a dunce. A dunce who needed to clear her head of this lovely, silly haze he filled it with before she stepped foot in the Wights’ cottage and was introduced to the viscount and his cousin. She certainly didn’t want to arrive all moon-eyed and have them think it was over them.

Though given the shadow that flashed in his eyes, he probably thought her quick refusal was because she didn’t want to be seen with him in said company.

She ought to say something to make it clear that wasn’t at all the case. But she had no idea how to say as much without making more a ninny of herself than she already had.

“Here.” Mabena broke the tension by coming toward her with Mamm-wynn’s shawl in hand and placing it around her. “A perfect complement.”

The shawl was a heather purple, light and misty, the dress a deeper, royal hue. Even Libby’s eye, untrained in fashion, found the contrast pleasing. She smiled. “Are you certain I can’t just stay at home and pretend I forgot it was Saturday?”

“Go.” Mabena gave her a helpful push toward the door. “That way you can write to your mother tomorrow telling her you did so, and she’ll be pleased enough that perhaps she’ll not insist on other engagements.”

That was an optimistic thought. “All right. Solve a few mysteries while I’m out.”

She stole one last glance at Oliver—for fortification, that was all—and then let herself out into the warm, fragrant evening. It felt odd to be walking to a dinner party in this getup, and no doubt it would be a terrible idea to take her usual path through the sand, on the beach. So, she stuck to the main road, telling herself her lazy pace was for the sake of her shoes and not because she didn’t really care when she arrived.

Halfway there, a sweet, exotic scent caught her nose, bringing her to a halt. Jasmine? They had a potted variety in the arboretum at home, but with the Scillies’ subtropical climate, it was possible—yes! She spotted the distinctive white flowers growing along the backside of a garden fence, their long-throated trumpets releasing their perfume over the entire area.

Libby scurried over to them, breathing deeply as she went. She adored the Cestrum nocturnum. It was one of the strongest-scented plants to be found, and she’d always admired it for withholding its fragrance during the day and releasing it only at night. It seemed so secretive, so reserved. Only for those who truly loved it, not just for the casual, daytime passerby.

She reached for her pocket, for the pencil and miniature notebook she always carried, before realizing she was in an evening gown. “Dash it.” And she’d almost kneeled down there in the road to better inspect the blooms too.

Where was Bram to shout at her when she needed him? She relied on her brother to remind her of what she was wearing on such occasions. Her lips quirked up at the thought.

“You’re late, Elizabeth.”

She jumped, spun, and collided with a solid figure. A solid figure who shoved her unceremoniously back around to face the jasmine, holding her in place with iron grips on both her upper arms.

“Don’t be a fool. You know the rules. Eyes forward.”

To keep from seeing him? A shiver coursed through her, her eyes darting every which way in search of help. She could scream. There were undoubtedly people around within earshot.

But at the moment, he presented no threat. Unless one counted the way his fingers dug painfully into her arm.

“I’m not Elizabeth Tremayne.”

Mabena would probably kick her for saying so. But she didn’t know whatever rules this man thought she did, and she had a bad feeling she could pay for that ignorance.

He snorted an unamused laugh, and he was standing so close that the gust of his breath collided with her hair.

He was tall, then. She stood at five-six without shoes, and if one factored in the heels of her slippers and the height of the curls Mabena had fashioned with too much care, for his nose to be right there, he had to be at least six foot. Perhaps closer to six-two.

“Nice try,” he muttered into her hair. “But I’ve seen no other pretty blondes walking from the garrison cottage to the Wights’ this evening at the precise time we were to meet. Elizabeth.”

Think, Libby. Think. Her stomach felt so sick she’d have liked to curl into a ball. Why would Beth Tremayne have arranged a meeting with whomever this was? She didn’t know, couldn’t know, and didn’t have enough information to pretend she did. But he obviously wasn’t going to believe her claim of ignorance. “What do you want, exactly?”

“What game are you playing, girl?” His fingers bit harder. “Whatever it is, drop it before it gets someone else killed.”

Killed? Her breath tangled with itself in her throat, nearly choking her. The moon, newly risen even though the sun’s last light hadn’t yet been claimed by the sea, winked at her in the pane of the window of the jasmine’s building.

A reflection. The little house was dark inside, nothing to hinder that glint. She shifted a bit, saw her own wavering form, almost. Barely. She needed to shift them a little more if she meant to get any kind of glimpse of the man. “Sorry,” she whispered, for lack of anything more insightful. Then a bolt of inspiration struck. “The last delivery didn’t come. It was pouring with rain on Wednesday. I was only trying to make sure that wasn’t what you needed just now.”

The man growled into her ear and tugged her arms a bit toward her back, straining both her shoulders and her gown’s beading. “I don’t know or care about any deliveries. You said you could find it—the silver. Will they have to send their own people in?”

The way he said it—their own people—brought to mind images of ruffians and lowlifes and criminals to rival any of the buccaneers in Mr. Gibson’s stories. And who were they? Libby told her throat to let her swallow, told her heart to calm, told her stomach to ease.

They didn’t listen. “No,” she croaked out, wishing she knew what he was talking about. At least if she knew, she could fight it. Argue. Do something other than stand here, wondering if Beth’s secrets were going to get her hurt or killed. “But I don’t have the silver. Not yet.” That much was certainly true. She didn’t have it, and unless whatever silver he wanted had been among the things Beth had taken with her when she vanished, she didn’t either.

The manifests—the letter that had been with them. That had said something about silver—pirate treasure. Was that what this was about?

He jerked her arms harder, making her squeak a protest before she could stop herself, making a stitch snap somewhere in her shoulder, making her head go light with the scent of jasmine.

“Are you trying to cross them?”

“No! I wouldn’t. I just don’t—I don’t have it!”

“Then get it. One week.”

A week? How in the world were they to put all this together in a week when the last three days had netted them nothing but questions without answers? “I need more than that. A month.” It surely wasn’t unreasonable. Beth had been planning on spending the whole summer here. Perhaps that was how long she anticipated whatever-this-was taking.

The added pressure against her arms said otherwise. “Two weeks, and no more. Bring it to the large cave at midnight that Sunday. Am I clear?”

He pressed still harder, leaving her little choice but to eke out a pain-ridden “Yes!” She tried to jerk away, needing relief, and managed only to pivot them both a few degrees.

A few helpful degrees. Her gaze flew to the windowpane, and now she could see herself in partial profile—and at least a bit of the man behind her.

Tall, yes. Thin. He wore the garb of a typical tourist—pullover cardigan, white collar beneath it, straw boater in a light shade. Hair dark enough that it blended with the night-heavy glass, and features too much in shadow to be discernible, other than a long, patrician nose.

Enough, perhaps, that she would recognize him if she saw him again.

He shoved her into the fence and its heady bouquet. “Count to thirty before you so much as think about turning around.”

He was gone, the release of her arms and the pounding of his steps tripping over each other in her awareness. She indulged in a whimper into the white trumpets, rotating her aching shoulders until convinced he’d not done permanent damage.

She didn’t count. But she did wait until the last of his footfalls had faded from her hearing before she pushed herself away from the fence. Her shoes were probably dirty now, for which Mabena would scold her. Worse, her hands were shaking.

She stepped back onto the road and turned toward her cottage. Never mind the dinner party and Lottie Wight and viscounts and—wait.

“I’ve seen no other pretty blondes walking from the garrison cottage to the Wights’ this evening.”

Had Beth been planning to go to the Wights’? How, when Lottie said she’d never met her? Or was she lying—was she somehow involved in this too?

That couldn’t be, could it?

She spun to her original path. None of this made any sense. But if she meant to answer that question, she couldn’t do it from home, with Mabena and Oliver and comfort. She had to go where that man knew she was going. Where he thought Beth was going. And try to determine why.

Music spilled out into the night long before she neared the cluster of cottages the Wights had let. They must have a gramophone playing as loudly as it would go. Or not, she saw as she drew near enough to see the paper lanterns strung between the cottages and the area set up between. They’d hired a quartet, either from somewhere on the islands or brought over on the ferry.

And it wasn’t just the Wights and the two gentlemen Lottie had mentioned laughing and tilting champagne flutes toward their mouths and milling around a makeshift dance floor. There were well over a dozen people crowding the small space, not counting the quartet or the uniformed servants.

She spun away. Forget trying to answer questions, she had no hope of that anyway. She’d go home. Tell Mabena and Oliver about the tall man who’d attacked her and—

“Beth!”

She froze when a hand landed on her sore shoulder, even though it was small and gentle. Turned.

A redhead stood there, laughter evaporating from her lips. “Oh. Sorry. Not Beth.”

Lottie giggled her way over to them, a nearly empty flute in hand and its aftereffects bubbling in her eyes. “Em, I told you I haven’t been able to find Beth. This is my friend. Libby. Lady Elizabeth, I mean. Sinclair. I told you about her, didn’t I? She left the Château the year before you arrived.”

“Sorry,” Em said again, offering Libby a sheepish smile. “I’ve just been expecting to run into Beth every time I turn around.”

Lottie laughed again, which made Libby wonder how many other empty flutes she’d already created, and tugged her into their little bower. “Come in, Libby, please. The viscount is dying to meet you. And this is Lady Emily Scofield. Did I mention her to you? I actually convinced her to come and spend a few days with us!”

“Well.” Lady Emily fell in on Lottie’s other side, gaze darting all about the party. “I’ve long wanted to visit, and I thought I could see two friends at once.”

Lottie leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “Her whole family came,” she said in what she probably meant to be a whisper. “Even her brother.” That last word she sang in a ding-dong tune. “Wait until you meet him. So handsome. Nearly as handsome as your brother.” Eyes going wide, she giggled again. “No, wait. Maybe I don’t want you to meet him. You stick with the viscount; he’s too boring for the rest of us.”

Libby wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders, glad Mabena had thought to give it to her. She hadn’t realized they’d be outdoors all evening. Usually she would have enjoyed that unexpected boon, but all the people spoiled it.

Though she hadn’t at all minded the even-larger group watching the boat race on Wednesday morning. That had seemed entirely different.

She directed her gaze to Lady Emily. A friend of Beth’s, which seemed an odd coincidence to her. But then again, perhaps Beth always tried to lure her friends to the islands for the summer. “How long are you staying, my lady?”

“Oh, just until Monday.”

“I’m trying to convince them to come for longer a bit later in the summer. It would be so much more fun with a more diverse company, don’t you think, Libby? We’ve had no one but each other, Em. We’ll be bored out of our minds by July.” She produced a stage-worthy pout. “Please say you’ll come.”

Lady Emily didn’t look any more comfortable with the theatrics than Libby felt. “That’s my parents’ decision, Charlotte. All I can do is ask.”

“Oh, you can surely convince your father of anything. That’s what daughters do. Speaking of fathers—there’s mine with the viscount. Daddy!”

Mr. Wight acknowledged his daughter with an easy smile and a glass lifted in salute. And he apparently knew what it was she wanted, because he and the man at his side were soon coming their way.

Perhaps the events of the evening had already numbed her, because Libby’s stomach couldn’t muster so much as a single cramp at the approach of the viscount, even when his gaze swept over her before landing on her face and a smile graced his lips.

He looked vaguely familiar, the kind that came of seeing someone across a crowded ballroom but never being introduced. No doubt they had scores of common acquaintances, and Bram probably knew him well enough to say hello on the street. He may have been a bit older than her brother—or else just looked it due to his receding hairline.

He wasn’t a bad-looking man though, not that Libby made a study of the specimens on display each Season, like Lottie did. He was of average height, wore a well-cut jacket that she suspected hid a waist that was thicker than he wanted it to be, and had eyes that, at least, gleamed with intelligence. That was a nice change of pace.

“Lady Elizabeth, so glad you made it!” Mr. Wight boomed. A newcomer might assume it was in order to be heard over the instruments, but she’d met the man before. He boomed everything. Perhaps in order to be heard over his daughter’s incessant chatter. “Allow me to make introductions! Lady Elizabeth Sinclair, sister of the Earl of Telford! Viscount Willsworth!”

She held out her hand, not regretting having worn the satin gloves that stretched over her wrist and then her elbow, all the way to her bicep. They gave her a bit of insulation between her hand and the stranger’s as he took her fingers and bowed over them.

“How do you do, my lady?”

“Very well, my lord. Thank you. And you?”

He straightened again with a warm smile. “My evening just brightened considerably. You’re the friend Miss Wight mentioned who is interested in botany? And biology?”

She nodded.

“I suspected as much.” His hand inexplicably lifted, hovered, and his brows raised to match. “Excuse me, you’ve . . .” He reached forward and plucked something off her arm.

A jasmine flower, snagged in the lacework of her shawl. “Oh.” She cleared her throat. She couldn’t exactly say she’d been shoved into the plant’s embrace, could she? “I saw a Cestrum nocturnum on my walk here and stopped to investigate.”

He didn’t seem to find anything amiss in her explanation. He smiled and motioned to her head. Or her hair, specifically. “If I may?”

Libby’s lack of reply was covered by Lottie’s next burst of giggles, even as Willsworth tucked the bloom into her hair and then quickly retreated.

It probably should have brought heat crowding her cheeks, as Oliver’s nearness had. But it didn’t. It just left her feeling awkward and ready to go home.

He proffered an elbow. “I believe we’ve been paired for the meal. If I may lead you to our table?”

Others, she saw now, were meandering toward the cloth-covered tables. Four small ones were set up around the edges of the clear space.

She rested her fingers lightly on his arm. “Yes. Thank you.” They walked a few steps before she realized she should probably say something to start an actual conversation. “Lottie mentioned you’re interested in science? She didn’t know what branch has garnered your interest.”

“Paleontology, primarily.” He beamed down at her, perhaps as happy as she to be able to talk about something other than who was seen flirting with whom at a dinner party. “My family seat is in Oxfordshire, and I stumbled upon a fossilized bone when I was just a boy. It’s since been identified as a Megalosaurus. I’ve been intrigued with dinosaurs ever since and have led many an excavation throughout the area.”

“Fascinating.” Prehistoric animals had never really interested her as much as living ones did. She preferred being able to observe them in their natural habitats than simply guessing at their musculature and skin and patterns of movement. But she would have been intrigued to discover ancient remains in her own garden, without question. “I had the opportunity to view the skeleton of the Scelidosaurus once.”

“I’ve seen it several times. And I was just talking with Lord Scofield about the fossils on display in the British Museum. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

Libby looked up to see to whom he was talking and offered a small smile to the older man approaching the same table they were, a woman on his arm who, given the scarlet hair that matched Lady Emily Scofield’s, must be his wife. And they her parents.

“We’ve some of the most remarkable examples in the empire there.” Lord Scofield smiled, pride in his eyes.

“Lord Scofield has the honor of presiding over the board of trustees for the museum.” A bit of his awe at this seeped into the viscount’s voice. “Lord and Lady Scofield, please allow me to introduce my companion for the evening. Lady Elizabeth Sinclair.”

To her utter amazement, Lord Scofield’s eyes lit with recognition. “Lord Telford’s sister?”

“Yes, my lord.” Because Lord Willsworth held her chair for her, she sat, a second behind Lady Scofield, who deserved the first honor. “Do you know him?”

He laughed, a jolly rumble in his stomach. “I saw him just last week. Had an energetic conversation with him when we dined together at Sheridan House.”

Of course, that explained it. Lord Sheridan, with his love of anything old and encrusted with dirt, would naturally have befriended anyone he could find at the British Museum. He probably was jockeying for a place on the board of trustees himself.

“They mentioned that you and he would be sharing a special announcement soon.” Lord Scofield gave her a fatherly wink. “Needed a bit of holiday before all the bustle of wedding preparations, did you?”

Now her face flushed, far hotter than it had with Oliver. And it only got worse when she saw how stiff Lord Willsworth went as he lowered himself to the chair beside her. Not that she cared whether or not he thought her attached, per se. But Scofield had just said she was engaged when Charlotte Wight was within a mile, which meant all of England would hear about it before two seconds were out. And then what would she do?

Her fingers curled into her palm, tucked safely away in her lap, under the tablecloth. “I believe my brother may have overstated it, my lord. He may wish for such a match, but—”

“It wasn’t your brother who said it, my lady. It was Sheridan himself.”

She’d always known she didn’t like him. Why didn’t he have the gumption to stand up to Bram from the start? He couldn’t want the arrangement. He didn’t like her any better than she liked him—she was certain of it. And while she was confident he’d come to the same conclusion given enough time, that was with the assumption that he wouldn’t have bound them both with the fetters of society’s expectations in the meantime. Blast him. “Well, there is certainly nothing official, regardless. I haven’t even seen Lord Sheridan recently.”

Lucky for him. When next she did, she might just borrow a bit of Mabena’s salt-inspired surliness and kick him in the shin.

Then she might as well fly to the moon to hide, if she were dreaming of impossible things.

Her discomfort must have been obvious. Lady Scofield interjected herself into the conversation and deftly changed the subject, asking Willsworth about his latest excavation. Given that he went on to describe animal bones and what he was hypothesizing about them based on fusions in the vertebrae—rather than Sheridan’s inexplicable fascination with shards of pottery and Druid ruins—it would have been an interesting conversation. If only her mind weren’t an absolute muddle and her stomach a matching knot.

Every time she moved, she caught a whiff of the jasmine in her hair, bringing back those terrifying moments on the road. And she’d no sooner shake that off and look over at Lord Scofield than she’d hear Sheridan’s name in her mind again and see Bram’s self-satisfied smirk as he announced that he had the perfect solution to their woes.

As if the thought of her simply remaining at home unmarried any longer was a woe.

The meal finally dragged to its conclusion, which unfortunately meant that the string quartet went from soft serenades to livelier melodies that they’d be expected to dance to.

She couldn’t bear that. Not tonight. The moment Willsworth pulled her chair out for her again, she sprang to her feet, excuses ready to trip off her tongue.

“Well, what a pleasure it has been to make your acquaintance, Lady Elizabeth,” Lady Scofield said. She wore a gracious smile that said she forgave her for completely failing to hold up her end of the conversation.

“Quite so.” Lord Scofield helped his wife to her feet as well. “And when I see your brother next week for our squash game, I’ll be sure and tell him you were looking well and happy, that the seaside agrees with you.”

Escaping to the moon was sounding better and better. “You needn’t trouble yourself, sir.” She kept her tone casual—she hoped. Perhaps he’d forget by then that he’d ever met her and Bram would be none the wiser that she was in the Scillies. “I’ve been giving my mother regular updates.”

“No trouble at all, my dear.”

Her smile probably looked as weak as it felt. She spun away, mumbling something that vaguely resembled “Excuse me” to Lord Willsworth, her eyes flying over the group in search of Charlotte. She had to get out of here. Now. But if she left without telling anyone, they’d probably send someone to find her.

She eventually spotted her friend laughing with a young man who may or may not have been the wealthy Mr. Bryant. But she managed to catch Lottie’s eye and gesture her toward the garden gate she’d entered through, moving toward it herself even then.

Freedom beckoned from the road. A glance over her shoulder told her Lottie was coming, so she secured a bit of that liberty by stepping outside. Then took another step, and another. She was nearly to the road by the time Lottie surged through the gate, her laughter a half huff. “Libby Sinclair, where are you going?”

“I’m not feeling well. Thank you for having me, Lottie. It’s a lovely dinner party.”

“Well, you can’t just leave, not by yourself. We were going to have the Bankses walk with you.”

She didn’t even know who the Bankses were, but she wasn’t about to wait for them. “I’ll be fine. It’s right down the road.”

“But it’s full dark now.” Lottie edged closer, peering out into the night as if it might scarf her up whole. “And haven’t you heard all the stories in town? There’s been a ghost prowling lately.”

“Lottie.” She hadn’t, in fact, realized that the stories had made their way to St. Mary’s, though she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. “There’s no such thing.”

“There has to be something, doesn’t there, to inspire the stories?” Charlotte shook her head hard enough to dislodge a curl. “I never discount such tales, not with all the time we’ve spent in Ireland. I have no doubt at all that fairies are real—and they’re nasty little creatures. Scillonian ghosts could well be the same.”

“There are no ghosts on St. Mary’s. And I can walk the five minutes home without—”

“Please don’t.” Lottie seized her arm and held it tight. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. Just wait a moment, that’s all, and I’ll have Daddy take you home.”

She didn’t want to wait for Mr. Wight. Didn’t, frankly, want to walk home with him. She cast a longing look down the road—and nearly laughed with relief at the familiar figure walking their way. “There’s Beth Tremayne’s brother. He can accompany me.”

“Where?” Lottie dropped her arm and turned with her. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s giving the sermon tomorrow—he’s probably walking to the vicarage or something.” She saw no reason to mention that he’d be coming from her cottage. Or that the vicarage was in the opposite direction. She didn’t know why he was walking this way, but she wasn’t about to complain.

Lottie pursed her lips. “All right, he’ll do, I suppose. But I’m going to make sure he agrees before I leave you.”

And get a look at him, no doubt. Lottie was nothing if not consistent in her desire to catalogue and rank the handsomeness of all eligible bachelors in England with as much care as Libby had given her study of butterflies when she was fifteen.

Either Oliver recognized her in the light spilling from the garden or he lifted a hand in greeting to every person he saw. Which, come to think of it . . .

But he was smiling as he drew near enough for her to make out his features, and he said, “Lady Elizabeth, good evening.”

“Mr. Tremayne.” She edged a step away from Lottie. “I wonder if I might impose upon you to escort me back to my cottage? I’ve a trifling headache but don’t want to pull the other guests away.”

“No imposition at all.” He stopped a step away and held out an arm, nodding a greeting to Lottie. “Good evening.”

“Good evening.” Lottie didn’t make any subtle noises hinting at an introduction, but she did send Libby a look that said, He’s a handsome one, isn’t he? Lottie had perfected the art of saying such things without words—when in a gentleman’s presence. She’d put words aplenty to it the moment he was gone.

No, the moment they were gone. Let her do her exclaiming to Lady Emily. Libby tucked her hand into the crook of Oliver’s arm. “I’m in your debt, Mr. Tremayne. And thank you again, Lottie, for inviting me. Tell your parents it was lovely.”

They started back along the road, Libby waiting until she heard the gate latch before whispering, “I don’t know why you were coming this way at just that moment, but thank you.”

He chuckled. “I’ve been walking back and forth for fifteen minutes. Mabena said you wouldn’t last but an hour before you found an excuse to leave, and I didn’t want you walking back alone.”

“I really am in your debt.”

“Nonsense. I love nothing so much as a stroll on a summer night. And it’s made all the sweeter with sweet company.”

She ought to have indulged that sweet company on the way to the dinner as well. Maybe then the stranger wouldn’t have accosted her.

Or maybe he’d have simply been more violent than he was. Maybe he would have hurt Oliver before threatening her. “Something happened on the way there—I’ll tell you the details with Mabena, but . . . but we—Beth—a man demanded silver. In two weeks, in the big cave.”

“What?” He drew them to a halt and turned to her, searching her face. “Who? Are you all right? Were you injured?” His gaze flew over her, snagging on the jasmine flower in her hair and then down to her arm. Could he somehow see what she suspected were bruises by now, under the shawl and through the moonlight? His hands cupped her elbows in that way of his.

Maybe Mabena was right. Maybe she had been doomed by elbow-magic since the first touch. “Nothing serious. And I don’t know who it was, but I noted everything I could. I’ll write it down when we get in.”

“Libby!” The screech came from behind them. Lottie had barreled out of the gate again, though she didn’t go beyond the circle of light. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re engaged to Lord Sheridan?”

Could this night get any worse? “I’m not!” Then, more urgently but more quietly, meeting Oliver’s eyes. “I’m not.”

Lottie simply laughed and went back into her garden. But Oliver smiled and turned her toward home again. “I know.”

“You . . . how?” It should comfort her, maybe. But instead, dread curled up in her stomach.

“Mabena mentioned that was why you came to St. Mary’s. To escape your brother’s planning.”

She’d told him that? Despite the fact that it was Libby’s to share or not? Despite the fact that she’d known Libby wanted no one to hear of it?

He’d taken her elbow again, so no doubt he sensed how she felt about that. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business—I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind you knowing.”

And she didn’t.

What she minded, more than she could possibly articulate, was Mabena telling.