Читать книгу One Week As Lovers - Victoria Dahl - Страница 12

“I won’t turn you in to your father,” Lancaster was insisting, his brown eyes dark with sincerity. His hands opened, as if to show that he held no weapon.

“You’re a man,” Cynthia scoffed. Or meant to scoff. But as the words left her lips, she was reminded of the proof of his manhood she’d glimpsed just a few minutes before. Not as impressive as James had been, but most definitely a man. She cleared her throat. “Worse than that, you’re a gentleman.”

“Pardon?”

“Gentlemen. They’re bound by rules of honor. Would you help me escape my family so that I can make my own way in the world?”

“Make your own way?” he repeated, the earnestness in his eyes sharpening to horror. “Of course not. The world is a dangerous place, Miss Merrithorpe.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And so you see why I cannot trust you.”

“Because I want to keep you safe?”

“Because I mean to escape this place for good, Viscount. And while I could possibly be in danger out amongst strangers, there is no doubt of the danger if I remain.”

His full lips pressed together and his body straightened to a hard line. “Richmond.”

The name shocked her, and she realized that she and Mrs. Pell had only referred to him as “that man” for weeks now. “Yes,” she said, fighting the urge to touch her lip. “A friend of yours, probably, in London.”

“No.” His voice hadn’t risen, but something in that one word fell with the weight of a boulder. When she glanced up in surprise, Cynthia saw something in Nick’s eyes that she’d never seen. Ice.

Impossible.

But then, he was no longer the sweet neighbor boy who held her heart. He was Viscount Lancaster, who’d left this place without a good-bye and not spent a moment thinking of it in the decade since, as far as she could tell. God only knew what kind of life he’d led in London.

Whoring, gambling, boxing, drinking. She’d spent years imagining the kinds of trouble he might find there. Even in the deepest throes of girlish love, she’d understood that he would sow his oats in London. But ten years ago, she hadn’t imagined the city would become his whole world. Hadn’t imagined that he would shape himself to fit so snugly that he could not be budged.

He was changed. The boy she’d known had never flashed eyes so cruel.

“Tell me what happened,” he said while she was still reeling over the difference in him. She blinked, and suddenly that stranger was gone. It was just Nick, watching her with clear worry on his face.

“You heard the story from my stepfather, I assume.”

“I heard he was forcing you to marry Richmond. But I also heard that you jumped to your death from one of my cliffs, so pardon if I doubt parts of the tale.”

Exhaustion rolled over her like a fog, and Cynthia let her weak knees lower her to the bed. Lancaster must have been waiting for her to take a seat, because he immediately reached for a chair and pulled it closer before collapsing into it.

“Blood loss,” he muttered, gesturing toward the small cut on his forehead.

“My word, you are dramatic, Viscount.”

“Why do you keep calling me Viscount?”

Cynthia huffed. “I know we’ve never been formally introduced, but it is your title, is it not?”

“Well, my friends call me Lancaster, but you never called me anything but Nick.”

“You are not Nick anymore.”

It was only the simple truth, so why did she feel guilty when his face fell? “I suppose I am not,” he murmured. She had to fight the urge to call him Nick and take his hand. In appeasement, she answered his original question.

“Yes, I was promised to Lord Richmond.”

“But…why?”

“My stepfather owed him money. A lot of it. When he could not pay, Richmond proposed a different form of payment.”

He closed his eyes. “You.”

“Yes, me. I…did my best to dissuade him. Both of them, actually. It was not the first time my stepfather had tried to marry me off, but none of my normal arguments were effective this time. It became necessary to take drastic measures.”

His eyelids rose. So did his brows. “Why do I feel as if this version of the story has been scrubbed clean of all but the barest of facts?”

She shrugged.

“Mrs. Pell said your father refused you food.”

“What child hasn’t been put to bed without dinner?”

“What child,” he ground out, “has been locked in their room and starved?”

“Melodrama again. My stepfather was never a kind man. I didn’t expect softheartedness from him in the face of ruin.”

“What did you expect?”

She shook her head. Her stepfather had behaved in his normal fashion. He wasn’t precisely cruel. He simply did not understand her. What kind of girl would not want to be a countess?

No, she hadn’t expected anything different from her stepfather. What had surprised her was an entirely different kind of suitor. A kind who took delight in an unwilling bride.

“How did you escape?”

Though her mouth burned, she did not let her fingers drift to her lips. No matter how much she rubbed at that spot, the tingle never left it anyway. “My father let me out to visit with my betrothed. Richmond became distracted and I managed to run.”

Lancaster’s eyes narrowed at her carefully chosen words. He held her gaze for a long moment, but she did not flinch from it. Still, when his eyes dipped lower, she had to fight the urge to turn away. He focused on her mouth, and she didn’t want him looking at the jagged pink scar that marred it even though he couldn’t know the cause.

“Mrs. Pell said she saw you jump from the cliff. How can that be?”

Thoughts of her scar and the man who’d caused it disintegrated in a blast of alarm. Mrs. Pell. “Ah…yes. She…I made sure…Someone had to see me jump or they’d think I’d only run off.”

“But…” He crossed his legs and the dressing robe parted, revealing his knee and calf. She tried not to stare at the golden hairs on his skin. “How could you have orchestrated an unplanned flight so perfectly?”

“Pardon?” Half of her brain was taking in his small bit of nudity and half of it was screaming that she needed to think.

“Cynthia, does Mrs. Pell know you are here?”

“What?” she gasped. “No! Of course not! How…how could she?”

Lancaster put his foot down and leaned forward to meet her eyes. “This is her home. She lives here.”

“Well, of course she lives here, but she doesn’t go into the attic.”

“The attic?”

“Yes, the attic. Did you think Mrs. Pell had just invited me in and set me up in one of the guest rooms?”

“Well…yes.”

“Don’t be a ninny. I’ve been living up in the attic like a mouse. Speaking of which, it’s late and I’m exhausted.” She started to rise, thinking she could run downstairs and warn Mrs. Pell, but Lancaster was on his feet before she could push off the mattress.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His chest was only inches from her face. She could smell his soap, the same faint scent she’d noticed each night when she entered his room.

“I’m going to bed,” she managed to say past the sudden, overwhelming tightness in her chest. She could not think with him looming over her.

“There is no bed in the attic. You’ll stay here.”

“No!” She had to get to Mrs. Pell. The woman would spill the truth and incriminate herself before Lancaster even finished his first question. “I can’t sleep in your bed!”

“Well, I promise not to be in it with you. This house belongs to me, Cynthia, and I’ll not have you living in the attic.”

“Another room then—”

“There are two new maids in residence, plus young Adam. If we are to keep your presence a secret, we must not raise suspicion.”

Cynthia rubbed a hand over her eyes. Was he saying that he’d keep her hidden from her family?

Lancaster touched her cheek, and she jumped as if a spark had drifted from the fireplace and landed on her skin. “We will work out a plan in the morning. But for now, you’ll stay here. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

She jumped to her feet when he turned away. “Where are you going?”

“I must inform Mrs. Pell of the situation.”

“No! Not like this, not in the middle of the night. She’s old. Her heart…”

“If I don’t tell her this instant, she will likely suffer an apoplexy while she is beating me with a broom in the morning.”

“But…I don’t want her to know! She might…tell…” Oh, she couldn’t even finish her ridiculous claim.

Lancaster, just a foot from the door, turned back to her, frowning. He crossed his arms and Cynthia cringed. If he found out the truth he might very well turn Mrs. Pell out. Not for hiding Cynthia, but for lying to his face. No gentleman would support such insubordination.

If Mrs. Pell lost her position, Cynthia would never, ever forgive herself. “I…” she stammered.

Strangely, Lancaster smiled as if he’d just heard an outrageous joke. His brown eyes twinkled as Cyn shook in her stockings. “Really, Cynthia.” He chuckled. “You are nearly as poor a liar as Mrs. Pell. It’s a wonder you two have managed to pull this off without me.”

“Ah…Pardon?”

He laughed harder. “You look just like you did that time I caught you spying on the village boys swimming in the buff!”

She immediately forgot her nervousness and snapped straight. “I never did!” she gasped before remembering that she, in fact, had. Worse than that, she’d followed them to the beach in anticipation of catching just such a show.

“Ha! I see it’s all coming back to you now. There were five or six very naked young men, if I recall.”

The blood beneath her face was coming to a boil. “Nick,” she scolded, forgetting she’d meant never to call him that again.

That one word broke the tension in the room. Lancaster shook his head, his smile gentling.

She took a deep breath. “Please do not be angry with Mrs. Pell. She wanted to tell you and I begged her not to. Don’t put her out.”

“Put her out? Are you mad? How could I possibly be angry with her when she may very well have saved your life?”

That pulled her out of her worrying. Her own mother had clucked and dismissed Cynthia’s assertions that she would not survive being married to Richmond. But Lancaster seemed to accept it as a point of fact.

“Come now,” he said. “We will discuss all this in the morning. Into bed with you. Are you hungry, thirsty?”

“No.”

He shooed her toward the bed with his hands.

“But where will you sleep?”

“I’ll sneak into the chamber next door.”

As Cynthia watched in weary shock, Lancaster locked the door to the hallway and gestured toward the door to the adjoining room.

“I’ll be right there. The lock should keep the maids from stumbling upon you.”

“This is all unnecessary,” she protested, but Lancaster was shaking his head.

“Nonsense. Good night.”

“Oh, well then. Good night.” And he was gone. Just like that. An echo of his old place in her life. An all-consuming force one moment and then vanished in the blink of an eye.

She could only stand there, staring at the fading green paint of the door, her cheek still tingling faintly from his brief, meaningless touch.

When the door opened again, she blinked.

“Pardon me, but…” He peeked in. “You will be here in the morning, won’t you, Cyn?”

She thought about it for a moment. Should she run? Really, there was no point in fleeing now that he knew she was alive. “Yes, I’ll be here,” she said carefully.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

The relief in his gaze warmed something deep in her belly. “Good.” The latch clicked shut.

A few minutes passed before she lowered herself to the bed. Somehow it seemed disarmingly intimate to be in his bed, and even more so knowing he might reappear through the door at any moment and find her snuggled in. But the clock ticked the minutes away from somewhere on the floor, and the room was cold. When her tension began to melt away, Cynthia wilted.

Her nights had been nearly sleepless since he’d returned to Cantry Manor, and the soft mattress proved irresistible. There was nothing to be done. Her masquerade was over. She could accomplish nothing tonight. Tomorrow she would argue her case, and shape her plans to Nick’s response.

She curled into the bed. The pillow surrounded her with his scent when she lay her head on it, and Cynthia fell asleep just as she had so many times as a young girl…dreaming of Nicholas Cantry.

How in the world could she sleep?

Leaning against the doorway, Lancaster shook his head, never taking his eyes off the slight rise in the covers where Cynthia Merrithorpe slept.

She was alive. Didn’t she realize how amazing that was? Though perhaps she’d had time to get used to the idea.

He laughed at the thought, half hoping she might wake up and keep him company. But Cynthia slept on, clearly exhausted. When she woke, perhaps the dark circles under her eyes would have faded.

He pushed off the wall and turned back to his cold, dark chamber. Though he’d found a moth-eaten blanket in a chest, he didn’t bother lying down. All his attempts at sleep so far had failed, and dawn was less than an hour off.

Each time he’d closed his eyes the fear that Cynthia would disappear again would rise like a starving beast in his mind. Either she would sneak off while he slept, or her presence would reveal itself to be a bittersweet dream when he woke in the morning. He’d found himself rising every ten minutes to ease open the door and stare at her shadowed form. He’d long since given up and left the door propped open as he paced the hours away.

She wasn’t dead, he hadn’t caused her death, and he would not have to kill Richmond to avenge her.

“Then again,” he muttered to the floor. There was no reason to be rash. Richmond still deserved death.

But thoughts of murder could not keep hold of his mind. He was too filled with joy. Somehow everything, even the thought of returning to London for his marriage, seemed easier to bear knowing that Cynthia Merrithorpe hadn’t thrown herself from a cliff and broken her body on the rocks below. His life might be a tattered mess, but he hadn’t contributed to the destruction of this young woman.

Nearly shaking with energy, Lancaster stalked to the ancient shutters that covered the window. He had a vague idea that he might throw them open with a dramatic flair, but the damned things were swollen shut. It took him a good minute of prying and tugging to get them open, but when he did he was rewarded with the sight of a long line of deep pink rising above the horizon. Dawn, or near enough. Mrs. Pell was likely up by now.

He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt long before, so he only had to tiptoe into his bedroom to retrieve his boots before slipping out the door. Cynthia slept on.

Before reaching the kitchen he heard female voices, one of them raised in anger.

“If you leave now, you’ll never have a job in his lordship’s home again.” Mrs. Pell’s voice quivered with outrage.

“But I don’t plan to work here again,” a girl replied, nervousness clear in the shaky words. Lancaster snuck his head around the corner.

The two new maids cowered near the door. “It’s haunted! We heard ghosts running through the walls!” Mary cried, and Lancaster jerked back with a smile. Perfect.

“Come now,” Mrs. Pell scoffed. “’Twas only a mouse.”

He dragged a reckless hand through his hair to muss it, then took a deep breath and lurched around the corner. “Damn big mouse if you ask me.” All three women gasped and stepped back before dropping hasty curtsies. “I heard it too,” he continued. “Banging and rustling. Even a scream, I daresay.”

“Yes!” Lizzie cried. “Screams and horrible moaning.”

Moaning? Oh, my. Well, perhaps he’d moaned a bit after she’d bashed him in the head. He raised a hand to touch a careful finger to the lump at the edge of his eyebrow.

“Now, milord, I’m sure you’re just not used to the sounds of this old place settling at night—”

“I was attacked.” He touched the aching spot with a bit more flair. “Pounced upon in my bed while I slept.”

The two maids let out little screams and scrambled for the door, but Mrs. Pell’s face paled to a sickly white that even the frightened maids couldn’t match.

“Attacked?” she croaked.

The door banged against the wall and the maids were gone, vanished into the dim morning.

“You won’t be paid!” she called after them, though the words fell weakly from her mouth.

Lancaster pushed a chair toward her and Mrs. Pell sat down hard.

“I do believe those girls have a fear of restless spirits,” he said, his mood inching up to even greater heights. If there were no maids about, Cynthia would be free to live openly in his home. “I say, Mrs. Pell, is there tea this morning? I’m parched.”

“Yes, sir.” She stared at the open door for a long moment before she blinked back to her wits. “Oh, pardon me, milord!” She jumped to her feet so quickly that her skirts flared around her. Her eyes darted to the wound on his head. “I’m so sorry. The water’s ready. I’ll have breakfast for you in a moment, if you’d like to relax in the library. You’re an early riser today, sir.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Aye…Well.”

“And I’ll take breakfast in my chambers, if you please—”

“Of course.”

“Cynthia will likely wake soon and I’m sure she’ll be famished.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll…” The whites of her eyes showed all around as his words finally sunk in. “Pardon me?”

He was unkind enough to thoroughly enjoy the stunned disbelief etched across her features. “That vicious ghost who attacked me in my chambers last night? I managed to catch her. She’s quite lively for a spirit.”

“You…You caught the…ghost?”

“I did.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Lancaster relented and smiled. “Thank you for helping her, Mrs. Pell. She looks quite healthy for a young woman who’s been living in the attic for weeks.”

The housekeeper’s face didn’t move.

“But we shall have to find her a proper chamber now.”

Her eyes turned liquid. “Milord?” she whispered, just before the tears overflowed her eyes.

Oh, no. He couldn’t bear to see a woman cry. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I shouldn’t have teased you like that. Cynthia is well. Everything is fine.”

“Sir!” Her face crumpled.

“Ah, Christ.” Unable to take it a moment longer, Lancaster jumped forward and pulled her into his arms, hoping she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d cry harder when embraced.

She took a deep breath. Lancaster held his. Her shoulders ceased their trembling. “I’m so sorry, milord. I should never have kept it from you.”

His deep sigh of relief ruffled the few strands of gray hair that weren’t pulled tightly into her braid. “Nonsense. You had no reason to trust me.” The truth of his own words stung.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Pell pulled away. “You’ve always been a kind soul, sir. Always.”

Not true. Not anymore. Lancaster glanced away and cleared his throat. “If you’d be so kind as to bring a tray up, we can all share breakfast while we formulate a plan. And celebrate.”

“Celebrate,” she repeated, finally daring a smile. “Yes, I do think this calls for a celebration. I have one last jar of cherry compote I’ve set aside. And a half loaf of pound cake left from last night.”

Cherry compote. His mouth watered at the memory of his favorite treat. Another vivid piece of his past that he hadn’t even dusted off in ten years. How much of his life had he left buried here in a vain attempt to forget that one single week?

“Give me half an hour,” Mrs. Pell said, already busying herself with the stove. “A celebration calls for more food than that.”

He wandered the ground floor rooms as he waited, opening shutters and curtains to let in light. Though he’d been here for days, the place had been inanimate—silent and unmoved by his presence. But now it came alive. Quiet and slumbering in the dawn, yes, but alive.

There was his father’s favorite chair, so wide that Nick had been able to squeeze in next to him for the first few years they’d lived here. There was the hearth his mother had always hovered near, chilled by the sea air that swept between stones.

They’d moved to Cantry Manor when Lancaster was eight. He’d believed it a magical place, overlooking the sea and riddled with hidden hallways. And named Cantry Manor just for his family, he’d assumed.

It had been lonely sometimes, especially for a boy like Nicholas who’d grown up the pet of all his mother’s friends in Hull. But he’d made friends with the boys in the village. And then there’d been Cynthia. By all accounts, she should have been friends with his younger brother. But Timothy had been disdainful of friendship with girls, and Jane had been far too young to care for anything but rag dolls.

So it had been he and Cynthia who would crowd together in front of the kitchen fire on rainy days to play cards or read books. Or lie on their bellies in the grass to play with his tin soldiers. Or creep through the servant passages to hide and surprise each other.

All these years, she’d remained that girl in his mind, never changing.

“Sir?” Mrs. Pell’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Shall we wake her?”

Yes, he thought, like Sleeping Beauty saved from her rest. But, he amended hastily, without the kiss. Strangely, the thought set loose a cloud of butterflies in his gut.

“Cynthia…” The gentle voice crept through her dreams, but the mattress was a soft, sticky bundle pulling her down. She snuggled more thoroughly into the feathers and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The bedcovers oozed warmth.

“Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell called. “It’s time to get up, sweeting. We’ve got a big day.”

Were they to make mincemeat pies then?

She snuggled into the pillow, telling herself the linen smelled of Nicholas.

Wait a moment…Her heart stopped. The linens did smell of Nick.

Cynthia opened one eye and tried to focus on the face angled close to hers. Messy blond hair, sparkling brown eyes, wide grin.

“Good morning, princess,” Nicholas cooed.

Cynthia’s heart shot straight out of her chest. “Good God!” she screeched, jumping up so fast that her flailing hand connected with his nose.

“Bloody hell, woman! Do you never tire of beating me about the face?”

“Language, milord,” Mrs. Pell scolded as if he were still a child in her kitchen. He apologized in the same nostalgic manner as he rubbed his nose.

They’d both gone mad. She looked from Nicholas to Mrs. Pell and blurted out, “I told you he would not sack you.”

Nicholas snorted. “You were not so sure of it last night. You seemed only moments from throwing yourself at my feet to beg for mercy.”

“I certainly did not!”

“Mm. I’d hoped a good night’s sleep would improve your mood.”

Mrs. Pell tsked. “She’s been a sourpuss for weeks, milord.”

Mad. Stark, raving mad. “I was forced to stage my own death! It tends to damage one’s mood.”

Mrs. Pell reached over to pat Cynthia’s hand where it clutched the coverlet. “Your situation has greatly improved, sweeting.”

“Hardly. I wasn’t actually dead even before Lancaster stumbled upon me.”

“Stumbled,” he muttered.

“But Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell scolded. “Lord Lancaster means to help you. You needn’t worry now.”

“I needn’t worry? Surely you jest.” She glanced toward Lancaster, feeling a momentary twinge of guilt, but there was no way around it. “I need money. And he’s got even less than I do.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Are you fleeing creditors? Is that why you’re here?”

“Cynthia,” the housekeeper gasped, but Lancaster seemed entirely uninsulted.

“Still the same unruly child, I see. Perhaps a sweet will cheer you up.” He plopped down on the bed beside her, shaking the whole mattress, and gestured toward the tray.

Stung by his evaluation of her maturity, Cynthia looked away from him to stare at the tray. A few heartbeats passed in quiet. Guilt swelled from a kernel to a full bloom in her chest.

She was frightened and frustrated, so she was being rude. It was one of her faults, lashing out when under pressure. But surely Nick remembered that about her. If he remembered anything at all.

Mrs. Pell, clearing her throat, handed her a piece of compote-covered pound cake. She handed a second plate to Nick. “Regardless,” the housekeeper said, “he can help with your plan.”

Cynthia’s eyes flew to his in time to see them widen. “What plan?” he asked, the words muffled by a mouthful of cake.

She waited for him to swallow, then took a bite of her own cake, letting the tart sweetness melt over her tongue as she tried to think what to say. Her shoulders had bunched painfully at Mrs. Pell’s words. But of course, there would be no hiding the plan. Even she wasn’t childish enough to think so. She’d have to tell him, but her arms wanted to curl around her waist to hold the secret close.

“What plan?” he asked again.

She tried to swallow the cake, but it wouldn’t budge. Unfortunately, her dry mouth only bought her a few more seconds, because Mrs. Pell, whose eyes saw everything, handed her a cup of tea.

But she didn’t wait for Cynthia to clear her throat. Instead, she offered her own explanation. “She means to find buried treasure, milord.”

Oh, Mother of God. She’d swallowed the cake, but now the tea jumped into her windpipe. Cynthia began to cough wildly.

Lancaster’s hand landed soundly on her back, and he thumped her a few times. “Buried treasure? That’s quite a…scheme.”

She shook her head and knocked his arm away. Wonderful. And he’d thought her childish before. “It’s not buried treasure,” she croaked.

His doubtful hum conveyed understanding and pity at the same time.

“There’s treasure hidden in the cliffs.”

He took a sip of tea. “My cliffs?”

Damnation. In truth, even if she found the treasure, it should rightfully belong to him. “I can’t be sure,” she said carefully.

“Well, it’s either my cliffs or old Inglebottom’s and his start ten miles away.” He held her gaze, waiting for an acknowledgment she wouldn’t give. Finally, he shrugged. “Why do you think there’s buried treasure in my cliffs?”

“Not buried,” she repeated. “This isn’t a fairy tale.” Ignoring Mrs. Pell’s snort, Cynthia crumbled a bit of her cake, but didn’t dare take another bite. “I found an old journal a few years ago. It was written by my great-uncle when he was a boy. He claimed to have come across a smuggler’s stash. Said he found a great chest of gold coin and hid it in a sea cave.”

“Stolen pirate’s booty?” Lancaster crowed. “That’s even better.”

“It’s not a joke, you insufferable lout.”

She watched him try—and fail—to twitch his mouth into a serious line.

“It’s real, Lancaster. And I mean to find it.”

“Right. And why do you assume the gold is still there?”

This she could answer with certainty. “My great-uncle died very young. Only two years after the journal was written.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “All right. What do you mean to do with this gold when you find it? Pay for Richmond to be quietly murdered?”

Strange, but he sounded slightly hopeful at that. “Of course not! I mean to pay off my family’s debt and buy passage to America.”

“Ah. Why pay off your stepfather’s debt?”

“My sister. Mary will be fourteen next year. I don’t think Mother would let her be sent to Richmond, but…she’s never been able to stand up to her husband. I won’t see my little sister given in my stead.”

All the amusement vanished from his face, leaving a mouth that looked as if it hadn’t smiled in years. “I see. So you honestly believe this treasure exists?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll help you find it.”

That seemed a bit too good to be true. “You’ll help me? And then you’ll send me off to America with well wishes?”

“Er…We’ll have to discuss that later.”

“No, we will not,” she said firmly.

Mrs. Pell, still fiddling with the tray, set the teapot down hard. “The viscount is a traveled man, Cynthia Merrithorpe, and you’d do well to listen to him.”

“I reach my majority in two weeks and I’ll do whatever I like.”

“Spoken like a true adult,” Lancaster murmured, and she had to fight the urge to punch him in the ear.

“What do you know about it?” she snapped. “Rumor has it that you’ll marry an heiress and your problems will be solved.”

“Ha.” The smile he offered wasn’t as cold as the one she’d seen last night. It was bitter and rueful. Another revelation. “True. I will marry. And she is an heiress. And we’ll live happily ever after in a castle made of gold, so I may as well help you find your own pleasant ending.”

Cynthia had thought it shocking to wake up and find Nicholas leaning over her as she slept. But that was nothing compared to this. “You’re engaged? You…You’ll marry soon? We hadn’t heard.”

“I’m due back for the wedding in a few weeks. So let’s make this quick, shall we? Up for a fine bit of treasure hunting this morning?” His attempt at humor fell flat. He didn’t sound truly amused and Cynthia couldn’t have laughed if someone had offered her a thousand pounds.

Nick would be a husband soon. And some other woman would be his wife.