“I know you are fond of Jenny,” he said carefully, “but you are a gentleman, Simon. My cousin. You must marry a lady.”
Silence stretched out between them, even longer than before. Simon watched him, tight-lipped. Abruptly, he got to his feet and crossed to the empty fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece and staring down at nothing.
“Sometimes I do not like you very much at all, Neil,” he said quietly.
Neil flinched, shame rising like smoke. “Simon, I—”
“Let us leave the subject,” Simon interrupted, turning. “We have more pressing matters.”
“Very well,” Neil replied, feeling suddenly small—and cruel. “I had your note. You said there was news.”
“There is. Do you remember what we discussed when Miss Winter first arrived?”
“Of course.”
Simon’s expression smoothed into calm again, all trace of hurt gone behind the practised mask Neil envied. He, meanwhile, could still hear that wretched tune. In his mind’s eye, Catherine sat at the pianoforte—escaped from the chamber in which he kept her—and smiled at him. No, she laughed.Athim. And behind her laughter hovered Miss Winter.
“Lord Bramwell grows restless,” Simon said matter-of-factly. “He has raised the bounty and altered the terms. Now he will pay for information regarding Miss Camden’s whereabouts—no longer insisting that it lead to her capture.”
“He grows desperate,” Neil observed.
Simon nodded. “And more dangerous. I need hardly tell you that.”
Neil paced to the window. Outside, the rain fell in torrents. His cloak, which of course Crawford had taken, was soaking wet, but it had kept the worst of the rain off him. His hair was damp, and his skin felt cold and fresh. The rain had followed him inside, and he could almost smell petrichor with every breath.
Good for the flowers,Catherine would say, if he ever complained about the rain. He suspected that Miss Winter felt the same way he did regarding the rain, as it would make her charge restless and unhappy. Emma did not like being cooped up inside—poor little thing.
“What of her father? Did you manage to locate him?” he asked aloud.
“Not precisely. I am told he has fled London—gone into the country. Lord Bramwell likely knows as much as I do, perhaps more.”
“But it is not Thomas Camden he pursues,” Neil murmured, “it is his daughter. Tell me, Simon—do you think he truly loves her? Or is it mere obsession?”
“Not love,” Simon said darkly. “Something else. I believe Miss Camden learned something—something Bramwell cannot afford to have spoken. One of my informants swears it washewho proposed the match, not her father. Marriage would silence her; now that she has escaped, he may find other means to do so.”
A chill traced Neil’s spine. “And yet she fled. She must be brave.”
“Desperate, at least. Which reminds me—this is serious, Neil. You recall Miss Swaddle, the governess with the cow’s eyes?”
“Of course.”
“She was cornered at her new post by a pair ofgentlemenasking questions about you and this house. I know because she told me herself.”
Neil spun round. “Gentlemen?”
“Thugs,” Simon corrected. “She described one to me, a fellow with a glass eye and tufts of hair coming out of his ears, about forty. Does he sound familiar?”
“Harry McDonald,” Neil said grimly. “Bramwell’s right hand. But why question governesses who once worked here?”
Simon shrugged. “I cannot tell. Miss Swaddle escaped quickly enough, but she said all the questions concerned you and this place. It was decent of her to warn me—likely she did so from fright. You were right to give her a decent reference.”
“I gave them all decent references,” Neil said absently. “I could not find it in me to hinder their prospects.”
Simon sighed. “Sometimes I cannot make you out. In any case, we may assume Bramwell has already traced Miss Lawless and Mrs Ruthborne. He is desperate, furious, and determined tofind Miss Camden—who, by misfortune, now calls herself Miss Winter.”
Neil raked a hand through his hair, pacing again before forcing himself back to the chair. He must think—must keep his head clear.
A flicker of movement on the armchair caught his eye, and his body tensed.
