Simon’s look was level. “Perhaps not in name, but she is in your employ. That fact alone stacks the odds against her.”
“To be precise,” Neil countered, feeling oddly petty, “so are you—and yet you do not find yourself constrained from speaking plainly to me.”
Simon, sitting on the armchair with one leg crossed over the other, leaned forward.
Simon snorted. He was perched on the arm of the chair with one leg crossed over the other, the picture of casual ease that belied the tension in his jaw. Leaning forward, he let his hands rest between his knees and spoke with the directness that made him an effective ally in estate management and in life. “I am your cousin, Neil. We have many years of friendship behind us. Do you really think you can compare such a relationship to what Miss Winter feels for you? Youcannotput her in such a position, and I believe you know that.”
Neil clenched his teeth so tightly he thought they might break. He crossed to the tall window and stood with his palm on the sill, looking out though not yet seeing. Below, the courtyard was a small, ordered world—paths neat as stitches, clipped box hedges, the gardener’s cart parked where it always was. It was human life in miniature, controlled and predictable.
And there, like a sudden bright thing in the middle of an ordinary day, Maggie walked across the grass hand in hand with Emma. Jenny hurried a few paces behind, saying something that made Maggie toss her head and laugh. The sight struck Neil with a physical jolt. His chest tightened as if a hand had closed round it.
An impossible, ridiculous impulse rose in him—to fling open the window and call to her, to stride down and thrust himself between the laughing governess and the nursemaid, to stakehis claim in a manner neither dignified nor sensible. He turned away from the pane before the sill of propriety could be cracked.
“I made it plain to Lady Constance that I will not marry her,” Neil said at last. “In front of everyone.”
“Yes, so I heard,” Simon responded. “Before or after you kissed Miss Winter?”
Neil’s cheeks coloured. “Watch your tone, Simon. You may be my cousin, but don’t imagine I won’t lay you flat on your backside if I must.”
Simon gave a hoot of laughter. “The Gambling Devil resurfaces!”
“That silly nickname,” Neil groused. “It haunts me.”
“Well, some names do stick,” Simon said, rising and falling into step beside him at the window. “Listen to me. This business with you and Miss Winter is a grave mistake. There’s a serious imbalance of power—you a duke, she a governess, or a plain Miss—and besides that, she’s being pursued by one of the most dangerous men in England. If Bramwell thinks you’re involved with her, he’ll assume you’re complicit. He’ll use whatever means he has to get at you. He won’t stop short of burning this house down if it serves him.”
Neil shrugged free of his cousin’s hand. “I am not afraid of Lord Bramwell.”
“No?” Simon’s voice tightened. “You should be. We all should. He might take your aunt as leverage—or Emma even!”
A cold shiver ran through Neil. “Don’t say that.”
“I will say it, because I must,” Simon snapped. The laughter had gone out of his eyes, and his expression was blazingly serious. “Neil, this has gone on for long enough. We must sit Miss Winter down and discuss this matter with her in earnest. She must tell us what she has witnessed, and why she fled. Every detail she knows of Lord Bramwell must come to light.”
“I shall speak to her when I judge the time right,” Neil answered, turning away.
He had, it seemed, underestimated Simon’s resolve. His cousin stepped round him, forcing him to face him once more.
“The time is now, Neil,” Simon murmured, his eyes intent. “Do not think me blind. I know you are falling in love with Miss Winter. And if Lord Bramwell perceives it—what horrors do you suppose he would visit upon her, merely to wound you?”
Neil recoiled at that. “I… I do not love her. This is not fair, Simon. You must not speak to me so.”
There was a note of panic in his voice now, and he became aware that the sharp, tingling sensation in his chest was fear—cold, unrelenting fear.
He recalled his encounter with Lord Bramwell at Lord Pemberton’s card party—the older man’s smile, that of a wolf poised to sink its teeth into prey.
He was, he realised too late, the prey.
“The Gambling Devil cannot afford a weakness,” Simon said softly. “If you have one, your enemies will find it—and pry at it, widening the crack until you break.”
Neil turned away, his fist striking the wall before he could think better of it. The blow landed with a dull, splintering thud; cracks spread through the plaster where his knuckles had met it. He drew back his hand, examining the grazes across his skin, and flexed his fingers.
Simon did not flinch. After a long breath, he said quietly, “I will send for Miss Winter to be brought inside. We must be honest with her—explain our purpose, how we intend to bring Lord Bramwell to justice. Then we shall hear whatsheknows.”
Neil swallowed hard and turned toward the window. “She will think that everything I said or did was meant to draw her out—that I am a liar.”
Simon bit his lip. “Perhaps. That is a risk we must take. Once she has told us what she knows, we should see her safely away—out of England, if possible. I’ll arrange her passage, find her a pleasant little cottage somewhere quiet. She will be safe, so long as she remains abroad.”
“Out of England,” Neil echoed. It felt as though his lungs refused to fill. He longed to sit, yet pride forbade the display of weakness, even before Simon.
