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She gave him a wry smile. “Why the sudden concern for my solvency?”
“Because I want to know how much you’re stealing from people.”
Her green gaze turned icy and pointed. “A trust exists to cover the costs of upkeep. My father’s doing, not that he ever claimed me while he lived.”
“Was he a lord?” It wouldn’t be the first time an aristocratic by-blow was sent to the countryside and hidden from society, but the thought of one of his peers doing such a thing to her rankled something inside him.
She’d started walking again, each step tightly controlled. “Arthur Cadogan.”
He halted, his feet dragging along the threadbare carpet. “The industrialist?”
“The very same.”
He chased after her, unable to let her go. “But why—”
“Because a house is easier to leave to a girl than a name.” She said it lightly, as if it were a detail about the stained-glass window or an otherwise nondescript painting.
But there was nothing light about it.
The older couple stood halfway down the hallway, the gentleman tapping his toe impatiently. Phineas wanted to step on it to spite him.
Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge peered at him with unabashed concern. “You look like you’ve aged a decade overnight, my lord,” she said. “Are you certain the manor agrees with you?”
“He’s simply lived, wife,” her husband put in.
Bridget’s eyes found Phineas, and his memory leaped to the tavern, her flirtation over a pint.
Despite his best efforts at restraining it, a smile pulled at his lips. “Far better than being dead.”
“I’ve heard death does terrible things for the complexion.” Her eyes sparkled, and the corner of her mouth twitched as though she suppressed a grin.
A strangled sound escaped him, definitely not a laugh. There was nothing laughable about the situation.
“Is something amusing, Valebrook?” Her head tilted quizzically.
The way she said his name did something to him, something he wouldn’t name and wouldn’t spend any time mulling over. “Not at all,” he managed, resolving to stop thinking about the medium’s full mouth.
His unhealthy fascination with her must be a product of his self-imposed isolation since Christina’s death, fueled by the extraordinary circumstances. Not to mention the lack of sleep.
Christ, was it time for tea yet?
“And with that, our tour is complete,” she said, her mask in place once more. “Is anyone else ready for tea?”
Phineas subdued his chuckle. She may have read his mind—the irony was indeed thick.
She gestured towards the stairs, and the Bunton-Talmadges led the way, the woman chattering about lettuce and invasive rabbits hell-bent on destruction. Phineas fell into step beside their hostess, still riding the loose, unguarded warmth of seeing her laugh.
“One more question,” he said, and she stiffened, likely anticipating another jab. He lowered his voice. “Does your grandfather ever send you messages? Since you’re so well-acquainted with everyone else’s dead, how often do you communicate with yours?”
Her gaze remained fixed on the stairs in front of them. “Never.”
Her response lacked embellishment, performance. She didn’t even slow her step. Had he not been watching her, he might have missed the pinch in her lips, the quick flutter of her lashes, but it disappeared before he could examine further.
Guilt pressed on his shoulders. He’d unwittingly struck a nerve, and for some reason he couldn’t name, he wanted to fix it. “Bridget—”
“The talking board is already set up in the parlor.” She stopped on the bottom stair, fixing him with her practiced, serene expression. Her eyes, however, flashed with warning. “Mrs. Keenan will be in with tea shortly. I’m taking a moment to prepare myself.”
She marched off without waiting to see if he’d follow. He likely would have, but a stone dropped into a chamber in his chest he hadn’t known was hollow, fixing him in place.
