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“It certainly appears so,” Etherington conceded in a disturbing monotone.

“Unhand me.” Bethea jerked her arm free and cut the Englishman a swift glance. Her blood congealed at his lethal examination. She hadn’t a doubt he’d see her dead if he supposed her an infiltrator.

Bethea shook her head.

“Ye’re mistaken. I swear. My sister’s in the retirin’ room.” She gestured vaguely toward the other door. “Her feet were injured dancin’, and I was attemptin’ to find a discreet way for her to leave without drawin’ attention to her condition.”

Upper lip curled, Etherington grunted his disbelief.

She forced a genial expression to her face and her tone of voice as she looked directly at Montieth. “Ye, yerself, saw us enter a few minutes ago, my lord.”

Every word was true, which was a good thing, for Bethea was a poor liar.

Suspicion narrowing his eyes, Montieth rubbed his full jaw and nodded. “’Tis true.”

A calculating expression crawled across Etherington’s face. His frigid gunmetal eyes bored into her, demanding the truth, and it was all she could do not to avert her gaze. “But you listened to our conversation, didn’t you?”

How could he know that?

She swallowed to wet her mouth, which had gone dry as ash. “I dinna ken what ye’re talkin’ about. I only just came through.”

“Tsk, now you’re lying, Miss Glanville.” He examined a nail and scraped a bit of something from beneath it. Without raising his head, he directed his hooded gaze to her. “I heard your relieved sigh as we departed the chamber.”

Had she sighed?

She didn’t recall doing so.

He veered his attention to the door she’d hidden behind. “Had you been more careful, we never would’ve known.”

Bethea cursed herself for a thousand kinds of careless fool. She should’ve headed straight back to the retiring room and sought Marjorie and Keane by way of that door.

Etherington flicked an icy, baleful glance over her. Head cocked, he touched a spindly finger to the deep cleft in his chin.

She had the absurd urge to laugh at the prominent dimple, which very much made his chin resemble a posterior. That feature seemed wholly incongruent with his sharply angled face.

“Now what to do with you?” he murmured, sending Montieth a questioning look.

“Ye are mistaken, sir.” Bethea was so frightened, she could scarcely form the words. “As I said, I only now just came through here.”

Monteith’s pudgy features folded in contemplation as he leveled her a discerning look.

It was all Bethea could do not to retch. But she summoned her bravado and made to move past them. “If ye’ll excuse me, gentlemen. My sister is waitin’, and I promised my guardian I’d report on the condition of Branwen’s feet. She’s expectin’ me.”

What was another lie at this juncture?

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Marjorie had also said she’d check on her and Branwen.

How long ago was that?

Ten minutes? Fifteen?

Surely no more than twenty, which meant no one would come for them yet.

God help her.

“This works out quite well, actually, Etherin’ton.” Montieth lumbered to the terrace doors and threw them open. “Take her with ye. It seems I shall have a new bride sooner than anticipated. And make sure nae one, and I mean nae one, touches her.”