“What are your plans, Miss Cowles?” the dowager asked as she followed Hannah out of the dining room, using a cane for balance.

Hannah couldn’t help a glance of longing at the staircase, remembering the softness of the pillows on her bed and the warmth of the quilt. If only she could return to her bedroom and spend the rest of the day in bed. Her body ached for sleep, and she had to keep thoughts of all the poor passengers and crew of the Orion out of her mind. Grief threatened to overwhelm the fragile walls she was trying to build between herself and the tragedy. Even when she didn’t think about the others, tears burned her eyes, threatening to spill over if she relaxed for a moment.

Movement and activity were her only bulwark against crumpling into a sobbing heap on the floor.

“Miss Cowles?” Lady Blackwold repeated, shifting from one foot to the other. A flicker of pain wrinkled her face, but it was gone in an instant.

“I apologize, I was distracted.”

“Not by my grandson, I trust.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped Hannah. “I was thinking about flotsam and jetsam. Would it be possible to visit the beach? If my trunk managed to come ashore, it would resolve a great many problems.”

“Ah, yes, those papers of yours.” Lady Blackwold nodded thoughtfully, resting both gnarled hands upon the end of her cane and leaning on it. “Not that a chaperone will do you any good at this point, but I will have a chair brought to the cliffs so I may watch from there. We have a private path down—I will show you. It is too steep for me, but you are young enough to enjoy the bit of danger it offers.”

“Thank you.” Hannah touched her gnarled hands, grateful for the suggestion and knowing that Lady Blackwold was not without her own personal discomfort and pains.

“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Cowles. There will be others searching the beach. If your trunk did survive, it may have already been taken. The villagers have the right of salvage and are quick to exercise it.”

“Then we should hurry.” Pacing the wide hallway, Hannah did her best not to nag the plump butler, Mr. Hopwood, or Mary to collect everything Lady Blackwold ordained to be necessary.

The dowager kept calling out items, including a folding chair for her, a blanket for her knees, shawls, hats, gloves, blankets, and a parasol to keep the sun off of her wrinkled cheeks.

At last they set off, going through a library at the back of the house to a set of wide French doors. The flagstone terrace beyond was windswept and bare, and the gardens beyond were equally sere, waiting for the warmth of spring. Although here and there, the long, strap-like green leaves of bulbs were rising, and the sight of new life cheered Hannah.

Lady Blackwold took Hannah’s arm and guided her past the clipped boxwood edges of the garden to a meandering path, heading for the rocks. Hannah’s heart thudded uncomfortably, dreading the climb down and fearful of what she might find amid the rocks on the beach.

“I will await you here, Miss Cowles,” the dowager announced as they neared the downward-curving edge of the sere lawn. “Hopwood, set my chair here.” She motioned with a flick of her right hand, and the butler quickly unfolded the chair.

Mary assisted her to sit and carefully tucked the heavy blanket around her knees and a second shawl around her bent shoulders.

“The path is there,” Lady Blackwold said, pointing to a dirt trail that led between two black rocks. “Just follow it. It will take you to the beach.”

Hannah nodded and walked quickly to the head of the precipitous path. Eyes firmly fixed on the narrow dirt track, she gripped her skirt to keep the wind from whipping it against her legs and tripping her. While she wasn’t afraid of heights, the stiff breeze and lack of a handrail made her chest feel tight, and she had to force herself to breathe and move forward, eyes fixed on the narrow, sunken trail.

By the time she reached the beach, she felt flushed and breathless. Locks of her hair whipped across her face, blown by the salt-scented wind roaring in from the sea. Frothy, white-capped waves raced and crashed over the rock-strewn beach, a few still carrying broken pieces of the Orion and throwing them against the narrow half-moon of sand.

A few rough-looking men with caps and woolen jackets flapping around them stopped their activities when they saw her. Hannah lifted a hand to wave. One old man with tufts of gray hair sticking out from under his fraying cap touched the brim of his hat and waved back before they returned to their work. They sorted through the detritus to pick up whatever took their fancy and add it to a cache at the base of another trail leading up the cliff at the furthest edge of the beach.

To her surprise, a tall man with a slightly less tattered jacket and cap strolled over to her. “Miss Cowles,” Lord Blackwold greeted her. “Come to find your trunk?”

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin and staring at him with a firm gaze. “I’m hoping the contents will save me from absolute ruin.”

He grimaced and shook his head. “Too late for that, Flotsam.”

“Don’t call me that,” she replied testily. “I loathe nicknames.”

“Too late for that, too. The villagers have decided, and so it shall be.”

“And have they also decided that my reputation is in tatters?”

“Well, they definitely feel that a true lady would not be found wandering around at night in a tattered gown. And the tale is, that she was not quite alone.”

“Well, I was quite alone. And I suppose if I wanted to be considered a proper lady, I would have simply drowned quietly when the Orion went down.”

“It would certainly have helped,” he said blandly. His brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “And think what a romantic story you would have made—a fair young American heiress drowned just eighteen hours before she set foot on the land of her noble father’s birth. Brings tears to the eyes, doesn’t it?”

“It can still be rectified. I can climb back up the path and fling myself off the edge. Just think what the villagers would say then! Fair young American heiress—”

“Lately of Boston,” Blackwold interjected.

“And of unsound mind and distraught after the wreck of the Orion, casts herself over the cliff onto the very rocks that destroyed the vessel bringing her to our shores.”

“That’s the spirit, Miss Cowles! It would be just the thing to repair your ruined reputation, if you can manage it.”

Hannah breathed in a sharp, angry breath before she broke down into a small laugh. She smothered her giggles behind one gloved hand and tried to hold on to her annoyance, but it had vanished completely after the absurdity of Lord Blackwold’s remarks.

When she looked up, she caught his gaze fixed on her. Flecks of gold glimmered in the depths of his deep brown eyes. His firm mouth quirked, and tiny laugh lines crinkled his tanned skin. The salt air carried the faint scent of his bay soap to her and another, richer scent that made her toes curl in her borrowed shoes.

Her glance was caught by his, and all she could think was, oh, no! She hadn’t realized how truly attractive he was. Where was the noble idiot she’d considered him to be?

Lady Blackwold had warned her, but she hadn’t listened. Now, it felt as if that warning might have come too late.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she felt her cheeks flame before she tore her gaze away to stare at her feet. Clearing her throat, she said in a light voice, “Unfortunately, it may simply be a case of effrontery and stubbornness, but I wish to continue living, unladylike though that desire is. What’s done is done, no matter how convenient a fall from the cliff might be for everyone here.” She eyed him, trying to look stern, but still feeling breathless and off-balance. She almost caught at his sleeve when a strong gust of wind hit her. “And I refuse to apologize any further for surviving the wreck.”

He smiled and then turned sideways to direct a glance at the other men. “I’m a simple man, Miss Cowles—”

“Oh, I doubt that, Lord Blackwold,” she said, interrupting him with a laugh. “I don’t believe for a minute that you are the simpleton that you would have others believe you to be. In fact, I think you spend a great deal of time making exceedingly subtle jokes and then laughing at the rest of us when we fail to notice.”

He chuckled and shrugged. “Nonetheless, I seem to be too simple to understand the importance of this missing trunk of yours.”

“It contains papers—letters of introduction and a letter to a bank so I may withdraw funds transferred here for me. Of course it is important!”

“Ah, and here I feared you were simply concerned about your lack of gowns,” he remarked with a perfectly bland expression on his face.

“I care nothing for gowns,” Hannah replied, torn between a strong desire to scream at him and an even stronger urge to laugh. He had some quality of personality that dragged smiles out of her, even when she didn’t want to smile, or worse, wasn’t even sure if she liked him.

“Evidently.”

She smothered another laugh. “You are not simple, unless you mean you are simply a beast. I may not be a proper lady, but even I know that a gentleman would never insult a lady’s choice of garb.”

“No doubt,” he agreed jauntily. “But you might explain one small matter to me, if you would. While I agree the papers in the trunk would be important to an American lady named Miss Hannah Cowles, formerly of Boston, I am at a loss to see how they would help you prove that you are she.”

“So you persist in believing that I am an adventuress, taking advantage of the Orion’s sinking to assume the identity of an American heiress?”

“It would not be the first time.” He shrugged, a distant expression on his face.

He was clearly remembering other women, other times his grandmother had been duped by dishonest females. The thought both saddened and angered her.

“It would be the first time for me, I assure you. But no matter, find the trunk, and I will be able to prove who I am.”

“How?” He gazed at her, his brown eyes filled with curiosity.

She wavered, wishing she saw warm approval instead of just curiosity in his gold-flecked gaze. She straightened and lifted her chin, forcing her thoughts back to her trunk. There was no need to reveal anything beforehand and risk theft. “You will see, once the trunk is found.”

“And if it is never found?”

“Then I must think of some other way to prove to your satisfaction that I am not an imposter.”

“Imposter? Who is an imposter? You haven’t been playacting again, have you, Cousin? A comedy in three parts on the beach?” a man asked from behind Hannah. “Or pretending to be a simpleton barely able to scratch his name?”

She whirled, her long skirts slapping her ankles, to find a well-dressed man stepping off the path. She glanced up to the top of the cliff. Lady Blackwold waved to her, clearly undismayed by the new arrival.

“Cousin,” Lord Blackwold acknowledged the stranger.

She looked at Blackwold, her curiosity caught by the lack of emotion in his tone.

He didn’t seem to notice her glance. He took a step back to face her and the stranger squarely. “Miss Cowles, may I present my cousin, Mr. Henry Hodges?” He gestured to Hannah. “This is Miss Hannah Cowles, lately of Boston, and a guest of our grandmother.”

“And an imposter?” Mr. Hodges grinned to take the sting out of his words. He bent over her hand. “I am charmed and surprised. I had not realized that the dowager knew anyone from the colonies.”

Hannah eyed him, from his black hat, worn at a rakish angle, to his fashionable greatcoat, to his shiny boots. He was several inches shorter than Blackwold, with gray eyes instead of brown and well-groomed short hair. His sleek appearance made his taller cousin appear even more bear-like and shaggy, and she couldn’t help glancing at Blackwold again in comparison.

The marquess’s rumpled appearance brought to mind a man who had just rolled out of his comfortable bed and hadn’t had a chance to brush his thick hair or pull on decent clothing. A soft shadow over his strong chin revealed stubble only imperfectly shaved, and that warm, evocative scent hung around him that she’d noticed before. Bay soap, a touch of leather, and salt air all mingled together. The fragrance made her want to lean closer, close her eyes, and breathe deeply.

When he caught her gaze, a gentle smile curved his mouth. His heavy-lidded eyes seemed a trifle drowsy before he turned away to watch the men working along the beach. With his profile to her, his expression was more bemused than alert. And yet she had the sense that Blackwold saw everything that transpired. One would be making a serious mistake to believe his placid demeanor indicated he was unaware, or unintelligent as she first assumed.

Mouth dry, she pushed the thoughts away. Without even considering it, Hannah took a step closer to Lord Blackwold. She couldn’t help a quick look at Hodges’s hands as she did so.

He wore black leather gloves.

Her gaze flashed to Blackwold’s large hands. A white scar marred his right hand, running from the knuckle of his index finger to his wrist. A heavy ring adorned that hand, as well. Her breathing stuttered.

Her hands caught at the ends of her shawl and pulled the soft wool more tightly around her shoulders. She hugged herself against the nervous flutter chilling her limbs. She couldn’t be sure—not entirely—but the ring on Blackwold’s index finger looked remarkably similar to the one she’d seen during the storm. The one the wrecker had worn—the man who’d ordered Officer Trent’s death.

Had she seen a scar? She concentrated but couldn’t remember—all she could see in the flaring, golden light of the storm lantern was that ring.

His voice? Surely… No. The storm winds and waves had muted and distorted the man’s voice to the point where she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t remember anything except the roar of the surf and the sting of the salt water against her face. All she had as a clue was that ring.