Grinning, Blackwold watched an indignant Miss Cowles return to the house.

She confused him, and he didn’t particularly care for the feeling, having rarely felt it before.

On the one hand, he was suspicious of her and her motives in attaching herself to his grandmother. Another woman had done that two years ago, and before he’d realized what was happening and could take action, the dowager had unwisely invested most of her money in some scheme, only to see both her funds and the woman disappear into the night.

He was not going to see that happen again. While his grandmother rarely complained, it was obvious to the most lack-witted observer that she sorely missed her independence. The allowance he granted her, while generous, was clearly insufficient from her perspective and prevented her from spending money on any frippery that caught her attention. It galled her, particularly when he noticed and tried to make up for any deficit by purchasing whatever had caught her eye and presenting it to her.

She didn’t want gifts—she wanted her independence.

He sighed and stared out at the darkness shrouding the garden, for the thousandth time going over what he knew about Miss Cowles.

There were a great many entries on the minus side of the ledger, to be sure. First was her arrival with a wealth of jewels in a plain linen pocket. Wealthy women didn’t keep their precious baubles in pockets; they kept them safely locked away in velvet-lined boxes. Pockets were for bottles of smelling salts, handkerchiefs, small sewing kits, and other ridiculous items that ladies felt were important enough to carry around with them in a pocket tied around their waist under their skirts. And the pocket itself was not one of the extravagantly embroidered ones women like his grandmother carried. Miss Cowles’s pocket was plain linen; the sort a less well-to-do woman might carry.

If the ship were sinking, tossed by the high winds and waves of a storm, one would think that Miss Cowles would be more concerned about her own life than her jewels. Even so, why would she not just grab the wooden box in which they surely belonged? Why take the time to put them in a pocket, unless she were actually hiding them under her skirts, hoping to steal them while the real Miss Cowles was distracted by the gale?

Which made him think of the companion of whom Miss Cowles spoke. Mrs. Lawrence. He hadn’t missed her emotional response to the keepsake box they’d found on the beach, one which apparently belonged to Mrs. Lawrence. Would Miss Cowles really want a handful of letters written to another woman? Even if she were excessively attached to Mrs. Lawrence, the correspondence would surely have no meaning for her, no sentiment attached to them.

So was Miss Cowles actually Mrs. Lawrence, pretending to be a wealthy heiress in hopes of gaining Miss Cowles’s fortune? She seemed a trifle young for that, but one never knew.

Lastly, he remembered seeing a worried frown on Miss Cowles face, that often darkened her blue eyes with dread when she glanced at him. She had no reason to fear him if she were Miss Cowles, as she claimed. However, she knew that he mistrusted her claims, and as a result, she appeared to be frightened. Irritation he could understand. It would annoy him if those around him claimed he wasn’t Lord Blackwold, but he wouldn’t be afraid.

No. Fear indicated something else. Most likely, her anxiety rested upon the possibility that he might prove that she was not who, or what, she claimed to be.

Pacing across the terrace, he raked a hand through his hair. Despite the list of minuses, he liked her. She wasn’t some shy, retiring female who was afraid to lift her gaze from the dusty floor, and she had a lively sense of humor. She clearly liked his grandmother, despite the dowager’s often trenchant remarks, and was kind to her.

A smile flickered over his mouth. Miss Cowles was the first woman in a long time—actually, the first woman, ever—to grasp his odd sense of humor, and that was definitely something to go into the plus column. In fact, over the course of the day, he’d found himself seeking her out and making small jokes—very small ones—just to see the answering gleam of amusement in her blue eyes. Every time a small snort escaped her as she bent over her sewing, trying to suppress her laughter, he felt his mood soar like a gull on an ocean breeze.

Even after only knowing her for less than two days, he found himself glancing around when he entered a room, searching for the soft gleam of her fair hair and dancing eyes.

She seemed so honest, so open—even trusting. How could such a woman be an adventuress? She had none of the secretiveness he’d noticed in the woman who’d hurt his grandmother.

Except there was that fear he’d seen a few times in her eyes.

There were no easy answers, although he did wonder what she had in her trunk that could prove her claims so completely. Regardless, his main purpose now had to be to protect his grandmother. Miss Cowles—or Mrs. Lawrence—was really no concern of his, and he would soon be too busy to worry overmuch about her.

A cold knot settled in his stomach. He frowned and then moved toward the terrace doors. The night air was damp and getting colder by the minute, and he couldn’t stay in the garden forever.

Standing outside was simply a moment of freedom, one of the few he could still enjoy. Such moments would become increasingly rare, all too soon. The trip to London would mark the end to his bachelor days, if everything went as planned, and why should it not?

The lawyers were already working on the legal documents that would tie Blackwold to a woman he’d met fewer than a half-dozen times. The arrangement had been planned by his father before he died—it was a good match for both of them.

Lady Alice was the daughter of an earl and would bring with her a dowry of fifty-thousand pounds. She was young and pretty, and he frankly didn’t find her the least bit interesting. She’d seemed a cheerless sort the few times he’d met her, but perhaps that was simply politeness and a certain shyness.

Curious, though. He realized she had blonde hair and blue eyes very similar to Miss Cowles, but Lady Alice seemed almost colorless in comparison. Her gaze was a pale, chilly blue that seemed unable to grasp a great deal of what she observed, vastly unlike the deep rich blue of Miss Cowles’s laughing eyes that were pleased and extremely observant a great deal of the time.

The metal doorknob felt icy under his palm, and he yanked the door open quickly. A rush of warm air brushed over him as he stepped inside.

The women were seated in front of the fire, Miss Cowles leaning toward his grandmother. Her long neck and the curve of her shoulders glowed golden from the firelight, and her silken gown shimmered pink with soft yellow highlights.

Laughing, the dowager shook her head at some comment made by Miss Cowles. She reached forward to give Miss Cowles’s wrist a playful slap. Miss Cowles murmured something he couldn’t hear and sat back. Although her back was to him, he could imagine a warm smile on her mouth.

He shook his head, brushing away such thoughts.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but wonder, would his grandmother get along with Lady Alice so well? They seemed so unalike, at least on the surface. His grandmother was outspoken and quick to open her heart, covering her softness with the sharp thrusts of the verbal duels she enjoyed. Her moods were mercurial and had grown more so as she aged.

Lady Alice had struck him as a woman who had been petted and cosseted, and as a result, was woefully incapable of engaging in the type of witty conversation his grandmother adored. He could not imagine the two rubbing along together in one house.

His long fingers played with one of the buttons on his waistcoat, unconsciously unbuttoning it. He took a deep breath. Lady Alice was not the sort of woman who attracted him, but his father had wanted the match. It would serve both families well, and Blackwold had been well tutored to do his duty.

Marriage was a duty and a necessary evil that had nothing to do with emotions. While Lady Alice seemed a trifle insipid, he’d been reminded enough times to hear the words in his sleep: she would reflect well upon him. She would never create a scene, never do anything a lady should not do. The perfect wife.

Lady Alice would also never have fought wind and wave to survive a storm, or climb up to the road in a tattered evening dress with a plain linen pocket full of jewelry. Her pockets would undoubtedly be embroidered with silk, and would never contain anything except a small sewing kit, smelling salts, and a lace-edged handkerchief. His mouth quirked, his gaze resting on Miss Cowles’s long, elegant neck.

Lady Alice would undoubtedly have done the right thing and died like a proper English lady.

Chuckling to himself, he stepped into the pool of light, watching Miss Cowles. She lifted her head immediately and straightened, her gaze fluttering from his grandmother to his face.

The wavering light cast sharp shadows around her eyes and under her cheekbones. She shivered and covered the involuntary movement by drawing her light shawl closer. The lamp on a small, square table at her elbow highlighted the fairness of her skin. His grin slowly changed into a frown.

She was more than fair—she was pallid, and the shadows under her eyes weren’t just the effect of the uneven glow from the fire. The rigid set of her body and face spoke of someone who was desperately holding herself together, trying not to be ill.

It was damp outside—she’d been a fool to go out there and risk a chill after her experiences two nights prior.

He faced his grandmother. “It’s late, Grandmother. Time to retire.”

She stared past his shoulder at the ornate clock on the mantel. Her mouth worked for a few seconds, her gray brows drawn together over her nose. “It is barely half past nine, Blackwold.”

“Nonetheless, I’m off to bed,” he replied cheerfully. He stretched and then held a fist in front of his mouth as he yawned. “You ladies may be prepared to sit up all night, but I assure you, I’m not.”

Miss Cowles stood as he spoke. She swayed and then gripped the back of her chair, her lips compressed into a thin line. For a moment, she remained silent, the muscles in her neck working as she swallowed. “Will you excuse me, Lady Blackwold?” she said in a soft voice.

“Well, I am not so paltry and weak that I wish to retire before ten!” the dowager stated. She wriggled deeper into her chair and fixed her gaze on the fire. “When I was your age, I would dance all night and think nothing of it.”

“Yes, but not the second evening after being washed ashore in a gale,” he replied dryly. He bent and kissed his grandmother’s wrinkled cheek.

She bit her lips to keep from smiling, and he gave her clasped hands a squeeze before he straightened. “Well, nonetheless, I will be the good host and remain here. Henry is bound to want some company—he is not as delicate as some I could mention.”

“Ah, yes, Henry. I neglected to give you his regards, Grandmother. He was feeling fatigued and retired an hour ago,” he replied.

He’d been surprised, himself, when Henry elected to go straight to his bedchamber after dinner, when he’d made it so clear earlier that he was fascinated by their young guest.

But perhaps Miss Cowles wasn’t the only one feeling unwell.

“So you all plan to desert me!” the dowager exclaimed.

“Perhaps I could…” Miss Cowles voice drifted off and the muscles in her neck and jaw clenched as she pressed her lips together.

“No. You could not.” Blackwold gripped her elbow and turned her toward the door. “Goodnight, Grandmother. Sleep well.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved them away.

“Goodnight,” Miss Cowles murmured.

Her meek compliance as he led her through the door convinced him that she was mere minutes away from collapse. But she was not the sort of woman to complain or even admit her weakness. There was no point in asking her if she were well, or needed assistance.

So he guided her to her bedchamber, rang for Mary, and left Miss Cowles standing in the middle of her room, her gaze fixed a little too grimly on the washbasin.