The man growled into her ear and tugged her arms a bit toward her back, straining both her shoulders and her gown’s beading. “I don’t know or care about any deliveries. You said you could find it—the silver. Will they have to send their own people in?”
The way he said it—their own people—brought to mind images of ruffians and lowlifes and criminals to rival any of the buccaneers in Mr. Gibson’s stories. And who were they? Libby told her throat to let her swallow, told her heart to calm, told her stomach to ease.
They didn’t listen. “No,” she croaked out, wishing she knew what he was talking about. At least if she knew, she could fight it. Argue. Do something other than stand here, wondering if Beth’s secrets were going to get her hurt or killed. “But I don’t have the silver. Not yet.” That much was certainly true. She didn’t have it, and unless whatever silver he wanted had been among the things Beth had taken with her when she vanished, she didn’t either.
The manifests—the letter that had been with them. That had said something about silver—pirate treasure. Was that what this was about?
He jerked her arms harder, making her squeak a protest before she could stop herself, making a stitch snap somewhere in her shoulder, making her head go light with the scent of jasmine.
“Are you trying to cross them?”
“No! I wouldn’t. I just don’t—I don’t have it!”
“Then get it. One week.”
A week? How in the world were they to put all this together in a week when the last three days had netted them nothing but questions without answers? “I need more than that. A month.” It surely wasn’t unreasonable. Beth had been planning on spending the whole summer here. Perhaps that was how long she anticipated whatever-this-was taking.
The added pressure against her arms said otherwise. “Two weeks, and no more. Bring it to the large cave at midnight that Sunday. Am I clear?”
He pressed still harder, leaving her little choice but to eke out a pain-ridden “Yes!” She tried to jerk away, needing relief, and managed only to pivot them both a few degrees.
A few helpful degrees. Her gaze flew to the windowpane, and now she could see herself in partial profile—and at least a bit of the man behind her.
Tall, yes. Thin. He wore the garb of a typical tourist—pullover cardigan, white collar beneath it, straw boater in a light shade. Hair dark enough that it blended with the night-heavy glass, and features too much in shadow to be discernible, other than a long, patrician nose.
Enough, perhaps, that she would recognize him if she saw him again.
He shoved her into the fence and its heady bouquet. “Count to thirty before you so much as think about turning around.”
He was gone, the release of her arms and the pounding of his steps tripping over each other in her awareness. She indulged in a whimper into the white trumpets, rotating her aching shoulders until convinced he’d not done permanent damage.
She didn’t count. But she did wait until the last of his footfalls had faded from her hearing before she pushed herself away from the fence. Her shoes were probably dirty now, for which Mabena would scold her. Worse, her hands were shaking.
She stepped back onto the road and turned toward her cottage. Never mind the dinner party and Lottie Wight and viscounts and—wait.
“I’ve seen no other pretty blondes walking from the garrison cottage to the Wights’ this evening.”
Had Beth been planning to go to the Wights’? How, when Lottie said she’d never met her? Or was she lying—was she somehow involved in this too?
That couldn’t be, could it?
She spun to her original path. None of this made any sense. But if she meant to answer that question, she couldn’t do it from home, with Mabena and Oliver and comfort. She had to go where that man knew she was going. Where he thought Beth was going. And try to determine why.
Music spilled out into the night long before she neared the cluster of cottages the Wights had let. They must have a gramophone playing as loudly as it would go. Or not, she saw as she drew near enough to see the paper lanterns strung between the cottages and the area set up between. They’d hired a quartet, either from somewhere on the islands or brought over on the ferry.
And it wasn’t just the Wights and the two gentlemen Lottie had mentioned laughing and tilting champagne flutes toward their mouths and milling around a makeshift dance floor. There were well over a dozen people crowding the small space, not counting the quartet or the uniformed servants.
She spun away. Forget trying to answer questions, she had no hope of that anyway. She’d go home. Tell Mabena and Oliver about the tall man who’d attacked her and—
“Beth!”
She froze when a hand landed on her sore shoulder, even though it was small and gentle. Turned.
A redhead stood there, laughter evaporating from her lips. “Oh. Sorry. Not Beth.”
Lottie giggled her way over to them, a nearly empty flute in hand and its aftereffects bubbling in her eyes. “Em, I told you I haven’t been able to find Beth. This is my friend. Libby. Lady Elizabeth, I mean. Sinclair. I told you about her, didn’t I? She left the Château the year before you arrived.”
“Sorry,” Em said again, offering Libby a sheepish smile. “I’ve just been expecting to run into Beth every time I turn around.”
Lottie laughed again, which made Libby wonder how many other empty flutes she’d already created, and tugged her into their little bower. “Come in, Libby, please. The viscount is dying to meet you. And this is Lady Emily Scofield. Did I mention her to you? I actually convinced her to come and spend a few days with us!”
“Well.” Lady Emily fell in on Lottie’s other side, gaze darting all about the party. “I’ve long wanted to visit, and I thought I could see two friends at once.”
Lottie leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “Her whole family came,” she said in what she probably meant to be a whisper. “Even her brother.” That last word she sang in a ding-dong tune. “Wait until you meet him. So handsome. Nearly as handsome as your brother.” Eyes going wide, she giggled again. “No, wait. Maybe I don’t want you to meet him. You stick with the viscount; he’s too boring for the rest of us.”
Libby wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders, glad Mabena had thought to give it to her. She hadn’t realized they’d be outdoors all evening. Usually she would have enjoyed that unexpected boon, but all the people spoiled it.
Though she hadn’t at all minded the even-larger group watching the boat race on Wednesday morning. That had seemed entirely different.
She directed her gaze to Lady Emily. A friend of Beth’s, which seemed an odd coincidence to her. But then again, perhaps Beth always tried to lure her friends to the islands for the summer. “How long are you staying, my lady?”
“Oh, just until Monday.”
“I’m trying to convince them to come for longer a bit later in the summer. It would be so much more fun with a more diverse company, don’t you think, Libby? We’ve had no one but each other, Em. We’ll be bored out of our minds by July.” She produced a stage-worthy pout. “Please say you’ll come.”
Lady Emily didn’t look any more comfortable with the theatrics than Libby felt. “That’s my parents’ decision, Charlotte. All I can do is ask.”