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ask nothing ”—she spit the word out—“from any of you. So don’t you ever make an accusation like that toward me again or I’ll carve your heart out—no, wait. You don’t have a heart. You are a Lynsted. Holburn is the only good one of your ilk. But speak like that to me again and I’ll take my dirk and carve something, and let me assure you, Mr. Lynsted, you will not like it .”
    Her threats didn’t bother him.
    Letting him know she found him lacking when compared to his cousin the Duke of Holburn? That comment hit him square in the face.
    Not that he shouldn’t be accustomed to it. He’d spent a lifetime being compared to his cousin. Holburn was everything Richard wasn’t. He was handsome, a normal size, always comfortable in social settings, intelligent, included in every event…popular.
    Whereas, Richard was a great clumsy oaf who really did feel more comfortable with his ledger sheets than at a garden party or in a ballroom. He normally didn’t speak his mind as freely as he had this past hour with anyone let alone with a woman. He was too reserved…and his father’s son.
    People didn’t like his branch of the family. Richard wasn’t certain why, but he’d always sensed others’ disapproval. He’d assumed it was because of his father and uncle’s strict sense of what was right and wrong—beliefs he shared…but what if there was something else behind it?
    Immediately, he rejected the idea. Miss MacEachin’s ridiculous accusations had put the suggestion into his head. His father and uncle would not hire brigands.
    Well, his father wouldn’t.
    Richard wasn’t really too certain about his uncle. Through his business dealings with the man, he’d seen him take a short cut or two of the sort that caused concern.
    Miss MacEachin had turned and was walking away from him, her back ramrod straight.
    He followed with grim determination. Something was afoot. Perhaps the stage manager had sent two brutes after her to exact revenge. Perhaps he was right and they’d been after what most men wanted from her.
    Or…and he considered this gingerly, reminded of how panic-stricken his father had been this afternoon when he’d told Richard of her accusations…perhaps there was something to her story. Something his uncle had done that could destroy them all if it was revealed.
    She marched to the door of a modest row house. Richard stopped on the walk and then came to his senses as he heard the key click in the lock in the door. “Wait, let me go in first.”
    “Why?” she asked, distrust coloring the word.
    “Because if someone is waiting to attack you inside, I don’t want you to accuse me of orchestrating it by watching you enter alone,” he responded, gently pushing her aside and opening the door.
    Richard opened the door to a pitch-black hallway. “Where do I go first?” he asked.
    “Here, let me help,” she murmured and, before he could protest, ducked under his arm, a black shadow carrying the honeysuckle and rose scent of her perfume.
    There was the sound of glass against glass, a scrape, the flash of a match, and then the soft, warm glow of a lamp in a side room. She came out into the hall carrying a candle she must have lit off the lamp. “So, where shall you search first? The bedroom, to see who is hiding under my bed?”
    Her sarcasm was like a nail to the back of his head. “I’m sorry for wanting to keep you alive,” he shot back, mimicking her tone. He picked up her valise and carried it into the house. Setting it on the floor, he asked, “Do you have just this floor or is there an upstairs?”
    “Another renter is on the floor above,” she said. “Mrs. Nally and her cats. I have no fears from her.” She laughed and said, “She has nine of them.”
    “Nine what?” Richard asked, distracted by her leading him into a sitting room where the lamp was burning.
    “Cats,” she explained, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he searched behind the settee and checked for strangers