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Mrs. Keenan sniffed. “Don’t let her near the poisons. She was giving her husband some sideways looks.”

“We don’t grow poisons any more,” Bridget pointed out. “I removed them all last spring.” Very carefully.

“You should also avoid the west wall beneath the turret,” Mr. Keenan said around a mouthful of saffron cake. “Especially with this wind.”

Bridget’s jaw twitched. The Keenans were practically family—especially in the absence of her actual parents—but smothering would be a gentle term for their concern for her well-being.

Mrs. Keenan swept the loose crumbs away from the plate of sweets. “Bridget dear, have you made any progress clearing your grandfather’s study?”

“Of course, I haven’t.” The words burst from her lips with more force than she’d intended. “Not with managing the guests, covering for the servants we can no longer afford, and responding to all of grandmother’s correspondence while this place crumbles around me. Not to mention fending off meddlesome guests while others complain I haven’t read their bloody tarot cards in time.”

The Keenans blinked.

Heat rushed to Bridget’s cheeks, and she forced a pained laugh. “That is, not yet. I’ll see to it during the storm.”

“Darling girl…” Mrs. Keenan took Bridget’s trembling hand between her weathered ones. “If you don’t want to wait out the storm here, you’re always welcome to stay with us. We have our place in town. It’s small, but we’ll find room for you.”

“Or you could come with us and visit our daughter in Truro,” Mr. Keenan suggested. “The grandbabies are getting bigger, and we could use another helping hand.”

Hadn’t that always been the way for her? Crashing into someone else’s home unwanted, forcing them to accommodate her presence. And now that she managed Ashveil Manor, it was falling apart, her family’s legacy threatening to collapse into the sea under her watchful eye.

But she couldn’t let go. Not of the only home she’d ever known, the place where she’d learned to be loved and give love.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I have guests to manage.” She gave Mrs. Keenan what she hoped was a placating smile and pulled her hand free. “We will be fine.”

Mr. Keenan cupped her cheek. “Bridget, you always have a place with us.”

A throat cleared behind her, and Mr. and Mrs. Keenan looked up, practiced smiles falling into place. “Good morning, my lord,” the housekeeper enthused, her expression the picture of innocence. “Oh dear, you look tired. Did you not sleep well?”

Bridget couldn’t resist turning around, and sure enough, the earl looked dreadful. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his silver-streaked hair was disheveled.

As though he heard her assessment of his appearance, the man raked his hands through his hair, forcing it into place before fixing Bridget in his sight. She expected his eyes to be dull after a sleepless night, but the gray irises scored through her, as though he could see past every charade and costume she donned to remain hidden.

Something tugged low in her belly, and she fought the urge to shift on her feet under his penetrating stare.

“Edgar,” Mrs. Keenan hissed, tugging her husband’s arm. “Help me with something in the kitchen.”

He pulled a face. “What do you need in the kitchen?”

She yanked the man’s arm harder, dragging him toward the rear of the manor. “I need you to leave dear Bridget alone…”

The earl’s gaze finally released hers to track the housekeeper’s movement. “Bridget.” Her name dripped with accusation.

Her chuckle lacked humor, as she already lacked patience. “Does everyone constantly refer to you as His Right Honourable Lordship? Is Phineas even your real name?”

“It is. But I’m called Valebrook,” he said with finality.

“Your title?” She scoffed. “Your modesty astounds me.”

“That’s what I’m called.”

Bloody aristos. She exhaled in a rush. “Is there anything else I can do for you this morning, Valebrook?”

His attention fixed on the plait of dark hair trailing over her shoulder. Drat, she’d forgotten to put it up beneath the turban. “Tell me how you managed the reading last night,” he demanded.

She forced the pleasant, worldly smile onto her otherwise tight features. “The spirits are eager to speak to us, my lord. A seasoned medium such as myself merely acts as a conduit⁠—”

“You’re lying.”