The words sent a chill through her. She squashed the unwelcome sensation. No one would attempt to track Papa down here. She had been writing on his behalf for years now, dispensing medical advice and then signing (er, forging) his name to those missives. It was subterfuge, true, but she did not see the harm in it. She wasn’t hurting anyone. Quite the opposite. The people who wrote to Papa wanted help and she possessed the knowledge to assist them. Papa had trained her himself, after all.

The individuals she corresponded with never lived close to Brambledon. She made certain these were not people she would bump into out and about in Society. Some of them were military men who lived on distant shores and were seeking medical advice for their fellow soldiers and those serving under them. Living abroad and, of course, fighting abroad, these soldiers fell prey to uncommon injuries and ailments, and Papa’s reputation in the field of pain mitigation was far-reaching.

He shook his head and glanced to the window, looking much troubled. He swung those dark eyes back on her. “When did the doctor . . . er, pass away?”

“Ah, it’s been five years now.”

“Five years?” He frowned. “You are certain of that?”

She huffed an indignant breath. “I am quite certain of the date of my father’s passing.”

He blinked. “You are his daughter then?”

She pulled her shoulders back. “I am.”

He hesitated, looking her over, and she felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness at her very drab frock.

“Well, daughter or no, you must be mistaken.”

She gave a snort and propped her hands on her hips. “Oh, must I be?”

“Indeed, you must be. You are mistaken.” He reached inside his waistcoat and fumbled a bit before brandishing an envelope. “As I have been writing to the good doctor for the last several years. I have here his last letter to me . . . postmarked this very year.”

She gaped at the envelope, narrowing her gaze on the neatly penned scrawl on the outside.

The letter was very familiar. Because it was her letter. She had penned it and she had sent it to him.

Squinting, she made out the name of the recipient. Instantly, her gaze shot back to his face.

No. It could not be. He could not be here. He could not be him.

He was much too . . . young. He was supposed to be a much older man. Not this young. Not this virile . . . not this this standing before her.

Clearly, she had grossly miscalculated. She had thought avoiding anyone who lived in proximity to Brambledon would keep her safe from discovery. She had not counted on anyone traveling a great distance, let alone across an ocean, to see her father.

Because that meant only one thing.

This man was here in the flesh to catch her in her deceit.

Chapter 5

Dr. Langley was dead.