Her brother’s glower intensified tenfold. “No.” Which was a blatant lie—he never forgot a face, nor the name it paired with.

“Sure you do,” Sheridan put in happily from the table, making her like him for calling Bram out. A little. “He came—when was it? To Telford. During the funeral, that was it, but not for you. For . . .” Scrunching his face into a ridiculous parody of concentration, he tapped a finger to the table. “To check on someone. A maid or some such. Remember? We were in your study, situating your books when he was introduced. And you said to me, ‘Where the devil is Truro—’”

“Thank you, Sheridan.” Bram looked like he’d enjoy socking his friend in the nose for his assistance.

Oliver cleared his throat. “To check on Miss Moon.” He nodded toward Mabena. “My cousin.”

Sheridan still wore that idiotic look of contemplation. “No, that wasn’t it.”

Mabena snorted another laugh.

It didn’t seem to bother him any. “By which I mean, it’s not what you said. At the time, that is. Aren’t you a vicar? You went to Oxford with my cousin.”

Ever calm, Oliver nodded. “I believe I said she was a parishioner, at the time. Also true, and I didn’t want it to appear that her family was interfering, not trusting her in her independence.”

Maybe he intended it to be a jab at Bram’s presence. She couldn’t be entirely certain, though she rather hoped it was.

And her brother clearly felt it as such, given the way his posture stiffened still more.

Another shadow filled the doorway, this one the frowning, hulking form of Casek Wearne. “I thought we were meeting at the boat, Tremayne. Why are you . . . ?” He trailed off as he stepped inside. And his frown rivaled Bram’s. “Who are you blokes? Everything all right, Benna? My lady?”

Mabena pressed her lips together over what Libby suspected was another laugh. Or at least a grin. She tipped the teapot over a cup and handed it to Sheridan. “Everything’s fine, dearovim.”

“I beg to differ.” Bram looked as though steam might spill out of his ears to match the kettle at any moment. “I don’t care for the fact that strange men just waltz into my sister’s holiday cottage without so much as a by-your-leave.”

Casek didn’t shift at all upon realizing Bram was a lord, not just a bloke. He looked, in fact, utterly unimpressed. “You’re the lady’s brother?” She could have hugged him for his sneer. “You don’t seem much like her.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“That she never lords over anyone. Fit right in, did our lady. You seem more cut from Tremayne cloth.”

Insulting both him and Oliver in one fell stroke. Libby didn’t know whether to be impressed or panicked.

Her brother didn’t seem too conflicted. Just annoyed. “Hardly.”