He tamped down a grin. “The general wisdom is that what the Lord Proprietor doesn’t know about, he can’t refuse permission for.”

She chuckled. “A fine philosophy for exploring children or tourists—though I’m not so certain it’s the best one for the vicar and the headmaster to ascribe to.”

“Even so, the Lord Proprietor and I are on good terms. As long as we don’t destroy anything, I can’t imagine he’ll mind. And unless we mean to send a telegram asking for permission or wait for him to get home next month . . .”

“That would suit me fine.” She grinned up at him. “If I could convince Bram to let me stay until we saw it through to completion.”

If he thought they could keep Lorne and Scofield at bay, he might agree. But he had a knot in his spirit that just wouldn’t loosen whenever he thought of them. They wouldn’t sit around much longer, waiting for someone else to deliver them what they were after. Not with a second buyer promising Scofield money and the rivalry spurring Lorne on. Oliver had met men like these before—men who would stop at nothing to get the upper hand in whatever they were doing. Men who took the kind of petty tension he’d always had with Casek and magnified it more powerfully than Libby’s microscope could do.

Thoughts of Casek brought other thoughts, ones that made that knot cinch tighter. “Lorne hired a local lad before. I suspect he’d do it again—and we can’t let anyone else get tangled up in this.” The people of Tresco, of all the Scillies, were his responsibility. In part, anyway. And he didn’t want to be officiating any more funerals because of this.

“I know.” She rested warm fingers on his arm.

She did know. Libby wasn’t the sort who would ever put her own desires above another’s well-being. Just another reason he couldn’t stop looking at her. He smiled down into her eyes, wishing and praying. They hadn’t had nearly enough time together to make it seem reasonable to do something like propose. Especially not when she still had a few questions to answer for herself about the Lord—never mind the brother.

“Libby, hadn’t you better go in and sit with Mrs. Tremayne for a bit so I can walk you home at a decent hour?”

Or perhaps not never mind the brother. He seemed set on making himself a problem. They broke their gazes away from each other to look up at the shadowed face of Lord Telford.

Oliver’s gaze darted past him, and he frowned. “Where are my sister and Lord Sheridan?”