“I’m not certain as to the why, of course,” Lady Elizabeth said. She reached for the book, turned it to page seventeen, and tapped one of the horrific notes. “But that one there. I’d just read it when I was down at the beach this morning, and then this fellow came along and said the first line to me. I was so startled, I just repeated the second. And then he gave me that.”

Oliver’s gaze followed her hands—not the white, pampered fingers one expected of a lady, but with short nails, ink stains, calluses, and enough traces of dirt under her nails that he was reminded of how much he’d liked her on their walk—to the table. No, to the cannonball.

He frowned. It had to be an eighteen-pounder, given the size. Too big for most of the ships that would have historically made port here, but the wear on it suggested it had been underwater. “Who did you say gave it to you?”

“I didn’t. And I don’t rightly know. Just some chap who asked if I was Elizabeth, recited the first line of that poem there, and then handed it to me after I said the second line.”

“How very odd.” He reached over and rubbed a hand over the pocked surface, then pulled it closer to the side of the table. “We see a lot of old ordnance around here. But not often examples that show water damage. I wonder if it could be from a wreck.”

“A shipwreck?” She leaned closer to examine it, though surely she’d already done so. She seemed utterly oblivious, however, to how close that put her to him. Something of which most society ladies would be keenly aware at all times.

Oliver’s lips twitched a bit in the corners, despite the situation. It was no wonder he hadn’t guessed upon their first meeting that she was the new earl’s sister. He went somber again. “I cannot think why Beth would have been receiving something like this—but that’s your conclusion, I presume? This fellow mistook you for her?”

Another honest, artless shrug. “I don’t know what else to think. They certainly aren’t intended for me, but these men were looking for an Elizabeth.”

“Men—plural?”

She lifted up an envelope and handed it to him. It was a standard size, nothing special about the paper. The only thing of note was the name scrawled across the front. Elizabeth. But that in itself was odd, wasn’t it? “None of her friends call her Elizabeth, only Beth. And any strangers ought to be calling her Miss Tremayne. So why her given name?” He flipped it over. “You didn’t open it?”