She shifted the parasol once more so as to stare at him, aghast. “Are you paraphrasing Wuthering Heights?”

“Are you reading Wuthering Heights?” he retorted with a smirk.

She went on staring for a moment, then realized her face was flushed (no doubt from all the sun exposure) and turned away. “I am returning it to the library on behalf of my maid,” she said. “I merely had it open to ascertain the condition in which she’d left it, as she had an unfortunate education and therefore tends to dog-ear pages.”

“Liar,” he said genially. “I wonder what your aunt would say if she knew you were reading that novel?”

“She would ask me why I did not cut the throat of the man with whom I had this conversation.”

“You know, the attendant might let you across the bridge for free if you smile at him. Most men are susceptible to a pretty face. Are you able to smile, Miss Bassingthwaite?”

“Go away.”

“Although in truth one such as yourself need not smile to charm a man. Take me, for example. I really ought to be stabbing you right now, but am too enchanted by your lovely—”

“Signor de Luca. If I let you pay my toll, will you leave me alone?”

“Of course.”

She nodded, held out her hand for the coin, and waited.

“That is,” he said, “once I have seen you to the other side. Of the bridge, I mean,” he added, winking.

She closed her hand, drew it back, and continued walking. “You seriously think I would cross a bridge in the company of a man hired to kill me?”

“Madam,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “I merely wish to ensure your safety so that when I come into your bedroom—”

“Signor!”

“For the purpose of smothering you with your pillow—that was all I meant. No need for such alarm. And please do call me Ned.”

“I will not.”

“Then Captain Lightbourne, at least. I’m only Italian in my paternal ancestry, and it’s fair to say that was most likely a fantasy of my mother’s.”

“Lightbourne? As in the Dreaded Captain Lightbourne of Leeds?”

“That’s right,” he said with pride.

“The same Captain Lightbourne whose house fell off a cliff?”

He scowled briefly. “It was pushed.”

“I see.”

“And that’s beside the point.”

“Which is, exactly—?”

“That I’d like to take you to morning tea, Miss Bassingthwaite. I happen to know a charming teahouse near the Parade Gardens.”

She glanced at him narrowly. “You refer of course to Sally Lunn’s.”

“Indeed.” His smile was so dazzling, she actually hesitated. What harm could there be in half an hour’s chatting over tea with a fellow buccaneer (unless he poisoned the tea, in which case there would be a great deal of it)? Miss Darlington would not approve, but perhaps Cecilia might represent it to her as an information-gathering session—or not represent it at all. She was an adult, after all, and could take tea with whomever she chose. What Miss Darlington did not know would not hurt her (again, unless he poisoned the tea).