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It was most definitely too much, but Mary’s eyes went wide and the color drained from her face, as if Minerva might drop dead at a moment’s notice. “Yes, my lord,” she said, dropping into a curtsy.

Lawrence caught a brief scolding look from Minerva before he pulled open the church door and stepped out into the yard. He was careful to shut the door behind him.

Silas and Lord Owen were still arguing as Lawrence paused for a moment to throw together a quick plan.

“…know that she is here,” Lord Owen argued, gesturing toward the house. “It is all over the village. I have tracked Lady Minerva’s whereabouts from London to this place. You cannot deny me my bride.”

Lawrence clenched his jaw and his fists at the man’s audacious assumption. If Minerva was anyone’s bride, she was his.

He stepped forward with a mind to pummel the arrogant toad into the ground, but a second idea flashed into his head as he closed the distance to the carriage. Lord Owen had heard all about Minerva from the village, which meant he’d probably been told she was dying of plague.

Silas noticed Lawrence’s approach first and leaned away from Lord Owen to gape at him. A second later, Lord Owen turned toward him as well and practically jumped in shock.

“Good God, you’re the man they said was escorting Lady Minerva,” Lord Owen said. He raked Lawrence with a glance, lip curled in distaste, then said, “What is the matter with you?”

His appearance. Lawrence knew he could use it. He pinched his face, staggered toward Silas, and did his very best job of acting as he collapsed against his friend’s shoulder.

“She is gone,” he wailed, sobbing for good measure.

“My…my lord?” Silas asked, genuine worry in his voice.

“She is gone,” Lawrence repeated, lifting his head and staring at Silas, willing him to see the subterfuge. “My dearest Minerva has succumbed to the fever.”

“Oh God, my lord!” Silas gasped, believing the lie.

Lawrence regretted it, and he would have to make it up to Silas later, but there was a chance that Silas’s belief would help convince Lord Owen to go away.

“Lady Minerva died of the plague?” Lord Owen asked, the picture of suspicion and disbelief.

“Yes,” Lawrence said, pretending to marshal all his strength to stand and face the world as a man should. “Yesterday. I knelt by her side and held her hand as she breathed her last. I suppose it was a peaceful death, but I do not know what I will do without her now.”

Lord Owen narrowed his eyes. “I wish to see her body.”

Lawrence pinched his face. He hadn’t accounted for that.

“You cannot,” he sniffled. “I…I have already buried her.”

Lord Owen’s expression turned even harder, and he looked around. “Where?” he asked, infusing the single word with doubt. “I do not see any freshly turned earth.”

Dammit, he had not thought this through.

“In the crypt within the church,” he said, praying the church actually had a crypt. Then again, how would Lord Owen know one way or another.

“I wish to see her,” Lord Owen said, starting toward the church.

Lawrence leapt forward to grab his arm, holding him back. From the corner of his eyes, he caught a flash of movement in the window that he assumed was Minerva ducking out of sight.

“You cannot go in there,” Lawrence said, assuming an expression of doom. “She died of the plague. The entire church may be infected now.” He gasped for good measure and said, “Heaven help me, I may be carrying the dread disease myself. I may have infected you with my very touch!”

Rather than inspiring Lord Owen with fear and the immediate need to flee to safety, Lawrence’s words only caused the man to shift back towards him, arms crossed.

“You are telling me that Lady Minerva has died,” he said flatly.

“She has,” Lawrence said, still trying desperately to be the picture of a grieving lover, but finding that ruse harder by the moment.

“Lady Minerva. Died,” Lord Owen said, utterly unconvinced.

Lawrence straightened and looked down his nose at the man. “Do not mock the dead, sir.”