Page 1

Chapter One

The Lodge of Delamere Castle, at a distance of nearly a mile from the castle itself, was a handsome edifice of ancient stone with a sharp-pointed roof, designed to impress a visitor. As a residence for a lively family of six, their cook, a maid, and a man of all work, it was less impressive—cramped, cold, and bare of comforts.

Cordelia Staveley, at twenty-two the eldest of the Staveley siblings, resigned herself to the inconveniences of the moment, but nevertheless, it was her aim to see her family restored to their proper home in the castle as soon as an arrangement could be struck with the new holder of the deed gambled away by their father. They had received no word from Viscount Graymont, but Cordelia had spent days imagining a meeting with him, arranging in her mind the arguments she would make in favor of her position.

A modest breakfast on a plain deal sideboard in what passed for the dining room was reminder enough of how low their branch of the family had sunk. She helped herself to an egg and toast with a bit of marmalade, and set herself to lift the spirits of her brother and sisters on this day of days.

“We will weather this, you know,” she said to her siblings, hunched over plain Staffordshire plates at the table.

They were considered a handsome family that came in two distinct versions of the Staveley look. Cordelia, her sister Rosalind at eighteen, and Miranda, a lovely girl of seventeen, had dark hair with fiery red strands, pointed chins, and blue eyes. Her brother Henry, twenty, his twin, Ned, away in the British navy, and their youngest sibling, Viola, a girl of fifteen, newly returned from school in London, had fairer looks, hazel eyes, curling wheaten locks, and squared jaws.

At Cordelia’s greeting, no one looked up. Viola had yet to make an appearance at the breakfast table.

Roz pushed a bit of egg across her plate with a sigh. “So you say, Cordelia, but really it’s quite hopeless, isn’t it? No one will want anything to do with a family such as ours.”

“We still have the land.” Henry looked up from his Almanac. Her brothers were mad for the sea, and Cordelia was grateful that Henry, deprived for the moment of his naval commission, was making an effort to learn estate management. “If I can understand this planting plan, we may have a harvest this year.”

“That’s all very well for you, Henry, but we ladies need dowries, not bulging hayricks,” Miranda replied. Her interest at the moment centered on the curate of St. Nicholas, Christopher Hartley.

“And a Season,” added Roz. “If I don’t have one this year, there will be no point. I’ll never have one.”

“And our Midsummer ball,” added Miranda. “We will never find husbands if we can’t dance.”

Cordelia set down her plate. “Do not look so far ahead, dear ones. We must manage to get through today, as lowering to one’s spirits as it is. Once we are back in the castle, our fortunes will improve.”

Roz threw her napkin onto the table. “I don’t want to return to the castle, Cordelia. I want to go to London. I want a Season. You don’t care what becomes of us. You care only about that ridiculous pile of stones.”

Cordelia wanted to protest the injustice of the accusation, but she held her tongue. Roz was not quite finished.

Roz pushed back in her chair. “Miranda can’t marry her wretched curate without a dowry. No one will do anything to promote Henry’s advancement in the navy, or Ned’s. And without more schooling, Viola will never acquire even a modicum of self-control. Face it, Cordelia, our family is doomed.”

“We could appeal to Uncle Richard again,” Miranda suggested. “He is a Staveley. He could do something for Henry and Ned.”

“We could if Cordelia’s pride were not in the way,” Roz replied.

Cordelia had to speak. “It is not a matter of pride, Roz. It’s a matter of the happy indifference of East Kent wealth. Uncle Richard has made it clear that he is not inclined to do anything for us. Where is Viola, by the way? She can’t still be in bed.”

“She isn’t. She was up and gone before I came down,” Miranda said.

“Gone?” Cordelia glanced at her cooling egg. Her stomach grumbled, but the first twinge of unease undid her appetite. She put down her fork and pushed back in her chair.

A heavy knock sounded on the lodge door. Quick footsteps passed in the entry, and the old door creaked open. The rumble of a male voice filled the hall, and Alice, their maid, came to find Cordelia.

“It’s Miss Viola,” Alice said.

Cordelia was already on her feet, heading for the door.

A rough-looking carter of imposing dimensions stood on the step, twisting his cap in his hands. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” he said, “Tryin’ to do our job. Need yer ’elp.”

“Yes.” Cordelia waited for him to explain. A cool breeze off the Channel with a hint of rain in it ruffled her skirts. Behind her, Roz and Miranda peeked out at their visitor.

He gave another twist to his cap. “There’s a lady, miss, ’oo ’as tied ’erself to the piano. Won’t budge. We don’t wish to offend, miss, but we ’as a job to do.”

Roz gasped. Miranda somewhat ineffectively stifled a giggle. “O, Viola!”

“Of course, Mr. …?” Cordelia maintained her composure.

“Botley, miss, of Botley & Sons Haulers.”