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She had no intention of telling him Viola’s idea for the ball. “First, we have to find them and find out what condition they’re in.”

“Lead the way.”

“Very well.” She took his hand, and he gave her a sharp glance.

“How long have you been waiting? You’re cold as ice.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I’m merely cool.”

*

Gray released the icy hand in his, and Cordelia Staveley moved purposefully and quickly up through the little wood to the cliff top where the castle stood, her feet sure on the path, as if she could forget his presence by turning her back on him. She could not have much experience of men if she thought to put him out of mind so easily. As inconvenient as it might be, awareness simmered between them. Perhaps because they’d made the wager.

He was used to the careless wagers gentlemen made in their clubs. There a man placed an idle bet in the club book on a whim, to show that he was indifferent to the outcome, that he could lose, and never feel the loss. She had entered into their wager because the outcome mattered to her. Her every stride up the path ahead of him said she meant to win. The sensible thing to do was to look at the ground in front of him. But the breeze tugged at her hair, her back rose straight from her narrow waist, and her skirts swayed intriguingly.

A sad old gig stood outside the castle entrance, the horse nibbling new grass at the edge of the drive. Cordelia Staveley was up the entry steps and at the door before she paused and abruptly turned to him as if struck by some thought. He wondered if the impropriety of meeting him alone ever occurred to her.

Her gaze dropped from his, and she stood to one side impatiently as a sleepy servant opened the door, a yawning young man Winter must have hired. From the porter’s nook, Gray retrieved a set of keys and turned back to her. She glanced at the keys and looked away. He caught his breath. Some illusion crumbled in that glance. He guessed that she had not surrendered those keys easily. She charged off across the courtyard, again putting distance between them.

“Where are we headed?” he asked, striding after her.

“The basement of the southwest tower.” She led him down the lowest flight of the tower’s circular stairs into a hall that ran the length of the basement. He had sketched there the day before, noting the rough-hewn stones of an earlier century.

“I forgot to ask,” he said. “Is there a dungeon down here?”

“At a turning at the end of the passage,” she said. “No one’s been down there for years.” She stopped at a heavy, dark wooden door. From a tin box on a bench, she retrieved a pair of candles and lit them.

He held out his palm with the ring of keys. “Which is it?” he asked.

She pointed, and he fitted the key into the lock and opened the door. She entered and stopped. For a moment she simply stood, and Gray guessed that some memory had her in its grip. The room was cool and smelled of stone and dust, lavender and cedar. Against the near wall stood three large wooden kegs from which rose bare, twisted branches like some stunted and fantastic forest. A tall wardrobe and a pair of leather trunks stood undisturbed against the far wall. Apparently, Winter, in his efficiency, had missed this room. She set the candles on the long table.

“Is there a key for the trunks?” Gray asked.

“They’re unlocked. Our mother had a fear of children climbing inside and becoming trapped.”

She knelt at the first trunk and lifted the lid. Paper rustled and more of the lavender scent filled the room. Her shawl slipped from around her shoulders. In the open trunk he could see a rainbow of colors—forest green, silver, pink, and a deep violet blue. She seemed lost in them.

“Which play are they from?” Gray kept to his side of the table.

“Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She lifted a gauzy silver gown from the trunk. A glittering tiara fell from its folds, and she placed it gently aside, its band of bright stones topped with a crescent moon fashioned of shining silver wire.

“Which role did you play?” he asked. “One of the lovers? Or one of the queens?”

She held the gauzy gown for a moment, as if it had something to tell her. “It doesn’t matter. It was long ago.”

“How old were you?”

“If you must know, I was Titania,” she said, answering the one question, but not the other. She returned the gown to its bed of silver paper and lavender, placed the tiara on top, and closed the trunk.

“Ah,” he said, coming around the table toward her. “The Queen of the Fairies. The role suits you.” He wondered who her Fairy King had been. Had some local swain been her Oberon?

“I beg your pardon. You hardly know me.”

“I know a managing woman when I meet one. You have to be in charge. And this castle has been your realm. You can’t look at these keys in my hand without wincing. While your papa has been off in London, chasing any pleasure that makes him feel momentarily alive, you have been free to do as you wish with Delamere.”

Her shoulders stiffened. She rose and turned to him. “Free! Managing? Is that what you call it when a man abandons his responsibilities and a woman takes them up? Was I supposed to lie upon my fainting couch when my father took himself off to London to ruin us all?”

Gray liked the flash of heat in her eyes. The calm control he had seen in every encounter so far could be broken. He definitely wanted to win their wager. “You have brothers, an uncle.”