Page 27

“Yes. Graymont’s offered me an office in the castle for my ledgers and estate work.”

“He did? When?”

“Yesterday. He told me Winter would arrange it. Generous of him, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Cordelia knew at once what it was … a tactic in their battle. Once Henry was in the castle, Viola would think nothing of going there to see her brother.

Henry went on. “Well, you must see that I can’t go on using the dining room for my work. It’s impossible to get anything done there. I have to move the books every time we eat. Besides, the noise in the house is abominable. Are girls never quiet? There’s shrieking and piano playing and giggles at all hours.”

“Yes. I’m sorry the lodge is so inconvenient. You must speak to Winter and find out what room you’ll be permitted to occupy.”

“You don’t like it.” Henry frowned.

“I don’t. The conceit of that man offering back to you what is yours.”

Henry shrugged. “It’s just until I get the books in order.” His expression was sober. “I will go back to the navy, Cordelia. I know sons are supposed to want to inherit and all, but I never wanted Delamere.”

Cordelia wanted to protest that it was home, their childhood, the place that connected them all, but she stopped herself. Her brother had left a career he loved to help her. She was grateful.

“Let me catch Winter.” Henry strode off.

Viola, coming up the hill, eyes alight with some outrage, passed Henry without a glance. “Mir sees no point in working on the costumes for our ball. You’ll talk her round, won’t you, Cordelia?”

Cordelia took her youngest sister’s arm in hers. “She’s had a setback from Mr. Hartley this morning.”

“I know,” said Viola. “Makes one want to pull those little white clerical bands of his and give him a good shake. As if Papa’s follies in London could make Mir less good or beautiful!”

“Exactly.” Cordelia was quite as ready as Viola to give Mr. Hartley a shake. She had been willing to overlook his earnestness if he cared for her sister, but she could not overlook his looking down on their family. Sadly, there were no other prospects for Mir in Clifton-on-Sea.

“We are still respectable, aren’t we?” Viola asked.

“Perfectly.”

“And you’re not worried about propriety? About being discovered talking with Lord Graymont on the beach?”

Of course Viola had picked up on that detail. “You mustn’t worry about me. I can talk to Graymont quite without arousing comment. He’s simply our landlord.”

“Oh. Talking with him is not a compromising situation?”

“Hardly. It’s not some moonlit garden where we’ve gone apart from a ball. Our talk is all about business. And besides, I can’t be ruined, can I? I have no intention of marrying and no prospects.”

“Still,” said Viola. “It would be awkward if someone saw you meeting him, and he felt obliged to offer for you.”

Cordelia laughed. No one was likely to observe their dawn meetings on the path to the beach. And, as the story in Georgie’s letter of the unfortunate Miss Bexley revealed, Graymont apparently felt no need to do the “right” thing by a woman. “The thing to remember is that Graymont is not a man who can be worked on. No one will end up being forced to marry him.”

Viola was silent for a moment, which allowed Cordelia simply to enjoy the mild spring day and a stand of purple copper beeches.

“That’s some comfort, I suppose, but we still need a plan to drive Graymont away. Was there nothing in cousin Georgie’s letter that we could use to lure him back to London? Has he a mistress? Could someone challenge him to a duel? What if he received an urgent express to attend to some business in London?”

They neared the bottom of St. Nicholas’s little hill, where Henry stood talking with Graymont’s man, Winter, with Roz and Miranda nearby. Winter was doing his best to attend to Henry, but his gaze strayed to Miranda, who was standing with downcast eyes. As Cordelia and Viola came near, a fine black traveling coach with a ducal crest on the door pulled up, drawn by four magnificent chestnut horses. The coach came to a stop just beyond the end of the church lane, and the door opened.

A tall, fair-haired gentleman descended, easily unfolding to an impressive height as he emerged from the coach. “Winter,” he called. “I’m on my way to Delamere. May I take you up?”

“Finch,” Winter said. The stranger held the door, making no move to approach and be introduced. Winter spoke a few words to Henry, cast a glance at Miranda, who failed to look up, and turned and stepped up into the coach. The coachman gave his horses the order to move, and off they went.

Next to Cordelia, Viola stood stock-still, as if she’d received a shock. “Did you see his eyes?” she asked.

“The stranger’s eyes?”