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She nodded. One did not stop at the inn for the food. “I will speak to the men, but take me to Mrs. Peachy first.”

*

There was a shuffle of feet and a scrape of benches against stones when Miss Staveley, Mrs. Peachy, and her daughter entered the hall where Higson’s men sat wreathed in pipe smoke over home-brewed ale and empty plates. Finch had suggested feeding them as a way to stave off the desire to leave, and so far, it had worked. Finch now stood watch with Winter from the shadows of the old hall. The men turned toward the three women at the head of the table, who were caught in the warm glow of lantern light. They were an incongruous trio. Stout Mrs. Peachy in her apron, her beanpole of a daughter, and Miss Staveley in the simple elegance of a blue day dress that had surely seen better days. Walking to the castle with him, Cordelia Staveley had moved with angry strides. Now, whatever went on under the cool, collected surface could not be detected.

The blue dress was modest by town standards, with a high square neckline, and without the exaggerated leg-of-mutton sleeves of current fashion or the layers of petticoats most women wore in London. Gray, who thought more often than he liked of Cordelia Staveley in her swimming attire, could detect the lines of her figure under the cotton—the breadth of her shoulders, the nip of her waist, and the swell of her hips.

He didn’t know why Miss Staveley wished to have the cook with her, but Mrs. Peachy had warmly agreed to join her in speaking to Higson’s men. Now the three women linked arms, and the men fell silent.

With all eyes on her, Cordelia Staveley took a moment to look around the hall, stripped as it was of her family’s possessions. “Good evening,” she said at last. “Did you enjoy Mrs. Peachy’s cooking?”

There was a murmur of assent and appreciation from the men, and a brief banging of mugs on the table. Gray caught Finch’s slight smile.

“We’ve not met. I am Miss Staveley,” she went on. “I understand that Lord Graymont has engaged you because you move churches and bridges. You know your business, and your work is highly rated.” She paused. “I am surprised to hear that a young girl’s story about a curse has disturbed men such as yourselves.”

Another murmur went around the table. Gray watched the men, seasoned journeymen. Miss Staveley was right to wonder that the girl’s story had unsettled them. He wondered himself. Superstitions existed in the building trade, as in all trades, but these men earned a good wage and knew their work.

She regarded them with an unflinching look. “You may say, if you like, that women don’t know castles, but I know Delamere. There are more than nine thousand Portland stones in each tower, and though sea air may weaken the mortar, no curse has ever hindered work or repairs.”

“Ye mean we was fooled?” someone said. Gray did not catch who. “Wot about the magpie?”

Graymont waited to see what she would do with the challenge. She looked down briefly.

“If a magpie swooped down, it’s likely because the chicks are fledging this week, and parents will protect their young,” she said. “Mrs. Peachy, who has cooked here this past fortnight, can tell you if she’s seen any omens in our birdlife.”

Mrs. Peachy stepped forward, settled her hands on her ample hips, and looked up and down the table with its empty plates. “Now you men, there’s birds aplenty round the castle. Shame on ye to believe such nonsense about a curse. Nothing here to rattle a man’s bones. Ye’ll sleep like babes after a day’s work and good food and the cool sea air. You let us do our work and you get on about yours with no more fuss.”

There was a murmur along the table. Higson stepped forward. He nodded to Miss Staveley. “You heard the ladies, men. There is no curse, just a story told by a foolish girl. Any man who wishes to leave, let him leave now or stay and do the work he’s paid for. But let’s have no more talk of curses or magpies. We begin tomorrow at six. Mr. Winter will show you to your quarters.”

The men were silent. Cordelia Staveley stood unmoving, her steadiness a reproach for cowardice in itself. Gray saw how bringing in Mrs. Peachy was brilliant. The men might feel uneasy still, but any man who left now would look like a prize fool with less courage than the plain, stout cook. Gray nodded to Winter, who came forward with a lantern. The men were to sleep in the old schoolroom. Mrs. Peachy and her daughter began to clear the long table. At last, someone made a joke. The men put out their pipes and stood and followed Winter.

Gray went to Miss Staveley. “I’ll see you back to the lodge.”

She gave him a pointed look. “You’re welcome,” she said. “The bet is on?”

“The bet is on.”

She nodded and turned to the door. “You may give me a lantern. I can find my way back.”

He moved to block her path and took up a lantern. “Don’t be tiresome. We don’t have to speak, but I am gentleman enough to see that you return safely to the lodge.”

Her only reply was an arched brow.

He laughed and stepped aside. “I wonder what your idea of me is, Miss Staveley. Some printshop version of a dissolute rake?”

“I know only what I see, Lord Graymont. Your arrogant determination to have your own way.” She passed through the door to the courtyard with her quick stride, and he followed.

“Ah,” he said. “In that we are a match, are we not?”

She stopped abruptly and faced him. His lantern lighted the stones and her blue skirts, but not her face. In the dim courtyard, it was impossible to read her expression. “How can you think so? Our aims are utterly opposed. I want to return my family to our home. You want to tear our home down.”

“I don’t want the place to collapse,” he said patiently. “Higson will determine how sound the southeast tower is.”

“And then?”

“The bet goes on,” he paused. The temptation to needle her was too great. “But you won’t win.”

“So you say.”