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Gray padded up to his rooms in his soggy breeches, wondering how Cordelia Staveley managed to dry her swim attire each day. He imagined her swimming without the bulky skeleton suit. She would be faster without it, sleek and strong in the water. He laughed to himself. Her nature was stubborn, determined, disciplined. She would put that suit on whether it dried or not, cold and stiff against her skin. Their first swim revealed more about her than he’d expected, but he was safe. Fulfilling their wager was not a flirtation. She did nothing to attract him. She put on no airs, no coquettishness, only offering him that direct gaze. And he simply admired her energy. He was in no danger of losing his head over a managing female with a careless, dissolute father.

In the room set aside as his dressing room, Gray shed the damp jumper and his wet breeches. He had not yet sent for his man, Dawkins, from London. He was enjoying the fellow’s absence. In London, Dawkins would hover, making sure a warm bath was ready and clothes were laid out. There was a formality to a gentleman’s ritual of preparing to meet the day that Gray did not miss. Living at Delamere was more like his travels, more like tents and dust and adventure. His bath might be cold, but his thoughts were his own.

He poured the waiting bucket over his head and washed away sand and brine. Winning his wager with Miss Staveley gave him the upper hand. He should have realized that she would be a strong swimmer. Strength of will was a necessary quality for ocean swimming. But in a woman, wasn’t that strength at odds with her nature? Weren’t women supposed to be soft and agreeable, yielding and biddable? In the face of a managing woman, Gray’s father had withdrawn to his country house and lost himself in unrealized architectural dreams. Gray’s brother was controlled by their sister. Gray was not that sort of man. He might be curious about Miss Staveley. He might be impatient to see her again, but he had no intention of letting a woman rule over him.

He toweled dry and dressed. With Finch’s help, Gray would find a way to overcome the advantage given to Sir Humphrey’s daughters by the clause that said only a descendant of the female line could inherit the land.

On schedule Winter knocked on the door. Gray called for him to enter.

“Finch is off for London, sir,” he said. “He left you a message.”

Gray opened it and read.

One of Higson’s fellows is not who he says he is.

Try to get your sketchbook back.

Hire night-time watchers.

*

In Lady Frome’s drawing room, with its robin’s egg-colored walls and white marble fireplace, Cordelia’s gaze caught on the deeper blue of a vase on the mantel. She was sure the vase had always been there, but now its smoky blue reminded her of the morning sea and Graymont standing up to his waist, pleased with himself, grinning at her. That flashing grin had unsettled her. He was infuriating. He now knew things about her that no one else knew. Their meeting had been lopsided, like a collapsed cake. She had thought to resist his power by refusing to be curious about him, but now she itched to know more. She could not recover her usual after-swim calm.

She felt Roz’s elbow in her ribs and returned her gaze to their hostess. There was an enforced awkwardness to taking tea with their neighbor. The four Staveley sisters sat arranged on a long, curved damask sofa, teacups in hand with no place to put them.

“My dear girls,” Lady Frome was saying, “how very wise of you to come to me for help with your ball. What do you need? Serving people? I’m happy to lend some of mine. Chairs? Plates? Have you sent out your cards of invitation? I confess I’ve not received one.”

“We can’t send them, ma’am,” Viola said. “Lord Graymont has canceled our ball. We are not to use the castle.”

“What? Lord Graymont has decided against you!” Lady Frome’s teacup rattled against its saucer. She lowered the cup to the small, round mahogany table at her side. “That will never do. What possible motive could he have for such an act?”

“Ask Viola,” Roz blurted. “She’s been up to her hoydenish tricks ever since he arrived.”

Lady Frome stared at Roz with a look of incomprehension. Cordelia put a light hand on Roz’s arm. “We can’t be sure, ma’am, but Lord Graymont likely changed his mind because he has renovations underway.”

“Exactly!” Viola glared at Roz. “It most certainly is not my fault. Lord Graymont’s renovations aren’t going well. Yesterday the scaffolding collapsed, apparently tampered with by one of the workers. Graymont was lucky to escape alive.”

Cordelia could not catch Viola’s gaze. There was no quelling Viola’s love of drama, but clearly her sister knew more than she’d told Cordelia about events at the castle.

“Oh dear, one hardly wishes the man an injury.” Lady Frome frowned. “But I don’t understand his turning against you. It’s unkind and ungentlemanly of him to deny you your ball. Sir Roger must speak with him today. Sir Roger must set him straight about what is owed to your family in this neighborhood.”

“Oh, you mustn’t trouble Sir Roger, ma’am,” Cordelia said. She did not want plainspoken, kindly Sir Roger to face Graymont’s mocking courtesy.

“Nonsense. Sir Roger must go directly he returns. You must have a better answer from Graymont, and you must send out your cards at once.”

“Ma’am, could you host our ball here?” Viola asked. “You have such large, lovely rooms.”

“Viola,” Roz hissed. “You are too forward.”

“Here? Oh dear, did I say that I could?” Lady Frome shook her head. She took up her tea and sipped. “You haven’t reduced the size of the ball, have you? Let me think what’s to be done.”

“But you promised—” Viola protested.

Lady Frome held up a hand to stop Viola. “Viola, dear,” her ladyship said. “You are quite too young to be injured by Lord Graymont’s decision. If he remains unmoved by Sir Roger … well …” Her ladyship straightened as an idea occurred. “I will write to my acquaintances in London. I have friends who will see that Rosalind has a proper come-out. What is your age, Rosalind, dear?”

“Twenty, ma’am.”

“Oh my, there must be no further delay. I will send a letter with today’s post. Nancy Beresford will be willing to help, I’m certain.”