Page 45

Gray nodded, curious, and Frome set off across the courtyard.

“I don’t have airs and graces, so you’ll pardon me if I speak plainly.”

“That sounds like a preface to unpleasantness.”

Frome sighed. “Here it is, plain and simple. Can you see your way to letting the Staveley girls have their ball at Delamere? Surely, it’s no trouble to you.”

“Ah.” Graymont froze at a sharp stab of disappointment. “Has Miss Staveley put you up to this?”

Frome shook his head. “Miss Staveley? Not at all. It’s my wife, man. You don’t have a wife, Graymont, so you’ve no idea what we’re up against here. A man can’t rest easy in his bed when he’s up against a wife.”

Gray laughed. “You’d advise me not to marry, then?”

Frome’s eyes twinkled. They’d nearly reached the courtyard entrance. “Oh, you’ll marry. A fellow has to have his heir and so on, and a fellow like you, some woman will have her eye on you. Now, I’ll send your man Winter two dependable men for the night watch. Give some thought to that ball, if you will. Good day to you.” He settled his hat more firmly on his head and turned to leave.

At that moment Henry Staveley came through the courtyard entrance, and Frome called out to him. “Staveley, lad! A word, if you will.”

Gray returned to the courtyard, where Winter waited for him, trying to hide a grin. “Getting to know your neighbors, sir?”

“And this amuses you because …?”

Winter’s grin broadened. “I’ve met Frome’s sort before. My father hears from well-meaning neighbors about every church issue. It’s a country vicar’s lot in life. I didn’t know that a viscount could be subject to the same treatment.”

“Ah, I’ll bear that in mind. But Frome is merely the messenger,” Gray said. Frome denied Cordelia Staveley’s involvement in his visit, but the indirectness of sending a messenger rather than appealing directly to Gray? That bothered him.

Henry Staveley appeared in the entrance portal, looking grim. He strode past Gray and Winter with a curt nod. “Sisters!” he muttered.

Gray looked at Winter. “Find out, if you can, what’s troubling young Henry.”

“Very good, sir, and I’ve been thinking, sir, about the missing sketchbook.”

“Yes?”

“The last time I saw the sketchbook, it was on Higson’s table before I went upstairs. When I heard the collapse, I came back down. Everyone was occupied with the rubble and the man left hanging. You were talking with Finch and Miss Viola Staveley. Then, when I looked later, the book was no longer there.”

“Thanks, Winter. I think I know where it went.” He would give Cordelia Staveley quite a piece of his mind in the morning.

*

Cordelia put aside her hairbrush. After an evening of door slamming, the house had quieted into the sort of lonely silence that held echoes of what had gone before. They were all at odds with one another over the castle and the ball, and she had to do something. Sir Roger had not only spoken to Graymont but also to Henry. She had no doubt that Sir Roger’s remarks were well-intended, but her brother had not taken them well.

Cordelia felt all the difficulty of Henry’s situation. Henry had given up his naval position to manage the estate. To be treated as a boy in need of advice rather than as the man in charge chafed him. She had to step back. She had to trust him to find his way. Sir Roger’s interference had not helped.

At dinner Henry complained that no one took a man with four unmanageable sisters seriously. He said he could not do business with tenants and neighbors and Graymont while his sisters made spectacles of themselves and interfered where they had no business interfering. Henry had next been so unguarded as to condemn the ball.

Viola called him a traitor to the family and stomped out of the dining room, giving the door a hearty slam. Mir wept silently. Roz put an arm around Mir and told Henry that no one cared what the neighbors thought about him. Henry left with a door slam every bit as loud as Viola’s had been.

It was up to Cordelia to bring her family back together. To do that she needed to bring Graymont round to letting them have their ball. He might have won their wager, but he wasn’t satisfied with his victory. He wanted something more from her. Every time they met, they locked in battle over who would have the last word, who would best the other.

Only in the sea had he allowed her to set the pace. Though he could swim farther and faster than she, he had not.

Graymont objected to balls for some reason. Georgiana’s letter had said as much. Yet he moved easily and confidently, with no awkwardness. Surely he danced. What gentleman did not? Perhaps he objected to formal dress. She had not yet seen him fully clothed. Always he left off some piece of gentlemanly attire—a cravat, a waistcoat, shoes, or a hat. He liked to roll up his sleeves and let his collar fall open, more like the men he had working for him than a lord.

Cordelia rose from the little table she now used to keep her brush and comb, her hairpins, and earbobs, and turned down the coverlet on her bed. The room was a far cry from the one she had in the castle. All those luxuries had gone to auction to pay Papa’s debts. The truth was that she could do without luxuries, but not without the ball.

She wondered if she had anything left with which to bargain with Graymont.

A soft rap sounded at her door, and she called, “Come in.”