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“Winter, you are a marvel. Ma’am, you are welcome.” The women withdrew, and Gray tasted the excellent roast. “Where did you find Mrs. Peachy?” he asked.

“Her husband is the village butcher. The village, sir, has no good opinion of Mrs. Tuffin’s fare at the inn.”

Gray laughed. “Then we are agreed. Any other wonders to report, Winter?”

“Everything is in hand, as you requested, sir. With only a little delay for the rain, the Staveleys’ goods are on their way to London, and your own furnishings arrived an hour ago.”

“The piano was well received?” Gray had to admit to some curiosity about the outcome of his little act of charity.

Winter bent over his plate, apparently intent upon a boiled potato.

“Is there a problem about the piano?” Gray frowned. He’d been generous, and he knew it.

Winter speared the potato. “It is only that the lodge is quite small, sir, for a family. The ladies’ skirts … We managed.”

Skirts? Gray lowered his fork. “I am at a loss as to the role of the ladies’ skirts, Winter. Is that a reproof? Do you think that as a single gentleman, I should occupy the lodge while the Staveleys remain in the castle?”

Gray watched his man of business. One thing Gray could count on was Winter’s inability to dissemble. Another lord might find that quality a dismissible offense in a man in one’s employ, but for Gray, in a world of false friends, Winter was invaluable.

Winter straightened. “Not at all, sir. It’s your castle. I didn’t mean … Do you know what the Staveleys will do with the proceeds from the auction?”

“They are obliged to repay their father’s creditors, of course.”

A log collapsed on the fire, and a shower of embers glittered in a brief whirl up the chimney. Gray waited, sensing Winter had more to say.

“It does seem a shame, sir.” Gray could trust the vicar’s son to feel the pangs of conscience for even the smallest complicity in another’s misfortune.

“You mean the sins of the feckless father visited on his blameless offspring? The girls must marry, of course. But they would have done so in any event.”

Winter froze, with his fork in the air, a golden bit of potato glistening on it in the candlelight. “You’re right, sir.”

“Be glad I stepped into that card game, Winter. Had Knowles won the deed to Delamere, the Staveleys would be on the road with only the clothes on their backs.”

Winter shuddered. “Of course, sir. Did you find a room to suit you for your stay?”

“I did. I like the place. I doubt my sister will ever come here.” Gray enjoyed a moment of satisfaction as he thought of Bernice. His sister would be consumed with curiosity, of course, and equally with disdain for his folly. His interest in an obscure castle meant that he was out of London and unlikely to do anything to embarrass her by drawing the notice of the ton. Gray would have months to begin putting his father’s plans into action. The grand house his father had dreamed of would rise at last.

“You don’t worry about ghosts, sir?” Winter glanced into the gloom around the edges of the room. Gray recognized the man’s attempt to lighten the mood.

“Not at all. Now, we’ll have to find you a room.”

“I am not particular.”

“But I am. I need you close by and fully equipped.”

“The ground floor suits me, sir. There will likely be fellows reporting at all hours as we get your plans underway.”

Mrs. Peachy brought a second course, and there the conversation ended for a while until the candles burned low. Wine and fire and good food had their inevitable effects, particularly on Winter. Gray contemplated his drowsy man of business. Winter was the third son of a vicar from Kent. A cousin of his father’s had seen to his education at Trinity, where Winter, seven years younger than Gray, had occupied rooms that had once belonged to Gray. Discovering a sketchbook Gray had left behind, Winter had come to London, sought Gray out, and restored the book to him.

Now, Winter was in danger of falling asleep in Mrs. Peachy’s almond flummery. Gray was on the point of sending the fellow off to bed when a blast of gunfire snapped them both to full alertness.

Gray was on his feet instantly. A single shot. It had come from just over the castle wall, too near for comfort. Gray moved to one side of the windows over the Italian garden, but the reflected light of the candles defeated his efforts to see out.

Winter struggled up from his chair. “What was that?” he asked.

“A blunderbuss, I think,” Gray said. The sound had not the crack of a rifle or a pistol.

Mrs. Peachy and Dinah appeared to collect their dishes.