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“Yes. He is Lord Graymont’s heir.”

“What a strange thing it must be to be a temporary heir,” Miranda said. “You’re neither here nor there.”

“What do you mean, Mir?” Viola asked.

“The real heir will be Lord Graymont’s son, when he has a son. The brother must be available only should Lord Graymont die, and one can’t wish for a brother’s death, can one?”

“Ooh,” said Viola. “It would be like Hamlet’s uncle, Claudius. To pour poison in Graymont’s ear or something, just to have his property. Would the brother get Delamere, do you think, Cordelia?”

“Viola, stop.” The suggestion gave Cordelia a chill. “You are letting your imagination run away with you. Even when they don’t like each other, most brothers don’t plot to murder their relations.”

“That’s because they don’t know Viola,” said Roz.

“Hah,” said Viola. “I’m nothing like Graymont’s sister. You could really dislike her, Roz, and you too, Mir.”

“Me?”

“Yes, because she treated poor Winter so badly.”

“Oh,” said Mir. “I don’t think I could murder anyone, but no one should be unkind to Mr. Winter.”

*

Graymont greeted his sister and brother in the castle courtyard, as Higson’s men, directed by Winter, lumbered past, weighed down by trunks and a large wing chair and velvet footrest.

“Graymont, what are you about?” Bernie asked, staring up at the scaffolding around the southeast tower. She was quite magnificent in pewter silk and lace, a reminder of the London he’d left behind.

“Merely some needed repairs. How was your journey, sister?”

“Tedious, and we arrive to discover that you have not the least consideration for our comfort.”

Lionel laughed. “Sister, when has Graymont shown any consideration for his relations?”

“You wrong me, Lionel,” Gray said. “I have spared you Mrs. Tuffin’s food at the inn and her appalling housekeeping. You will find Mrs. Peachy an excellent cook.”

“Mrs. Peachy, is it? You are on close terms with the locals, then?” Bernie asked. Lionel wandered over to inspect the scaffolding. “You don’t find your neighbors … rustic?”

“I find them civil and active.”

Bernie cast him a perplexed look. “Well, we will endure what we must, whatever hardship you choose to inflict on your nearest relations.”

“Sister, you chose to come and must take things as you find them. Your stay need not be long. The ball is only two days away.”

Lionel turned back, approaching with an indolent stroll. Gray thought it unfortunate how much Lionel resembled their father in form and feature, and how little he resembled him in character. His fair hair curled in the currently fashionable style. His clothes were as affectedly casual as Bernie’s were formal. His face wore its habitual expression of indifference. He lacked their father’s curious interest in the world.

“What can you possibly do for amusement here?” Lionel asked. “There won’t be shooting until the fall. Do the neighbors plague you with invitations? Have you been hounded into holding a ball out of sheer boredom?”

“Hounded? You mistake me, Lionel. I’ve offered my nearest neighbors the use of the castle to hold their annual ball.”

“Your nearest neighbors? Anyone of note?” asked Bernie. “Not that Frome woman.”

“The Staveleys.”

“They have another home, then?” Bernie asked. “Not Delamere?”

“Does your conscience trouble you, brother?” Lionel asked. “Sending young ladies of gentle birth to the poorhouse?”

“Not at all.”