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“Viola, we don’t see the key,” Cordelia said.

“I pushed it under.” Viola’s voice came high-pitched with a note of alarm.

“Don’t worry,” Cordelia said. She knelt beside Finch on her bruised knee and took up another stick. She shoved it under the door and began to slide it along. Finch caught her intent and took over, moving the stick along until it met resistance, then angling the stick and giving a flick of his wrist. The key flew out. Cordelia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and got to her feet, her knee throbbing.

Finch snatched up the key, turned it in the lock, and wrenched the door open. Sir Roger raised the lantern.

Viola stumbled into the light, her face streaked with tears and dust, her hair coming down, her lovely green gown torn off her pale shoulder. Lady Frome gasped. The moment had all the drama a young actress could hope to achieve.

Lionel clapped his hands in a parody of appreciation until his sister glared at him.

Then Finch laughed. “You absurd girl,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t get anything right, can you?”

Viola’s gaze swung to him, and her expression changed to one of real distress. Cordelia reached out and drew her sister to her. Over Viola’s shoulder, Cordelia could see Graymont leaning against the wall, knee-deep in old ledgers. He shot her a glance she could not read. Cordelia held her sister more tightly. The situation offered no good choice. She could guess the truth of the scene. Viola had schemed to get Graymont to the dungeon. Telling that truth would expose her sister’s deception. Young and foolish, Viola would be disgraced and shunned. The other choice was no better. Letting the world believe Graymont had lured a young woman to a clandestine meeting in however unlikely a spot would protect Viola but embarrass Graymont. Cordelia had to choose a side.

“Hold that light steady,” Finch said. Sir Roger lifted the lantern, and Finch put out the burning straw with a twist of his foot and began to toss the ledgers aside to release Graymont, raising a cloud of dust as the old books slapped against each other.

From behind Cordelia came a rustle of silk.

“Miss Staveley,” Lady Sydling said in Cordelia’s ear. “My brother will never marry that child. I see what you are about. I will expose you and your family, with your ridiculous theatrical machinations to trap him, to all the world.”

In front of Cordelia, Finch backed out of the dungeon, and Graymont stepped free. His eyes met hers again, his gaze cool and aloof, her trusting friend of the sketchbook, gone.

“On the contrary, Bernie,” Graymont said, brushing the dust from his trousers. “I will do what honor demands. A gentleman always does.”

Viola gasped, and Cordelia tightened her hold on her sister. She did not have to choose after all. Graymont had chosen.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Cordelia clung to her trembling sister. Her mind rapidly threw up actions she must take. It was necessary to get Viola home safely and quietly without any notice. It was necessary to return to the ball and to give no sign of anything amiss. But the thought of Graymont married to Viola held her fixed to the stones beneath her slippers. There was something so wrong, so out of joint in the idea of her friend marrying another that she felt frozen.

It was Graymont who got them all moving again. “Everyone will return to the ball,” he said. “Lionel, take Bernie out of here. Finch—”

“My lord,” Cordelia said. “My sister needs to get home. Safely.”

He didn’t look at her but turned to Lady Frome. “Ma’am, will you and Sir Roger please see Miss Viola Staveley home?”

Lady Frome nodded. “Come, child,” she said to Viola. Cordelia let her sister go. Viola cast a despairing glance her way and took a step toward Lady Frome. In the center of the little ring of shocked and frowning faces, Viola, usually so bold and defiant, looked helpless in her torn dress with her tear-streaked face.

“Finch,” Graymont said. “Can you see that no one observes their leaving?”

Finch held Graymont’s gaze for a moment and then nodded. “Done. Lady Frome,” he said with a bow, “allow me.”

Lady Frome turned to him in confusion. Finch removed his coat and draped it around Viola’s shoulders, covering the torn dress. He stepped back, and Viola accepted Lady Frome’s hand. With a last pleading look at Cordelia, Viola let herself be led away.

“Brother,” Lionel said, “you can’t be serious about marrying that chit. She’s nobody. Let her be shamed. Her story will get old, and some local lad will take pity on her. No need for you to fall upon your sword.”

“Thanks for the advice, Lionel,” Graymont said. “Could you take Bernie back to the ball?”

Lady Sydling glared at Cordelia but accepted Lionel’s arm. Their whispers came back along the passage. Cordelia did not fully understand what had happened in the dungeon, but she knew that the filmy evidence of the torn dress outweighed the truth, whatever it was.

“Now,” said Graymont. “You and I must dance.”

“Dance?” She searched his harsh face. She believed they must return to the ball, but to dance with him seemed impossible. Their friendship of the afternoon before, of the moment in the wood with the sketchbook, seemed a lost thing. He must know that she would defend Viola, whatever the cost.

He extended a hand. “I trusted you once. Can you trust me now? I will not let my family ruin yours.”

How can you prevent it? she thought. He clasped her hand in his warm and firm one, and she realized that she’d grown cold in the cellar. He led her back along the passage and up the stairs, stopping at the courtyard entrance until they could enter unobserved.