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Lady Frome was right. The world would be unkind to Viola. Though Viola’s dungeon scheme had led to a happy result, her volatility, if left unchecked, would one day land her in serious trouble. The world wanted to crush rather than applaud Viola’s adventurous spirit. Cordelia wanted to see Viola, still bold, but guided by sound judgment. She had a fanciful thought that if Viola could enlist in the navy like Henry and Ned, Viola would find adventure within a structure of authority. She would have action enough, but with wiser heads over her to put her energy to good use. Alas, that there was no navy for headstrong girls.

Viola returned and set a tray of lemonade and cakes on a little table. The girl turned on her heel and stalked off. Then she came back and stood before Lady Frome.

“I’m sorry for the alarm I caused you and Sir Roger,” she said, her chin up, nothing apologetic in her stance. “But you must not blame Roz or Mir for my … faults.” Viola dipped into a quick curtsy and was off.

Cordelia told herself it was a start. Lady Frome shook her head. “Oh my,” she said. “I do not envy you, Cordelia.”

Cordelia invited her guest to take some lemonade and explained away her arm as an accident of bumping it in a fall.

“You’ve seen Bradstock?”

“I have.”

“Good.” Lady Frome took a sip of lemonade and a bite of Mrs. Peachy’s date sponge. “Now then, let us talk about Roz.”

*

On the third day of Cordelia’s recovery, Henry arrived, looked shocked at seeing her arm in its sling, and gave vent to his feelings about sisters who took absurd risks. He paced in front of her, telling her she was well served for swimming alone, that her foolishness matched that of Viola, that she had no right to cause people who cared for her such alarm, and that she was beyond lucky to be alive. He reminded her that her sisters depended on her, and where would they be without her? She listened without interrupting the flow of his remarks, working as he spoke, to make a good fist with her right hand. Only Hector’s arrival ended Henry’s scold. The dog barreled into the garden and circled Henry, barking, wagging his plume of a tail, and jumping up in spite of Henry’s stern commands.

Cordelia quelled the dog, and at last, looking a little sheepish, Henry asked how she was doing. She showed him her progress at making a fist. He took a seat, and the dog rolled onto his back at Henry’s feet, seeking a belly rub. Henry obliged, and the act of stroking the dog seemed to calm him.

“Was I unjust to you?” he asked. “You don’t know how you worried me when Graymont said you’d been shot. Shot, Cordelia! And I could not get away for three days.”

“That is what worry does to us, isn’t it? It makes us quite cross with the very person for whom we fear,” she said.

The dog settled, and Henry began again, telling her that Graymont and Finch, with the help of Finch’s friend Jones from Scotland Yard, found a pair of dueling pistols in Bernie’s coach, one of which had been fired and not cleaned. At Lionel’s rooms they discovered from a neighbor that Lionel had gone to Paris.

She thanked Henry for bringing her the news. It was a relief to hear that Lionel was nowhere near them, and that his attack was known to the authorities. Then she asked Henry to tell her about his prospects. It was a subject on which he grew lively and animated. He was to get the post he wanted with Captain Martin aboard the Tiger. The Duke of Wenlocke had spoken with someone at the Admiralty, and all doors had been open to Henry. He’d never seen anything like it. He would soon be posted to the Mediterranean.

“You all will be fine here at Delamere, now that you are to marry Graymont and live in the castle.”

*

Sydling House, on one of London’s newer squares, was a substantial structure of orange brick, five bays wide and four stories tall, with ornate stone decoration born of some Gothic impulse. It spoke of money and position in the world, but also of pride, of being above others. The surprised butler ushered Gray up an imposing iron staircase to his sister’s drawing room. The interior decor confirmed Gray’s sense that he and Bernie shared no common tastes. It was a room that shut out nature. Heavy, gold-velvet drapery kept out the light, and patterns and stripes covered almost every wall and surface. Bernie, herself, wore a gown of a deep red-and-blue plaid silk.

“Graymont,” she said. “What brings you here? You must know that your proposed marriage to that child is a disgrace. I can offer you no refreshments.”

“Uncivil as ever,” he said. She offered no chair, and he remained standing. “You haven’t been paying attention, Bernie. I am not marrying Miss Viola Staveley, but her oldest sister.”

“What?” Bernie straightened with a jerk that bounced the brooch at her collar. Her expression changed from indifference to marked annoyance.

“I am going to marry Miss Cordelia Staveley.”

“I don’t understand. The eldest daughter? How will marrying her restore anyone’s reputation? Certainly not yours. Really, Graymont, you are absurd. Why must you marry anyone? You’ve had no inclination for marriage these seven years.” Bernie spoke in her familiar aggrieved tone, not meeting his gaze, rearranging the folds of her skirts.

“I haven’t, have I? Not since my own sister’s lie about my refusal to marry Miss Bexley tarnished my reputation. The recent announcement in the papers of my betrothal to Miss Staveley has already ended most of the gossip.” Gray could not resist a grin. He moved to stand behind a large, striped silk sofa, resting his hands on its high, arched back.

Bernie’s head came up. Her gaze followed him. “You’re serious, then. You do mean to marry?”

“I do. I have been meeting with my solicitor about the marriage settlements. And I must speak with you about my will. You have taken such an interest in that document over the years that it seems fitting to tell you the changes I have made as I prepare to marry the woman Lionel did his best to murder.”

“Murder. Don’t be theatrical. I do not know that Lionel did any such thing.”

Gray raised a brow. “But you do, Bernie. You are complicit in an attack on an innocent woman. Lionel used your coach to transport and conceal the pistol he fired at Miss Staveley. Intending to kill me, he mistakenly shot her. By a remarkable combination of grit and luck, she survived. Lionel’s act is known to the authorities, specifically to Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard.”

“You have reported your own brother to the police? I will never understand why Father favored you. It’s Lionel who resembles him, Lionel who—” She broke off. “You have always lacked affection for your nearest and dearest relations.”

Gray ignored the old accusation. If Bernie and Lionel were near and dear, it was only to each other. “If Lionel returns to England, he faces arrest and trial. But the real culprit in the case is you.”