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In short, they had a friendship—or at least an acquaintanceship—that went back years.

Mrs. Pettigrew had been wandering the room, poking at books with a disapproving look, picking up a misshapen clay pig and putting it back with a click, running her finger along the shelves, pausing to squint at a pendulum clock that likely stopped ticking a century ago.

“This furniture will not do,” she said now, returning to the group. “It is inappropriate: A lady prefers chairs with high backs and sturdy fabric.”

Luckily Otis had taken himself off to consult with the housekeeper about touring the rest of the vicarage.

Caitlin smiled and admitted that her cats had destroyed several chairs in her home, sharpening their claws. “This velvet would be hanging in strips,” she said cheerfully. “I believe Mrs. Pettigrew is right about the durability of the fabric.”

“Although it is exquisite,” Viola put in.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Pettigrew said frigidly. “Am I to believe that you allow felines to roam your home at will?”

“My cats are house pets,” Caitlin explained. “They sleep in a basket in my room.”

Miss Pettigrew’s mouth drew in very tight. “Modern science indicates that cats carry diseases. Some say they do worse.”

“Worse?” Caitlin said, straightening her shoulders, which Viola recognized as a danger sign from when they were in school together. Caitlin was endlessly sweet—but not when it came to defending her pets.

“Oh, no,” Joan muttered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make myself scarce.” She stood up and sauntered away.

Caitlin had arrived in Miss Stevenson’s Seminary a year after Viola and Joan, sent there by a father who had neither the time nor the inclination to cope with a newly motherless daughter. From his point of view, he had to marry again quickly in order to produce the heir needed to carry on his name and title.

Caitlin had been grieving for her mother and shaken by the loss of her home. She had distinguished herself on the first night at Miss Stevenson’s by throwing an unprecedented tantrum when the maids tried to remove the kitten she had brought with her, hidden in a hatbox.

“I can assure you that cats are entirely harmless,” Caitlin said now. “Unless you are a rodent, of course. Cats are excellent at keeping down vermin. Indeed, I feel that any house without a cat is likely suffering from an invasion of mice, if not rats.”

All those years ago, Joan and Viola had been parlor boarders, sharing a suite with two bedchambers and a parlor. When the battle over the kitten erupted, they invited Caitlin to take one of their bedchambers. “You and I can sleep together,” Joan had told Viola. “I know you’ll never allow that kitten to be banished to the stables.”

“Scientists believe that a cat can steal breath from a sleeping person,” Miss Pettigrew informed Caitlin.

“Miss Pettigrew, I assure you that is not the case,” Viola said hastily. “When Joan and I were in school with Caitlin, her cat often slept on one or another of our beds.”

“His name was Pitchy,” Caitlin said, nodding. “If he stole our breath, apparently we had enough air to go around.”

“My daughter attended the same seminary, a few years before you, and I clearly remember that animals were not tolerated,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, with a look that suggested she meant to demand her tuition money back.

“Did you meet Mr. Marlowe while he was a curate here at St. Wilfrid’s?” Viola asked Miss Pettigrew, trying to change the subject.

“No,” Miss Pettigrew said shortly.

“We met last All Hallows’ Eve,” Mr. Marlowe said. He looked as eager as Viola to change the subject of conversation.

Viola blinked. In the end of October? She had met him in November. Could he and Miss Pettigrew have been betrothed upon their first meeting?

“We were introduced by my father,” Miss Pettigrew added.

Viola felt another surge of sympathy. Instinctively, she glanced across the room at Devin. As if he felt her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met. The emotion in his was unmistakable. Joan was telling him a long story, her hands flying, and he was in need of rescue.

“Excuse me,” Viola said, standing up and heading toward His Grace.

Otis appeared at the door. “Come along, everyone! Mr. Marlowe won’t recognize the bedchambers after the changes I made.”

Viola hadn’t reached the duke, but he turned away from Joan and strode toward her as if her beautiful stepsister didn’t exist.

Toward her.

Short, insignificant Miss Astley, who wasn’t a Wilde, and wasn’t a good candidate to become a duchess.