Page 26

“Lord Graymont has a managing sister,” Viola said. “Serves him right, then.”

Cordelia tucked away that interesting detail and shot Viola a quelling glance.

“What?” Viola said, leaning forward. “Nothing could be more just than our high-handed oppressor having a difficult relation. Who is this sister? Is she older or younger than Lord Graymont? You must tell us everything, Lady Frome, for we are determined to oust the usurper from the castle.”

Roz groaned. “Viola, don’t spout nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. Cordelia said we have to know more about Graymont if we are to succeed in recovering our home.”

“What do you know?” Roz said. “You’re only fifteen, a baby, and not a well-behaved one.”

“Roz,” Cordelia said. “It does not help for us to be unkind to one another. Lady Frome, of course, we wish to understand our landlord and his plans.”

“Have you seen the print from Holland’s?” Lady Frome asked.

Cordelia nodded, and Viola gave a start.

“I have it here,” Cordelia said, resigned to the inevitable. She drew the print from her pocket and handed it to Lady Frome.

Viola stood and looked over her ladyship’s shoulder. “Papa is so stout,” she said. “Do you think he really has let himself go so much?”

Lady Frome returned the print to Cordelia, who handed it to Roz and Miranda.

“You must not refine on that print too much,” Lady Frome said. “Those fellows from the printshops thrive on making their targets ridiculous.”

“Who is that other gentleman in the print, Lady Frome, the villainous-looking fellow in the rear?” Viola asked.

“Oh, that’s Lord Knowles, a man no one likes. He had his eye on your mama once, pursued her. I won’t say he courted her, because he’s not very lover-like. In any case, she preferred your papa to all other men.”

“Will Papa ever come back to us?” Miranda asked.

“My dear girls, of course he will. Such a blow, losing your mother. Some gentlemen are quite lost without a wife.”

Cordelia thought it odd that her most trusted friend and their new landlord should think alike about her father’s reaction to his widowed state.

“Now, as to accepting Graymont’s offer of the castle for your ball …” Lady Frome frowned. “Propriety simply must be observed.”

“Is he very wicked?” Viola asked. “As bad as Byron? He swims, you know.”

Lady Frome, her mouth in a rare grim line, set down her teacup. “A gentleman does not have to be wicked to ruin a lady’s reputation. He simply has to be caught with her in compromising circumstances, and …” She shook her head and rose. “Well, never mind. I know you girls will be a credit to your mother.”

“Ma’am, you are kind,” Cordelia said, rising. “And we will be mindful of the proprieties.” She fixed her gaze on Viola. “We will do our best to keep our distance from the castle. And we are grateful for your offer of Frome House if our arrangement with Graymont comes to nothing.”

Lady Frome stood. “I want you girls to have every success my girls have had. Your mother would want it too. I can hardly let her down. Rosalind, dear,” she said. “We must think of a Season for you. I will write to Lady Beresford today.”

Chapter Nine

Humiliation, Cordelia reflected, had a way of showing up like an uninvited guest, undoing all one’s comfortable arrangements. There was certainly no hiding from it in the Staveley pew near the front of St. Nicholas Church. Above them in the pulpit, Mr. Hartley was holding forth on the iniquities of gaming and dissipation. In a recess to their left was a marble effigy of their mother’s ancestor, Sir Roger Leigh, lying on his tomb, apparently undisturbed by his descendants’ disgrace. It was plain in a dozen ways that the satirical print of her papa’s reckless gaming and loss of Delamere had made its way into general circulation in Clifton-on-Sea.

Now as the congregation rose to leave the church, stares and whispers followed the Staveley sisters. Mr. Hartley offered a curt nod and no smile for Miranda, who bolted down the hill from the church, pursued by Viola and Roz.

“Self-important prig,” mumbled Henry in Cordelia’s ear. “What does Mir see in the fellow?”

“He is handsome,” Cordelia pointed out, smiling at Lady Frome, who was doing her best to stand by them, speaking earnestly to a frowning neighbor.

“There’s Graymont’s man, Winter,” Henry said. “I’ll have a word with him.” Cordelia glanced down the hill from the church. Mr. Winter stood a little apart from their neighbors, watching Miranda.

“A word with Winter?” she asked Henry.