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“So I know. My money’s on your very volatile sister. She doesn’t care a fig for propriety. She’ll find a way to lose the bet for you.”

“Viola may dare to do more than most girls, but she’ll be guided by me. She wants her sisters to have their ball.” She started walking again, her skirts swishing with her stride, a rustle that made him think of bedcovers slipping and sliding. It should not surprise him that she could move with such uninhibited confidence, even in the dark. He matched her pace, saying nothing. He was sure of winning, but as long as he got his prize, he might let her have that ball after all.

They didn’t speak until they reached the lodge porch. She turned and dipped into a brief curtsy.

“Enjoy your morning swim,” he said. “Goodnight.”

Chapter Eleven

Walking to St. Nicholas on Sunday morning with her family, Cordelia could almost believe that nothing in her world had changed in the past weeks. There was no barouche, of course. It had gone to be sold in London with their other possessions, but dappled sunlight through new green leaves, sea air, and birdsong remained. The walk down from the lodge, past the river, and through the village with its shops closed was part of the Sunday pattern of letting go of the week’s cares, slowing down, and putting aside tasks and worries.

For five days Cordelia swam at first light, avoiding Graymont. She needed no reminders from him of how Viola could lose their bet. Without telling Viola of the wager, Cordelia urged her sister to think about Mir and Roz and to wait until they had their ball before she again tried to dislodge Graymont from the castle.

Viola agreed to wait on the theory that she needed time to strategize. In her opinion the invented curse had been a good idea, but poorly executed. She meant to make her next attempt better. Cordelia could only repeat her plea to wait for the ball. The arrival of the cloth for their gowns gave them something to occupy their time. Laying it out, measuring, cutting patterns, and piecing the underdresses together kept them busy. She had concentrated on restoring the old costumes—blue for Miranda, deep rose for Roz, forest green for Viola, and silver for herself. Roz had written out nearly all the cards of invitation in her lovely hand.

As they turned up the path to the church, Henry reported that scaffolding had gone up around the castle’s southeast tower. He and Cordelia and Viola brought up the rear of their Sunday procession, Miranda and Roz leading the way. His next remark startled Cordelia out of the peacefulness of the moment. Graymont had had a near miss. A stone had fallen and shattered mere inches behind him as Graymont inspected the work.

“He wasn’t harmed, was he?” Cordelia asked. She had an instant recollection of his solid person holding her, keeping her from tumbling down the beach path.

“Rock fragments hit him, but nothing more. I’m the one who suffered. Graymont, Winter, and Finch ragged on me for having a tale-telling sister. Viola,” he said. “Have you no sense?”

“I’m not the one who lacks sense,” Viola protested. “The rest of you are willing to let Lord G go ahead with his plans. If no one else is going to stop him from tearing down Delamere, I must.”

“And you thought a pea-brained story about a curse would do the trick?”

“Well, if a stone fell and nearly crushed Lord G, maybe there is a curse, even if we never heard of it before.”

“Don’t be daft. There is no curse, and I’ve seen no signs of tearing down. The castle is old, and sea air is the devil on mortar. Bound to be loose stones. Let Graymont repair the place. He has the money for it. You wouldn’t want a stone to fall during your ball, would you?”

Ahead of them, Mr. Winter joined the little crowd of people heading for the church, trailing Roz and Miranda. There was no sign of Lord Graymont. He did not appear to be a churchgoer. By Cordelia’s count, they had only a week to go on their bet.

Viola nudged Cordelia. “Mr. Winter can’t keep away from Miranda, can he?”

Henry scoffed. “Winter? Interested in Miranda? He is a vicar’s son. He comes for services.”

“Apparently, his friends are not churchgoers,” Viola said.

“Friends? I suppose you mean Lord Graymont and Finch. You don’t understand anything, Viola. Winter works for Graymont, and Finch is …” Henry laughed. “I don’t know what he is. You could say he’s a friend of Graymont’s. He’s not much for talk, more of a watcher. He and Graymont do a bit of sparring most days.”

“Will Finch go back to London soon?”

“I don’t know. Why do you care?”

“I’m curious,” said Viola.

“If you must know, Finch is here looking at archdeaconry records for Graymont. Finch may know more about our ancestors than we do, before he’s done.”

“Why would he do that?” Viola asked.

Henry shrugged.

Outside the church, Mr. Hartley, in his white surplice and clerical bands, approached Miranda and Roz. Miranda smiled, but he frowned coldly, and when he spoke, she flinched. Roz looked round as if suddenly unsure of herself.

“Do you see that?” Viola whispered to Cordelia, hurrying her steps. “Whatever is Hartley saying? I’ll wager you that our favorite priggish prelate is being unkind again. I could knock him down.”

Cordelia’s stomach lurched at her sisters’ reactions. Whatever he’d said, Cordelia knew what it meant. Hartley had decided Miranda was unworthy of him. He might be a lowly curate, but he was ambitious, and now that the print had made their father’s foolishness generally known, Mr. Hartley wanted nothing to do with a girl from such a family. Cordelia kept a firm hold on Viola. She might agree that knocking Hartley down would be satisfying, but it was not the answer.

Hartley turned his back on Roz and Miranda. The bells pealed, and passing churchgoers regarded them with curious stares.