Page 54

Fitzroy Square

London

Graymont—

A rumor of a most alarming nature has reached me and has, furthermore, become general talk among people one hardly expects to have the presumption to speak so knowingly of our family.

Lady Frome is the authority for the information that you are giving a Midsummer ball to which you have invited half of Dorset with no regard to the dignity of our name. Under your aegis, the disgraced Staveleys are to be lifted up. It will not do, Graymont. By allowing such degrading connections, you give pain to all your nearest relations, your own brother, your dear nieces.

I urge you to contradict this rumor at once by whatever means you can. If, indeed, there is truth to such talk, know that I will do everything in my power to restore the credit of our family name. You may expect Lionel and myself to arrive in Dorset within the week and remain as long as necessary.

Your sister B.

The contents of this missive gave Gray an unholy satisfaction. His sister was in a rare taking, and he began at once to imagine just how uncomfortable Bernie would be at Delamere. Bernie, who ruled her own world, would be no match for the cool composure of Cordelia Staveley. He was grinning broadly when Winter walked in, hatless and muddied, in his stocking feet and looking like a man sun-dazed.

“What’s happened to you?” Gray asked.

“An encounter with the Staveley dog,” Winter said.

Gray raised a brow.

“I was nearing the lodge when I saw Miss Miranda Staveley picking figwort by the side of the road. The dog spotted her, too, and barreled into her, knocking her down and pinning her with muddy paws.”

“Ah, figwort,” said Gray. “You had to effect a rescue.”

Winter’s face reddened. “I did, sir.”

“How gallant! It appears that you sacrificed your hat and boots.”

Winter glanced at his stockinged feet. “My boots will recover.”

“And is the fair maiden recovered from her brush with the beast?”

“Mostly, I think, sir,” Winter said. “Her sister, Miss Staveley, tended to her.”

Gray cast aside Bernie’s letter. He could picture Miss Staveley helping her sister. “And the ball? Did you get your marching orders?”

Winter laughed. “Exactly, sir. They are a most determined set of ladies. Did you know that they plan to have thirty couples, sir? Thirty!”

“You were not expecting such an ambitious enterprise?”

“I confess that I wasn’t. I thought a country dance would be smaller, more …” Winter looked like a man who’d lost the thread of his thought.

“Modest?”

“Yes, but Miss Viola Staveley assures me that they have everything in hand and that I have only to do whatever Miss Cordelia Staveley says. Thirty couples!”

“I suspect that Miss Staveley is trying to catch husbands for those sisters of hers.”

Winter did not answer, and Gray cast a glance at his secretary. There was some evident deflation in the younger man’s spirits.

Gray turned the subject. “I have news as well. Bernie, having heard a rumor that I am hosting a ball, will be bringing Lionel to Delamere.”

“Here, sir? For the ball? What could your sister mean by it?”

“Why, to stop me from proposing to some wily, grasping female with her eye on my fortune. Any marriage of mine with its likelihood of an heir reduces Lionel’s hopes of bagging a wealthy bride and spoils Bernie’s plan to have Lionel inherit.”

“But to come here, sir … Where will we put them? All the rooms are empty. We have no beds.” Winter looked around as if he expected some answer to the problem to appear.