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“You don’t fear that he will raise false hopes in matronly bosoms that he will elevate some daughter of Clifton-on-Sea to be his bride? One of your sisters, perhaps?”

Cordelia laughed. “Really?” she said. “You must be a reader of romances from the circulating library to fancy such a thing. Graymont may be seen as quite a catch in London, but here, he’s … he’s seen as … far too fine for daily use. My neighbors tend to look for eligible suitors in their own circle.”

She was grateful for another moment of separation occasioned by the dance. Graymont had made light of his plan to annoy his family by allowing her to give a ball, but between him and his relations, Cordelia sensed a chilling level of enmity that went beyond teasing or joking. In truth, it seemed to her that Lionel hated Graymont. She shivered at the thought. She looked around, immediately reassured by the company. The courtyard was full of friends, full of laughter and good feeling. Viola had reported the afternoon before that Sir Roger had arrested the man from Higson’s crew who had been behind the troubling accidents. No danger lurked in the shadows. It was a lovely night. Once her dance with Lionel was over, she would find Mir and make sure that her sister danced.

*

Gray found it nearly impossible to keep his gaze from Cordelia Staveley. With easy warmth she had greeted her neighbors, and with quiet assurance she had faced Bernie and Lionel, indifferent to their attempts to snub her. In a gown of silver gauze over a white underdress, her shoulders bare, her fiery dark hair up, curls around her face, a knot at her nape, a tiara glittering on her head, she was every inch a fairy queen come out of the woods to dance with mere mortals. He had grown accustomed to her everyday blue cotton gowns and her oddly form-fitting nankeen swim costume. He had seen her lit up from within as she finished a swim. Now he saw that he had been misled all along by her plain garments and composed manner into thinking her ordinary and unremarkable. She stood shimmering in the lantern light at the edge of the dance floor, listening to her sister Viola.

Gray glanced away. Miss Rosalind Staveley was in the middle of the dance. Only Miss Miranda Staveley was missing. Unless he was much mistaken, Lionel had seen in Cordelia the dazzling vision that Gray saw. He would have to dance with others before he could seek her out. He schooled himself to patience. Finch stood in the shadows, observing the two sisters talk, while Winter threaded his way through the guests as if in search of someone. Gray really should tell Winter that, with everything in hand, he was as free to dance as Gray was. Gray resolved to dance with the first girl he found in need of a partner. He began circling the dance floor, aiming for a stout girl on the far side, when one of Lady Frome’s footmen, loaned for the evening, handed him a note.

He moved to stand under a lantern and unfolded the crisp paper. In a neat hand, the message read—

I need your help. Meet me below. —A damsel in distress

He looked up. The scene had not changed. A dance was in progress. People talked and laughed. His sister sat apart, gazing with haughty disdain at the dancers, Lionel beside her. Rosalind Staveley danced, but Gray could not see Cordelia or either of the other Staveley sisters.

The note could only have come from Viola. Shy Miranda would never approach him, and Cordelia would not consider herself a damsel in distress.

He shoved the little note into his pocket. Finch remained at his post. He had promised to keep an eye on Bernie and Lionel throughout the ball. Winter stood, looking into the passage to the Italian garden. If Viola was up to some trick, Gray should bring her back to the gathering and spare Cordelia any alarm on her wild sister’s account.

*

Cordelia passed into the shadows of the Italian garden. The moon had not yet risen, and strings of lanterns obscured the view. It was Viola who had directed Cordelia to the garden. According to Viola, a word from Lady Sydling had sent Mir running off. The idea of her ladyship attacking Miranda had Cordelia in a rage. If Lady Sydling thought Miranda was out to snare Graymont as a husband, she was as bird-witted as she was haughty. Cordelia strode through the center of the garden until she realized she would have to slow down to find Miranda. It would be wise to get her to tell the story of what happened.

She crossed to the boundary wall, away from the lanterns, and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Faint music came from the courtyard. Night birds made occasional calls in the woods beyond the balustrade. At last Cordelia spotted a flash of color on a bench at the far west end of the garden. She made her way to Miranda, who was sitting slumped, pulling apart the circlet of roses she’d worn in her hair for the ball.

“Dearest,” Cordelia began, taking a seat next to her sister. “Can you tell me what is upsetting you?”

“Oh, you found me,” Mir said.

“Viola said you ran off after Lady Sydling spoke to you.”

Miranda shuddered. “It was so odd. She said I was a presumptuous little nobody, and how dared I think I was a match for her brother. If I knew what was good for me, and for our family, I would stay away from him. But, Cordelia, why did she say such a thing? I’m sure I never thought of Lord Graymont. He scares me.”

A spurt of hot anger coursed through Cordelia. She put an arm around Miranda’s shoulders, feeling how cold her sister had become in the thin gown. “I’m sorry, Mir. Lady Sydling has made the mistake of thinking that because you are beautiful, Lord Graymont must be in love with you.”

Mir lifted a confused gaze to Cordelia. “How could he be? I can’t even speak when he is near.”

“I know. Do not let her mistake disturb you. Come back to the ball, and let’s find you a partner who is not scary.”

“Oh, Cordelia, I can’t. Mr. Hartley is there.” Mir tugged at the little circlet in her hands, and it broke apart.

Cordelia took the ruined garland from Mir and tossed it into the shrubbery. “All the more reason to dance with other gentlemen, to show Mr. Hartley that he can no longer grieve you.” She pulled Mir to her feet, and arms linked, they walked back along one of the lantern-lighted paths. In the passage, they met Mr. Winter.

“Miss Staveley.” He bowed. “Miss Miranda.” There he stopped as if words had deserted him.

“Mr. Winter,” Cordelia said. “Do you wish to dance with my sister?”

He swallowed, his fair youthful looks and shy manner a complement to Mir’s darker beauty. “Very much,” he said, extending a hand to Mir.

Mir looked up and smiled at him. Cordelia unlinked her arm from Mir’s and gave her sister a little nudge. Mir took Winter’s hand, and off they went.

Cordelia stood in the shadowy passage. Tonight, it did not matter that Winter was the penniless third son of a vicar. Lady Sydling would see that Miranda had no interest in Graymont, and Mr. Hartley would be well-served for choosing smirking Elizabeth Cox over Mir. Whatever came of Winter’s dancing with Mir could be faced later. Cordelia’s work was done. The ball would re-establish them in Clifton-on-Sea society. Everyone could see how lovely her sisters were.

All that was left for Cordelia to do was to circulate among her guests. She might even dance. Perhaps, she would dance with Graymont, if he asked her, just to thank him for relenting on their wager. She lingered a moment in the passage, looking out at the lights in the courtyard and the whirl of dancers. She had won the wager after all. Their lovely ball was happening. Mir would forget Mr. Hartley, and Roz would show Lady Frome that she was worthy of a London Season.

*