Page 13

At the edge of the Common, a shaded lane turned up toward Delamere. Cordelia started up it, but Viola tugged her back to the high street. “Can we get a sweet and toss a stick in the stream from the bridge?”

Cordelia agreed with a smile. Her sister was still a child for all her talk of high flyers. The Staveleys, like the village children, had grown up dropping leaves and sticks into the Addlethorp to watch the stream whirl them away. Viola had made no mention of Graymont so far, but no sooner had Cordelia had the thought, when Viola stopped dead opposite the inn.

“That’s Lord Graymont’s cabriolet, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Cordelia kept walking, but Viola pulled her to a stop. A young ostler held a beautiful black horse harnessed to a yellow-gold carriage body with the elegant curve of a lady’s high-heeled slipper. No one in the village drove such a rig, the latest in a gentleman’s fashionable transportation. Papa had long since sold his own sporting vehicle. Whatever the viscount was about, his business would be brief, and Cordelia had no wish to meet him.

“Look, the apron has a coat of arms and a crest. Graymont said that he doesn’t like the inn food or accommodations. What can he be up to?”

“Whatever it is, it is no concern of ours.”

“But it is, isn’t it? The more we know of him, the better prepared we’ll be to counter any moves he makes against us. What if he plans to turn Delamere into one of those gentlemen’s debauchery clubs?”

“He’s unlikely to confide such plans to innkeeper Tuffin,” Cordelia pointed out.

“True, but we can deduce them from his arrangements, I think.”

Cordelia took her sister’s arm and linked it with hers. Viola was, unfortunately, quicker than Roz or Miranda, or possibly than both of them combined. “That’s young Bob Tuffin holding the horses, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tomorrow you can ask Bob for details. Let’s get to the bakery and the Addlethorp so you can have your sweet and throw your stick.”

With one last glance, Viola yielded to Cordelia’s pull. In the bakery Viola renewed her friendship with the baker’s wife, Mrs. Kirby, reminding that lady that strawberry tarts would be perfect for a Midsummer’s ball. From the bridge, Viola dropped a sturdy twig and watched its rapid, whirling course down the stream.

She turned to Cordelia with a grin. “Now, I know I’m home.”

They began the gentle climb up the lane to Delamere. On the whole, Cordelia thought the outing a success. Day one was going well. The village would soon be abuzz with talk of their ball, and Viola had done nothing untoward. Cordelia began to run through ideas for keeping her sister occupied through the afternoon. The novel from the circulating library would help. The clop of horses’ hooves and the crunch of wheels on gravel signaled an approaching vehicle and interrupted her thoughts. Abruptly, Viola clutched Cordelia’s arm and began to limp.

Cordelia pulled Viola to the side of the road to let the vehicle pass. Instead, it slowed and drew up alongside them. Cordelia did not need to look up. From under her hat brim, she saw black hooves and yellow wheels. The horse shook and snorted as it came to a halt.

“Miss Staveley. Miss Viola,” the maddeningly deep voice came from above. “May I be of some assistance?”

“Oh, Lord Graymont,” said Viola, wilting against Cordelia. “Good day. I fear my ankle is troubling me.”

Cordelia made a note never to underestimate her sister’s capacity for drama. She looked up and caught an amused glint in Graymont’s eyes. “No need to trouble yourself, Lord Graymont. We’ll just hobble on. Viola is remarkably stoic. I’m sure she can handle her agony a few minutes longer.”

“Nonsense,” Graymont said. “Let me take you up.”

“You’re very kind, but surely there’s not room for three.”

As if she had not spoken, Graymont sprang down and came around the vehicle. “You’re not going to tell me that my horse can’t handle two featherweights such as you. Up you go, Miss Staveley, if you will. Take the middle.” He offered his hand. Cordelia looked at it, weighed stubborn resistance, and decided against it. She took the offered hand, put her foot on the footboard, and was boosted up as if she indeed weighed nothing.

She sat and pulled her skirts close around her. In the next instant, Viola was beside her on the seat. In another, Graymont vaulted up to her other side. They fit snugly in the seat intended for two. Cordelia looked resolutely out over the horse’s head, but a vision intruded of pale-green muslin lapping at a man’s muscular, buff-clad leg.

“Hold on, Miss Viola,” he advised. Graymont’s elbow brushed Cordelia’s as he gave the horse the signal to start. Then they were rolling smoothly along at a brisk pace.

“What a capital rig,” Viola commented. “It’s London-made, of course. I imagine you can’t get anything like it in the country. You must long to return to London, Lord Graymont.”

“I’m in no hurry,” he said.

“Oh well, in that case, perhaps you will want to take in our local sights.”

“Are there local sights, Miss Viola?”

“Oh yes! We have excellent fossils, and really rare and unusual trees, not to mention Roman ruins and smugglers’ caves. My sisters and I know the area well. Perhaps, you would like a tour.”

“Perhaps when my business permits leisure.”