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“You suspect someone on your crew tampered with the framework?” Gray regarded the men now industriously cleaning up. They’d been working steadily for days. Once or twice there had been accidents. He had experienced a near miss with falling stone, but nothing like the collapse of the scaffolding.

Higson ran his hands over his thinning hair. “Most of these fellows have been with me on other jobs, but three are new,” he admitted. “New fellows make mistakes.”

“Which are the new men?” Gray asked.

Higson pointed them out—the man sweeping, the man who’d been left to dangle, and one fellow with a checked vest picking up debris. Gray was not inclined to suspect the fellow who’d been left dangling, and he could see nothing suspicious in the other two. “Where did you find them?”

“The Masons Friendly Society, where else?” said Higson. “A man can’t be a member without an apprenticeship. Demand is high. Fellows in the trade are never out of work long.”

Winter frowned. His usual amiable expression darkened with worry. “I don’t like it, sir. Someone intends to undermine your project.”

“You suspect that one of these men is a plant? Paid by someone else to do a bit of damage here and there?” If one of Higson’s men was some sort of plant, Gray reasoned, the person acting against the project had London connections, like Knowles.

Gray glanced at Finch and Viola Staveley, standing at Higson’s table of drawings, having another sharp exchange. Once again, he needed Finch to investigate.

“There will be talk of that foolish curse again,” said Higson.

“Curse or carelessness?” said Gray.

Higson stiffened at the insult to his reputation. “My men take pride in their work.”

“Precisely, Higson. Remind them of that. Make sure that they don’t overlook any detail when they rebuild the scaffolding. If one of these fellows is a plant, his mates’ eyes on him will slow him down until we discover who we’re dealing with.”

Higson walked off, and Gray turned to Winter. “Keep a lookout, would you, Winter? Let me know what you see.”

“Sir.”

*

Gray strolled back to Higson’s worktable with its clutter of drawings and plans, pencils, and measuring sticks. Viola Staveley glared at Finch, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Miss Staveley, come with me,” Gray said. “Let’s return you to your sister.”

The girl spun and strode briskly across the courtyard. Gray caught up easily. For most of the distance to the lodge, she charged ahead, speaking nonstop about Gray’s injustice. Gray let her talk, listening with half an ear, his thoughts focused on Cordelia and how she would take the news of his victory and the prize he would claim.

“You delight in our disappointment, don’t you?” Viola accused. “You’re glad we won’t have our ball.”

“You mistake me, Miss Staveley. Your ball is a matter of indifference to me. Surely you will survive the disappointment of a missed ball and live to dance at many others.”

“Ooh, how can you be so heartless?”

“Easily, I assure you.” He could not contain a grin. The lodge was in sight.

“What can you possibly gain from disappointing our hopes? Wait!” She stopped in the middle of the lane, still hugging her chest, her fingers curled around the lapels of the messenger coat, as if to keep her anger and resentment inside. “You said there were conditions to your agreement with Cordelia. What conditions? What did Cordelia offer you in exchange for our use of the courtyard for a ball?”

“Nothing. Your sister offered me nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re like a cat in cream.”

She wasn’t wrong, but that was a private matter between him and Cordelia. Gray took Viola’s elbow and turned her toward the lodge. “Nevertheless, it is time for your sister to hear how things stand.”

“Fine, but you won’t stop my campaign. I won’t let you destroy Delamere.” She shook off Gray’s hand, stomped onto the lodge porch, and threw open the door. A startled maidservant appeared.

“Alice,” Viola said. “His lordship wants Cordelia.”

The girl hurried off toward the back of the house. Gray looked about, noticing just how confining the lodge was. The short, narrow entry was paneled in the dark wood of an earlier age and opened on either side to other rooms. On his left a small staircase led to upper rooms. Viola planted herself on the lowest step.

A door opened in the rear of the house, faint voices sounded, and footsteps approached, and there she was in a sea-blue gown—the same one or another, he couldn’t tell, only that it matched her eyes. Her defeated gaze met his and then passed to Viola. He saw that she understood that she’d lost.