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“Is he as old and horrible as we thought?”

“Miranda,” said Cordelia with an edge to her voice, “could you let us in and get us some towels?”

“Oh.” Miranda stepped back and swung the door wide so that Cordelia and Viola could enter the little vestibule. “Alice,” Miranda called. “We need towels.” She turned back to Viola. “Well, tell me about him.”

“Tell us.” Roz came down the stairs. “He didn’t see you looking like this, did he?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I doubt he’s a stickler for ladies’ dress. He’s quite unconventional. Didn’t you think so, Cordelia?”

“Unconventional?” Cordelia removed her dripping shawl. “Arrogant, indifferent, oblivious of others, rude …”

“He swims, like Cordelia. He swam at her beach,” Viola reported. “Dressed like Adam in the Garden of Eden, I suspect.”

“Is that allowed?” asked Miranda. “I thought Henry retained ownership of the land.”

Little puddles formed on the tiles under Cordelia’s soggy hem. A cold drop from her hair rolled down her nape and sent a chill through her. She did not want to think about Viscount Graymont as Adam. “Really,” she said, “Viscount Graymont’s swim is the least of our worries. He means to take up residence in the castle.”

Miranda and Roz stared. Alice arrived with the towels.

Viola snatched a towel from the stack and applied it to her hair. “Cordelia’s right, of course, as she always is. We must drive him away.”

“And how do we do that?” asked Roz.

“We must have a campaign of action,” said Viola. “First, we must convince him that the castle is haunted.”

“Haunted?” Miranda turned to Cordelia. “It’s never been haunted, has it, Cordelia?”

“Sadly, its lack of ghosts is one of Delamere’s great deficiencies. A proper castle would house the spirit of a despairing maiden, or a forgotten prisoner unjustly left to languish in our dungeon, or a child who perished from fever, neglected by its mother.”

“Brilliant, Cordelia. Now we have our ghosts. I can perfectly be the maiden. Roz, you could be the prisoner, or Henry could, and Miranda, you could be the child.”

Miranda frowned. “Not me. I won’t play at being a ghost, and I’m not going to the castle at night.”

“Don’t be chickenhearted, Miranda.”

“Viola, stop. We are not going to haunt the viscount. We’re going to keep as far away from him as possible.” Cordelia needed more information about him. If she was going to persuade him of anything, she could not be taken by surprise again. He was not handsome like Miranda’s curate, but he had a compelling sort of energy that had unsettled her and sent her carefully ordered arguments out of her head.

Viola put her hands on her hips. “Cordelia, you can’t mean to do nothing with our fate hanging in the balance.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to her. Cordelia knew that look. Her sisters, and even Alice, expected her to fix the problem, propose an instant solution, and undo the difficulty at once.

“Nothing is precisely what I mean to do, Viola. Have a little faith in the castle itself. Graymont doesn’t know it, as we do. He’s bound to find it inconvenient and uncomfortable. He’s a London person, not a country person. If the inn in Clifton-on-Sea didn’t satisfy him, the castle will send him on his way in no time.”

Viola tossed aside her towel, her eyes snapping. Cordelia scooped up the towel and handed it to Alice. “This rain will certainly help,” Viola said, “but we really should make sure that Graymont is very uncomfortable. I’ll think of something.”

Exactly what Cordelia feared. “Before you hatch any schemes, Viola, shall we move to the parlor? Is there a fire lit, Alice? May we have some tea?”

“Yes, miss.”

Viola turned away in a swish of skirts when a strong knock sounded on the door, and male voices rumbled outside. At a second knock, Alice answered.

Two carters in wet cloaks crowded under the lodge portico at either end of the canvas-draped piano. Mr. Winter, Graymont’s man, stood next to it under a black umbrella. “Mr. Winter?”

“Miss Staveley, where would you like us to put your mother’s piano?”

“In our parlor, thank you, Mr. Winter. Let me show you the way.” Cordelia and Alice stepped aside, while Roz, Viola, and Miranda moved up onto the stairs.

Mr. Winter closed his umbrella and stepped into the vestibule. His businesslike gaze took in the narrow space and necessary turning to maneuver the piano. He gave an order to the carters, then, turning back to the vestibule, he stopped and simply stared at Miranda as if he’d been enchanted and turned to stone.