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“But what about Miranda?” Viola asked. “Surely, you would not leave Miranda out.”

Lady Frome shook her head. “I can take Rosalind to London in the fall for the Little Season when I visit my Lucy. But I can’t take two girls. Impossible!”

Miranda slumped. Viola flashed Cordelia an outraged glance.

“Your ladyship is most kind.” Cordelia stood. It was time to remove Viola from Lady Frome’s drawing room before they seriously offended the one friend they could count on in the neighborhood. “A chance to go to London is just what Roz has been wishing for. Truly, we never expected you to host our ball.”

At least, Cordelia hadn’t. She was all too familiar with the limits of her friend’s generosity, always offering a bit more than what would be delivered in the end.

“You know, dear girl, how fond I am of all of you, and how I will do most anything to help, but sadly, a large ball is quite beyond me.” She rang a little bell from the table, and her maid appeared to collect their teacups. Her ladyship remained seated. Cordelia thanked her again for the help she had offered. In minutes they were out the grand door on the drive, Viola stomping on ahead of the rest.

“Cordelia, where is your head? I thought you were going to make Lady Frome host our ball,” Viola complained. “If she thinks Sir Roger can move Graymont, she has wool for brains.”

“As if you helped, Viola,” Roz said. “Can you never keep an opinion to yourself?”

“Well, you’re one to talk, Roz. You think only of yourself and your London Season. What about Mir? The ruin of our plan hurts her most of all.”

“Stop, both of you,” Cordelia said. “Lady Frome offered what she felt she could, and we will need those chairs and servants when we host our ball.”

“As if that will happen,” Roz said.

“Cordelia has a plan, don’t you, Cordelia?” Miranda said.

“If Graymont is crushed by a falling stone, do we get the castle back?” Viola asked.

“Viola!” gasped Miranda. “You can’t wish the man an injury.”

“Oh, maybe not, but what if … what if … we send our invitations, and then we lock Graymont in the old dungeon before the guests arrive?”

“Viola,” said Roz. “You are utterly ridiculous.”

*

When the search around the castle for Gray’s sketchbook turned up nothing, his first suspicion of Viola Staveley returned. Winter straightened the papers on Higson’s work table with a puzzled frown, while Higson kept a grim watch on the building of the new scaffold. He did not like the idea that one of his men had deliberately caused harm. The men themselves worked without their usual talk and banter, but the scaffolding rose quickly to its original height.

Gray climbed the new scaffold and inspected the water-damaged portion of the tower without incident. Higson was explaining his plan of repair when a visitor entered the courtyard. He was a stout man with a round, florid face, a shock of unruly white hair under a broad-brimmed country hat, and a quick, decisive manner at odds with his size.

He crossed the courtyard and greeted Gray with brusque ceremony.

“You must be Graymont,” he said. “I’m Frome, your neighbor … that is Staveley’s neighbor.” He glanced at the scaffolding and the tower. “I should have come sooner. I hear you’ve had a spot of trouble. Some water damage.”

“I have.”

“There’s no surprise in it, I suppose,” said Frome with another glance at the tower. “Staveley let the place decline after his wife died, and the sea air will do its work on mortar. What’s this I hear about a scaffold collapse?”

Gray wondered at the source of Frome’s knowledge. “Word travels fast.”

“I had it from my wife. There’s no keeping neighborhood doings from the ladies, you know. Your stone men are Londoners, I take it. Do you trust them?”

Gray introduced Higson, who bristled at Frome, and Winter, who looked quietly amused.

“These men are from the Masons Friendly Association, all respectable members of the trade,” said Higson.

Frome’s white brows went up. “At least one of them is not,” he said. “Someone’s against you, Graymont. You need a couple of night watchmen. I can recommend a pair of trustworthy fellows.”

Frome could not be more different from Gray’s friend, Finch, but his blunt advice echoed Finch’s. “Thank you, Frome. You can send them to my man, Winter, here.”

Frome nodded. “Now,” he said, turning his back on the scaffold, “I’ve another matter to discuss with you, if you will walk with me a moment.”