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It had gone two under a bright June sun when Gray returned to the castle from a much-needed swim. He had slipped away earlier, leaving his sister’s people to look after her, and Winter to keep an eye on Lionel. His old distrust of his siblings prompted him to wariness. It was the habit of a lifetime, and Gray supposed he would never feel easy around them. He skirted the group of men setting up a dance floor over the stones of the courtyard. Winter stopped him as he headed for the west tower stairs. With the ongoing work on the east tower, Gray had switched his path.

“Your brother has been wandering about. I’ve tried to keep an eye on him, as you asked, but he’s gone upstairs.”

Gray thanked Winter and bounded up the stairs. Outside his own door he met Lionel coming toward him. It took an effort of will not to stiffen.

“I saw you from the battlements,” Lionel said. “You still have the swimming habit, I see.”

“I do,” Gray admitted. He hadn’t thought to lock his door and now regretted the oversight. The sketchbook lay tucked in his traveling desk. “What have you found to amuse yourself?”

“Not much. Even for you, Graymont, this place must be dull.”

“Then you must tell me what you are up to in London.” He opened the door and waited for Lionel to enter. Lionel’s regular amusements must have failed him in some way. On his own initiative Lionel would never leave London’s comforts and pleasures to act as Bernie’s companion on a jaunt to the country. Unless, of course, Lionel was once again without funds.

“The social whirl is going full tilt.” Lionel gave the room a quick, assessing glance and crossed to look out of the window embrasure at the beach below.

“The ladies must be disappointed in your absence.” Or, Gray thought, Lionel had had another failure in his pursuit of an heiress. Gray glanced at his traveling desk, which appeared undisturbed, and stepped into the screened area where he could rinse off the salt water.

“A few, perhaps,” Lionel said. The bored voice proclaimed indifference. “And you? Has one of the local beauties caught your eye?”

Gray toweled off and began to dress. “You know me better than that. My interest is caught more by stones than silks. I do like the castle, you see.”

“I see that you chose the only decent room for yourself. Spartan, but decent. You know that Bernie is positively foaming that you put her in that damp closet of a room.”

“Not damp, surely?” Gray tucked his shirt into his trousers. “And a closet only by Bernie’s standards.”

“You still think you can build Father’s grand design? Make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, as it were?” There was now an edge in Lionel’s voice.

“I don’t know yet. I have an engineer investigating the building’s soundness, then we’ll see.” Gray emerged from behind the screen. Lionel sat in the window embrasure, his hands plucking at the knees of his trousers. Nothing appeared changed in the room. The sketchbook must be in its place. Perhaps Gray had misjudged his brother. Perhaps what he saw as malice was merely boredom.

“What about the land?” Lionel’s face wore its usual indifferent expression. “Seems senseless to renovate the castle and not possess the whole property.”

Gray smiled. Now the reason for Lionel’s visit was clear. His brother had been sent to probe. “You think I should marry one of Staveley’s daughters to get their land?”

“The third one is a beauty.” Lionel adjusted the cuff of one sleeve.

“You mean Miss Miranda Staveley? She’s a child,” Gray said. “Listen, I have an errand to run, but my friend Finch arrives soon. We have a ring set up just beyond the Italian garden if you’d like to do some sparring.”

The look of horror on Lionel’s face was comical.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lionel announced his intention of looking in on Bernie and strolled off. No doubt he would report whatever he thought he’d learned from his conversation with Gray. Gray opened his traveling desk, unreasonably relieved to find the sketchbook in its place. A wild idea for its safekeeping came to him, and he took up the book at once.

A quarter-hour’s walk brought Gray and the sketchbook to the door of the lodge. The Staveley’s maid, Alice, answered his knock and told him he would find her mistress with the dog in the field east of the lodge.

“Mistress can’t shake that dog now. ’e’s ’er shadow.” The girl’s point was clear. The dog was a burden, one, no doubt, that Cordelia Staveley might blame Gray for imposing, as he had helped her brother to leave Delamere. But he knew he had done the lad a good turn.

When Gray came around the back of the lodge, he found her standing in meadow grass, tossing a stick for the dog. She wore a straw sunbonnet and one of those sea-blue gowns he had come to associate with her. His vision of feminine attire had changed in the month he’d spent in the country. The pale-blue cotton gown was a flag of color in the field of green-gold grass. The gown lacked the exaggerated hourglass shape of the current London fashion for wide shoulders and layers of skirts. Still, Cordelia Staveley’s waist looked small enough for him to span it with his hands.

At his call, she turned, her face flushed under the bonnet’s brim. The dog bounded toward him, but stopped at her command. If she held Gray responsible for adding the care of the dog to the other demands upon her, she did not show it.

He approached through the grass until he stood within arm’s reach. “I thought your brother’s man was to tend to the dog. Do you blame me for subjecting you to this heat?”

“Does my appearance shock you? I’m afraid inelegance is the price one pays for doing one’s duty by Hector. Our man, Bassett, is occupied with ball preparations.”

“Your gown can’t shock me. I’ve grown accustomed to your country look.”

“Are you calling me ‘rustic’?” There was a teasing light in her eyes.