"Rather, at whom."

Unease twisted in Bea's belly. "Whom?"

"Lord Cheriot."

Of course. "Have you?"

"Oh, he is very handsome." The girl dimpled, as though sharing a daring secret.

"Yes."

"And a baron," she said a little breathlessly.

"Indeed."

"With no parents to disapprove of me," the girl added with an endearingly desperate cast to her fine features that entreated one to sympathize.

Bea lifted a brow. "True."

"Your brother told me the other day that Lord Cheriot is not promised to any lady."

Bea could say nothing in response. She could hardly inform this girl of her betrothal before she told her parents.

Lady Bronwyn's fingers tightened. "I thought that since you and he seem to be such good friends, you might put a fly in his ear on my behalf."

"A fly?" Bea's stomach tightened. Even this silly girl did not see the possibility of any connection beyond friendship between her and Tip. It didn't matter to Bea, really. She had his promise. She ought to be deliriously happy, like she had been that morning. And all night. Before he had deserted her at the precise moment when she most needed a friend.

But she was a hypocritical fool for blaming him, after her words in the broom closet.

"Oh," Bronwyn said, "you might mention my name a time or two in conversation, something about my pretty gown, my speaking eyes, and wouldn't it be lovely to invite me for a stroll in the garden. You know the sort of thing. Don't you?"

No, Bea had no idea. That was Sylvia's area of expertise, not hers. And she'd never had any bosom bows of her own sex with whom to practice those sorts of games. She had always been too busy seeing to her mother's needs, comforting her woes, and quietly wresting Thomas out of scrapes.

"Yes, of course," she murmured.

"So you will speak to him about me?" The girl's voice seemed lighter now.

Bea turned her gaze up. "Lady Bronwyn, I believe Lord Cheriot is under the impression that you intend to marry my brother."

"Oh, well," she said, a tiny furrow between her eyes. "That will be taken care of shortly."

Naive, indeed. But Bronwyn was probably so confident of her winning looks and sparkling charm she could not imagine what a pristine bride meant to a titled nobleman. Bea's lips thinned. "My brother, I believe, is still in the parlor."

"Oh, I cannot go back there. Your mother-" She broke off, her cheeks coloring. At least the blush did not seem contrived.

"Of course. Perhaps later." Bea moved down the corridor. "I am needed in my aunts' room now. Good night, Bronwyn."

"Oh, good night, Beatrice. And thank you for your assistance with Lord Cheriot!"

Bea spent the night watching her great-aunt Julia sleep, mopping her fiery brow with a damp cloth, and dosing her with fever powders every few hours. Peg relieved her at dawn. Too weary to eat and too agitated to sleep, Bea wandered into the fog-shrouded gardens, to the place where she had fainted days earlier. She stepped past the spot, then another ten paces. She breathed deeply of the misty, chill air of the early November morning, her blood sluggish from lack of sleep but her muscles and head in perfectly good order.

It could not have all been a dream. Tip had been there, and Julia confirmed it. Iversly had been telling the truth, and he probably still was.

The ghost had not visited the sick chamber all night. That was not a particularly good sign.

Close to noon Julia's fever climbed, remaining high for several hours, then dipping again. Bea returned to the house and Lady Marstowe ordered her to rest. She went to her mother's chambers.

"Finally!" Lady Harriet sighed when she entered. "Begin with the gowns, then the undergarments. And when you are finished there, you will dress my hair for dinner. Do you think Lord Cheriot will return from Porthmadog in time?"

"I'm sure I do not know, Mama." She didn't know anything about Tip, his whereabouts, why he'd left without a word to her, or why he'd been so horrified when she cried. But men were like that. Her own father complained of his wife's moods incessantly.

Tip had always seemed different, though.

Her mother's porcelain brow wrinkled. "Why didn't Lady Bronwyn set her cap for him rather than your brother? She seems a conniving little thing, the sort who would look to a lord rather than a plain Mister."

"I couldn't say, Mama." Bea unfolded a glorious frock of sapphire muslin and lace.

"Put that back in the trunk, Beatrice," her mother scolded. "I cannot possibly wear muslin when I am so overset. Give me the silk instead." She held up a pair of stockings to the light to examine for tears. "I do not think she could nab him," she returned to her musings. "She is far too giddy. After his parents' disreputable behavior, I suspect he wants nothing to do with drama and tears. What a horrid scene they used to make. But Clarissa Cheriot did have the most enviable taste in gowns. Why I have one right here that I had made up by the modiste she used to employ."

Bea's mother continued her running monologue, but Bea heard nothing of it. And her throat was so tight she was not even able to reply "Yes, Mama" when required.

Tip returned after dinner as the party was dispersing from the parlor for bed. He met Bea's gaze for a moment, then Lady Bronwyn claimed his attention, her slender hand making itself familiar upon his coat sleeve. Bea turned away, irrational jealousy spinning through her.

He left the parlor before she did. When she climbed the stairs later, he was nowhere to be seen. She conferred with Aunt Grace, who assured her that Julia's fever had not spiked again. Then Bea returned to her bedchamber and fell into exhausted sleep.

She dreamt of Tip holding her in his arms, making love to her, and refusing to let her go when her parents insisted that she must remain as a companion to her mother rather than marry a man she did not deserve.

She awoke weeping.

He was not present at breakfast. Bea hadn't any stomach for food. She returned to the sickroom for the morning, quitting it only once to look in on her mother.

"Thomas refuses to leave without you," Lady Harriet exclaimed.

"I think he is concerned about Aunt Julia and does not wish to depart until we are certain of her recovery."

"He is a horrid boy, lacking all filial devotion. You must take him in hand, Beatrice, and make him see the right of it. I cannot go on another day in this wretched castle in the middle of nowhere."

"I will do my best, Mama."

After preparing her mother's midday repast, instructing the two maids Lady Harriet had brought from Hart House as to where in the castle they could find the necessary items for steaming and ironing their mistress's gowns, and relating everything she knew about Bronwyn's sickly grandmother to her mother, Bea escaped. She ran her brother aground in an antechamber near the kitchen, slouching on a barrel in an attitude of thorough defeat.

He started when she touched him on the shoulder, pivoting around to face her.

She peered at him. "Thomas, are you hiding out here?"

"What gives you that idea? You're as nosey as our father sometimes."

She bit her tongue.

A contrite twist overtook his face. "I beg your pardon, Bea. It's only that I'd rather not come across . . . someone in particular at this time."

"Lady Bronwyn? And Mama and Papa?"

His eyes opened wide. "How do you know that?"

"Tom, we have been on this earth nearly the exact number of minutes, born from the very same womb."

"So what?"

"I guessed."

He cracked a grin. Bea wished she could return it.

"You're a great gun, Bea." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "Father is adamantly against the match, and Mama insults Lady Bronwyn every time they meet."

"Mother always insults women prettier than her. Avoiding them all will not help with any of that." Bea's mouth shut hard upon the final word. She could easily seek out Tip and speak with him. But she was afraid. Afraid to see the desire in his eyes now dimmed, and to read reticence on his handsome face.

"I know, I know." Thomas's shoulders hunched. He peeked up at her. "But, Bea, I might have made a mistake concerning Lady Bronwyn," he said in a rush.

"Oh?"

"Yes, oh. She is beautiful and spirited. But I don't know that she's a very nice girl after all."

"Thomas." Bea's blood spiked with prickly energy. "You are a thorough cad. At this moment, I am ashamed to call you my brother."

He staggered back. "Wha- But it's better to know this now before I get caught in a parson's mousetrap with her. Or else I'll end up in a marriage like our parents' shamble of a thing."

Impatience got the best of Bea. She folded her arms tight across her chest. "You should have taken that into consideration before you bedded her."

"Your sister is right," Tip said at her shoulder. "As usual."

Bea's heart turned over. She pivoted around and he glanced down at her, his unsmiling expression unreadable.

"I should have thought of it, it's true," her brother said with a scowl. "But I didn't, and now I'm truly dished up."

"Tom," Bea said, more to allow time to wrest control of her racing pulse than because he deserved the reprieve, "Lady Bronwyn suggested to me that she might not be entirely amenable to a betrothal to you, either."

Thomas's pout of misery turned to affront with comical speed. "Well, I daresay the tart could have told me that herself."

"Tart? Thomas."

"Chit," he acquiesced.

"Did you tell her your feelings on the matter?" Bea asked. Tip's presence behind her was a solid wall of silence.

Thomas stiffened. "What are you thinking, Bea? A gentleman can't cry off from a betrothal, especially not under these particular circumstances. Would you do such a thing, Cheriot?"

"Of course not." His voice lacked color entirely.

Bea's insides twisted. She clutched her hands in her skirts.

"Nevertheless, Tom, I recommend that you find Lady Bronwyn and make a clean breast of it. If neither of you wish to marry the other, you certainly should not." She paused. "Unless it becomes necessary, of course."

"Well, there, you see, Bea, after only one time a girl doesn't always-" A flush stole over his cheeks. "That is to say- I took care-"

"I know how these things work, Tom."

Thomas's gaze shifted uncomfortably to Tip. "Of course you do," he said hastily. Then his eyes lit with guarded hope. "But you're right. If I'm clever enough, she'll cry off before I have to, then I won't be in the wrong." He slanted a hopeful smile, pushed away from the barrel and headed off down the corridor.

Bea could not make her body turn around.

"I am on my way to inquire if Lady Marstowe has need of anything for Miss Dews's comfort," Tip said. "Would you care to accompany me?"

Not if he continued speaking to her like a stranger.

"Yes, thank you." She fell in beside him. He did not offer his arm. "How did your business proceed in Porthmadog?"

"Well. Untroubled."

"Thank you for seeing to the doctor's quick arrival yesterday."

"It was nothing."

"Iversly came to speak with Aunt Grace and me. He is looking into Aunt Julia's illness."

"Is he?"

Bea's insides curdled. He was still displeased with her, as everyone always was. But never him before this past week.

She halted. He did as well. She looked up at his face and read absolutely nothing there. No anger, no pleasure, no teasing camaraderie. Nothing but handsome features set still as stone.

The words tumbled to her lips. "Would you like to cry off as well?"

His jaw hardened. "No."

"I only thought that perhaps you-"

"That I am as great a rogue as your brother?"

"No, I only-"

"I do not wish to speak of this." He started up the stairs.

She went after him. "We quarreled, and then you left without telling me."

"You were asleep when I departed."

"Lady Bronwyn has set her cap for you." Oh, Lord. She ought to cut out her tongue.