“Dearly beloved,” Bruiser announced from the front of the chapel, “we are gathered here today to set the scene for this most joyous of occasions.” He rubbed his hands together. “Are you prepared to be dazzled, Miss Whitmore?”
“I . . . don’t rightly know.”
“Miss Whitmore is ready to be dazzled,” Rafe said, glancing in her direction. “She told me so. The other day.”
She looked at him then.
He sent a message with his eyes. We have a bargain, remember?
“Very well,” she said, sounding resigned. “I’m ready to be dazzled.”
“Excellent.” Bruiser spread his arms wide, hands lifted. “Picture this. We’ll drape the entire chapel in white bunting.”
“Oh, I do love bunting,” Daphne said. “My own wedding suffered from such a dearth of it.”
“You eloped,” Clio pointed out.
Rafe opened his mouth to question this plan. Then he caught himself. Instead, he took a seat in the benches and stared numbly forward, trying to understand how he, the infamous Devil’s Own, had arrived at this moment in his life: sitting in a chapel, in a storybook castle near Charming-Something, Kent, possessing opinions on bunting.
Good God.
Word of this could never escape these walls.
Daphne charged ahead, sweeping down the center aisle in a flounce of ribbons. “Let’s see. We’ll place fabric bows to festoon the end of each bench. That’s one, two . . .”
“Twelve,” Phoebe said.
The youngest of the Whitmore sisters had seated herself in the pew in front of Rafe’s and pulled a loop of string from her pocket. While the plans went on around her, she worked her fingers through the string and began to make figures with it. Like a game of cat’s cradle, only more elaborate.
“Twelve rows,” she said. “Four-and-twenty benches.” She stretched her fingers wide to reveal a lattice of string shaped like a row of diamonds.
Rafe slid closer and stacked his arms on the back of her pew. “You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
“The string or the counting?”
“Both.”
“Yes,” she said.
Rafe watched her, intrigued. Of the three Whitmore sisters, Phoebe was the one he’d never had much chance to know. She’d been a small child when he and the marquess had their falling-out, and he’d avoided family gatherings ever since. He guessed this string fancy of hers must explain her pet name.
“So four-and-twenty bows,” Daphne said. “And then a swag for each window. How many windows, Phoebe?”
“Fourteen. With thirty-two panes in each.”
Rafe said quietly, “You didn’t even look up.”
“I didn’t need to.” Phoebe peered at her string through a fringe of dark hair. “With numbers, counting, shapes, chances . . . It’s always like that. I just know.”
Now there was a sensation he couldn’t identify with. Learning had never come easily to him.
“What’s that like?” he asked. “To just . . . know things, without trying.”
She looped her fingers through the string. “What’s it like to have the power to knock a full-grown man to the ground?”
“It means I have to be careful how I carry myself. Especially around new acquaintances, or people I don’t like. But it’s useful in certain situations. And sometimes, highly satisfying.”
For the first time, her glance flitted in his direction. “Then I don’t need to explain it.”
As Rafe watched, she stretched her fingers wide to reveal a new figure. The arched opening in the center matched, precisely, the proportions of the stained-glass window before them.
Then she let her fingers slip from the string, and it was gone.
Daphne came to stand before them, making calculations. “So if we need two yards of bunting per swag and three-quarters per bow . . . Come along, kitten. Don’t force me to find a pencil and paper.”
“Forty-six yards,” Phoebe said.
Clio laughed. “You mean to order forty-six yards of fabric? Are we decorating a chapel or swaddling an elephant? What with the carvings and the stained glass, it’s a lovely setting as it is.”