After nearly a year of marriage, Daphne was still . . . Daphne.
Thanks to all the effort their mother had invested in Clio’s education and breeding, Mama had been too distracted to mold her second daughter into anything but a fashion-mad, rake-chasing chit. It had been a sort of relief when Daphne eloped with Sir Teddy Cambourne last year, only two months after her debut. He was a shallow, preening sort of gentleman, but at least he had an income and a baronetcy. Her sister could have done much worse.
“Lady Cambourne.” Clio made a formal curtsy. “Welcome to Twill Castle. I’m so delighted you and Sir Teddy have come.”
“Hullo, dumpling.” Her brother-in-law gave her a familiar nudge on the arm.
“But of course we would come,” Daphne said. “We couldn’t let you stay here all alone while you wait for Lord Granville’s return. And once he does return, we’ll have a wedding to plan.”
Fortunately, their youngest sister emerged from the carriage at that moment—saving Clio from inventing a reply.
“Phoebe, darling. It’s so good to see you.”
Clio wanted to catch the girl in a hug, but Phoebe didn’t like hugs. Already, she had a thick book positioned as a shield.
“You’ve grown so tall this summer,” she said instead. “And so pretty.”
At sixteen, Phoebe was willowy and dark-haired, with soft features and bold blue eyes. Well on her way to becoming a beauty. Based on looks alone, she would be a grand success in her first season. But there was something . . . different . . . about Phoebe. There always had been. It seemed as though there was so much happening within her own remarkable mind, she struggled to connect with the people around her.
“We would have been here hours ago if not for the dreadful crush at Charing Cross,” Teddy said. “And then two hours to cross the dashed bridge. Two hours.”
“I thought the smell would make me sick,” Daphne said.
Phoebe consulted her pocket watch. “We misjudged the time of departure. If we’d left twenty minutes earlier, we would have arrived fifty minutes ago.”
“I’m just happy you’re here now,” Clio said, leading the way toward the arched entrance. “Please do come in, all of you.”
Daphne held her back. “I come first, you know. Perhaps you will be a marchioness within the month, and perhaps I am your younger sister. But since I am married and a lady, I take precedence. For a least a few more weeks.”
Clio stepped aside. “Yes, of course.”
The gawping mouth of Twill Castle swallowed them in, and an awed hush seized their tongues.
Even four hundred years ago, stonemasons knew how to build to impress. The castle’s entrance hall soared the full height of the building. A grand staircase wrapped around the space, drawing the eye upward. And then upward yet some more. Gilt-framed paintings and portraits—not small ones—climbed every inch of available wall, stacking four or five high in places.
After several moments, Teddy whistled low.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” Daphne said. “Quite grand. Only I think it would be better if it weren’t so . . . so old.”
“It’s a castle,” Phoebe said. “How can it not be old?”
Daphne pinched Clio’s arm in a gesture that seemed half affection, half spite. “But a home is a reflection of its mistress. You shouldn’t let the place show that it’s getting on in age. For instance, you could cover all these ugly stone walls with new paneling. Or French toile. And then we’ll drape some fresh silk on you.”
Her sister swept Clio with a look that made her new frock feel frowsy and tattered. Then she clucked her tongue in a frighteningly accurate impression of Mama.
“Not to worry,” she said, patting Clio’s shoulders. “We do have a few weeks yet to improve. Isn’t that right, Teddy?”