Lord Winterton seemed to be either hiding from the young people, which Viola could somewhat understand, or fascinated by Kingstag; more than once she bumped into him in some unusual part of the house. He claimed to be lost, which was reasonable, but she was beginning to wonder how such a world traveler had such a poor sense of direction.
The last straw was catching Bridget doing something suspicious in the library on the fourth day.
Viola didn’t actually know what Bridget was doing. She went to inquire how the play was progressing—by then she was in desperate search of anything to occupy the rest of the guests, and Bridget had holed up in the library promising to have a new act ready before dinner for people to rehearse. But when she opened the door, Bridget was not at the desk, writing diligently on her play. She was standing in front of an open French window, letting powdery snow blow into the room.
“Bridget!”
With a startled motion the girl slammed the door. The glass shuddered so hard Viola feared it would break.
“What are you doing?” Viola hurried across the room. Snow was blowing against the glass, and the wind blew loudly against the castle walls, throwing up white powder that sparkled in the weak winter sun.
“Getting some fresh air.” Bridget widened her eyes innocently and went back to the desk. She dropped into the chair and bent over her papers, scribbling away.
Suspicious, Viola scanned the terrace outside. She could see no one, but were there footsteps in the snow leading from the door around the corner? It was hard to tell in the glittering breeze. “Was someone here on the terrace?”
“In all this snow?” Bridget scoffed. “Who would traipse through it?”
“That isn’t an outright denial.”
Bridget made a face, her pen still skimming across the page. “I suppose if you think someone might decide to wander through the snow to chat through an open window, there’s nothing I can do to dissuade you. Go out and search, if you like.”
Viola was certain the girl was lying, but there was nothing she could do. She turned the lock on the French window just in case, and went back to the desk. “How is the play coming along? Everyone is quite anxious to have more scenes to rehearse.”
“It’s bloody brilliant,” said Bridget with satisfaction. “Original and ridiculous and everything a farce should be. Read this.” She pushed some pages across the table.
Viola picked them up and began reading, only to catch a slight motion from the corner of her eye. Bridget had slid something beneath the blotter. Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her mouth closed. She’d got into a battle of wills with Bridget before and always ended up completely routed. There was no one here, and as Bridget had said, the snow was much too deep for anyone to have snuck into the Kingstag gardens and up to this terrace.
That said, Viola would have wagered a week’s salary that Bridget had been talking to someone through that open door.
“It does sound ridiculous,” she commented after reading the scene Bridget had given her.
The girl beamed. “Doesn’t it? And so fitting for Serena.”
Viola read again. “That she’s pursued by a swan?”
“Well, that’s what Frye is,” Bridget replied. “Handsome but cruel.”
“But Lord Gosling plays the swan, not Frye.”
“Drrr!” Bridget rolled her eyes. “Obviously I could not write a part for Frye, because he’s not here. Gosling will do just as nicely, though. I don’t care for him.”
“Because . . .” Viola couldn’t even think of a reason.
“He’s too agreeable! Whatever odd thing I write for him, he smiles and carries on. Agreeable men are so very disagreeable, don’t you think?”
She laid the pages back on the table. “If you say so . . .”
Bridget beamed again. She knew she’d won.
On the fifth day things slipped a bit further out of control. Lady Sophronia had taken over supervising the play rehearsals, with Bridget’s help when the latter wasn’t off in the library writing, and Viola was shocked to see her almost encouraging Mr. Jones, playing a pirate from Shropshire of all places, to kiss Serena, playing a maiden—or, as Bridget insisted on calling her, a Lonely Spinster. The kiss wasn’t called for in the script, although the pirate did bear away the maiden at some point, but Viola was alarmed by this. She managed to insert herself into the direction and even the acting twice, but finally Sophronia pinned a gimlet gaze on her.
“Dear Viola,” she said, “I have not seen Lord Winterton in an age. The poor man, he must be feeling very put out to arrive and have no one to look after him.”
Viola blinked. “Lady Sophronia, he’s quite comfortable. He assures me so every morning.” Viola looked forward to those brief meetings over breakfast; it was easily the most pleasant conversation she had all day. Her worries about the earl had subsided. He might not know Wessex personally, but he was clearly a gentleman and had behaved with the utmost propriety.
But he had been strolling all over the castle, and Sophronia’s words planted a seed of doubt. Perhaps she had neglected him. She could hardly blame the man for avoiding the antics of the young people, who were scouring the castle for props and costumes and—Viola was sure—a bit of mischief whenever possible.
“Balderdash,” said Sophronia bluntly. “A man won’t say when he’s bored, Viola, he shows you. Winterton has been wandering the corridors like a lost child. I’m very much afraid he shan’t give a good report of our hospitality to Wessex.”
Viola’s lips thinned at this transparent effort to get her out of the drawing room. “I am sure Lord Winterton understands the circumstances.”
“But do you want to chance it?” Sophronia looked past her
