Cordelia’s lips tightened. “Whether you like them or not, they are influential people, and I’d prefer to think you’re keeping our father’s well-being foremost in your mind.”

Alastair snorted. “Your plan is to save Father by making people like you?”

“Clearly you have never thought making people like you was important, Alastair, but I am not like that.”

Alastair looked startled, but recovered quickly. “You should think less about making people like you, and more about making them owe you.”

“Alastair—”

But someone was rapping on the door downstairs. The sound rang in the silence. Whoever was outside knocked three times in quick succession, then stopped.

Alastair’s expression changed. “We’ve spoken of this enough. Good night, Cordelia.”

Not Layla anymore. Cordelia. His expression was stern as he turned to hasten downstairs.

Cordelia reached out and grasped his coat. “Who could be visiting so late? Do you think it is bad news?”

Alastair started, seeming astonished that Cordelia was still present, and his coat slipped through her fingers.

“I know who it is. I will manage the situation. Go to bed at once, Cordelia,” Alastair ordered, not meeting her eyes. “If Mother catches you out of bed, there will be the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”

He dashed down the steps.

Cordelia leaned over the banister. Two floors down, she could see the encaustic tiles of their hall, the newly painted surfaces portraying yellow starbursts shining through a maze of swords. She saw her brother open the door, and saw the shadow cast on the swords and stars as their visitor walked in. The man removed his hat. With some surprise, Cordelia recognized Charles Fairchild.

Alastair glanced around worriedly, but it seemed clear that both their mother and Risa had gone to sleep. He took Charles’s hat and coat, and they headed together toward the drawing room.

Cordelia’s heart was pounding. Charles Fairchild. Charles, who had told James not to venture near Grace. Charles, who Matthew clearly did not trust—but who Alastair clearly did.

Alastair had promised her he would not tell James’s secrets. He had promised.

But he had not wanted to make the promise. Cordelia bit her lip, swore under her breath, and started down the steps. The stairs in their new home were oak, painted gray with a yellow runner up the center and a wrought-iron railing painted gray as well. Cordelia wrestled with her conscience as she ran down them lightly, her stockinged feet making no sound.

There was a back entrance to the drawing room. Cordelia slipped through the dining room, where the plates were still on the table, and down a servants’ corridor. At the end of the hall was the door to the drawing room, already slightly ajar. She pressed herself up against it, peering through the crack—she could just see Charles, warming his hands at the fire crackling in the white plaster grate.