“There’s a rat in the castle?” Andre squeaked as he walked up behind Nick.

“No, no,” I said. I didn’t want Andre to panic and cancel. Piper would freak out, and then I’d have to deal with Viv on my own. I loved my cousin like a sister, truly, but she could be a handful. “Cat, I said cat.”

“I don’t like cats either,” Andre said.

“Liar,” Nick said. “Who’s the one who has been lobbying for a cat, and a long-haired one at that? You. You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of this wedding and it’s not just because you hate the country. Now let’s get this sorted once and for all. Why don’t you want to photograph Piper May’s wedding?”

“No reason,” Andre said. He turned his close-shaven head away, giving us an excellent view of his profile. It was a good one, with a strong chin and a long nose.

“No one believes you,” Nick said. He turned to me. “Back me up, Scarlett.”

“You do seem more resistant than is warranted for a weekend in a castle,” I said. I emphasized what I considered to be the high point.

“All right, fine,” Andre said. He gently lowered his shoulder bag with all of his equipment to the ground. “I have a history with the groom, Dooney Portis.”

My eyes went wide. “When you say history . . .”

“No, not like that. We weren’t involved or anything,” Andre said. He shuddered and made a gagging face. “Heaven forbid.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Nick said. “Talk about awkward. No bride wants the man photographing her new husband to know him as well as she does.”

“Oh, it’s still awkward,” Andre assured him. “He used to torture me in grade school.”

I frowned. “I hate him already.”

“Agreed,” Harry said. He paused in packing the trunk—excuse me, boot—to join the conversation. “I take it he was a bully?”

“Yes, the worst,” Andre said. “He was consumed with being the most popular kid in school, and heaven help anyone who he thought might take the light off him.”

“Which you did,” I said. “Because you’re charming and handsome and brilliant.”

Andre shrugged. “I was well-liked, let’s leave it at that. It didn’t sit well with Dooney, and he followed me home from school every day threatening to hurt me if I didn’t stop being popular. Like how does a person do that? There’s not some switch you can flip to fade back into obscurity.”

“What kind of name is Dooney anyway?” Nick asked. “How did he expect to be popular with a moniker like that? It makes him sound like a biscuit.”

I laughed. Nick was right. “Biscuit” was the British word for “cookie,” and Dooney certainly sounded like Jaffa Cake or Jammie Dodger. And suddenly, I was hankering for a biscuit.

“It is a crumby name,” Harry quipped.