“What utter nonsense,” Camille said. Delilah was always so frightfully sanctimonious, at least when it came to her sisters. It was an entirely different story around people other than her family. Camille and Beryl had discussed this aberration of nature often through the years and they agreed. It wasn’t something she did deliberately; it was simply her nature. Which made it no less annoying. She was the saint and the rest of them sinners. The fact that she was not nearly the saint she thought herself to be just added to the annoyance. “Clement is where he always is when Mother is not in residence for Christmas. He has gone to visit his family in Wales.”

“And why are we not welcome in our own home?” Indignation rang in her sister’s voice.

“First of all, this really isn’t your home, is it?” Camille said in as sweet a manner as she could muster. “It’s Mother’s home.”

Delilah gasped. “It’s my childhood home! And why were we locked in the parlor?” Delilah narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think we didn’t notice.”

“My, how observant you are, sister dear.”

“Now, now, Camille,” Mother said, taking off her hat. “I noticed as well, and I am not the least bit observant. I should point out, however, as this might be of use in the future, that no matter how stealthy the action, the click of a key in a lock does tend to be unmistakable. Now”—her mother met Camille’s gaze directly—“do tell us exactly what manner of mischief is afoot here.”

“It’s rather a long story.” Camille struggled to find just the right words. There didn’t seem to be any. How did one tell one’s mother that she was not proper enough to impress a prince?

“Fortunately . . . we have all the time in the world.” Delilah sank into the nearest chair and pulled off her gloves, a challenge gleaming in her eyes.

“Why are you here?” Camille asked her mother. “I thought you were spending Christmas in Paris.”

“Sometimes things do not turn out as one expects.” Mother shrugged off her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. “Perhaps I am simply getting older and growing more sentimental, but I had the oddest longing to be in my own country and my own home at Christmas. Imagine my surprise when we stopped in London to insist that you and your sister and Lionel, of course, join us, only to discover you and Beryl were already here.”

“You discovered that, did you?” Camille adopted a casual tone.

“Lionel told us, but he said very little else. Politicians.” Delilah sniffed in disdain. “He was most evasive and even tried to discourage us from coming to the manor.”

“Did he?” Camille would have to thank him for that—futile, though his effort had been.