“Absolutely not,” Camille said staunchly, then paused. “There are perhaps a few more developments I should mention. Minor, really, in the scheme of things.” She shook her head. “All has not progressed exactly according to plan.”

“It would be a most boring production if all went according to . . . to the script.” Mother beamed. “It is the unexpected twists and turns in a plot that make a performance memorable.”

“Oh, do tell, sister dear. What could possibly have gone wrong?”

“Sarcasm, Delilah,” Mother said, “does not help.”

A knock sounded at the door an instant before it opened and Grayson entered the parlor. “Fortesque indicated you might need some assistance.” His gaze skimmed the room, met hers, and he nodded slightly. At once, he moved to her mother and took her hand. “Lady Briston, you are as lovely as ever.”

“And you are as . . .” Mother stared at him; then realization washed across her face. “Grayson Elliott? Is that really you?”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid so.”

“My God, you have lived up to the promise of your younger days. Maturity sits well on you.” She studied him in an admiring manner. “You’re far more handsome than any man has a right to be.”

He grinned. “And you are as delightful as ever.”

Delilah cleared her throat and rose to her feet. “It’s past time you came home.”

“Delilah?” He stepped to her and took her hand. “Is this the same girl I remember?”

She tilted her head and favored him with a radiant smile. “The very same.”

“You’ve grown.” He brought her hand to his lips and gazed into her eyes. “And might I say, in a most enchanting way.”

“Goodness, Grayson, you are as charming as I recall.” Delilah gazed up at him through lowered lashes.

Good Lord, was she flirting with him? For a moment, Camille saw her sister as Grayson might. While all three sisters shared the same blue eyes, Delilah’s hair was a deep sable instead of blond. She was several inches shorter than her sisters, as well, and, admittedly, quite lovely, even striking. That is, if one could get past her irritating nature, although Grayson didn’t seem to have any problem with that. Camille ignored a stab of what, under other circumstances, might possibly be jealousy.

“Am I to assume this is one of the minor developments you mentioned?” Mother asked.

“One of them,” Camille admitted.

“Camille, I couldn’t keep them . . .” Beryl entered the parlor and pulled up short. “Mother!” Her eyes widened and almost immediately she recovered. “Mother is right behind me, as are Uncle Basil, Delilah and, um, Nikolai.”

“Beryl,” Mother said cautiously and stood. “How good to see you, my dear.”

“And you. Always.” The look on Beryl’s face would have been priceless if Camille had not been busy trying to keep the same expression off her own face. She crossed the room to stand beside her mother, in case she had need of . . . prompting.