“I can assure you, Win has only your best interests at heart,” Grayson said.

“I find that difficult to believe.” She sniffed. “As for you . . . you promised not to tell anyone about this.”

“Not exactly. I said I would try to think of something plausible to explain my stay here, and, well, I couldn’t.” Grayson shrugged apologetically.

“You, no doubt, did not try very hard.”

“On the contrary,” Stillwell said. “He didn’t say a word for, oh”—he glanced at Grayson—“a good ten minutes, would you say?”

Grayson nodded. “Perhaps even fifteen.”

“There you are, Camille, he held his tongue for fifteen minutes. Perhaps more.”

“And I think it was more,” Grayson said.

“You really can’t ask for more than that, especially given the magnitude of your venture here.” Stillwell flashed that smile of his again. Fortunately, she had long been immune to it.

“I can and I did,” she said sharply. “And it’s ‘Lady Lydingham.’ ”

“Come now, Camille,” Stillwell said smoothly. “I’ve known you since you were a child. I’ve always called you Camille, just as you have always called me Winfield. You can’t expect me to change now.” He glanced at Grayson. “Can she?”

Grayson shook his head in a somber manner. “I would think not.”

Stillwell glanced at Fortesque. “Can she?”

The actor stared. Good Lord, he’d probably smile and nod at any minute. “I couldn’t say, my lord, but probably not, no.”

Camille shot him a scathing glance and he cringed.

“There you have it.” Stillwell grinned. “Camille.”

Fortesque lowered his voice and inclined his head toward Camille. “About the room—”

“Ah yes, Fortesque,” Grayson began. “I’m afraid the west wing won’t do at all. I hate drafts.”

Camille glared.

“And I was informed by one of your”—Grayson cleared his throat—“footmen that the room across the hall from Lady Lydingham’s is vacant. I instructed him to put my bags there.”

Camille choked. “I scarcely think—”

“Now, now, what would the prince think if your dear cousin was exiled to a room where he would likely catch his death of cold?” Grayson shook his head forlornly. “Besides, I can’t sleep if the room is too cold. And if I don’t get enough sleep, well, there is always the possibility I might reveal something I shouldn’t in the course of idle conversation with the—”

“Fine! Sleep wherever you want!”

Stillwell grinned. She ignored him.

“I do hope we are in time for tea.” Grayson glanced at his cousin. “Weren’t you just saying how parched you were?”

“Oh, I am definitely parched,” Stillwell said, amusement glittering in his eyes. “And hungry as well.”

Camille hesitated, then met Grayson’s gaze. “There’s no way to prevent this, is there?”

He shook his head. “None whatsoever.”