“Because I think you might wish to know, while Camille and I may look exactly alike, in many ways that’s where the resemblance ends.” She hesitated, as if determining how much she wished to confide. “While Camille has certainly seen gentlemen since Harold died, to my knowledge, and she would certainly tell me something of that nature, she has not had any, well, affairs. She’s not opposed to them,” she added quickly, “I just think she’s never found someone worth the, oh, effort. And I think she wants more.”

“Then she and the prince?”

“Goodness, Grayson.” She huffed. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I see.” And wasn’t that interesting?

“I don’t want to see her hurt.” She returned her attention to her sister and Pruzinsky. “She’s much more romantic than I am. Although one would think that after growing up in this household with Mother’s constant procession of usurped dukes and overthrown monarchs, she would be a better judge of character. Still, Nikolai might be exactly who and what Camille thinks he is, but I wish to be certain. To that end, I initiated an inquiry before I left London.”

He turned toward her. “Have you learned anything?”

“Not yet.” She shook her head. “But the moment I do, when I have proof, I will inform Camille. I truly hope he is what she thinks he is. And yet . . .”

“You don’t trust him.”

“No, I don’t. But then”—she met his gaze directly—“I don’t trust you either.”

He stared. “Why don’t you trust me?”

Beryl’s eyes narrowed. “Because you broke her heart.”

He gasped. “I did what?”

“You heard me. You know full well—”

“What are you two talking about?” Camille joined them. “You both appear entirely too intense, as though you are discussing something of great consequence.”

“It’s been an intense sort of evening.” Beryl raised the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic manner. “The stress and strain of a performance is quite exhausting, you know.”

“Actually, we were saying how well the evening went,” Grayson said quickly. “Singing carols was a brilliant idea, Beryl.”

“Oh, I am full of brilliant ideas.” Beryl smirked.

“No doubt,” he murmured.

“Any more brilliance shall have to wait. There’s a great deal to accomplish and time is fleeting.” Camille ticked the points off on her fingers. “There’s the decorating to oversee.” She glanced at her sister. “We shall have to foray into the attic and find the ornaments for the tree. There are any number of other Christmas details to attend to as well. I must speak to Mrs. Fortesque about Christmas dinner. I have already ordered a turkey.”

“Turkey?” Beryl frowned. “But Mother always has goose for Christmas.”

“Mother is not here,” Camille pointed out. “And since Mr. Scrooge procured a prize turkey for the Cratchit family, turkey is what Nikolai expects, and turkey is what he shall have.”