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shook her head, stirring sugar into her cup. “No, not really. We’d always talked of a Grand Tour, but circumstances were against it. My father brought the world to Summerfield instead.”
    And how she loved him for it. Sir Lewis Finch would never rank among the most attentive or observant of fathers, perhaps. But when she’d needed him most, he’d never failed her. He’d moved all their possessions and his entire laboratory to Summerfield, turned down innumerable invitations and opportunities to travel over the years . . . all for Susanna’s health and happiness.
    “Good, you’re all assembled.” Her father emerged from the library. Rumpled, as always. Susanna smiled a little, battling the urge to go smooth his hair and straighten his cravat.
    Lieutenant Colonel Bramwell followed like a thundercloud, dark and restless. Susanna had no urge whatsoever to touch him . At least, none that she would admit to. As he moved across the room, she noted that he favored his right leg. Maybe he’d done himself an injury earlier, when he’d tackled her to the ground.
    “I have an announcement,” her father said, brandishing a sheaf of official-looking papers. “Since Bramwell has failed to muster the appropriate enthusiasm, I thought I would share the good news with you, his friends.” He adjusted his spectacles. “In honor of his valor and contributions in the liberation of Portugal, Bramwell has been made an earl. I have here the letters patent from the Prince Regent himself. He will henceforth be known as Lord Rycliff.”
    Susanna choked on her tea. “What? Lord Rycliff? But that title is extinct. There hasn’t been an Earl of Rycliff since . . .”
    “Since 1354. Precisely. The title has lain dormant for nearly five centuries. When I wrote to him emphasizing Bramwell’s contributions, the Prince Regent was glad of my suggestion to revive it.”
    A powder blast in the Red Salon could not have stunned Susanna more. Her gaze darted to the officer in question. For a man elevated to the peerage, he didn’t look happy about it, either.
    “Good God,” Payne remarked. “An earl? This can’t be borne. As if it weren’t bad enough that he controls my fortune, my cousin now outranks me. Just what does this earldom include, anyhow?”
    “Not much besides the honor of the title. No real lands to speak of, except for the—”
    “The castle,” Susanna finished, her voice remote.
    Her castle.
    Of course, Rycliff Castle didn’t belong to her, but she’d always felt possessive of it. No one else seemed to want the pile of ruins, after all. And when they’d first taken this house and she’d been so weakened from fever, Papa had called it hers. You must get well, Susanna Jane , he’d said to her. You have your very own castle to explore.
    “Susanna, show them all the model.” Her father looked pointedly at a high shelf on the room’s southern wall.
    “Papa, I’m sure the lieutenant colonel wouldn’t be interested in—”
    “He’s Lord Rycliff now. Of course he’ll be interested. It’s his castle.”
    His castle . She couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t her father told her anything about this?
    “The model, dear,” her father prompted. “I’d fetch the thing on my own, but you know you’re the only one tall enough to reach that shelf.”
    With a quiet sigh, Susanna dutifully rose from her chair and crossed the room to retrieve the clay model she’d made of Rycliff Castle more than a decade ago. Sometimes life could be astonishingly efficient in dispensing mortifications. In the space of a minute, she would be exposed before three male visitors to be both freakishly tall and an abominably poor sculptor. What would come next? Perhaps her father would invite the men to count her freckles, one by one. They’d be here until moonrise.
    Suddenly, Bramwell was at her side.
    “This?” he asked, touching a finger to the model’s edge.
    She cringed, wishing she could deny it. “Yes, thank you.”
    As he