Belinda, Annabel and Jane took after their father, as did he, which was why Sybil, mild, sweet Sybil, fair-haired and gentle, was entirely unable to control them. Or comprehend them; all three were more intelligent, clever and quick than she. They were also more vigorous, bold and outgoing, altogether more confident.

He, on the other hand, shared with the three the affinity of character. They’d always been close; as their adored older and only brother, he’d grown accustomed to them being on his side.

Or at least operating on some form of Tregarth logic he could understand.

Instead, over the past six months they’d apparently transformed from lovable if mischievous hoydens of whom he was deeply fond to secretive, demon-inspired harpies whose primary focus in life was to drive him demented.

His last question had thus been rhetorical; if he couldn’t fathom what had possessed his dear sisters to stage what amounted to six months of guerrilla mayhem designed to overthrow his sanity, he didn’t imagine Sybil would.

Yet to his surprise she looked down, and picked at her shawl’s fringe. “Actually…” She strung the word out, then glanced up at him. “I think it’s because of what happened to the Hardesty girls.”

“The Hardesty girls?” He halted, frowned, struggling to place them. “The Hardestys of Helston Grange?”

Sybil nodded. “Robert Hardesty-Lord Hardesty now his father is dead-went to London last September, and came home with a wife.”

Gervase’s recollection of Robert Hardesty was of a wet-behind-the-ears whelp, but that memory was more than twelve years old. “Robert must be…what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six, I believe.”

“A trifle young for marriage perhaps, yet if, as I suppose, he has his sisters to establish, a wife seems a sensible addition to his household.” His sisters’ futures rated as one of the many reasons he himself felt compelled to wed. Gervase tried to recall the Hardesty girls, but drew a blank. “His sisters are about Belinda’s age, aren’t they?”