The storm started that afternoon, and so did Harry's punishment.

Damon came home and found out that his sister, Simone, and his brother, Price, together with their cousins Lydia and Gale, had gotten themselves in trouble during church service. As he found out after his interesting and baffling encounter with Miss Geneva Withers, the four troublemakers were found eavesdropping outside the chapel door by Harry and quite a few other churchgoers.

As Harry, the future Earl of Abberton, summoned each person inside his study for a sermon, Damon decided to disappear into the current earl's room.

Their grandfather, Abraham Stratford, was seventy-eight. He was not young enough to deal with the petty crimes his grandchildren committed, but he was not old enough either to lose his hearing.

"I heard what happened," the old man said from his bed.

Damon went straight to a drawer to gather the old cards. Settling in a chair next to the bed, he started shuffling as the man waited. "Of course, you did, old man."

"I heard the Withers girl made Roxie and Freda cry."

There was no question that the two youngest Stratfords were the old man's favorites as Price and Gale would often claim, but Damon liked to think that it was not the case. When their parents died in a tragic shipwreck, leaving all Stratford grandchildren orphaned, the earl knew who to focus on. While everyone grieved after realizing their parents were never coming back, Roxie and Freda were too young to understand. Still barely walking, they cried for their mothers. They could not yet understand words even if the older children tried to tell them.

"The only language they know is one without words," their grandfather told them. And so, he did just that. He embraced the pair, held their hands as they learned to walk, laughed with them, and in some rare moments, cried with them. When everyone else was in so much pain to deal with two babies, the earl stepped in, giving as much as he could to everyone, but always more to Roxie and Freda.

"It was the first," Damon said. "That they cried, I mean." He threw cards for him and the old man.

"What did the Withers girl do?"

"I never found out," he said, laying the rest of the cards face-down over the man's chest.

"Should the correct question be: What did the girls do?" his grandfather asked, arranging his cards.

Damon chuckled. "I believe, in this case, it should be: What did Miss Geneva think the girls do?"

The old man looked at him for a few seconds. "A misunderstanding."

Damon absently nodded, his mind drifting back to that morning. Geneva Withers seemed... not herself. She was always the prim and proper kind. Damon had seen her about, of course. Who would not notice? She was always strutting around Abberton with three old ladies. In a crowd like that, she was certain to stand out. Young, black hair, perfect posture, and beautiful. It was curious she was not yet married. Surely, with her looks, she could interest someone.

But as Harry once said during his rare foxed state, the men in Abberton were plagued by foolishness and blindness. He said those words after their friend, Arabella Poppet, was left in the altar on her wedding day.

However, Arabella Poppet was different from Geneva Withers. Arabella was easy to be with, while Geneva Withers seemed like the type to think too highly of herself. She had friends, but they had gray hair and were as old as her great-aunts. And although she went to social gatherings, she was always with the older Withers, who were regarded with respect due to their old name and status in Abberton. For years, Damon thought the woman took after her aunts.

During one of the many nights that he and Harry and Webster would stay up in the birdwatching deck on the roof of the Abberton House, they talked about the women in Abberton. Everyone they could name. And Geneva Withers was a name that would always come up. But time and time again, they would all conclude that she was bound to marry someone from Coulway, or if not, someone from a bigger town than Abberton.

But that never happened. And he wondered why.

And now, he thought he knew why.

After his game with the earl, he went to the stables to check on his horse, Maple. The horse had been sick, recovering now. Price, his younger brother, joined him.

"Good evening, brother," Price greeted, nonchalantly walking over to his own horse, Hazel. "How did your talk with Miss Geneva go?"

"Baffling."

"And did you find out why she made the girls cry?"

"No. If you ask again, I'll send you to Birth." After inheriting their father's shipping business, their eldest brother Webster was forced to learn the trade along with Damon. Price was excused for now, but he would soon have to join them.

Price rolled his eyes. "Did you at least let her know it's odd that a full-grown woman would take on children?"

"Roxie and Freda are thirteen and fourteen. Not quite children."

Price crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you defending Geneva Withers?"

With no desire to answer, Damon diverted the subject by asking, "And why are you outside? You're not permitted to go out."

"This is still within the manor grounds."

He looked down at his brother's clothing. "But the woods is not."

"The woods is the extension of the—"

"No trip to the woods for you. Go back inside."

His brother rolled his eyes. "By the by," Price said at the door. "Leroy said that he found Simone and the duke in the woods earlier. Do you think we're winning?"

The Stratfords liked wagers. And this time, the entire household, servants included, was divided on a match between Simone and their guest, Daniel Cavendish. Leroy, their spy in the other group betting against the match, was currently hard at work following Price's plan. "You better start planning a wedding," he replied. At Price's laughter, he added, "If you leave the manor, I'll make certain you put your planning skills to a much better use in Birth."

After Price left, Damon wondered how many of the Stratfords were actually inside the manor. The storm still surged outside, splattering on the mud. Just like how any of his siblings or cousins would like it.

With a sigh, he grabbed the stableman's coat hanging beside the door and made his way to the woods. Simone and Lydia were certainly in the manor, he thought. Gale in the drawing room because he saw him. Roxie and Freda were in their chambers. But how certain was he? The ground would be soft in the woods, perfect to make mud balls, which many of them often store in secret places as emergency weapons. They were also perfect for traps.

He could just go back inside and find everyone, but it would only trigger someone to alert the escapees, and Damon could not risk that happening. There was more satisfaction in catching them in the flesh.

Reaching the woods, he went to some of the common cabins. The rain had exposed many hidden traps, making it easier for him to navigate the paths, but also erasing any trace of anyone who may have sneaked into the woods.

Many minutes later, Damon was sitting outside one of the cabins, just staring at the drops of rain from the roof, when he saw her. One look and he knew it was none of the Stratford children. Everyone rarely brought a gaslight because it would only attract wild animals. Of course, he had an inkling who it was. It was in the way she limped.

Damon stood as she made her way toward the cabin. His eyes darted to his coat hanging by the railing of the balcony, then down at his shirt, which stuck to his skin. He sighed, considering his options.

He could leave now and let her be, or he could wait and find out why she was doing this. He chose the latter. When she exposed her string of odd secrets earlier, she never disclosed why she went through the woods.

The hood of her cloak must have hidden him from view because, without hesitation, she limped her way toward the cabin and landed on the balcony, gaslight in hand. Damon crossed his arms and waited until she pushed back her hood. When she did, and her eyes landed straight on him, he smiled.

The rain drowned her cry of surprise. He waited in silence until she recovered and when she did, she stepped back. "I was just passing through."

"Of course," he said, looking at her state. Her cloak must weigh a ton.

He turned around, opened the cabin door, saying, "I hate making fire, if you must know." Pausing, he looked over his should. "Come inside, Miss Withers, before you freeze to death."

She shook her head, and it was like watching icicles break. Her teeth chattered as she said, "No."

He looked away and continued the journey inside the cabin. "You will not reach far with that foot of yours."

When she did not reply, he paused and found her already turning away. Geneva Withers was a stubborn woman.

"If you don't come inside and warm yourself, you will get sick. And if that happens, I'm afraid your aunts will wonder why."

That gave her pause.

He turned toward the small fireplace, bent down with a heavy sigh, and started the task of making a fire. When he heard her limping footsteps enter, he scoffed and shook his head.

The wooden floor creaked as she walked. Then silence. When he was done, and the fire constantly crackled, he stood and found her standing in the middle of the room, holding her gaslight. She was shivering, still in her cloak.

"Do you expect me to tell you what to do next?"

She blinked at him in confusion. "What?"

He went to grab the gaslight from her hand, put off the fire, and straightened. "Come closer to the fire."

As she did, Damon studied her. She was limping worse than she did earlier in church. Dragging a chair and putting it behind her, he came to stand in front of her.

When she remained motionless, he frowned. "There's a chair behind you."

She looked and murmured, "Oh." But she did not move.

Damon shook his head. "Perhaps you wish to sit?"

The baffling thing was that she took her time to think. As if sitting down came with a consequence. But finally, she sat down.

"Take off your coat."

"No."

"You are dressed, yes?"

"Of course!"

"Then take your coat off so you dry fast."

She shook her head. "No."

Damon shook his head, pressing the matter no further. Instead, he said, "May I see your foot?"

"No!"

His lids fell shut and he took a breath. "Miss Geneva, I merely wish to see your injury."

"My foot is fine, Sir. Thank you."

He placed his hands on his hips, thinking hard. He had dealt with this type of challenges before. Looking down at her stiff countenance, his right eye narrowed, which only happened whenever he had to think about something that required better critical thinking.

He had to think of a good bargain. "I shall not ask why you're trespassing into our woods if you show me your injured leg."

Her brow puckered. "Why would you want to see it?"

"Because you acquired it while sneaking into our property. While most of our traps are harmless, some may have been—"

"Harmless?"

"Not deadly," he corrected with a tight smile, "And some may have been around too long."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged. "It depends on what type of trap you got into. A hole, I assume?" He raised his brows. Her silence gave the answer. "If it was an old trap, it is possible it may have spikes." Her face spoke it all. "Then that is not good. Spikes may develop molds over time. And it could transfer into wounds and carry toxins inside your body." She paled. "I do not mean to scare you. I'm simply telling you why I want to see your foot."

She moistened her lips and looked around the room.

"There is no one here to bear witness, Miss Withers."

Her brown globes returned to him. "You will not ask me why I came here."

"Of course."

"And I can pass through here again if I so wish."

"If you so wish." Lifting his shoulders, he looked down. "And if your foot would allow it. Which it might not if you don't let me—" He stopped when she lifted the layers of cloak and skirts and revealed her foot up to her ankle.

Damon bent down, not touching, just inspecting, realizing she did not have to take off her shoe. The injury was around her ankle. She was not wearing stockings, and it was clear why.

The bloody thing was dangerously swollen.