Simone did not find out more after Mr. Cavendish was called for the next act and he hastily said goodbye before he could even answer Web's question, and after Web returned to his earlier demeanor and ordered the three of them to go outside and into the carriage.

As her luck would have it, Simone did get in trouble. But as she would later find out, it was a fated trouble. Web, in his rare frightening air (because most days, he was a very charming man), forbade her, Lydia, and Gale from exiting any doors in the villa that was not their own. In short, they were confined to their respective bedrooms for a week. Their meals and bath were delivered to their doors on time and the servants could not talk to them.

"And I don't want to hear any complaints," Web said after them as they strutted up the stairs, growling at each other.

"What's going on?" their grandfather's voice asked from somewhere.

They paused, hopeful, but then Web said, "Go on. Upstairs in your room. Now." And as they climbed, they heard him relay the situation to their grandfather. If they hoped the earl would intervene, they were left disappointed.

On the first day, Simone enjoyed the peace and quiet. Through the thin wall that separated her room from Lydia's, they read books to each other. As for Gale, Lydia, who was between his and Simone's rooms, complained about his pacing. "He's now practicing his waltz."

By the second day, they were looking out their windows that faced the street, counting the passersby, even calling out to Roxie and Freda's nanny to wave hello. The woman, under Web's orders, ignored them with a disappointed shake of her head. Gale later joined them through his window, reminding them of their promise. "You are yet to introduce me to Pauline Baker, cousins. I'm not going through this week-long suffering for nothing."

On the fourth day, Lydia was immersed in painting, which left Simone to do nothing but write letters. She wrote a dozen to their friends back in Abberton, one or two to their tutors, and even another one for Daniel Cavendish.

She told him about her boring week, how she practiced painting her face and curling her hair, her reading progress, and her love for his acting. She did not blame him, of course, for the punishment she endured for going to his play. And she also relayed that she was glad he was her brother's friend. As she thought of how she should close her letter, a gush of wind blew through the street-facing window, carrying her letter with it.

Now, that would have been no trouble at all if her desk was not facing another window, but it was. And the said window was open, and that's where the letter went.

Out.

Then in.

Into the window opposite hers.

Daniel Cavendish's window was never open. Never. Ever since he moved in, it was always closed. But today it was.

And to her horror, he had not heeded her request to transfer to a different room because he was there, picking up the letter.

Simone, in her horror and embarrassment, docked down and hit her forehead on the edge of her desk. She cried out in pain.

"Are you all right?" His voice was still the same. And it still sounded magical.

Simone opened her eyes, hand on her forehead. He was at the window, holding her letter. She nodded.

"You're bleeding."

"Hm?" Oh, stupid! She should at least say a word.

"You're bleeding," he repeated, his brown eyes both concerned and amused. He was wearing a brown waistcoat over white shirt. Truly, he did not need anything else. His words did not register as fast as it should have until he said, "Goodness, go find something to stop it."

"What?" As she asked the question, she felt the trickle over her upper lip. With a reluctant finger, she touched it and looked down. Blood. "Nosebleed."

"Yes. Find something."

She looked around in panic. Was she dying? Her breath started to quicken as she thought of the many things she still wanted to do, the people she loved, her grandfather, her brothers, Lydia, Roxie, Freda, Harry, Gale. Another drop of blood dropped on the floor and she whirled around and around, unsure if she should call the maids. What if they took her to the doctor? What if the doctor told her she would not live past midnight, or that she might live, but since she hit her head too hard, she'd lose her mental capacity and would have to live with the mind of a sixteen-year-old forever?

"Here, get this," Daniel Cavendish said. She turned to face him, her lips and chin smeared with blood, her forehead still throbbing. He was holding out a kerchief. Without thinking, Simone pushed her desk aside and reached for it. She could not quite take a hold so he swung the white cloth until she caught it. "Hold it against your nose," he said, frowning like how Web or her other brothers would whenever she hurt herself for something stupid. "And don't panic." His eyes narrowed. "You're still panicking."

She closed her eyes because the look on his face reminded her too much of her brothers. "Will I die?"

"No. I'm quite certain you'll live." She nodded and he added, "Don't move your head. Just look ahead and count."

"Until what number?"

"A hundred," he said, voice laced with amusement.

She swallowed and began counting. As she reached sixty, she started to believe she was not dying, so she opened her eyes and found him reading her letter. His reaction was not as she had expected. He looked up with a disarming smile. "I'm flattered. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He folded the paper. "Can I keep this?"

She started to nod, then remembered his instruction not to move her head. Instead, she shrugged one shoulder. "If you want to."

"You are my first fan," he said. "Thank you for appreciating my acting." And then his eyes narrowed. "But you shouldn't have watched. There's a reason young girls are not allowed in that theater."

"Oh, well... We wanted to see your play."

"You got in trouble for it. I wonder if it's worth it."

Taking the kerchief away from her nose, she studied it. The blood had stopped flowing. "It was worth it," she said. "I'm sorry for your kerchief."

"You can have it."

"Thank you, Mr. Cavendish."

"Do you feel well now?" he asked, arching a brow.

"Yes." She sensed he was going to end it there, so she asked, "May I know, if it is of no consequence, how you became friends with my brother?"

"We are friends from Butler."

"Web has many friends, I'm afraid. He never said anything about you and if he did, the information must have been buried by dozens of others."

He chuckled. It was low and died slow. "I wouldn't be surprised." An awkward silence followed his statement. Then he smiled. He smiled so easily, she realized. "I shall leave you be." He stepped back and bowed. "Thank you for your letter, Miss Priest. And thank you for the concoction."

"Was it of any help?" she inquired eagerly.

A knowing, amused smile curled his lips. "It was."

"I'm certain it was. I have not heard anything since I sent you the concoction." She beamed and offered a small curtsy. "See you around, Mr. Cavendish."

***

When they were finally allowed out of their rooms the next week, Simone announced to Lydia that she was no longer smitten with Mr. Cavendish. In fact, after their interaction through the window, she realized he was just like her brothers.

On the third day after their release, Simone found her brother rushing downstairs dressed for travel.

"Leaving already?" she asked, disappointed. "I was hoping to spend more time with you."

He sighed and rumpled her hair, sending her blue ribbon to the floor. "If you have not been so naughty, that would have happened."

"When are you coming back?" she asked, keeping up with his pace to the door.

"In a month."

"And Damon and Price?"

"The same."

She pouted. "That's not fair. Price gets to spend time with you and Damon."

Web stopped and looked at her with a smile. Then he leaned down to plant a kiss on the crown of her head. "We'll see you soon." Leaning back, his eyes narrowed again. "And behave this time, Sisi, for God's sake."

Their grandfather joined her in the doorway, leaning on his cane. He was a big man with white hair, but he had the gentlest heart. And he could also be quite mischievous. "You should have insisted more."

Fighting back her tears, she tore her eyes off Web's departing carriage. "I never liked Birth, anyway."

He slowly turned because that's how he moved nowadays, and said, "What say you to cookies? And where are my dear Roxie and Freda? Their nanny's keeping them away again, isn't she?"

Simone quickly brushed her tears off the edge of her eyes and rushed to her grandfather's side. Looping her arm around his, she said, "Am I no longer your dear Sisi?"

"You're my precious Sisi, dear. You!" he called out to Gale who was crossing the hall to the parlor. "Ring for tea and cookies. And prepare our game."

"But Harry's not here."

"What do you mean? You're playing with me."

Gale groaned. "Why can't Sisi?"

"I'm going to watch over Roxie and Freda while you play."

"No, you're going to make me my favorite pie while we do it."

Gale snickered as Simone said, "But I thought you said I'm your precious Sisi."

"You are still. And you, young lady," he said to Lydia who was holding freshly cleaned brushes from the kitchen, "are going to continue painting us."

"But I'm painting flowers, Grandpapa."

"Then put the flowers in that giant vase of my portrait."

"But—"

"I'm dying. Will I never see my granddaughter's finished portrait of me?"

"Grandpapa!" they all chorused in horror.

***

After their imprisonment, Gale refused to discuss anything about anyone going into a theater. However, they had a promise to honor. They fulfilled their part of the bargain and went for another fitting. The modiste's daughter and their heir new friend, Pauline Baker, was merely a year older. And oh, how fascinating it was to see the rather fast incline of Gale's disappointment.

Pauline Baker, as they discovered, was the most notorious gossip in town. And she was proud of it, much to Gale's dismay. The beautiful young lady was too far from the timid and shy Gale hoped. She filled their ears with the latest gossips about everyone she laid her eyes on during their tea and biscuits together.

"And what about you, Mr. Stratford?" she asked Gale, who had not moved at all in his seat, perhaps still in shock to see his dreams shattered one gossip at a time. "Do you think Lord Tuttle should marry her?"

Gale blinked a few times. "Who?"

"Miss Perkins," Pauline said, waving her hand impatiently. "The bastard from London."

"The one who told Pauline's mother her dresses are lacking in taste," supplied Lydia. "Which is not the case. Horrible woman."

Simone nodded, amused by the look on Gale's face. "I think Gale is still in disbelief," she said, throwing him a secretive look. He snapped his head at her. "That Lady Tuttle could do such horrible things and still be found wanted."

"Oh, of course!" Pauline said, leaning closer. "And can you imagine? After what she said to my mother, she had the audacity to write her an invitation."

"Invitation for what?"

"To come to her villa. She's gathering all modistes in town to vie against each other so that whoever wins shall have the privilege to see their work worn by her."

Simone and Lydia gasped. "Horrible!"

"Certainly! But I heard Lord Tuttle's mother is doing her best to end the engagement."

And so there it was... Gale's love for Pauline Baker ended before it even flourished.

"She talks too much," he complained very much later.

"Maybe because she was only nervous."

"Believe me, Lydia. If she was nervous at all, she would have not said a word about those people."

"They're just gossips."

"Precisely. And someday, she'll get in trouble because of them." He turned to face them, walking backwards. "And I'm having none of it."

As much as the season was disappointing for Gale, things became interesting for Simone. Now that they had a new friend in Pauline, they had more access to gossip. One being, of course, was Mr. Cavendish.

"Oh, yes, I saw him yesterday. He was just at the tailor to get new clothes."

Not only did they get to know the color of clothes Mr. Cavendish ordered, they also learned the names of his valet. Although she wanted to think she was not too interested in the man, Simone always found herself trying to open a conversation that would hopefully lead to him.

She was always curious about him, always wanted to know about his play and how people perceived him as an actor. But there was only enough information she could gather. As much as Pauline had tiny details to share, she did not have valuable ones. It was becoming clear that Daniel Cavendish was a private man.

And oh, if she only knew his secrets then.