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T he following morning, Diana was nervous, but she tried to maintain an air of calmness. She and Harrington had stayed up half the night refining their plan to search Carl Frederick’s room. Now it was time to put their plan into action.

As breakfast was concluding, Harrington said, “Say, Carl Frederick, as the weather seems to be cooperating, would it be a convenient time for you to show me that game you played growing up?”

Carl Frederick brightened. “You mean varpa! Yes, yes, it is a fine morning for it.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then stood. “Come, I will send a footman to fetch the stones.”

Harrington gave Diana a small nod before heading out the door. Diana lingered for five more minutes before excusing herself from the table.

She knew which room was Carl Frederick’s. She and Harrington had sketched a rough floor plan of the house and had been systematically checking off rooms as they searched them. The duke was staying in a corner bedroom on the second floor.

When she arrived at Carl Frederick’s door, she heard someone moving about inside. She made a show of admiring the paintings lining the corridor.

Five minutes later, a maid emerged. Diana gave her a regal nod before returning her attention to a portrait of a dour woman clutching a little dog.

As soon as the maid rounded the corner, Diana dashed toward Carl Frederick’s door and slipped inside.

She spied a letter on his bedside table and hurried over, but it was written in English, liberally perfumed, and proved to be from Lady Carmichael, an attractive young widow with a reputation for taking handsome paramours.

Diana set it aside at once, unwilling to spare a moment to read the gossip.

She hurried over to a small desk in the corner.

Carl Frederick was not overly fastidious in his correspondence.

There were letters stuffed haphazardly into the desk’s slots and crannies.

Three were written in Swedish, but two were from Carl Frederick’s mother and one from an old school friend, and she did not find any that bore the crest of the House of Mecklenburg.

It took only five minutes to make a competent search of the desk. Diana scanned the room, finding nothing of obvious interest. Then again, perhaps it was unsurprising that Carl Frederick did not leave highly sensitive correspondence from the king lying in plain sight.

She had just resolved to search his trunk when she heard muffled voices from the hall. “Are those the clean sheets for His Grace’s room?” came the voice of Carl Frederick’s hired housekeeper.

“Yes, ma’am,” a second voice replied.

The conversation continued, but Diana couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her heart. She whipped around to face the bed. Surely enough, it was unmade. Any second now, the maid would open the door and catch Diana red-handed.

She hastily scanned the room. Diana prided herself on being a master when it came to hiding, but of course, this would be the moment that her skills abandoned her. The curtains were too filmy to provide concealment. She tried to slip beneath the bed but was foiled by a trundle tucked underneath it.

She scrambled to her feet, her gaze falling on the window.

The open window.

She hurried over, recalling that the house had a cornice rimming its red brick exterior. Which floor was it on?

She leaned her head outside. Surely enough, the cornice loomed a few feet below her. It was wider than she had expected, almost a full foot across.

She heard a soft click from the room behind her. Slowly, the knob began to turn.

Before she could think better of it, she hopped onto the windowsill, swung her legs through, and stepped out onto the ledge.