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“Well, well, Miss Fairchild, we are to solve a mystery together, are we?” Sir Frederick’s approach was deliberate, measured, his costume—which Amelia supposed was that of a Byronic hero—lending him an air of dangerous elegance.

He cast what seemed an almost perfunctory smile at Miss Playford before fixing Amelia with that quizzical look she remembered so well from years ago.

“We’ll find the treasure first, before anyone, I’m sure! We’ll search the castle from top to bottom,” Miss Playford declared. The way she looked at Sir Frederick spoke volumes about castles in the air already under construction.

The room hummed with excited murmurs as Lady Pendleton continued reading names, her voice carrying over Lord Pendleton’s nervous shuffling of papers.

Edward dropped part of his unsettling mask to send his sister a look of such smugness that Amelia’s suspicions immediately awakened.

He turned to follow a pretty debutante whose chaperone looked already exhausted, giving Amelia just enough time to whisper, “Who can be behind this odd alliance? Someone has paired Sir Frederick with me and surely it’s not purely coincidence? ”

Edward shrugged. “Not everyone is a matchmaker, Amelia,” he said. “You are too old to need a chaperone and every other young lady here is properly accompanied. No need to overthink it.”

Amelia supposed he was right, though something about the arrangement nagged at her.

“Cryptic, eh, Miss Fairchild?” Sir Frederick’s voice brought her back to the present moment.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The first clue,” he said, nodding towards the paper she’d been clutching rather too tightly. He leaned closer—far closer than strictly necessary, she thought—to read aloud:

“Where slumber takes hold and dreams unfold,

Seek the room where stories are told.

In the library’s heart,

A secret lies,

Behind the tome where romance never dies.”

His voice seemed to linger on the word “romance” in a way that made Miss Playford’s cheeks flush pink.

Or was that just Amelia’s imagination?

“That’s not cryptic,” Amelia said, smoothing her dark fortune-teller’s robes with a deliberately steady hand. “That’s the library, of course.”

“Why, I am teamed with a capital sleuth.” Sir Frederick’s tone held a note of gentle mockery. “Then let us proceed to the library.” He glanced around the now-dispersing crowd. “Though why is no one else going there?”

“Because,” said Amelia, unable to keep a hint of schoolmistress from her voice, “every pair or trio has their own set of clues with only the final clue leading to the treasure. Did you not listen when Lady Pendleton explained the rules of the game?”

“I was too busy gazing at the beauty that surrounds us,” Sir Frederick said, his voice warming as he looked at Miss Playford. The young lady blushed hotly before looking away in what seemed like clear delight.

And Amelia could barely suppress her own smile.

Why, it was astonishing how easily it was all falling into place.

Miss Playford was completely smitten, or at least giving an excellent performance of being so, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to hide her admiration for Sir Frederick.

And he… well, he clearly was entranced by her innocent blushes.

Who wouldn’t be? She was everything Amelia had never been—golden and graceful, with none of the sharp edges that Thomas had told her he’d overheard Sir Frederick criticizing—in the group amongst which he was discussing her—together with her “dull obsession with book learning.”

That had been a life-changing moment, the moment Amelia realized the foolishness of trying to conform and behave as the other debutantes. She did not have their natural vivacity whereas Thomas admired above all things about her—her intelligence and gravity.

Casting aside these reflections, Amelia forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.

Somehow, she needed to mastermind some means by which Miss Playford threw herself in terror into Sir Frederick’s arms—and a ghost was certain to do it—meaning Amelia’s troubles would be over.

The thought should have brought more satisfaction than it did.

Nevertheless, feeling very smug in the knowledge that by the end of this weekend her troubles would be over (and steadfastly ignoring the hollow feeling that accompanied that thought), Amelia allowed Sir Frederick an equally warm smile.

Let him take Miss Playford under his wing and discover the charms of a golden-haired nymph who hung on his every word, who clearly idolized him, and who flattered and cajoled him with an expertise that belied her supposed innocence.

Sir Frederick was clearly the kind of gentleman who was easily susceptible to such adoration.

Though as they set off toward the library, Amelia couldn’t quite ignore the knowledge that his gaze dwelt on her profile, or the way he positioned himself between her and Miss Playford, or how his hand seemed to hover near her elbow at every turning.

But that was surely just habit—the same protective instinct that would soon be redirected completely towards Miss Playford.

Amelia tried to shake her memories of the past. This was the way Sir Frederick had behaved towards her in the early days. Attentive and interested. Not the Sir Frederick that Thomas had refashioned for her and which had taken precedence in her memory during the years the baronet had been away.

The corridors grew darker as they moved away from the drawing room’s warmth, and Amelia told herself firmly that the shiver that ran down her spine was merely from the draft that seemed to follow them.

Although the way Sir Frederick’s shoulder brushed against hers as they walked might have had something to do with it as well.