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T hree minutes later, the library doors loomed before them, their carved panels gleaming dully in the light from the wall sconces. Sir Frederick reached around Amelia to grasp the handle, his arm brushing her shoulder in a way that felt far too deliberate.

But before Amelia could dwell upon it, the door creaked open to reveal a cavernous room lined with leather-bound books, their gilt spines catching what little light filtered through the tall windows.

“Oh!” Miss Playford clutched at her gauzy skirts. “It’s so… so dark in here.” Her voice quavered, and Amelia had to admire the artful way she shifted closer to Sir Frederick.

But instead of offering comfort, he was already striding toward one of the windows, his Byronic silhouette stark against the gathering dusk.

With efficient movements, he drew back the heavy curtains, allowing more of the fading light to spill into the room.

“Better, Miss Playford? Though I dare say Miss Fairchild would tell us that darkness is essential for any proper ghost hunting.”

“I would say no such thing,” Amelia retorted, moving towards the nearest bookshelf. “Ghosts, like most mysteries, tend to evaporate in good light and with clear thinking.” She ran her fingers along the spines, trying to ignore how his low chuckle raised goosebumps on her arms.

“Clear thinking?” He moved to the shelf beside her. “From our fortune teller? I would have thought you’d be more inclined towards… mysterious possibilities tonight.”

Before Amelia could respond, Miss Playford gasped. “Oh! What was that sound?”

“Merely the wind in the chimney,” Amelia said firmly. “Now, what was that line again? ‘Behind the tome where romance never dies’?”

“How fitting,” Sir Frederick murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only Amelia could hear. “Considering our history with libraries.”

She jerked her head up to look at him, but his face was unreadable in the shadows. Surely he wasn’t referring to that afternoon years ago. The afternoon he’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back.

Before Thomas had revealed Sir Frederick’s true nature? Before her world had tilted on its axis?

“Miss Fairchild?” Miss Playford’s voice held a note of genuine anxiety now. “Something just brushed past me!”

“Nonsense,” Amelia said, more sharply than she intended. “It’s merely your own costume’s feathers.” But she noticed how Sir Frederick had already moved to the young lady’s side, offering his arm with perfect gallantry.

And she was glad of it. It reminded her just why Sir Frederick was not a man to be taken seriously—as she had once done.

“Shall we search together, Miss Playford? Though I warn you, I take my direction from our fortune teller here.” His eyes met Amelia’s over Miss Playford’s blonde head, and for a moment she caught something in his expression that made her wonder if she’d miscalculated somehow.

But no—this was exactly what she’d planned. Sir Frederick was playing the gallant protector, just as she’d hoped. The fact that something twisted uncomfortably in her chest at the sight was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows, making Miss Playford jump closer to Sir Frederick with a tiny shriek. “Oh! Do you think it’s… her? Lady Pernilla?”

“Don’t be so silly,” Amelia said before she could stop herself, ameliorating her sharpness with a more conciliatory, “Lady Pernilla’s ghost is a figment of everyone’s imagination.”

“I think,” Sir Frederick said slowly, “that Lady Pernilla’s story might be worth investigating further. Don’t you agree, Miss Fairchild? After all, some tales of love and betrayal deserve a second look.”

Amelia turned back to the bookshelves, her fortune teller’s bangles jangling with the sudden movement.

“We’re here to find a clue, not investigate old scandals,” she said firmly.

“Now, shall we begin our search in earnest? The romance section would be the logical place to start,” she said, moving towards the far corner of the library where she’d noticed a collection of well-worn novels.

“Logical?” Sir Frederick’s voice held that maddening hint of amusement again. “I wouldn’t have thought logic had much place in matters of romance.”

Distracted, Amelia halted, then reverently pulled out a leather-bound tome and read aloud, “ Principia Mathematica by Isaac Newton.” Clasping it to her bosom she whispered, “I am in heaven!” as she gazed at the lofty ceiling.

She opened her eyes to see Sir Frederick regarding her with amusement which quickly turned to horror as Miss Playford pulled out a title and began to read, “ Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure by John Cleland. Have you read this—”

“No, and nor should you!” Sir Frederick said, snatching it from her hands.

“But we’re looking for a romance, aren’t we?” Miss Playford looked confused. “Wouldn’t this be—?”

“No, I think not, Miss Playford, and I think you should direct your search to another bookshelf,” he suggested, for now she’d pulled out a title which Amelia could see clearly was Justine by the Marquise de Sade.

“Nor that title, Miss Playford!” Amelia said, taking it out of Miss Playford’s hands.

She caught Sir Frederick’s quizzical look, blushing hotly as he murmured, “And why do you think a novel with such an innocuous title should be kept away from Miss Playford? Surely you are not acquainted with the works of the Marquise de Sade?”

“Who is the Marquise de Sade?” asked Miss Playford who appeared to have missed the nuances swirling about her. “I do love reading romances but my Aunt Pike says I should broaden my horizons and read other literature if I am to improve myself.”

Amelia struggled to reply, for Sir Frederick was clearly waiting for her to supply Miss Playford with an answer.

Finally, she said, calmly, “I do not think reading the Marquise de Sade would improve yourself. In fact, I think you should put his name out of your mind and not mention to your aunt that such a book was ever in your hands.”

Immediately she realized she’d spoken the very words that would incline Miss Playford to do the opposite.

She replaced the tome, feeling almost burned by the explicit sexual content of the book.

The truth was that she’d inadvertently stumbled upon the volume in the library of a friend of her mama’s and what she’d read would stay with her forever.

Fortunately, she was saved from saying anything further for Miss Playford suddenly gave a whoop of triumph as she whipped out the Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe.

“I loved this romance!” she cried, and Amelia was relieved that she could concur and launch into a spirited critique of the book set in a similarly mysterious and ghostly setting.

“And this must be the next clue!” Miss Playford said as she pulled out a yellowing sheet of paper and began to read:

“My dearest William, How my heart aches with each passing moment we are apart. The sun seems dimmer, the air less sweet, and even the horses in the stable lack their usual luster without your presence. I know my father forbids our love—”

Amelia, who’d been staring at the letter, trying to make sense of how it could be the second clue, glanced up to see Sir Frederick frowning at her.

Gently he took the letter from Miss Playford. “This is not the clue,” he said at last.

Amelia looked over his shoulder and gasped. “Look at the signature. It says Pernilla.”

“The ghost?” exclaimed Miss Playford.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Amelia. She bit her lip, torn between wanting to know what it said but knowing such a desire reflected badly on her. She was relieved when Miss Playford said brightly, “Perhaps reading it would help us discover why she’s a ghost.”

“Excellent idea,” said Sir Frederick to Amelia’s surprise. “Would you care to do the honors?”

In a sweet, lilting voice, Miss Playford continued:

“I know my father forbids our love, claiming it an impossibility due to the circumstances of our birth.

But surely, my darling, love knows no such boundaries.

Your gentle hands, so skilled with the horses, have captured my heart with equal mastery.

Your kind eyes and noble spirit reveal a truer nobility than any title could bestow.

They speak of my impending marriage to Baron Weatherby as if it were a fate already sealed.

But I cannot—I will not—accept a life without you.

Each night, I dream of a world where we are free to love openly, where the only judgment passed upon us is the strength of our devotion.

I watch from the tower window, hoping to catch a glimpse of you in the stables below.

Sometimes, I fancy I can hear your voice carried on the wind, calling out to me.

My love, if only I had wings, I would fly into your arms and never leave. Promise me you’ll find a way for us to be together. I fear my spirit cannot bear this separation much longer. Without you, this gilded cage of privilege feels more a prison with each passing day.

Forever yours, with a love that defies all bounds,

Pernilla .”

She stopped reading and Amelia found she had no words. Embarrassed, she turned her head away so that Sir Frederick would not witness her foolishness, quickly blinking away the tears and clearing her voice before she forced a smile.

To her surprise, she saw that Sir Frederick was frowning as he took both the book and the letter from Miss Playford who said softly, “That’s really sad.

That letter is from Lady Pendleton’s great-great aunt Pernilla.

The ghost. Do you…” She hesitated. “Do you think we should give it to Lady Pendleton?”

Sir Frederick shook his head. “Let us keep it our secret for the meantime. I don’t think Lady Pendleton is going to be very receptive to more details of her ancestor’s scandalous love affair being publicly aired.”

“Nor do I think it would make her more kindly disposed towards her erring forebear,” said Amelia. “Poor ghostly Pernilla was in love with her father’s groom.”