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“Why, I thought he looked at you with singular regard. You’re obviously a very clever young woman. I think he was greatly impressed by your abilities in untangling the clues of Lady Pendleton’s diverting little game.”

“It was only diverting when we truly thought Lady Pernilla’s tragic story was true.” Indignation rose in Amelia’s chest. “I am not entertained by make-believe.”

“I’ve already explained what happened to the real Lady Pernilla,” said Lady Townsend. “So what if our hostess embellished some of the facts? Remember, the best stories are based on truth.”

It was these last words that ran circles around Amelia’s head as she lay in bed, unable to sleep, later that night.

The best stories are based on truth.

When the clock chimed 3 a.m., Amelia bolted upright. Maybe she’d dozed, though she’d felt she’d done nothing but toss and turn since she crawled under the covers after she’d left the conversation with Lady Townsend, pleading a headache as an excuse to miss dinner.

What if Lady Pendleton had found one of Pernilla’s letters and then concocted the rest?

What if Lady Pendleton had seen the letter from Pernilla that gave the impression that William was nothing more than a lowly groom?

After all, the corresponding letter from William that had given the lie to that was within the pages of Pride and Prejudice which had not been part of the real trail of clues.

If that were the case, thought Amelia, she needed to go down to the library right now and leaf through all those romance books—for that was where Pernilla had secreted her letters perhaps being the only truly secret hiding place if the other members of the household did not read romance books.

Wrapping a shawl about her and slipping her feet into a pair of embroidered slippers, Amelia hurried down the passage, along the gallery, down a flight of stairs, and successfully navigated her way to the library with the help of the candle sconces upon the walls and her own candle stick.

Perhaps some of the guests had voiced fears about ghosts and requested that the castle not be in complete darkness.

Sweeping into the library, Amelia made her way directly to where Pride and Prejudice was shelved, whereupon she began to carefully go through all the pages once again.

But of course, that book had been thoroughly perused, so she pulled out Mansfield Park , and again searched through each leaf until a thought hit her.

Lady Pernilla had died many decades before these books had been published. This was where Lady Pendleton had planted the fake clue.

So what books would have been in the library when Pernilla lived in the castle?

Carefully, she ran her fingers along the spines of some of the other books they’d pulled out; books which she recalled Sir Frederick had seen fit to snatch quite quickly from Miss Playford’s hands, implying, without saying, that they were not books for ladies’ eyes.

An uncharacteristic surge of prurient interest made her scan the titles once more. There was Tales by a Lady of Pleasure . That was not a title for ladies’ eyes but it was here, in her hands, and perhaps it’s where another of Pernilla’s or William’s letters could be found.

At least, that’s how she justified opening the book.

But, no, this was not why she was here! She was here to discover if Pernilla had written more letters and Pernilla certainly would not have opened the pages of such a work.

But as Amelia flipped open a page—a page which no lady should read, she realized after a quick perusal—there was a letter.

The handwriting was familiar, the paper the same cream and the penmanship showing an elegant looping of the lower letters as in the initial letter from Pernilla: clearly an original.

Once again, innocent Pernilla was spilling out her heart.

This letter pre-dated the other and showed a girl whose heart had been captured during a ball at the local Assembly Hall.

William had attended and from reading, Amelia gathered that his family, once wealthy, were suffering great financial hardship, but a generous aunt had funded him the cost of his entry ticket and vouched for him.

With his family well known in the area, the inference was that he had the respectability of a centuries-old name to confer upon a bride who would hopefully bring with her a sizeable dowry.

Pernilla had such a dowry, but clearly her father had set his sights on a bridegroom considerably more illustrious than poor recently impoverished William.

Amelia read the tender sentiments in the letter with a sense of sadness before she realized that William would never have received it.

And yet, he clearly had received messages from Pernilla conveying the state of her heart. Unless, of course, the letter they’d found in the tower had been forged by Lady Pendleton in another of her grandiose acts of theatre.

Thoughtfully, Amelia closed the book and put it back on the shelf, first removing the letter.

Now she needed to discover if William had in fact written any letters to Pernilla or if the romance was a figment of Pernilla’s mind or not reciprocated. She couldn’t set any store by the letter Lady Pendleton had clearly written.

Perhaps Amelia could spot the forgery. She had three letters supposedly in Pernilla’s hand.

Holding aloft the candle, she studied the looped handwriting, deciding with satisfaction that there was a difference. Lady Pendleton had used a more contemporary style of executing certain letters. It was a good forgery, but it proved that the others were indeed real.

A little spurt of excitement propelled her more thoroughly into her task. If Pernilla and her lover were real, there really might be good reason to continue her quest for more correspondence.

Now where to look?

Perhaps close to the delightful novels of Jane Austen. She liked the fact Sir Frederick was familiar with some of them. Who would have thought it?

Who would have thought he’d be so kind to Miss Playford, and not in a romantic sense.

But he was a philanderer and, being with Amelia, he’d have realized it would not do to appear to play fast and loose with the young lady’s affections.

Although the page she opened did not contain a letter, the tender sentiments of the fictional characters upon a page of Evelina by Frances Burney compelled her to read.

“I could not speak; but my heart was too full to serve me as interpreter. Lord Orville, at length, broke the silence. ‘I fear,’ said he, in a faltering voice, ‘I fear that I have offended you;—I have been too precipitate,—too presumptuous;—forgive me, my Evelina, while I own my error, and—’ He stopped; but when I turned to him my eyes full of tears, his own instantly overflowed, while he exclaimed, ‘Oh, my Evelina! most lovely of women—forgive my impetuous feelings! Your virtues, your innocence have conquered, and I dare no longer struggle against my passion!’”

Amelia put her hand to her heart and drew in a trembling breath.

How foolish for her to be affected. Romance was for mindless misses and this was a flowery, unrealistic romance designed to toy with innocent hearts who were too innocent to know that real, long-lasting love was rare.

Quickly flicking through the pages, Amelia moved onto the volume beside it and was nearly at the end when she gasped.

Another letter. Oh, dear Lord, this time from William!

Withdrawing the delicate paper, she replaced the book on the shelf and held the letter to the light.

“My dear Pernilla,

Tonight was the most wonderful of my life. Not only to have danced twice with you at the Assembly ball but to then have been satisfied that my feelings were reciprocated has made my pleasure all the more complete.

I know your father looks unkindly upon me as a suitor, I nevertheless wonder if I could be so bold as to request a few moments to discuss those subjects which are so close to the hearts of both of us.

Perhaps at the stables, for it is where my father sometimes seeks advice on his horse from one of your father’s grooms. It would not be too unlikely that such a ‘coincidence’ could occur at 10 o’ clock tomorrow morning.”

Amelia considered the letter thoughtfully, then placed it in her pocket. She was about to pick up the book beside it when her eye was drawn to a title that elicited a fragment of memory: Sir Frederick’s shock when Miss Playford had opened the same book.

Feeling a twinge of wicked guilt, Amelia withdrew the volume and contemplated it thoughtfully. Juliette by the Marquis de Sade. She’d not heard of this writer, but he was clearly one that was not considered “respectable”.

What did a not quite “respectable”’ book contain? Should she read it?

Hesitating, she leaned against the bookshelf and opened the book more fully.

Well, there was no one here to stop her. No one would ever know.

She had just begun to read when she became aware of the sound of someone in the room before a low, masculine voice intruded.

“I really don’t think that is suitable reading for a young lady.”

“Sir Frederick!” Shocked that she’d been here all this time without realizing that the baronet sat in a deep armchair just a few feet from her, Amelia nearly dropped the book before she said, with some indignation, “And who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t read?”

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you if you should decide to ignore my advice.” He smiled. “I am just suggesting that the power of the written word is immense and what is read cannot be unread.”

Amelia frowned down at the book in her hand and then at Sir Frederick. “You have read this?” she asked.

“Actually, I have not,” he replied. “I have not read anything of the Marquis de Sade given his reputation as a libertine and sadist.”

“A sadist?’ Amelia frowned further. “I’ve not heard the term.”