Page 33

T hank the Lord the evening was over, thought Amelia as she made her way to her chamber.

The charades had left her emotionally drained, while the undercurrents at the card tables had stirred an unease she couldn’t quite shake.

The castle’s corridors seemed longer and darker tonight, the shadows between the wall sconces deeper, as if the very air held secrets.

However, it was Sir Frederick’s words that still played on her mind, each remembered syllable striking a chord that resonated uncomfortably with her heart’s rhythm.

He’d been so very kind, his words indicating real interest—or at least, what felt like real interest. The warmth in his eyes when he’d looked at her had seemed genuine enough.

But wasn’t that what house parties were designed for? Casual flirtation, meaningless compliments, the need to enjoy whatever entertainment was at hand? The very architecture of these grand houses, with their convenient alcoves and discrete corners, seemed designed to facilitate such dalliances.

For the Misses P it was a different matter entirely.

They were all hoping to invoke the interest of the handful of eligible gentlemen present, Sir Frederick being chief among them.

The young ladies clearly didn’t consider Amelia any sort of threat—which made it all the more confusing that she felt as if she could crook her little finger and he’d be at her side in an instant.

He enjoyed her mature company, that was all.

She mustn’t mistake his interest for anything more substantial than that.

On one of the landings, she stopped and leaned over the balcony railing.

The great chandelier cast its golden light over the remaining guests below, their jewels catching and reflecting the light like stars brought down to earth.

There was Mr. Greene, tall and rangy, his evening clothes cut just a shade too fashionably for true elegance.

Too old for Caroline, certainly, but his practiced charm was clearly turning the girl’s head.

Even now, the young miss stood with her friends, self-consciously twirling a blonde ringlet around her finger as she gazed at him.

The longing in her expression was painful to witness.

Had Amelia ever looked at anyone with such naked adoration?

Of course she had. Thomas. From the moment she’d set eyes on him at the Assembly ball and heard whispers of his reputation for nobility and heroism, she’d known that was exactly the kind of man she wished to marry.

Her heart had yearned for someone she could admire, whose integrity was beyond question, whose bravery and nobility were undisputed.

All those elements were, she’d believed at the time, far superior to mere affability and the capacity for fun. Her brother had those lighter qualities in abundance, but he was not a serious fellow. And Sir Frederick? Well, she’d only just made his acquaintance—

She cut the thought off at the root. No, it seemed clear to Amelia at the time that the two sets of qualities—gravity and gaiety—could not coexist in the same person.

So she’d made her choice: nobility and heroism over charm and laughter.

And it still held true. Didn’t it?

She turned away, but movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Sir Frederick’s tall, elegant figure was unmistakable even at this distance. Despite herself, she found her gaze following him, wondering who he was seeking out. Not that it mattered to her if it was…

Oh. Mrs. Perry.

A flush of heat flooded Amelia’s face, followed by a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty corridor.

The widow had been brilliant during her performance as Juliet—so natural, so at ease before an audience.

Everything Amelia was not. She’d garnered compliments all evening.

Sir Frederick had kept his distance while Amelia was present, but now he laughed with the widow as if she were the most fascinating creature in creation.

Was this jealousy burning in her breast? Surely not.

Crossly, Amelia forced herself away from the railing. She was about to head toward her wing of the castle when something made her pause. A half-formed thought, a nagging suspicion…

Caroline had sworn she knew nothing of any plans to elope, had laughed incredulously at the very suggestion. Sir Frederick had seemed convinced by her denial. So what had Amelia really seen in that letter? The more she thought about it, the less sense it made.

Well, there was one way to be sure.

The alcove was on this level. Heart beating a little faster, she made her way along the corridor, her slippers silent on the thick carpet.

The gap between sconces left this section in shadow—perfect for secret messages, she thought wryly.

Her fingers found the slight protrusion in the wall, and carefully, she eased out the small brick.

Yes, there was the sharp edge of a paper, though why it remained here was curious.

Unless Mr. Greene knew he was being watched…

Pulling out the paper, she unfolded it in the dim light. The words seemed to swim before her eyes: “Miss Caroline, you are an enigma. I look forward to our dance this evening.” Mr. Greene’s bold hand. And on the reverse: “Mr. G, you are a card. I’ve reserved the third for you.”

Nothing about park gates or urgent meetings. Nothing about elopements or secret plans.

The furrows between her eyes deepened. Had she imagined the other letter? No, she was certain she’d seen it. The writing had been different, the paper…

Slowly, she refolded the note and replaced it, but as she did, her hand brushed another irregularity in the wall. Another loose stone, this one fitted even less snugly than the first. The mortar around it felt different too—older, more friable.

Her heart began to beat faster as she worked it free.

The darkness of the cavity seemed to hold its breath as she reached in.

Yes, there was definitely another letter.

As she withdrew it, the paper felt different under her fingers—thicker, more substantial than modern writing paper.

The ink had faded to a warm sepia, and in places…

The date. How had she missed it before? Not just day and month, but the year: 1719.

And suddenly all the pieces shifted, realigned themselves into a new pattern. The P in the letter referred to Pernilla. The similarity of the messages—was it mere coincidence that two pairs of lovers, separated by a century, had chosen the same hiding place?

Her fingers encountered something else in the cavity. Not one letter but many, a thick sheaf of them, held together by what felt like a ribbon. The musty smell of old paper and older secrets filled her nostrils as she carefully withdrew them.

A single line caught her eye.

“I cannot live without you…”

The corridor remained empty, but suddenly the shadows seemed alive with possibility. These letters could hold the key to everything—Pernilla’s fate, the truth about her William, perhaps even explanations for things happening now.

Lady Pendleton had said her ancestor died young, but what if there was more to the story? What if history wasn’t quite what everyone believed?

Clutching her precious cargo close, Amelia hurried through the darkened corridors to her chamber, the letters seeming to burn against her chest, eager to give up their secrets.