nine

The morning after the opening ball dawned pale and quiet, as though the world itself were exhausted from the previous night’s revelries. Isabelle stood at her chamber window, watching the palace gardens emerge from the mist. Her fingers still tingled where Sebastian had touched them, steadying her after that near-disastrous stumble. A prince’s touch, fleeting and no doubt forgotten by him already.

She sighed and turned away from the window. In her mind, she could still see Amelia’s radiant face as Sebastian led her through the quadrille, their movements perfect, their smiles genuine. And why shouldn’t they be? They made a striking pair—the handsome prince and the golden-haired beauty. It was like watching a fairy tale unfold before one’s eyes.

“Miss Ellwood?” A soft knock accompanied the voice of her maid, Lucy.

“Yes, you may enter,” Isabelle called, straightening her shoulders and adopting a pleasant expression.

Lucy bobbed a curtsy as she entered, carrying a silver tray. “A letter for you, miss. One of the palace footmen just delivered it.”

“A letter?” Isabelle’s brow furrowed as she accepted the small folded note. It bore no seal, no address—merely her name written in an elegant, unfamiliar hand. “Thank you, Lucy.”

Once alone again, Isabelle broke the simple wax seal and unfolded the parchment, her curiosity growing with each passing moment.

Miss Ellwood,

Your presence is requested in the palace library at midnight tonight. I believe we share interests that would benefit from further discussion. The bearer of this note will ensure the corridors are clear for your passage.

A Friend

Isabelle read the note three times, her pulse quickening. Who would summon her to the library at such an hour? It could not be her family; her father would never stoop to mysterious notes, and Priscilla would simply burst into her room unannounced as she always did. A suitor, perhaps? The thought nearly made her laugh aloud. No gentleman had spared her more than a polite glance at the ball, and those few who had spoken with her had merely used the opportunity to inquire about Priscilla or Amelia.

Logic dictated she ignore the summons entirely. Midnight meetings with unnamed individuals were precisely the sort of indiscretion that ruined reputations and ended with tearful confessions to stern-faced parents. And yet…

The library. Whoever had sent the note knew of her love for books, a preference she had shared with precious few people at Cresthaven. The thought sent a small thrill through her veins, a feeling dangerously close to hope.

“Foolish girl,” she murmured to herself, tucking the note into her journal. “It’s probably just Priscilla playing at intrigue again.”

But as the day wore on, the note’s promise lingered in her mind like a half-remembered melody. Isabelle moved through her appointed activities with mechanical precision—a morning walk through the gardens with several other young ladies, an afternoon of embroidery in the queen’s salon, a light supper with Priscilla who chattered endlessly about Cassian Blackwood’s “divine blue eyes” and how he had promised her the first dance at tomorrow’s musicale.

When at last she retired to her chambers, ostensibly to rest before the evening’s small gathering in the music room, Isabelle found herself instead standing before her wardrobe, considering her limited options.

“This is madness,” she told her reflection as she loosened her hair from its afternoon arrangement. “Complete madness.”

Her reflection offered no argument, merely returning her gaze with uncertain hazel eyes.

At half past eleven, when the palace had grown quiet save for the distant strains of music from the smaller gathering she had declined to attend, Isabelle slipped from her chamber wearing her second-best evening gown—a deep navy blue that at least would not draw attention in the shadowed corridors. She had pinned her chestnut hair simply but neatly, and carried only a small candle to light her way.

The corridors of Cresthaven at night were a different world—all shadows and whispers, the gilded frames and marble busts transformed into sentinels watching her passage with empty eyes. Twice she froze at the sound of footsteps, only to find the way mysteriously clear when she gathered the courage to continue. The bearer of this note will ensure the corridors are clear for your passage. The promise from the letter echoed in her mind, both reassuring and unsettling.

The library doors loomed before her at last, massive oak panels carved with scenes from ancient mythology. Isabelle had visited this place only once before, during the formal tour given to all guests upon their arrival at Cresthaven. She remembered the soaring ceilings, the endless shelves, the scent of leather and parchment that had made her heart ache with longing.

Her hand trembled slightly as she pushed one door open, its hinges mercifully silent.

The library beyond was a cathedral of knowledge bathed in moonlight and the gentle glow of a few scattered candles. Tall windows lined one wall, their leaded panes casting latticework shadows across polished oak floors. Books lined every other surface, from floor to impossibly high ceiling, with elegant ladders positioned strategically around the room’s perimeter. A massive fireplace dominated the far wall, a low fire casting a warm circle of light before it.

And there, silhouetted against that firelight, stood a man.

Isabelle’s heart leapt to her throat, her fingers tightening around her candle holder. She considered flight for one wild moment, but pride kept her rooted to the spot. She had come this far; she would not scurry away like a frightened mouse.

“You came,” the man said, his voice a rich baritone that stirred something in her memory. He turned slightly, though his face remained half in shadow. “I confess I wasn’t entirely certain you would.”

“I admit to some hesitation, sir,” Isabelle replied, pleased that her voice emerged steady despite her racing pulse. “Anonymous midnight summonses are not generally considered proper.”

A low chuckle reached her ears. “No, I suppose they are not. My apologies for the secrecy, Miss Ellwood. I find that palace walls have ears, and what I wished to discuss with you requires a measure of privacy.”

He gestured toward a pair of comfortable chairs positioned near the fire. “Please, join me. I promise I mean you no harm.”

Isabelle approached cautiously, her senses alert for any sign of impropriety. As she drew nearer, the flickering firelight revealed more of her mysterious host—broad shoulders beneath a well-tailored evening coat, dark hair swept back from a strong forehead, and hands that were elegant despite their obvious strength. One hand, she noticed, bore a thin white scar across the back, and on his small finger gleamed a distinctive ring with a crest she could not quite make out.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she said as she took the offered seat, arranging her skirts carefully. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“For the moment, let’s say I am simply a fellow admirer of books,” he replied, taking the chair opposite her. The firelight played across his features now, though shadows still obscured half his face. What she could see was handsome—a straight nose, a firm mouth currently curved in a slight smile, a strong jaw. “And someone who recognizes a kindred spirit when he sees one.”

“And how would you know anything about my spirit, sir?” Isabelle asked, arching an eyebrow. “We have never been introduced.”

“Haven’t we?” There was something in his tone—a warmth, a hint of challenge—that made her pulse quicken. “I’ve observed you, Miss Ellwood. Yesterday in the library annex, you spent three hours reading Burton’s ‘Anatomy of Melancholy’ when all the other young ladies were practicing their dancing. At the ball last night, you were the only woman who did not feign interest in Lord Pembroke’s tedious hunting stories—you actually engaged him on the ethics of the sport.”

Isabelle felt heat rise to her cheeks. “You’ve been watching me quite closely, it seems.”

“I notice those worth noticing,” he replied simply.