Her father exhaled, then stood, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You are my brightest, most brilliant girl,” he murmured. “But you let your imagination run away with you.”
She stared at him, cold disbelief creeping into her veins.
That was it. That was all.
A pat on the head. A “Run along, dear.”
The one man in all of England who had the power to do something—who could bring her to the right people, get her words in the right ears—had dismissed her entirely.
Elizabeth turned on her heel and walked out.
If he would not listen, she would find someone who would.
Elizabethhadbarelyreachedthe door when a knock echoed through the house.
It was answered immediately, and a murmur of voices drifted from the entrance hall. A moment later, a footman appeared in the study doorway, bowing low.
“My lord, the Duke of Wrexham and Her Grace the Duchess have arrived. The duke asks to speak with you on an urgent matter.”
Her father exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “Of course he does.”
Elizabeth froze. The Duke of Wrexham? Here?
Charlotte’s father.
Her mind raced as the realization struck—Charlotte had spoken often of her father’s role in government affairs. He was a man of immense power and influence, one of the oldest and most respected dukes in the realm. If he was here, speaking with her father, then—
This was about the assassination.
Before she could even consider what to do, footsteps sounded in the hall, and then—Her Grace the Duchess of Wrexham swept into the room on the arm of her husband, the duke..
The duchess was a striking woman, tall and impeccably dressed, her dark hair arranged in a fashion that suggested effortless grace—but was, Elizabeth knew, the work of at least two maids and an entire morning’s preparation.
She was not a warm woman, nor a sentimental one, but she was intelligent, well-connected, and powerful enough to walk into any room without announcing herself. She was also one of the few ladies of rank Elizabeth could tolerate for more than half an hour.
“Ah,” the duchess said, her gaze flicking between Elizabeth and her father. “I see we have interrupted something.”
Her father sighed heavily. “You have interrupted my daughter’s latest conviction that the world is not operating to her exacting standards.”
The duchess’s lips twitched. “How dreadful.”
“I was just leaving,” Elizabeth said, her voice carefully light. “Shall I have tea sent to the drawing room for you, Your Grace?”
The duchess waved a gloved hand. “Lovely, dear girl. I should also like some company. Walk with me.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before nodding.
Her father was already dismissing her concerns. Perhaps the duchess—perhaps awoman, someone with sense and influence—would listen.
She gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we take tea in the blue sitting room?”
The duchess smiled, looping her arm through Elizabeth’s with a practiced ease. “Lead the way.”
Elizabeth kept a perfect posture as she poured tea, carefully measuring out the sugar with the calm precision of someone whose nerves were entirely intact. Mostly intact.
They had spoken first of nothing at all—who had been seen at court, which gowns had been admired, the usual inconsequential gossip. But beneath the pleasantries, the true conversation lingered like a storm on the horizon—unavoidable, gathering strength, waiting for the moment it would break.
At last, the duchess sighed, setting down her cup. “This business with Perceval is truly dreadful. The entire court is in an uproar—one cannot take three steps without hearing of it. And now my husband is closeted with your father, no doubt ensuring that the world keeps turning.”
