Isobel set down the teacup she had been nursing for a while, moved casually toward the door, offering polite smiles and nods to the other guests as she passed. She had forced herself to maintain an unhurried, calm pace, despite the dizziness she felt that had been induced by her racing heart.
But she made it out without attracting the attention of anyone, and once she was a safe distance from the drawing room in the hallway, Isobel picked up her skirts and hurried toward the guest wing where Deborah's chambers were located. The corridors were thankfully empty – with a majority of the servants with morning duties in other parts of the house, and the guests were gathered in the drawing rooms and library.
She quickly arrived at Deborah's door and paused, listening carefully for any sound of movement inside. Once she was sure there was no one on the other side, she inhaled deeply to steady her nerves, turned the doorknob, and slipped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her..
Her aunt's room appeared to have been neatly organized – not that she should have expected anything less from Deborah. Alarge bed dominated the space, its covers laid perfectly, without a single crease. A wardrobe stood against one wall, a writing desk against another. A small table near the window held a stack of books and some correspondence.
Isobel moved quickly to the writing desk first, opening and shutting drawers and rifling through papers as carefully as she could while still maintaining a brisk pace. Nothing of interest was found – merely mundane correspondence, invitations to various social events, and some drawers had been left empty.
There had been no bottles of poison or even incriminating notes about Valerie.
She moved to the wardrobe next, feeling along the top shelf and through the pockets of hanging gowns, frustrated when her search came up empty.
Isobel inhaled deeply, aware that precious moments of time were ticking by, and she needed to hurry.
The bedside table yielded nothing but a handkerchief and a novel that looked well-worn–worn and under the pillow, Deborah had unearthed a rosary. She was beginning to feel desperate, her palms sweating despite the chill in the room.
Where would Deborah hide something she did not want found?
Her gaze drifted to the small table by the window – the one with the books stacked on it. She had initially dismissed it becauseshe could tell the books were an eclectic combination of novels and poetry, and there was even a botanical guide. Knowing she had nothing to lose by closely examining them, Isobel crossed over the small table.
As she ran her fingertips along the spines of the books, she noticed the edge of a piece of paper, seemingly lodged between two volumes near the bottom of the stack.
Curious, she carefully extracted the paper and realized it was a letter when she unfolded it. The handwriting across the page was elegant but hurried, as though the composer had been writing quickly. And it was incomplete – the letter ended mid–sentence, as though the writer had been interrupted.
Dear Valerie,
I must let you know that there is a danger lurking around you. I have tried to warn you in subtler ways, but you have not heeded my concerns. I fear for your safety, and for the safety of your family. There are those who would see you harmed, who resent the elevation of your marriage –
And that was where the letter ended.
Isobel stared at the words, her mind racing. This was not a confession – it was a warning. Someone had been trying to warn Valerie about the danger. The only question was – who?
If the culprit was not Deborah, then why hadn’t she given the letter to Isobel? There had been plenty of chances, moments when they had been alone, or sent her the letter.
But if Deborah was the culprit, perhaps she had caught whoever had written the letter and stopped them from alerting Valerie.
Isobel sighed, distressed that she had more questions than answers. Either way, she had been here long enough and needed to leave. She quickly refolded the letter and put it back between the books carefully, hurrying to the door. She opened it carefully, and when she was sure there was no one in the hallway, she slipped out of the room and quickly began to leave the area.
But she was soon stopped in her tracks when a hand wrapped around her wrist. She turned around, praying to God that her aunt had not caught her exiting her room, surprised to see an unfamiliar man standing behind her.
He was tall, his light brown hair neatly brushed away from his forehead – no doubt to ensure his pleasant features were not in full display. He looked surprised to see her, but his expression quickly shifted to delight.
“Valerie!” he exclaimed, stepping closer before she could react. “My darling, I have missed you terribly!”
Isobel's mind remained blank as she studied his face. Who was this man? She was certain Richard had never mentioned him during their lessons when they talked about guests. Why was hespeaking to her so familiarly? And more importantly, how was she supposed to respond when she had no idea who he was?
The man seemed to sense her confusion. His smile faltered as he regarded her a little closely. “Valerie? Are you all right? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”
“I...” Isobel stammered, desperately trying to think of something to say.
Because of how close he was, she was able to see the very moment he realized something was amiss. His eyes widened slightly, and his grip on her hand went slack.
“You are not Valerie,” he said slowly.
Before Isobel could confirm or deny, a familiar voice cut through the hallway.
“Adrian!”
