She had not been able to sleep, for obvious reasons, and had tried everything to seek some respite from her racing mind. She had attempted to read, she had tried to work through some of her correspondence, she had gone to the kitchens for a glass of warm milk, she had paced and paced some more, but every couple of minutes, she found herself back in the Farnaby’s library, kissinghim, then feeling like she had just been tossed out of paradise.
I should buy a crate of strawberry tarts and leave them in his entrance hall,she mused, perching on the window seat for a moment, gazing out at the night-steeped street and the darkened park beyond.
She frowned, thinking of her promenade with Lord Spofforth. Edmund had been right about him, yes, but was he not also somewhat hypocritical? Lord Spofforth had touched her inappropriately, but at least he had not kissed her and then abandoned her with a paltry excuse.
“If anything, you are worse than Lord Spofforth,” she muttered at the windowpane, letting her sadness transform into anger. Anger was better. Anger was manageable. Sadness just felt… hopeless, and she refused to let Edmund make her feel like that.
We should have remained enemies. I should not have lowered my guard, because I always knew what you were—a man who takes things and does not say “thank you” or offer a real apology.It was a silly assertion, the kind of logic that her younger self would have called wisdom, but it improved her mood a little.
“If it is my dream that he wants me to have, then I shall have it. If he wants to abandon his duties, then I will make sure he never feels welcome here again,” she told herself defiantly, grateful that her mother was fast asleep along with the rest of the household, so no one could hear her solitary mutterings.
Suddenly revived, Isolde crouched down beside her bed and flailed an arm underneath, fumbling for the old, empty applecrate that she knew was there somewhere. She used to store her books there before Vincent had bought her another bookcase, and it was the perfect, dusty, decrepit vessel for the remainder of Edmund’s things.
You will no longer have a place here. If Vincent invites you to stay, you will be a true guest like everyone else.She smiled at her ingenuity and slipped out of the bedchamber with the crate in her arms, praying there were no spiders lurking in the corners. Or, if there were, that they only came out once Edmund was in receipt of his left-behind belongings.
On tiptoe, Isolde made her way down the hall and crossed over the landing, peering down discreetly to ensure there were no servants or sisters wandering around.
Satisfied, she crept on down the hallway until she came to the very last door on the left: Edmund’s former guest chambers. A room she had not entered in years, not since it been designated to Edmund by Vincent.
If Vincent questions it, I shall tell him to ask Edmund for an explanation.She almost wished she could hear what untruth Edmund would tell, to avoid having to inform his dearest friend that he had kissed her and put her reputation in peril. Perhaps, therewouldbe a duel.
She let herself into the guest chamber, pleased that it was not locked, and set the apple crate down in the center.
Standing back up to her full height, she rested her hands on her hips and looked around, taking in the sights of the unfamiliar bedchamber. It barely held any signs of recent life, aside from a greatcoat hanging on the door, a few books strewn on the writing desk, and a pair of boots left beneath the windowsill.
“What secrets might we find?” she murmured, stealing over to the writing desk.
There was nowhere better for discovering things about a person, and though she would not stoop to reading someone else’s personal correspondence, she would not draw her eyes away if one happened to be open foranyoneto peruse.
Sitting down in the chair that Edmund must have used a thousand times, she traced her fingertips across his personal effects: an inkwell, a few prepared quills, a small stack of paper, a stick of wax and a Davenport seal, a signet ring with the letter ‘W’ engraved in gold.
“An heirloom?” she mumbled, turning it over in her hand before setting it back down.
As she sat there, assessing the various drawers and little wooden boxes, wondering what to look at next, a chill ran up her spine. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, feeling for a moment that she was not alone.
Hesitantly, she glanced back over her shoulder to the door she had left ajar. It had not moved, nor were there any nefarious shadows lurking on the threshold, peeking an eerie head around.
It is the residual surprise, nothing more,she told herself sternly, squinting at the corners of the bedchamber. Moonlight offered a great deal of comfort to her frayed mind, shining through the tall windows, illuminating most of the room. Shewasalone, but perhaps she was feeling the presence of the gentleman who had recently been the room’s occupant.
“Why did you have to kiss me?” she murmured, her voice cracking. “If you had no good intentions, why did you do it?”
It was the part she understood the least about the entire event, for though she hated to admit it, Edmundwasan upstanding, honorable gentleman of society. To everyone else, at least. And in their time together as ward and guardian, she had begun to see what the rest of society saw.
No longer.
As tears began to roll down her cheeks, smudged away with the sleeve of her housecoat, she pulled open one of the desk drawers, not expecting to find much… So, when she saw a pair of almond-shaped, empty eyes staring up at her from a tangle of bronze roses and thorns, she barely stifled the shocked yelp that slipped from her mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Izzie, is that you?” Teresa’s voice could not tear Isolde’s watery gaze away from the elegant mask in her hands.
“It cannot be,” she whispered tremulously, praying it was a trick of the light or the mind. It had been a distressing evening, after all. She was not herself. Shehadto be mistaken.
The door creaked slightly. “Izzie? Who are you talking to?”
Isolde’s breaths turned shallow as she continued to stare at the mask she had plucked from the drawer. It was beautifully crafted, just as she remembered, but heavy in her hands, the metal cool to the touch. Indeed, it was as weighty as the mask thatshehad worn—a gift from her brother imported all the way from Venice.
Is that where you acquired this?Her heart lurched into her throat as more pieces slotted together in her mind, making it impossible to ignore the probable truth.
