Chapter One
“Help! Someone help! Please! Oh God!” a woman’s voice shouted.
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the ballroom, dragging all the oxygen out with it like a cool blade. Violin strings screeched to a halt. The evening’s playfulness vanished.
Lady Eliza Newmont, the only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Ramersby, whirled toward the sound, her breath catching in her throat as she watched the crowd freeze.
Then came a second cry, higher, sharper, somewhere deep in the manor.
“Fetch Lord Fontaine, now! Quickly!”
Lord and Lady Fontaine’s ball dissolved into a frantic stampede. The hiss of satin skirts and the scent of cold sweat swirled in the air as heads turned this way and that to see what was happening.Some patrons rushed toward the exits. Others waited to see what was going on, clearly eager for the next bit of gossip.
Then, a gloved hand snapped tight around Eliza’s wrist.
“Do stay close, girl,” Eliza’s mother, Lady Ramersby, reprimanded, her voice trembling with theatrical alarm as she pressed her other hand to her bosom. “Oh, what could possibly have caused such a stir? Horace, do something!”
Lord Ramersby had already retreated behind his wife, his face pale as he looked around blankly. “Why yes… yes, of course, my dear. We should… well, we must… Perhaps, we should leave?”
Eliza’s parents pulled her closer as they began whispering to each other behind her, as though she were a shield rather than a daughter.
But Eliza wasn’t listening to them. Her eyes scanned the chaos, searching the sea of panicked faces for one in particular.
Where are you Abigail?
“I need to find her,” Eliza said as she yanked her wrist free.
“Eliza! What are you talking about?” Her father asked.
“Abigail, I must find her now,” Eliza said, her voice shaking.
“Eliza!” Her mother called out, her voice was already lost in the din. “Come back here this instant!”
Eliza pushed through the thick crowd, her heart hammering against her chest as she looked for her friend’s grey eyes and curly red locks.
Guests streamed toward the corridor, a current she fought against as she put her hands into fists and pushed with her elbows. Shoulders jostled her, but she pressed on. The heat of too many bodies pressed close made her skin prickle against her swelling anxiety. She wiped her brow to push away stray hair that had fallen from her chignon.
“I heard it was on the balcony terrace…”
“Did someone fall?”
“Blood, I tell you, blood! So much!”
“Surely it can’t be one so beautiful and young!”
The whispers clawed at Eliza like passing vultures as she moved frantically toward the balcony. She slipped past a cluster of dowagers clutching their fans, ducked around a gentleman frozen in shock, and finally broke through to the corridor.
The French doors to the balcony stood open, night air spilling through. A small crowd had formed a half-circle at the threshold, nobody willing to step further.
The hosts, Lord and Lady Fontaine, were attempting to restore order, their voices strained.
“Please, everyone, remain calm,” Lord Fontaine said, though his own hands shook violently. “There’s been a terrible incident. We ask that you all?—”
“Stand back!” Lady Fontaine added shrilly. “Give them room!”
What happened here?
Eliza’s heart lurched. She pushed forward again, ignoring the protests of those she elbowed past. When she reached the balcony doors, the dark breeze hit her, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of roses and something else.
