Checking the door once more, biting her lip, she used the tip of one finger to touch the trio of doodles on the envelope. They looked like fat, squat daggers with a short blade pointed upward and a scabbard crossing horizontally just above the hilt. While the shapes were dagger-like, the lines were curved like petals. Afleur-de-lis; or rather,three fleurs-de-lis. The symbols worked together to form a reverse triangle.
Ryan knew this, because it represented the crest of the Family d’Orleans—and because she had drawn the crest on every single letter she’d ever written to her former fiancé, Prince Gabriel d’Orleans.
These wereherdrawings, onherletters, bundled and stored in the drawer of a reclusive man living in the last known location of the Prince d’Orleans.
Fumbling for the candle, nearly dropping it, burningherself with wax, Ryan snatched up the bundle of letters and studied them at close range.
The name inscribed on the front, written in her precise, childlike hand, was His Serene Highness, Gabriel Phillipe d’Orleans. The address was the Palais Royale in Paris, France.
“These are my letters to him,” whispered Ryan. “Mine.I wrote these. When we were children, I wrote these letters to him.”
Ryan looked up and around, gaping at the small cottage-cave-dwelling-wherever-she-was. She heard a lowwhoosh, the rising tide of shock and hope. Her mouth literally fell open.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s him. I’ve found him. I’ve actually found him.”
Just then the door pushed open, letting in a burst of cool air, rainwater, and scowling man in a dripping overcoat.
Ryan closed the drawer with her hip and slid the bundle of letters into the pocket of her skirts. Her hands felt bloodless, her heart felt like a bucket of coins being shaken in her chest. She spun to face the door.
Mr. Rein looked around, taking in the brewing coffee, the discarded stockings, her position by his books. His eyes narrowed on her face.
“What’s happened?” he rasped.
“I’ve found you,” Ryan said, the words spilling out in a breathless gush. “That’s what’s happened. It’s you, I know it, it’s you.”
Almost too late, she remembered to bow. She dipped into a wobbly curtsy. She wasn’t required to bow—he wasFrenchroyalty, and she was English—buton the two occasions she’d met him in childhood, her father had bade her to curtsy. It felt foolish and unfitting for two people in sodden clothes, standing in a cave, but she’d told herself that if she found him, she would do it.
She looked up. He gaped at her like a man with a rifle pointed at his face.
Ryan pressed on. “I’ve come to seek your help,” she whispered. “Prince Gabriel. Please. I need your help.”
Chapter Seven
“Get up,” Gabriel rasped.
“Will you—”
“I said, get up.”
He didn’t wait for her to comply. He turned away and trudged to the door. His hand was on the knob when he stopped. He asked himself where he intended to go. His lack of choices was devastating.
He could run away—like a coward, he could run—but to where?
He could evict her—simply, toss her out into the storm—but sheknew. This womanknew, and it was too dangerous to trust what she might reveal to others.
He could hide somewhere nearby—close enough to observe her, to wait and see—but he’dbeenhiding for half his life.Foryears, he’d hid. And for what? So she could locate him on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday night... no warning... on her very first foray into the forest?
He could simply admit the truth: he could tell her he’d been “Prince Gabriel” once upon on a time, but not anymore—not for years. But this admission would mean so much talking, explaining,hoursof discussing it. He wouldn’t survive it. Discussing his identitywith someone who wanted something from his old life would feel more revelatory than walking up the high street in Marlborough and shouting his name.
But what ifhe simply told her that he had no idea what she was talking about? What if he carried on with the lie he’d been telling everyone, including himself, for all these years. He could tell her she was mistaken.
“I’m not mistaken,” she said from behind him.
He craned around. She stood in the center of the room.
“I understand if you’re not prepared to admit it,” she said calmly. “Your life has been a trial, clearly but—I’ve found a stack of letters I wrote to you when I was a girl, Highness.”
She reached into her pocket and extracted the bundle of letters that he’d carried with him from his chamber at the Palais Royale, to his jail cells—first in Temple Prison, and then in the Conciergerie—and finally, on his flight from France. She held them up like a stolen candlestick.
