Isabelle rushed and pushed through the crowds of well-wishers in the ballroom. Aaron, she had to get to Aaron. She rocked up on her toes, craning her neck. Why was she so short? And why were skirts so voluminous this season? However, when she reached the bottom of the grand staircase, he was nowhere to be found. She glanced around at the nearest guests and approached a woman in lavender.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she told her, working to be gracious even though she was desperate to speak to one and only one person. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” The woman fluffed her skirts. “The gown is new. From Paris.”
“Stunning.” Isabelle bit her lip. “It truly is. I—I hope you don’t mind, but I have a question. Have you—did you perchance see a man wearing a black mask and a red cravat recently?” A cravat she would know anywhere, as it had belonged to her grandfather.
How Aaron had obtained it, she had no idea, though the way he looked in it . . . She wet her lower lip despite herself and the situation.
“A moment ago,” another guest said, fluttering a plum-colored fan. “He was just . . .” She glanced around and shrugged her puffed silk sleeves.
“Yes, he was speaking with a gentleman,” her companion added, leaning into their conversation. “The two of them walked that way.” He pointed toward the small servants’ corridor nearly hidden by a potted fig. “They appeared to be headed toward the gardens.”
The gardens. Isabelle inhaled. That made sense. That was where they’d met so many times and was a perfect place to talk.
“Thank you,” she told the couple as she hitched her skirts and started toward the hall, darting around an ornate vase. “Please enjoy the production—it will begin shortly,” she called over her shoulder.
Something that, if she could find him and properly apologize, would be lovely to watch with Aaron by her side. Because there was hope now, was there not? He’d come. So provided she could get the words right . . . She shook her head as she scurried.
Her current activity was truly thematically fitting. After all, in a few hours, onstage, Angelina would tell Prince Ramiro that if he really cared for her, he’d find her. Well, she would find Aaron. And prove the same.
“Miss Lira.” Her name halted her as she reached the entrance of the passage.
She whirled around to find Roger Berab, mask in hand, biting his lip as he approached her.
“What is it, Mr. Berab?” she asked as she indicated behind her. “I’m—”
“Searching for Mr. Ellenberg?” He cocked his head, though there was something odd, almost nervous in his posture.
“Yes.” She frowned as she studied him. “How did you—”
Roger’s swallow was visible. “My brother—Louis—he was speaking to him, and the two of them left together.”
Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “Louis? Why were he and Aaron speaking?” And what did that have to do with anything?
“I don’t know, but—we should hurry.” Roger swept past her into the servants’ hall and beckoned her to follow. “May, I, uh, be frank with you?”
“Naturally,” she said as they moved downward to the lower stairs, taking them two at a time. “I meant what I said in the carriage—I see you three as more than partners, as family.”
“That’s good to hear, as I do hope you are understanding with your family members.” He glanced back at her through the dim light as they descended. “My brother has—he hasn’t been himself for some time, and after our prior discussion . . . I believe he lied to you about Mr. Ellenberg leaving, perhaps in the foolish hope that you would turn your attentions to him if you believed that situation hopeless. It was a plausible lie, as we might have, um . . .” Roger glanced down for a moment. “Oh dash it, we threatened Mr. Ellenberg.”
“What?” she nearly screamed, turning on him.
He held up both palms. “Not after we came to an understanding,” he said rather hastily as rage spiked through her body. “Before. After the first festival. Told him to get you to marry one of us or we’d make sure he was banished from the community.”
“My God.” She gawked at him. This was just . . .
“Yes. I’m sorry. Truly sorry. And just so you know, David was never part of this,” he added before grimacing. “Not that it matters, but while he merely wanted you managed, Louis might have actually desired to marry you. He’s resented the fact that both of us married and he’d never been matched. Felt it reflected poorly on him. And the idea of you preferring someone else, especially Mr. Ellenberg . . . And now, when Mr. Ellenberg appeared at the ball . . . I’m concerned. Very concerned. Especially as they went off alone.”
And it took a moment for all the implications of the man’s words to fully settle in her mind. A cold horror crept through Isabelle. Because if what he said was true . . .
“My God,” she repeated, reaching out and gripping the railing for a moment, steadying herself, before they reached the bottom. Rushing past Roger, she pushed open the side door and burst into the night. “Where is he?” she demanded as she gazed around the empty lower terrace, trotting through the plantings toward the fountain.
An object in the grass caught her attention. Bending down, she grasped it and held it up to the moonlight. A handkerchief embroidered with the letter “L” in cherry-colored thread, designed to match a particular cravat. The one Aaron had been wearing.
Blood marred the delicate white fabric, and everything in the world froze. There was a pounding in her ears, and before she could think, her dagger was unsheathed, her hand wrapped around its familiar, cool, firm handle.
“Miss Lira.” Roger raised his palms as if to shield himself and backed away as she moved on him.
