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Archie jabbed it with the poker and extracted it. Taking care not to burn his fingers on the iron, he plucked the crinkled paper off the tip and placed the poker in its stand, his heart beating erratically.

There was no way to know for certain that it belonged to Nell. Indeed, he had not seen her write anything. Anyone might have scribbled something, then changed their mind and disposed of it to author something different.

Careful not to tear the paper, he unfurled it and read the words.

To be loved without reservation.

To remain as I am.

He read it again. And again.

Twenty-One

NELL

The first day of the Year of our Lord 1818 had been interminable.

A number of the men had gone hunting, including Lord Dalmeer. Those who stayed behind spent the day rehearsing a play, written by Mr. Kendrick, who, in his own humble opinion, was the next Shakespeare. But better.

Perhaps that was why the play he had written was so similar to Hamlet.

After a few feeble attempts to decline participating, Nell was cast as Mistress Winterby, the housekeeper of Ravensmere Castle, whose main role was to reveal a family secret at the worst possible moment.

At least they had cast her in an appropriately clumsy role.

The performance took place after the men had returned from hunting, and Nell’s finest moment in her acting debut was nearly spoiled just before delivering her line.

Mr. Kendrick, who had cast himself in the primary role of Prince Alaric, made a moving if somewhat drawn-out speech, after which he crumpled to his knees and began wailing.

As this show of emotion was well beyond what he had rehearsed earlier, it had been all Nell could do to maintain her somber expression.

She happened to glance at Lord Dalmeer at that precise moment. A fatal error.

He covered his mouth with a fist, but his eyes were alight with laughter, his shoulders shaking.

The revelation of the family’s most guarded secret was, therefore, conveyed less dramatically than Nell had intended as she fought to keep her composure.

Miss Orston, who had found more success than Nell in excusing herself from participation, leaned over to whisper something to the earl.

Nell’s desire to laugh fled, promptly replaced by an impulse to crumple to her knees and wail like Prince Alaric.

The following evening, Lady Dalmeer had arranged for the guests to demonstrate their abilities in the estate’s music room.

Nell could play the flute quite well, but she had not brought the instrument and had little desire to perform in front of a crowd. That desire was quenched entirely when Miss Orston rose to play the pianoforte and Lord Dalmeer took his place as her page-turner.

Never had the act of turning a page felt so rife with meaning.

Nell had observed the two of them skating and conversing and laughing together, but seeing Lord Dalmeer stand beside Miss Orston while she flawlessly played Haydn’s Andante in F Minor brought a fresh wave of pain that she could only describe as loss.

He had chosen the more suitable woman, just as Henry Linton had.

Nell quietly rose and went to the back of the room, where the servants were setting out refreshments. She took a glass of punch and stood by the door, forcing herself to take deep breaths.

Mr. Fowell, who had been standing in a back corner the entire evening, came up to her. “Are you well, Miss Prescott?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling. “Quite.”

He studied her, then his gaze flicked to Miss Orston and Lord Dalmeer. He said nothing, however, merely standing near as he too sipped from a glass.