A Love for the Ruined Heiress (Preview)

Prologue

“Delphine, dearest, they are coming.” Benedict Loxley’s voice cut through the darkness of their château bedchamber. “We must leave. Now.”

Delphine de Beaumont Loxley clutched their infant daughter close to her breast, her heart thundering against her ribs like a revolutionary’s drum. “Benedict… the letters—”

“Are destroyed.” He pressed a swift kiss to her temple, his familiar scent of sandalwood and ink washing over her. “Everything that could identify our… arrangements… is gone.”

Outside, the February wind howled through the Loire Valley like a banshee’s wail, rattling the windowpanes of Château de Beaumont. The ancestral home of Delphine’s family had stood for three centuries, but tonight, it would witness its last de Beaumont departure.

“Madame,” Agathe, the nursemaid, appeared in the doorway, her face pale as fresh linen in the candlelight. “The trap is ready, and Pierre has the carriage waiting at the crossroads with the… special cargo.”

Benedict helped Delphine to her feet, his diplomatic composure cracking only when baby Angélique whimpered in her mother’s arms. “Hush, ma petite,” Delphine whispered, adjusting the infant’s wool blanket against the bitter cold.

The château’s familiar corridors felt alien in the darkness, as their footsteps echoed off the very same stone walls that had witnessed generations of French aristocratic splendor, now reduced to shadows and whispers in the dead of night. Portraits of Delphine’s ancestors seemed to watch their descent with painted eyes that held centuries of judgement.

“Your father would be proud,” Benedict murmured, helping her navigate the servant’s stairs. “You are showing the same courage he did when he helped the British during the Seven Years’ War.”

Delphine’s throat tightened. “Papa believed in loyalty above all else. Even to former enemies.”

“As do I,” Benedict replied, his English accent contrasting with his wife’s French accent, even more so under the stress of their situation. “And my loyalty is to you, and our little Angélique now.”

They emerged into the kitchen, where Margot, Delphine’s lady’s maid since childhood, waited with a bundle of provisions. The faithful servant’s eyes were red-brimmed but determined. “The back path is clear, Madame. I have checked twice.”

“Margot,” Delphine reached for her maid’s hand. “The trunks—”

“Are safely with Pierre in the carriage, Madame. All has been done exactly as Monsieur specified.”

“God speed,” Benedict whispered as he flicked the reins. As they pulled away from the only home she had ever known, Delphine caught a final glimpse of Margot’s silhouette in the stable yard. The maid crossed herself, a gesture Delphine had not seen her make since they were girls sneaking treats from the kitchen.

The trap’s wheels crunched over frozen gravel, each rotation carrying them further from danger—or closer to it. Delphine cradled Angélique, breathing in her sweet, milky scent. Her daughter would grow up English, safe from the madness consuming France. The thought should have brought comfort, but instead, it felt more like one more piece of herself being stripped away.

“The carriage is a half-hour ahead,” Benedict murmured, his eyes scanning the darkness. “Once we catch up, we will transfer to it and make haste for the coast. By this time tomorrow, we shall be in England.”

Delphine nodded, not trusting her own voice. In her arms, Angélique slept peacefully, unaware that her world was changing forever. The infant’s features, so like her own, held traces of both France and England—a bridge between two warring nations, just as Benedict and she had once hoped to be.

The trap rattled onward through the night, carrying its precious cargo toward an uncertain future. Behind them, the Loire Valley slept under a blanket of stars, while ahead, the road stretched dark and empty—or so they prayed.

The trap jolted over a rut in the road, and Angélique stirred with a tiny mewl of protest. Delphine hummed softly, a lullaby her own mother had sung to her in happier times. The melody drifted away on the wind—lost forever to the rhythm of hoofbeats and creaking wheels.

“There is someone behind us,” Agathe whispered suddenly, her grip tightening on Delphine’s arm.

Benedict’s shoulders tensed as he urged the horse faster. “How many?”

Agathe’s breath hitched. Her fingers dug into Delphine’s arm as she turned sharply. “At least three riders, my lord. They are moving fast!”

The night air grew thick with tension, broken only by the increasing tempo of their horse’s hooves. Delphine’s heart seemed to beat in time with each stride that struck against the frozen earth underneath them.

“They are gaining,” Benedict’s voice was as taught as a bowstring. “Delphine, listen carefully, should anything happen—”

“Non!” she cut him off. “We stay together.”

“Dearest—”

“We stay together,” she repeated firmly, though her arms trembled around Angélique.

The riders were close enough now that Delphine could hear their horses’ labored breathing. A shot cracked through the night like breaking ice, and their horse reared in panic.

“Get down!” Benedict shouted, fighting for control of the reins.

Another shot rang through the night. Agathe let out a strangled cry, her body jerking as she instinctively curled inward to shield Angélique with her arms. Her weight pressed against Delphine in a desperate attempt to protect them both.

“Your papers!” a rough voice demanded from the darkness. “Present your papers!”

Benedict’s response was lost in the thunder of hooves as more riders emerged from the shadows. The trap swerved sharply, and Delphine caught a glimpse of dark figures in revolutionary cockades.

“These are the ones,” another voice called. “The English spy and his French whore!”

“Non!” Delphine clutched Angélique closer. “We are loyal citizens. Please!”

The trap’s wheel caught on something—a rock, a root, she would never know—and the world suddenly tilted sideways. She felt Benedict’s arms around her, trying to shield her and the baby as they were thrown clear. The impact drove the breath from her lungs.

Through a haze of pain, Delphine heard boots crunching on the frozen ground. A lantern swung into view, its light harsh and accusing.

“Search them,” someone ordered. “Find it.”

“There is nothing here,” came the frustrated reply after several minutes. “Just some clothes and papers.”

“Impossible! The information said—”

“Keep looking!”

Delphine tried to focus on the voices, to understand what they wanted, but darkness was creeping in at the edges of her vision. Beside her, Benedict lay very still, in a puddle of something dark that glistened in the faint lantern light.

“My… my baby,” she whispered. But Angélique was gone, and Agathe with her. Had they fallen? Had they been thrown clear? Delphine could not remember. And now, the cold was seeping into her bones, accompanied by a strange sense of peace.

“Benedict?” She reached for her husband’s hand, finding it already growing cold.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered, his final words carrying the accent of her homeland rather than his own.

The lantern light receded, taking with it the sound of cursing and the shuffle of searching feet. Delphine closed her eyes, tears freezing on her cheeks as she joined her husband in the endless night.

***

A mile ahead, Pierre brought the carriage to a halt at the sound of distant gunfire. Margot, crouched in the well-sprung interior, pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

“We must go back,” she whispered.

“No.” Pierre’s voice was firm. “Monsieur’s orders were clear. If anything happened, we are to protect the child and the cargo.”

As if on cue, Angélique stirred in Agathe’s trembling arms. The nursemaid had thrown herself from the trap at Benedict’s signal, rolling into a ditch. She had managed to secure the baby firmly in her arms and fled the scene just moments before their enemies arrived. They had run through the darkness until Pierre’s lantern guided them to the carriage.

“The trunks,” Margot suddenly straightened. “Monsieur said they were more important than his own life. We must reach the coast before dawn.”

Pierre nodded grimly and snapped the reins. The carriage lurched forward, its precious cargo secured beneath false panels and hidden compartments. Whatever secret Benedict Loxley had died protecting, was not their responsibility.

The coastal road stretched endlessly before them, each turn bringing them closer to salvation. When they finally reached the hidden cove, the eastern sky was beginning to pale.

“Hurry!” a gruff voice called from the shadows. “The tide will not wait.”

Margot recognized the English accent of their contact, and two sailors emerged from behind wind-twisted trees, moving quickly to help them down from the carriage.

“The trunks,” Margot insisted, even as the men tried to hurry them toward the waiting rowboat. “They must come with us.”

“No room,” one sailor argued. “The boat is for passengers only.”

Margot drew herself up to her full height, channeling every ounce of her mistress’s aristocratic bearing. “These trunks contain the last possessions of an English diplomat and his wife, who died tonight ensuring their delivery. You will make room.”

The sailors exchanged glances, then began unloading the trunks. As they worked, Margot caught movement near the tree line—shadows that might either have been branches in the wind, or something more sinister.

“Quickly now!” she urged, taking Angélique from Agathe’s exhausted arms.

The baby’s eyes opened, revealing irises as blue as her mother’s. For a moment, Delphine’s face swam before Margot’s vision, and she had to blink to fight back tears.

“Your parents died protecting you, petit ange,” she whispered. “And whatever secret they have hidden in these trunks, I swear it will be yours when the time is right.”

As the rowboat pushed off from the shore, a figure stepped out of the shadows, watching their departure. In the growing light, Margot glimpsed the glint of spectacles and the cut of an expensive coat. The man raised his hand in what might have either been a farewell, or perhaps a promise.

It might have been far more sinister, but all that mattered was the swoosh of the oars, the weight of the baby in her arms, and the mysterious trunks that had cost the lives of two people.

An English ship waited on the horizon like a promise of safety, while behind them, France receded into memory and shadow. Whatever Benedict Loxley had hidden from his pursuers remained secure—but for how long?

Chapter One

“Geoffrey Eddard Warburton, if you steal one more pinch of that dough, you will spoil your appetite entirely!” Angelica Loxley tried to sound stern, but laughter bubbled beneath her words like water over stones.

“I am merely testing the quality, cousin.” The ten-year-old boy grinned, the flour dusting his dark curls like fresh snow. Someone must ensure that these biscuits are fit for the war effort.”

Sunlight streamed through the large kitchen windows of Rosemere Hall, catching the copper pots that hung in neat rows and turning them into burnished gold. The scent of butter and sugar perfumed the air, mingling with the earthier aroma of freshly baked bread.

“The war effort, indeed!” Angelica shook her head, sending a loose tendril of pale blonde hair dancing across her forehead. “Well, I suspect your efforts to be entirely self-serving, young man.”

She turned back to her work, her slender fingers deftly cutting shapes from the rolled dough. In the morning light, her features held an almost ethereal quality—high cheekbones and a straight, narrow nose that spoke of her French heritage, softened by eyes like English bluebells. It was a face that merged two warring nations into something uniquely lovely, though Angelica herself seemed unconscious of her beauty as she worked.

“I remember you yourself saying that serving others serves ourselves,” Geoffrey countered, attempting to mimic his tutor’s philosophical tone. “Therefore, by eating these biscuits, I serve both myself, and England.”

“Your logic would impress Aristotle himself,” Angelica laughed, then caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on arranging the biscuits on the baking sheet. Her movements were precise, and graceful—with the same careful attention she brought to everything she did, as if each small task were a prayer of gratitude.

The kitchen door swung open, admitting Lady Crowley, their nearest neighbor, in a rustle of expensive silks. The woman’s pinched features registered surprise, then barely concealed disdain at finding the niece of the Lady of the house elbow-deep in kitchen work.

“Lady Angelica! What on earth…” she sniffed, her gaze sweeping the domestic scene like a general inspecting a group of particularly disappointing troops.

“Good morning, Lady Sophia,” Angelica straightened, unconsciously assuming the perfect posture that her aunt had drilled into her since childhood. “We are preparing biscuits for the soldiers at the parish hospital.”

“How… charitable of you.” The woman’s tone suggested it was anything but. “Though, one cannot help but wonder whether it is entirely appropriate, given the current situation with those French savages. It might even cause some to question where… certain sympathies lie.”

Lady Sophia’s words struck Angelica with the force of a physical blow, though the only outward reaction she allowed to show was a slight tightening of her fingers on the rolling pin. She opened her mouth to respond, but Geoffrey beat her to it.

“Cousin Angelica is as English as Yorkshire pudding!” he declared hotly. “She has been teaching me to be a proper patriot, and we are making these biscuits for our brave soldiers.”

Lady Sophia’s expression soured further, as if the boy’s defense only proved her point. “Yes, well. Do give my regards to your aunt. I had hoped to speak with her about the upcoming assembly, but I can see she is otherwise engaged.”

The door closed behind her with more force than strictly necessary, leaving a sudden chill in the sunlit kitchen.

“Do not mind her,” Geoffrey said fiercely, wrapping his small arms around Angelica’s waist. “She is just jealous because you are prettier and nicer and better at everything.”

Angelica hugged him back, grateful for his kind, loyal heart. “Thank you, dearest. Now, shall we get all these into the oven? The soldiers certainly will not be impressed with raw dough, no matter how thoroughly tested.”

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, until the sound of another entrance made them both look up. This time, it was Lady Lavinia Loxley Warburton who swept into the kitchen like an elegant ship under full sail.

“Honestly, Angelica,” Lavinia sighed, sinking into a chair with theatrical exhaustion. “Why can you not just have the maid do it? It is hardly seemly for a young lady of your station to be playing a cook.”

Where Angelica was all gentle grace and quiet beauty, Lavinia was all sharp angles and studied artifice. Even at this early hour, every dark curl was perfectly arranged, every ribbon placed just so. She had been a renowned beauty in her youth, and at forty-five she still commanded attention through sheer force of will.

“The maids are busy with preparations for tomorrow’s celebrations, Aunt,” Angelica replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “And I enjoy the work. It makes me feel useful.”

“Useful!” Lavinia waved away the word like an annoying insect. “You are to be nineteen tomorrow, my dear. It is time you thought about being ornamental rather than useful. Which reminds me…” a smile curved her painted lips. “I have an early birthday surprise for you.”

Something in her aunt’s tone made Angelica’s stomach tighten with apprehension. She recognized that particular smile—it usually preceded some grand scheme that would benefit her aunt far more than anyone else.

“Oh?” she managed, trying to keep her voice light.

“Yes, indeed.” Lavinia leaned forward, her eyes bright with triumph. “I have arranged a most advantageous match for you, my dear. You are to be married!”

The rolling pin slipped from Angelica’s fingers, clattering against the wooden worktable. “Married? To whom?”

“All in good time, my dear.” Lavinia’s smile grew more sphinxlike. “The gentleman in question is of excellent breeding, and, more importantly, considerable means. You will meet him soon enough.”

“But—”

“Now, now.” Lavinia rose, brushing imaginary crumbs from her silk skirts. “A wealthy husband is essential for a young lady’s security in these uncertain times.”

Angelica frowned, her delicate brows drawing together. “But surely I have no need for wealth? Papa left me well provided for, did he not?”

Something flickered in Lavinia’s eyes, quick as a minnow darting through clear water, but her smile never wavered. “One can never be too secure, my dear. Now, go and make yourself presentable. We are expected to attend Lady Crowley’s ball this evening.”

After Lavinia swept out, Geoffrey tugged at Angelica’s sleeve. “You are not leaving when you get married, are you? Who else will help me steal biscuits and climb trees and learn French swear words?”

“Geoffrey!” Angelica could not help but laugh, though her heart felt heavy as lead. “I never taught you such things! And no one could ever keep me from being your friend. I shall visit as much as I can—I promise.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparation. Angelica’s lady’s maid, Susannah, helped her into her finest ball gown—a creation of white silk that made her look like a fresh spring flower. The mirror reflected back a young woman caught between two worlds: her mother’s French refinement in the graceful arch of her neck and delicate wrists, and her father’s English steadfastness in the determined set of her chin.

“You look like an angel, my lady,” Susannah said, carefully adjusting a pearl pin in Angelica’s upswept hair.

“Angels do not have knocking knees,” Angelica replied wryly, “or two left feet.”

The Crowley’s ballroom blazed with hundreds of candles, their light multiplied by gilt-framed mirrors until the whole room seemed to float in a golden haze. Angelica followed her aunt through the crowd, acutely aware of the whispers that followed in their wake. Would her mysterious intended be among the attendees? Would she recognize him somehow, like the heroines in romantic novels?

“My Lady,” a deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Might I have the honor of this dance?”

She turned only to find herself looking up—quite a way up—into a pair of warm, brown eyes that crinkled at the corners with good humor. Their owner was tall and broad-shouldered, his evening clothes perfectly tailored to his robust, athletic frame with nothing short of military precision. A slight unevenness in his stance suggested an old injury, but it only added to his distinguished bearing, like a battle scare on a fine sword.

“Lord Christopher Fenwick,” he introduced himself with a bow that managed to be both proper and playful. “I promise to try not to trample on your feet too badly,” he added with a laugh that was rich and genuine, and it warmed her like a good brandy.

“Lady Angelica Loxley,” she returned with a curtsy, charmed despite herself. As he led her onto the dance floor, Angelica caught her aunt watching with a strangely unreadable expression.

From the corner, the orchestra began playing their music, and to Angelica’s surprise, she found herself moving with unexpected grace. Christopher led her with confident ease, his slight limp barely noticeable as he guided her through the figures of the country dance.

“It seems,” he murmured as they turned, “we make quite a pair of invalids, though balancing one another quite well.”

“Hardly invalid, my lord,” she replied, feeling a slight blush warm her cheeks. “Though, I confess, this is the first time I have not had to count my steps in my head like a schoolgirl.”

“Ah, but counting is vastly overrated, do you not think? Dancing should be like conversation—natural and unrehearsed.”

Their eyes met then, pools of sapphire and deep oak colliding, causing something to spark between them, quick as lightning and just as startling. Angelica felt her heart skip a single beat, then race to catch up. She could not help noticing how the candlelight caught slight bronze highlights in his hair, or the way his shoulders filled out his coat with unconscious elegance.

“You are having dangerous thoughts, my lady.” He said softly, his eyes twinkling.

“Am I?”

“Yes, I can see you calculating how to step on my good foot instead of my bad one.”

Angelica laughed, the sound carrying across the ballroom like a sting of silver bells. Several heads turned, and she caught Lady Crowley’s disapproving frown from across the room.

“You’ve caught me. But then again, it has been said that I am a terrible strategist.”

“On the contrary,” his voice dropped lower, meant for her ears alone. “I think you are exactly what you appear to be.”

“And that is?” Angelica asked, slightly intrigued.

“Kind, genuine, and refreshingly free of artifice.”

The words touched something deep inside her, a longing to be truly known and accepted. But she could not afford such feelings, not when she was promised to another. Could she?

Their dance ended and left Angelica feeling flushed and slightly breathless. Christopher bowed over her hand, his lips barely brushing the top of her gloved knuckles, but even that slight touch sent sparks racing up her arm.

“Until we meet again, my lady.” He said, and she could not help but notice how his eyes lingered on her face, as if memorizing its details.

“You seem to have made quite the impression, niece.” Lavinia materialized at her elbow, steering her toward the refreshment table. “Though I am not sure that is quite what we are looking for.”

“We?” Angelica accepted a glass of lemonade, using it to cool her warm cheeks. “Aunt Lavinia, please—why all the mystery? Who is my intended? Might I have some say in the matter?”

“Of course you have a say in the matter, dear, but you must also trust that I know what is best.” Lavinia’s eyes darted around the room, as if searching for someone. “Ah! There is Mr. Montague. I must have a quick word with him regarding tomorrow’s meeting.”

She swept away, leaving Angelica alone with her thoughts. From across the room, she could see Christopher in conversation with several other gentleman, among them a few officers. Even from this distance, he cut an impressive figure, his bearing somehow both militant and graceful despite his disability.

A burst of masculine laughter drew her attention to a nearby alcove, where two gentlemen stood partially concealed by a potted palm.

“—cannot imagine why old Montague is in such a rush,” one voice said, “unless he knows something we don’t about the Loxley girl’s finances.”

“Well, there is the French connection to consider,” his companion replied. “Perhaps it is better to settle these matters quickly, before anyone starts asking uncomfortable questions about her loyalty.”

Angelica’s hands trembled so badly she had to set down her glass. How dare they? She had spent her entire life proving herself a loyal English subject, supporting the war effort, trying to be more English than the English themselves. She had eradicated and hidden what she could pertaining to her heritage—even adapted her given name to better suit to her life in England.

“Lady Angelica?” Lord Fenwick’s voice made her jump. He must have seen something in her expression, because his own was now bearing signs of concern. “Are you unwell?”

“I—” she forced a smile. “It is just a tad warm in here, is it not? I wonder, would you be so kind as to escort me outside for some fresh air, my lord?”

He offered her his arm immediately, leading her toward the terrace doors. The night air was cool and sweet with the scent of early roses, helping to calm her racing heart.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Yes, thank you, my lord.” She drew a deep breath.

“Call me Christopher, please. At least out here—away from all that stuffiness.”

“Christopher.” Though she was well aware of the breach of propriety, his name felt just right on her tongue, like a word she had always known but just discovered the meaning of. “Do you ever feel like you are simply playing a part? As if everyone around you has expectations of who you should be, and you are constantly trying to live up to them?”

He was quiet for a long moment, and she suddenly feared she had overstepped and said too much. But then he spoke, and his voice held understanding rather than judgement.

“Each day,” he admitted. “Though, I suspect your burden is heavier than most, my lady.”

She turned to him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that from what I have seen of you all evening, Lady Angelica, is that it is clear how carefully you guard every word, every gesture. It must be simply exhausting, trying so hard to be the perfect English rose.”

The truth of his words struck her deeply. How had he managed to see so plainly what she worked so hard to disguise?

Before she could respond, Lavinia’s voice carried through the open doors. “Angelica? Where are you, dear? Mr. Montague wishes to discuss tomorrow’s arrangements.”

“You should go,” Christopher said softly. “But remember—perfection is highly overrated. Sometimes our flaws are the things that make us far more interesting.”

He stepped back into the shadows just as Lavinia appeared, leaving Angelica to wonder if she had imagined the conversation. But no, her heart was still racing, and her skin still tingled where his hand had rested briefly beside hers on the balustrade.

As she followed her aunt back inside, Angelica could not shake the feeling that something momentous was shifting, like ice breaking up on a river. Tomorrow, she would come into her inheritance and finally be able to take control of her own destiny.

And yet… she could not help but wonder why her aunt seemed so intent on securing her future by marrying wealthily. Why did she have the most unsettling feeling that something bigger was afoot?

Through the crowd, she caught one last glimpse of Christopher watching her, his expression unreadable. Then, a pair of lovers stepped between them, and he was gone, leaving Angelica with nothing but questions and the lingering warmth of his touch.

Chapter Two

“I assure you, ladies, every detail is in perfect order,” Mr. Edwin Montague said as he adjusted his spectacles with practiced precision, the morning light catching the silver smudges at his temples. “Though I must confess, the news may not be what you expect.”

Angelica sat perfectly straight in the leather chair, her dove grey, empire waist morning dress arranged with careful elegance. The solicitor’s office felt unusually cramped that morning, despite the tall windows overlooking Bath’s fashionable Queen Square. The scent of beeswax and old papers hung heavily in the air, mingling with the lavender water that her aunt wore too liberally.

“Come now, Edwin,” Lavinia’s laugh tinkled like cracked crystal. “You are being positively mysterious. Surely my niece’s inheritance is straightforward enough?”

Montague’s fingers drummed against the edge of his mahogany desk, each tap falling like a hammer blow in the quiet room. Angelica watched those fingers—long and elegant, yet somehow predatory, like a spider testing its web. She had known this man all her life, yet something in his manner today made her skin prickle with unease.

“The matter of inheritance is never simple, Lady Warburton,” he replied, his voice as smooth as cream hiding sour notes. “Particularly in cases where the estate has been… encumbered.”

“Encumbered?” Angelica’s clear voice cut through the heavy air. Her hands made gestures that were deliberately precise, like the ballet positions she had learned as a child. “I do not quite understand. My father left everything in trust until my nineteenth birthday—which is today.”

Montague cleared his throat, reaching for a thick ledger bound in cracking leather. “Indeed, Lady Angelica. Your father did; however, certain arrangements and adjustments were made over the years. Necessary arrangements, surely you can understand, for the maintenance of Rosemere Hall and your own upbringing.”

Something cold settled in Angelica’s stomach, like a stone dropped in still water. She turned to her aunt, noting how Lavinia’s fingers twisted in her lap, crushing the fine muslin of her handkerchief.

“Aunt Lavinia? What is he talking about?”

“Now, dear, you must understand—” Lavinia began, but Montague cut her off with a raised hand.

“Perhaps I might better explain.” He opened the ledger, each page rustling like autumn leaves caught in a faint breeze. “Your father’s estate, while considerable, required careful management. Lady Warburton, as your guardian, had full authority to make certain… financial decisions.”

The cold in Angelica’s stomach spread outward, numbing her fingers where they gripped the arms of her chair. “What kind of decisions?”

“The mortgaging of Rosemere Hall, for one.” Montague’s voice held no emotion, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the destruction of her world. “Several times over, I am afraid, Lady Angelica. Then, there were the bonds drawn against your trust fund, the sale of various properties, the—”

“Sale?” Angelica’s composure cracked like thin ice. “Which properties?”

“The London house, the cottage in Devon, the hunting lodge in Yorkshire—”

“Is everything gone?” The words emerged as barely more than a whisper.

Montague spread his hands in a gesture of practiced sympathy. “The trust fund is depleted. Rosemere Hall stands on the edge of foreclosure. I am afraid, my lady, that you are, in the plainest of terms, penniless.”

The room seemed to tilt sideways, like a ship caught in a sudden squall. Angelica’s grip tightened on the chair, her knuckles turning white against the dark leather. She felt, rather than saw Lavinia reach for her hand, and jerked away from the touch.

“How?” she forced the word past her numb lips. “How could this have happened?”

“My dear girl,” Lavinia’s voice dripped with honeyed concern. “How did you think we maintained our position in society all these years? Your gowns, your tutors, your music masters, not to mention—”

“Enough.” Angelica raised a single hand, the gesture as sharp as a knife’s edge. She turned to Montague, noting how his eyes glittered behind his spectacles. “You were meant to protect my interest, Mr. Montague. How could you have allowed this to happen?”

“I merely executed your aunt’s perfectly legal instructions.” His smile reminded her of a cat watching a wounded bird before it went in to finish the job. “Though, I did attempt to counsel prudence—”

“Prudence?” Lavinia’s voice rose sharply. “If memory serves, you were the one who suggested the first mortgage! You said it was all perfectly sensible, that all the best families did it—”

“Perhaps,” Montague interrupted smoothly, “we might do better to focus on solutions rather than recriminations?”

Angelica watched the interplay between them, her mind racing like a horse at full gallop. Something was not quite right here—some piece of the puzzle remained hidden, like a shadow glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye.

“Solutions?” Angelica’s voice emerged steadier than she felt. “What possible solution could there be? You have just informed me that I own nothing—not even the roof over my head.”

“Ah, not quite nothing, Lady Angelica,” Montague reached beneath his desk, producing a small wooden box with elaborate marquetry. “Your father did leave this with me for safe keeping, with instructions to deliver it on your nineteenth birthday.”

Angelica’s hands trembled as she accepted the box. It was lighter than she expected, its surface warm from the morning sun. The lid bore an oval miniature, exquisitely painted—a woman’s face that made her heart catch in her throat.

“Maman,” she whispered, forgetting herself enough to let the French word slip out.

The woman in the portrait had her own yes, the same clear blue as an April morning. But where Angelica kept her expressions carefully controlled, her mother’s painted face held a hint of mischief, of secrets waiting to be shared.

“I believe the artist was quite renowned,” Montague remarked, watching her closely. “Jean-Baptiste Isabey if I am not mistaken. He painted many of the French aristocracy before… well.”

Before The Terror. Before everything changed. Before England and France were at war. Before her parents died on a dark road trying to reach safety.

“There is more,” Montague said, producing a sealed letter, the paper yellowed with age. “Written in your father’s own hand, I believe.”

Angelica stared at the unfamiliar writing—bold, decisive strokes that seemed almost familiar, and yet at the same time, not at all. The lines seemed steady, but if she looked closely, Angelica thought of how her father’s hands might have trembled sightly as he wrote them.

“I—” she swallowed hard. Then she looked up and saw the barely concealed intrigue in Montague’s eyes. “I think I shall prefer to read this in private.”

“Of course, my dear,” Lavinia said, reaching for her arm. “We should return to Rosemere—”

“No.” Angelica pulled away, her movements as sharp as glass breaking into shards. “I mean, I need a moment. Alone. Here.”

Montague rose smoothly. “My private office is at your disposal, my lady. Lady Warburton, might I offer you some refreshment in the parlor?”

Lavinia opened her mouth to protest, but something in Angelica’s face seemed to make her thing better of it. With a rustle of silks, she followed Montague from the room, leaving Angelica alone with her father’s last words.

The seal broke with a soft crack, and the paper held the ghost of her father’s cologne—sandalwood and ink and tobacco, scents that felt both familiar and foreign, bringing tears to her eyes.

My dearest Angélique,

The letter began, using her birth name rather than the Anglicized version she had adopted.

If you are reading this, then you have reached your nineteenth year, and I am no longer here to guide you. Know first that you were—are—my greatest treasure, worth more than all the gold in England’s vaults.

Angelica’s vision blurred, but she forced herself to continue, and she blinked hard to let the tears plunge from her dark lashes.

I fear you may have heard tales that paint me in an unfavorable light. Know that everything I did was for love—love of your mother, love of you, love of both my countries. I am not the man others may claim. Your mother and I died protecting something precious, something that goes far beyond mere fortune.

Her hands shook so badly she had to press the paper flat against the desk.

Trust your instincts, my darling girl. They are your mother’s instincts, and she was never wrong about people. Look beneath the surface, question what you are told—no matter who it comes from and remember that true wealth cannot be measured in pounds and shillings.

The last lines were written in a hastier hand, as if time had been running out:

Your mother’s jewelry box holds more than memories. Study it well. And remember—you are a daughter of two lands, and that is your strength, not your weakness. This is my plight to you: restore our family’s honor, and you will find your own fortune.

Your loving father,

Benedict.

Angelica pressed the letter to her chest, breathing in its fading scents. Her mind raced with questions, each one leading to another like paths in a maze. What had her father been protecting? What secrets lay hidden in her mother’s painted face?

A knock at the door made her jump. “Lady Angelica?” Montague’s voice held a note of carefully measured concern.

“Yes,” she called back, hastily folding the letter. “Please come in.”

He entered with the silent grace of a cat, Lavinia trailing behind him like an anxious shadow. Angelica noticed how his eyes flickered immediately to the box in her hands, and she saw a glimmer of something hungry in his eyes before he masked it with professional concern.

“I trust your father’s letter was… illuminating?”

“In a way,” Angelica said, trying her best to keep her voice neutral, though her mind was churning like a stormy sea. “He speaks of honor and hidden fortunes.”

“Ah.” Montague’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Yes, there have long been rumors about Lord Loxley’s… activities during the Revolution. Some say he secreted away a considerable fortune when fleeing France.”

“Rumors?” Lavinia leaned forward, her earlier contrition utterly forgotten now. “What kind of fortune, Mr. Montague?”

“No one knows for certain,” Montague’s fingers drummed against his desk again, in that same rhythm that set Angelica’s nerves on edge. “But, if such a treasure indeed exists, it would legally belong to your niece, now.”

Angelica studied the painted face of her mother, noting small details she had missed before. The artist had captured something in the eyes—a hint of challenge, of secrets kept safe behind a perfect smile reminiscent of the Mona Lisa.

“It rather sounds like you are talking about a treasure hunt, Mr. Montague,” she said, keeping her tone light even though her heart was racing. “How theatrical of you.”

His answering smile held too many teeth. “Life often is, Lady Angelica. Particularly where family secrets are concerned.”

“And what of my intended?” Angelica turned to Lavinia, whose face flushed bright pink beneath her powder. “I assume he is aware of our… situation?”

“Lord Hugh Tennant has…” Lavinia twisted her handkerchief again. “That is to say… well, I would rather think that given the circumstance he would feel…”

“I suffice it safe to say that this will cause him to withdraw his offer,” Angelica finished flatly. “Because I am penniless? Or perhaps because I am French.”

“Both, I imagine,” Mr. Montague interrupted smoothly. “Young men can be so… particular about such things.”

Something in his tone made Angelica look at him sharply. Had there been a hint of satisfaction in those words? Her father’s advice about trusting her instincts rang loudly in her ears.

“Then it seems I have decisions to make,” she rose, cradling the box against her chest. “About my future, and about my past.”

“Dear Angelica,” Lavinia reached for her arm. “Surely you are not thinking of pursuing this… this wild fancy of hidden fortunes? Think of the scandal it will cause!”

“I think it rather safe to say the mere fact that I am suddenly penniless shall cause more than enough scandal, Aunt.” Angelica’s voice could have frozen boiling water. “And, I am thinking of survival, since you have left me little choice in the matter.”

“Lady Angelica,” Mr. Montague’s voice oozed with concern. “If you would like my advice—”

“Thank you, but no.” She cut him off with a smile as sharp as a razor. “I believe I have had quite enough advice for one day.”

With that, she swept from the office, her back straight as a sword’s blade, though her mind whirled with possibilities. Her father’s letter, her mother’s portrait, the mysterious fortune—all pieces of a puzzle that did not quite want to fit together—yet.

It was only when she reached the privacy of her carriage that she allowed herself to look at the box again. The portrait seemed to watch her with knowing eyes, holding answers to all of these secrets, just out of her reach. Something about the painting tugged at her memory—a detail she should recognize, a connection just beyond her understanding.

What had her father been trying to tell her? And why did she have the unsettling feeling that Mr. Montague knew far more than he was saying?

She traced the edge of the portrait with one finger and felt something shift beneath the painted surface—like a whisper of movement, so faint she might have imagined it.