THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 28
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The next day, there was no carriage from
Kentshire and the letter Isabelle had received
from her father had clearly been penned prior
to Leopold’s arrival.
It had been filled with
nothing but the mundane every day updates
about Kentshire and the castle, which did
nothing to calm Isabelle.
Isabelle’s rest had been fitful, but at least she’d
been able to sleep. She’d awoken in the dead
of night, choking out a scream as she sat up
in bed, Leopold’s angry face still looming
before her in the darkened bedchamber.
Her
dreams had been naught but nightmarish
repeats of Leopold slamming her against the
wall, only this time his hand had closed around
her throat rather than hitting the wall. She’d
rea-ssured herself that it wasn’t real,
but she’d
had trouble falling back asleep after that.
It was the promise of a letter from her father
that had drawn her out of bed in the morning,
though she’d refused to rise and dress for the
debutantes’ breakfast with the queen.
When
there had been no news about her betrothed,
the same fatigue from the night had settled
over her.
If her father’s plan had been to await the
signing of the new law, he would send Leopold
back to Germania, hopefully smoothing over
her betrothed’s temper.
But Leo was smart and
Isabelle realized that she’d made a huge
mistake mentioning the law to him. She should
have allowed her father to handle it, rather than
give the foreign prince any clue as to why she
was now hesitating as well.
Her father had
known about the law for a very long time, but
he’d always found some other excuse for his
hesitation. Now Leopold would fit the pieces
of the puzzle together…
Isabelle buried her face in her hands, Lissa
pausing as she brushed her mistress’ hair.
“Are you all right?” the maid asked, resting a
gentle hand on Isabelle’s shoulder.
“No,” Isabelle admitted. “I’m a fool. A stupid
little pawn who thought she had a feel for the
game, only to find out that I’ve never been
more wrong.”
Lissa said nothing, her brows crea-sed with
concern as she looked at Isabelle in the mirror.
Isabelle’s stomach turned at the purple welt on
Lissa’s cheekbone.
“I don’t know whether we should pack my
things and prepare to leave so I can help, or
whether I should await word from Papa,”
Isabelle said. “Oh Lissa, what have I done?”
“He had no business marching in her and
scaring you like that, let alone tricking me into
thinking it was un-der His Grace the duke’s
orders,” Lissa said, giving Isabelle’s shoulder a
rea-ssuring squee-ze. “You did the right thing by
sending him to your father. I’m sure they will
straighten things out.
Until then, you’ll have to
keep up your brave face.”
Isabelle looked at herself in the mirror, blinking
away the frustrated tears that had pooled in her
eyes. Lissa was right. She’d done enough
wallowing and she was stronger than this. Her
father would fix things, as he always did, and
so she’d bide her time and wait for his
summons. She’d already missed two meals
with the royal family, which, coupled with the
vicious rumours Alicia had likely spread at
dinner, had probably already set tongues to
wagging.
Whatever was happening in Kentshire
was beyond Isabelle’s control, but she certainly
could control what the court gossips were
saying about her in Highcastle.
“You’re right,” Isabelle said, resting a hand atop
Lissa’s. “Thank you for helping me clear my
head.”
“Always, my lady,” Lissa said, smiling.
“Shall
we get you dressed?”
“In my best, yes,” Isabelle agreed.
She suffered throu-ghthe day in the queen’s
reading room, the rest of the debutantes
whispering furiously whenever she approached.
When she thought she couldn’t stand it any
longer, she dealt herself a game of patience,
focusing all of her attention on the cards rather
than the whispered mentions of Kentshire,
Germania, and Prince Leopold that surrounded
her.
After tea, she attempted to call on Violet
before their dinner, only to be turned away at
the door. The very same weariness that had
overcome her the night before settled onto her
shoulders once again.
Exhausted and unwilling
to face the battlefield of the dining room, she
returned to her suite and sent her ladies-in-
waiting down in her stead, once again.
Isabelle fell asleep before Lissa could even
return with a dinner tray, sleeping heavily and
waking with a start when the sun crested the
horizon the next morning.
Her stomach
grumbled with annoyance as memories of the
past few days came rushing back. She
wallowed in her sheets until Lissa arrived,
forcing a steaming bowl of porridge into
Isabelle’s hands before she allowed her to
even ask about any letters.
Once Isabelle had eaten, Lissa slid a thin
envelope from her bodice. Isabelle didn’t
bother checking the seal, breaking it and
hurriedly running her eyes over her father’s
handwriting.
Isabelle,
The prince has left, but un-der no circu-mstances
are you to return. At the moment, our
arrangement with Germania is precarious at
best. You are to stay at the palace until I send
for you.
I will write more soon, but now there is much to
attend to. Stay strong, my Isabelle.
With all my love,
Papa
The brevity of the letter and the cli-pped tone of
her father’s words sent a chill down her spine,
but what scared her even more was what she
read between the lines of the letter.
Yet again,
her father had made it sound as if it was not
safe for her to return to Kentshire, which was
terrifying in and of itself. Her home had always
been her safe haven and now she’d been
instructed to remain in the snake pit of
Highcastle Palace instead.
What had happened? Her father had said that
the arrangement was precarious, but not that it
had been nullified, which only fed into that pit
of dread in her stomach. How could she face
Leopold again, with the memory of their last
encounter seared into her mind? How could
she marry him after seeing such a side to her
once-charming prince? Had her father been
able to pacify him by any other means than
ensuring that their betrothal remain in place?
What was the ‘much’
that her father had to
attend to? Was Germania threatening Kentshire
now that she’d gone and sent Leopold away?
Folding the letter, she sli-pped it into her
bodice, her thoughts on the ring buried in her
jewelry box. If something was happening in
Kentshire, there was one other person in the
palace who had any chance of knowing.
One person that she knew her father trusted
just as much as she did.
~*~
Ignoring the social schedule that had instructed
her to be present in the queen’s sitting room
after breakfast, Isabelle had Lissa find out
where the men were spending their day.
Bundling herself in a cloak against the chilly
morning air, Isabelle descended to the
gardens, where the men were holding an
archery competition.
Their voices carried throu-ghthe morning air,
jovial taunts and laughter filling the courtyard.
Isabelle hung back, hidden behind a hedgerow
as she searched for Sam Winters.
As usual, he
was easily sp-otted, thanks to his height, but
unfortunately for Isabelle, he was surrounded
by a crowd of courtiers as he squared off
against none other than the crown prince
himself.
Graham’s arrogant grin was in place as he
chatted with the men around him, laughing and
taunting Sam as the northerner nocked his
bow. Sam, however, was focused on the
target, set all the way across the lawn in the
gardens. He’d gone as still as a stone, eerily
unmoving as he set his sights. The twang of
his bowstring was followed by delighted
whoops as several courtiers applauded and
clapped him on the back.
Across the lawn, his
arrow had buried itself in the bullseye of the
practice target.
Isabelle watched as Prince Graham stepped
into Sam’s retreating path, but rather than tease
or taunt him, the prince offered Sam a hearty
congratulations, shaking his hand. Sam’s
posture relaxed as he bowed, clearly having
anticipated the same reaction as Isabelle had.
He had the beginning of a smile on is face as
he wove his way throu-ghthe crowd of men.
Isabelle took a step out from behind the
hedgerow as Prince Graham nocked his own
arrow.
Either her movement or the crunch of her
shoes on the gravel alerted Sam to her
presence, his eyes snapping up and landing on
her while the rest of the men were focused on
Prince Graham, sighting the target.
Gesturing
quickly for Sam to follow, Isabelle ducked
back behind the hedgerow.
“Are you all right?” were the first words out of
Sam’s mouth, running worried eyes over her. “I
heard about-”
“I’m much better now,” she interrupted. “But I
need you to write to your father for me. I need
to know if Papa has called up his men-at-
arms.”
Sam regarded her warily, something warring
behind his blue eyes.
“Why do you ask?” he said slowly. A shout and
cheer erupted from behind the hedgerow.
“Because of this,” Isabelle said, fishing the
letter from her bodice. Sam cleared his throat,
awkwardly looking away at the impropriety of
watching her remove a piece of paper from her
un-dergarments.
“You really are out to make a reputation for
yourself,” he grumbled, unfolding the letter. His
eyes flew over the contents, his brow creasing
before he folded it and handed it back to her.
“It doesn’t sound like him,” Isabelle said, taking
the letter between her hands again. “Please,
Sam, if you know something…”
“…is he? He can’t have left before I gloat!” the
voice rose above the others as Prince Graham
strode past them, halting in his tracks as he
took in Sam and Isabelle.
“My, my. I hope I haven’t interrupted
something?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
Isabelle wasn’t quick enough to conceal the
letter in the folds of her cloak.
“Not at all, your Highness,” Sam said with a
bow. “From the sounds of it, your shot was
better than mine.”
“Indeed it was,” Graham said, his eyes on
Isabelle. “Why don’t you go see if you can best
me again, Winters?”
Sam swallowed, bowing before shooting
Isabelle a loaded look as he took his leave.
She watched him go, cursing the prince in her
head as he folded his arms before her. The
olive tweed of his jacket had his green eyes
glittering like emeralds, the orchard-scented
autumn wind ruffling his golden locks.
“Have a nice morning, your Highness,” Isabelle
said with a curtsey, breaking the silence that
he’d allowed to stretch between them, waiting
for an explanation. She turned on her heel, but
Graham was upon her in several quick strides,
sli-pping around her to block her way.
“What’s happened?” he asked. His eyes
sli-pped to where the letter was still clutched in
her hand, covered by her cloak. Isabelle
swallowed, debating her options.
Sam had clearly known something, but her
chances of getting him alone before that
evening’s ball were slim to none now that
Graham was suspicious. Besides Sam, the
only other person in the palace who might
know and be willing to tell her what was
happening in Kentshire was standing before
her. Asking Graham, however, would require
that she trust him with the contents of her
letter…
“I received a letter, that is all,” she said. “It’s
none of your concern.”
The prince frowned.
“It is of my concern if it’s enough for you to
miss breakfast and sneak around to find Sam
Winters,” Graham said.
“I overslept this morning and I was seeking
Sam’s counsel. He is a dear friend and trusted
confidant,” Isabelle replied, lifting her chin.
“One of the only ones I have here in this
infernal palace.”
“So you don’t trust me?” Graham asked, taking
a step towards her as he reached for the letter.
Isabelle took a step back, turning away from
him.
“Stop,” Isabelle said, more firmly this time. “As
I’d said, this is none of your concern.”
“If it has anything to do with the state of
Kentshire at the moment, then it very much is
of my concern,” Graham said, holding her gaze
to weigh the impact of his words.
Thankfully, Isabelle had grown accustomed to
the prince’s games and kept her face
decidedly impa-ssive. So the prince was aware
of what was happening in Kentshire…unless of
course it was a bluff meant to earn Isabelle’s
trust.
“Kentshire is perfectly fine,” she huffed,
attempting to appear affronted as she lied.”I
was simply seeking Sam’s counsel about how
to best make amends with Leopold after the
harsh words we exchanged.”
At the mention of the Germanian prince,
Graham’s face grew stony before he took a
step towards her, resting his hands on her
shoulders. Panic ignited in Isabelle’s stomach,
remembering the last time a man had taken
her by the shoulders, and she froze at his
touch.
“I saw the wall in your suite, Isabelle. I know
that he was the one who did it,” he said. “How
can you not believe everything I’ve told you
after a display like that?”
“Did your spies give you all the sordid details?”
she demanded, attempting to both change the
subject and back away, but he held fast.
“Why do you think I keep spies in your room?”
Graham demanded, his grip tensing on her
shoulders. “What would have happened if your
maid hadn’t been thinking quickly and alerted
the guards? Do you really think he would have
stopped with the wall?”
“It’s none of your concern!” she said, fighting
down the nightmares as she swallowed. She
could still feel the vibration of the impact
skittering along her spine, the pictures dancing
against the wall as Leopold’s fist quivered in
the dent he’d created, mere inches from her
head.
Graham’s brows knit at the haunted look on
her face, the concern in his eyes enough to
shake Isabelle to her senses. There was a
reason she’d gone to Sam and not Graham. It
was because Graham was a conniving, skilled
manipulator. Whatever she read on his face
was there purposefully, just another trick
meant to confuse her. As much as it meant
wasting an entire day waiting, she’d find Sam
at the ball that night so he could explain.
But for now, she’d seize the opportunity to beat
Graham at his own game.
To be continued….