Sarah laughed as Mr. Ferguson finished his story about his wayward horse, who had, it turned out, been entirely insistent on visiting another horse in a neighboring field, feeling a small stab of pain. She could understand the creature’s loneliness, even though she was sitting amongst almost a roomful of guests. To have such a need to find another of your kind, another of your family, was a sentiment buried deep within her soul.

“And are you to have a come out this year, Miss Weston?” another gentleman asked, shooting a glance towards Mr. Stanton. “I would very much like to dance with you at the country ball next week, which I presume you are attending.”

Before Sarah could speak, Mr. Stanton cleared his throat and caught everyone’s attention.

“My dear Mr. Fredricks, I am delighted to inform you that Miss Weston is, in fact, out, and so she should be very pleased to dance with you next week, I am sure.”

Sarah felt ice form around her heart, as Mr. Fredricks exclaimed in delight, asking Mr. Stanton when such an event had taken place. She could see Mrs. Stanton widening her eyes at her, telling her silently to smile, but Sarah found she could not. In fact, she could barely move.

“Oh, it was a very small affair,” Mr. Stanton lied, his eyes bright with no hint of deception in his expression. “Very small. Quiet. Just as Miss Weston herself wanted it.”

“I would not have liked a quiet come out at all, Miss Weston,” exclaimed Mary Williams, a girl a little younger than Sarah. “I wanted a ball, did I not, Mama?”

“You did, my dear, and you got one,” Mrs. Williams replied calmly. “However, not everyone has the same inclinations as you.”

Sarah felt her throat squeeze around the lump that had formed in it, sending aching shivers up into her head. This was all a lie. There had been no come out, no formal arrangement where it might be made known that she was now ready to enter society, as little as it was around these parts. Why was Mr. Stanton lying? Why had he not organized something “small and quiet” as he had put it? She would have accepted that, of course. She would have been grateful for it, but now it appeared she was to have nothing at all.

“And so, you are to attend the dance next Friday then, Miss Weston?” Mr. Fredricks continued, sounding thrilled that he would be able to dance with her at last. “I must secure at least two dances from you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fredricks,” Sarah managed to say, aware that most of the guests were now looking at her. “I would be very glad to dance with you.”

Mr. Fredricks grinned and began to converse about what they might expect from Mr. Turnberry’s dance, but Sarah did not listen. This was not what she had ever expected, to hear that she was now, apparently, out, without knowing so much herself. Why had Mr. Stanton never spoken to her of it before now? Why had he not told her that he was going to say such a thing to the guests at the table? It had left her completely shaken, her mind trying to take in this new information about herself.

So, she was out. That meant that gentlemen that she might one day marry could court her. However, all the gentlemen around these parts had homes or country houses in this vicinity and were she to marry one of them that would mean resigning herself to staying in Little Mybster for the rest of her days.

Sarah knew she did not want that. She wanted to be free for a time, to have her own life set out in front of her in full view, so that she could make her own choices about what to do and where to go. There would not be any marriage in her future, not yet at least.

So long as that is not what Mr. Stanton is trying to do, came the thought as she set her fork down with a clatter. What if he is trying to suggest that I marry someone here? What if he is trying his best to manipulate the situation so that this is precisely what happens?

It would just be another way for her life to be ruled by Mr. Stanton and his wishes. The control of her life would pass from Mr. Stanton to her husband, whomever that was to be, and she would never have the opportunity to do as she wished. She might never be able to find out where she had truly come from, especially since most of the guests here believed her to be Mr. Stanton’s niece, although she knew that was not the case. She could still recall the day that Mr. Stanton had sat her down and told her that, whilst she was not any relation of his, she was to play that part precisely. She would be his niece, she’d been told, to ensure her reputation was quite secure, and so she had accepted that without question.

Now, however, that association tied itself around her neck, tightening whenever she thought about setting out on her own. With no name and no family, she could not get anywhere. As Mr. Stanton’s niece, she had connections and a home to go to, but if she were to leave, she knew that association would cease. She could not call herself part of a man’s family if she were not.

“Yes, I am quite sure that Miss Weston will play for us later,” she heard Mrs. Stanton say loudly, drawing her back to the present. “I know, she plays marvelously well as you say, Mr. Sanders, and I am certain she has been practicing a new piece of late. Perhaps if you were to ask her, she might play it for you.”

Sarah tried to smile as Mr. Sanders, a gentleman with a shock of blond hair and piercing blue eyes, looked over at her from across the table, a slightly calculating look in his eye.

“I shall make sure to speak to Miss Weston just as soon as dinner is complete,” Mr. Sanders replied, turning back to Mrs. Stanton. “I would very much like to hear this new piece.”

So that was it. This dinner was an opportunity for the gentlemen of Little Mybster to look at Sarah in a different way than they had done before. She was now available as a bride, she realized, her heart sinking into her toes. This was why there had been so many gentlemen asked to dinner, as well as the ladies to round out the numbers of course. They were here to admire Sarah, to hear her converse and laugh, to hear her play and perform for them all. She was to show them that she was, in fact, a perfect young lady, who was ready to take her place as a wife and then a mother.

A curl of anger spiked up through her, piercing her heart as it did so. She tasted nothing of the dessert that was placed in front of her, the sweetness turning to dust in her mouth. She did not hear any more conversation and certainly made no attempts to smile at anyone who looked her way. The truth had hurt her deeply. She was nothing more than a piece of Mr. Stanton’s property, to be sold at the highest price. For goodness sake, she did not so much as know whether she had a dowry or not, for Mr. Stanton had never told her. Frustration raced through her, bringing with it a sharp increase in her pain. She would not do this. A lifetime of obeying what Mr. and Mrs. Stanton said and a lifetime of being grateful for their kindness to her had been replaced entirely with a mixture of frustration and anger.

Sarah was on her feet before she knew what she was doing. Drawing in a sharp breath, she saw Mrs. Stanton staring at her with wide eyes, a horror stuck expression on her face.

“I am so very sorry, but I suddenly feel quite ill,” Sarah lied, turning her gaze to Mr. Stanton, who was looking back at her with those sharp eyes of his.

She did not flinch.

“A terrible headache,” she said firmly, keeping her eyes fixed on her guardian. If he can lie, then so can I, she told herself, her fingers tightening together as she held them in her lap. “I have tried to manage as best I can, but I am afraid it is becoming much too painful.”

“I did think you quiet this evening,” Mrs. Malleby said, another one of the guests who was ages with Mrs. Stanton. “You poor thing. I often get headaches, and I find the best thing for them is a cool compress over the eyes and to lie in bed for a time.”

Sarah grasped a hold of the suggestion at once. “You are most kind, Mrs. Malleby. I shall do just that.” She put one hand to her forehead, rubbing it gently whilst wincing, hearing the murmurs of concern from the other guests. “Do excuse me. I am most dreadfully sorry.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Ferguson said, as she stepped away from the table. “I do hope you are recovered by Friday so that we may dance together.”

Plastering a pained smile on her lips, Sarah bobbed a curtsy in his direction. “I am sure I will, Mr. Fredricks. Do excuse me, and please, again, accept my apologies.”

Leaving the dining room, Sarah let out a long breath of relief, as she quickly made her way to her room. There was little doubt that she had upset Mr. Stanton, although she could not tell whether or not Mrs. Stanton had believed her nonsense about a headache or not. There would be a conversation in the morning, but Sarah was determined not to simply accept whatever rebuttals came her way. It was time to start making a change for herself. If she did not, then the rest of her life would pass her by without her ever receiving any answers, and she would continue to find herself controlled by those who were meant to care for her.

“A cool compress, please,” she murmured to the passing maid. “There is no particular rush.”

The maid nodded and left to fetch it at once, as Sarah made her way to the door of her bedchamber. The cool compress she had no intention of using, but it would be useful should Mr. Stanton question the staff as to Sarah’s movements after she retired from the dining room early. It would give credence to her supposed headache, and since there were never any physical observations that accompanied a headache, Sarah knew that Mr. Stanton could not easily doubt her.

Pulling out her room key from her pocket, Sarah pushed into the lock and made to turn it, only for the key to stick. Frowning, she tried again but to no avail. Turning the door handle, she realized that it was not locked at all. Frowning, she looked all about her room, seeing nothing out of place. She had been quite sure that she had locked the door before going down to dinner, just as she always did. Her room was the one place she could call her own, where she could go and know that no one would disturb her unless she asked. Mrs. Stanton had a key, of course, but she did not often use it unless it was to have the maids go to prepare a bath or the like. So why was the door open now?

The maid returned just as Sarah was sitting down at the dressing table, removing her jewelry.

“I will just leave the compress by the basin, miss,” the maid murmured, setting it down carefully. “Can I get you anything else?”

Sarah thought for a moment. “Tea, I think.” The maid bobbed and made to leave, only for Sarah to speak again. “Did Mrs. Stanton ask for my room to be opened?”

The maid turned and shook her head, a slight frown between her brows. “No, miss. Your room was locked when I last checked it.”

“You checked it?”

The maid nodded, a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. “I had some linens to put away, but the room was locked. I thought it best not to interrupt either yourself or Mrs. Stanton, and so I put them in the chest by the door.” She opened the door a little wider and indicated the chest, where linens and things were often kept in preparation for being placed back in Sarah’s room.

Sarah nodded slowly, her own brow furrowing. “I see. Thank you. There is nothing more.”

Taking out her jewelry box, Sarah began to put her jewels away before getting up and wandering over to her bed. She would have to put on a bit of a performance for the maid, just so that the maid could tell Mr. Stanton that, yes, Sarah had laid down with the compress over her eyes after excusing herself from the dinner table. Besides which, Sarah was going to need the maid’s help to get out of her dress.

Picking up the compress, Sarah walked back to her bed and tried to lie down carefully so as not to crush her gown. Placing the compress over her eyes, she lay back against the pillow, only for something hard to jab at her head. Frowning, she tried to adjust her position, only to feel the same thing.

“What on earth is the matter with these things?” she said aloud crossly, as she sat up and pulled one pillow away from the other.

Her eyes fell on a small box, wrapped in parcel paper, and tied with a small red ribbon.

Her breath caught.

Someone had been in her room.