The silence in the room was thick with tension, broken only by Duchess Aveline's muffled sobs.
She sat slumped on the couch, her once-elegant posture reduced to a picture of despair. A silk handkerchief, damp with tears, trembled in her hands as she wept into it. Servants surrounded her, fanning her gently, whispering reassurances that neither she nor Eleanor truly believed.
Eleanor, however, couldn't sit still.
She paced back and forth across the parlor, the heavy fabric of her gown swishing with each hurried step. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.
Her mind was racing.
Her father—the most honorable man she knew—was being accused of treason.
Treason.
The word alone sent a fresh wave of fear crashing over her.
This couldn't be happening.
She already had one problem to deal with—Lady Seraphine's calculated trap at the ball—and now this?
Her stomach twisted in knots.
