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“I didn’t … I never—”

“Silence!”

Stella’s lips closed. What was there to say? Not a thing.

Phillippa closed in on her, pinning her against the wall. “Make no mistake, my dear. Two days from now, Cornelia, Beatrice and I will embark on our return journey to Chester. As for you, I’m afraid you’re destined for Bridewell Prison. I believe that’s where they take female thieves.”

“Thief! I’m no thief!” For pity’s sake, had Phillippa gone mad?

“But you are, Estella. You’ve been stealing muslin and thread, among other things. There’s no point in denying it. I found the flour sack stuffed with your ill-gotten prizes under your bed.”

“Bits and pieces destined for the rag bag only!” Dear God, this was a nightmare.

“I don’t see what difference that makes. Stealing is stealing, and thieves go to prison.”

Without warning, Phillippa wrenched the bedchamber door open and with one hard push she shoved Stella over the threshold. She lost her balance and fell to her knees, Phillippa looming over her.

“Why?” Stella whispered, the word scraping her throat. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Because you’re nothing special, Estella, and it sickens me that such a fuss has always been made over you. It was the same with your mother, you know. Lovely, kind and perfect Caroline Harley! She was the light of every eye, and the belle of every ball. She stole your father from me. Did you know that? I should have been the first Countess Featherstone, not her.” Phillippa spat the words, her eyes glittering coldly. “But you see the tables are now turned, and it’s given me great pleasure to see you brought so low.”

Stella stared up at her stepmother, into eyes as cold as ice and a face twisted with fury. This was never going to end, was it? Such hatred as this was a sort of madness, and it would only grow more ruthless, more barbaric as time passed.

“You will therefore remain in this room until the magistrate comes to fetch you, Estella. I don’t like to interrupt the man’s holidays, however, so it will have to wait until the day after Boxing Day.”

“But that’s days from now!” Stella cast a stricken glance around the barren room, the thin mattress with the threadbare blanket, the bare, cold floors, and panic swelled in her chest. “You can’t keep me locked in this room for three days!”

“On the contrary. I can, and I will. We can’t have a thief running about the duke’s castle, after all. But not to worry, my dear. I’ll see to it you’re provided with food and water. When I remember, that is.” Phillippa gave her a smile that froze Stella’s blood in her veins, then turned to the door.

“Wait!” Stella snatched at a fold of her stepmother’s skirts and held on, her knuckles turning white even as she knew it was hopeless. There wasn’t a shred of empathy or understanding in Phillippa’s face. “You can’t just leave me here.”

“Of course I can.” Phillippa gave her skirt a sharp tug, snatching it from Stella’s grip.

Then she was out the door, slamming it closed behind her, the metallic click of the key turning in the lock like a death knell.

Soon enough the faint thud of Phillippa’s retreating footsteps gave way to silence, and Stella was left alone.

She stumbled to her feet, her knees shaking, and collapsed on the bed.

Outside the window the sky was darkening, the shadows in the tiny room lengthening. It must be nearly time for the ball to start.

The snow that had begun this morning was still falling, the howling wind blowing against the window and setting the glass rattling. The moon was shrouded by clouds, and not a single star was visible.

It would be pitch black soon enough, and she had no lamp, and no fire.

She’d been alone a great deal over the past two years. Alone in her bedchamber, alone in the garden, and alone in the kitchens, taking her meals by herself.

But never, since her father’s passing, had she been as alone as she was right now. What was she to do? She couldn’t wait here for days on end only to be hauled off to Bridewell.

Perhaps Phillippa hadn’t locked the door properly? It was a slim hope, given that she’d heard the click of the lock engaging, but this was an old castle, with old doors and old locks. If a bit of manhandling could lead to her freedom, wasn’t it was worth an attempt?

The door was a massive slab of solid oak. There’d be no battering through it, but the lock … yes, if there was a weak spot, that would be it.

She pulled a hairpin from her hair and sank to her knees in front of the door. She’d never picked a lock before, but how difficult could it be?

Quite difficult, as it turned out. Fifteen minutes of poking at the lock got her precisely nothing, aside from a sadly mangled hairpin.

There wasn’t any chance she could escape through the door.