And then she nearly ran into the back of one of the village women, who’d all stopped.

There was a fifth man in a guard’s uniform, standing at the base of the stairs, his gaze snapping up from the four men unconscious by the wall to rest on the group of women standing at the entrance to the cells.

“Ambrose,” said Olivia, her tone neutral. “You’re not due on duty for an hour. What are you doing here?”

Ambrose stared at her, his mouth slightly open. He gave his head a shake, as though trying to wake himself from a dream, but not succeeding. “I thought I’d come down and see Harlan,” he said, pausing to swallow hard. “Is he dead?”

“Dead?” Olivia sounded mildly insulted. “Only amateurs resort to murder at the first hurdle.” She nodded to the basket she’d left by the foot of the stairs. “I truly wish you’d eaten a tart too, though.”

“Dairy’s no good for my insides,” he said absently, looking back at the man he’d come to distract from his duties.

Olivia’s hand started to move slowly behind her back, to the place where Isobelle knew from experience there was a knife secreted in the folds of her dress at the waist.

Reaching across, she closed her hand over Olivia’s wrist in silent instruction. The woman’s eyes slid sideways, but with a long-suffering expression, she gave a little nod that invited Isobelle to try her luck.

“Ambrose, was it?” Isobelle asked, lifting her veil and stepping forward to unleash her very best smile on the man. Though it was probably wasted, if he’d been here to visit Harlan.

“Y-yes, my lady—Ambrose Miller,” the man stammered, trying to both bow and keep his eyes on Olivia at the same time, shuffling back and nearly tripping on the bottom step. Olivia snorted, none too softly, but Isobelle pressed on.

“I’m sure you’re surprised to see us here. May I commend you on your excellent manners? It’s such a delight to—”

To her surprise, he held up a hand to cut her off, straightening his posture. “My lady, I know you’re about to ask me to let you all by, and you have to know I can’t do that. These women are in the custody of Lord Whimsitt, and I am his sworn man.”

This was going to be difficult. Not impossible, certainly—Isobelle saw initial refusals as more of an opening gambit than a final position—but time wasn’t on their side. As she was trying to choose her best line of attack, a voice came from behind her. Gwen’s voice.

“Where are you from?”

He blinked, craning his neck to see who was speaking from the back of the group. “What?”