“Indeed,” Lord Whimsitt agreed. “We will abandon the mine again, which has served its purpose, and the dragon may simply go back to sleep.”

“Are you insane?” Isobelle felt like she was standing outside her own body, watching herself stare at them all in disbelief. “All these knights, here for the Tournament of Dragonslayers, and there’s a girl you won’t even allow among you out there, heading for the dragon on her own, to stand between it and your people?”

Sir Ralph rolled his eyes. “She has saved us an execution, is all.”

Whimsitt nodded in agreement. “We will declare the tourney in Sir Orson’s favor and try to forget any of this happened.” A wave of his hand indicated Orson sitting a couple of spots along the table from Whimsitt himself.

Her friend gazed at the map in front of him and didn’t look up. The tips of his ears were red, though, a sure sign she’d learned to read when they were small.

Guilt.

“Sir Orson,” she repeated slowly. Everything had happened so quickly after Sylvie had come to shake her into action that she had not stopped to think about who else could have betrayed Gwen to Lord Whimsitt.

“He has conducted himself admirably,” Lord Whimsitt went on. “And it is very much apparent that the sooner you are safely married and out of trouble, the better.”

Isobelle scarcely heard him, her eyes still on Orson, a flush of rage rising up her throat, across her cheeks, a burning fire she could barely contain within her. “You,” she said, her voice a thin, taut wire. “It was you.”

Orson finally lifted his head, the chiseled jaw squared, the blond hair as charmingly tousled as ever, his eyes meeting hers. “Yes.” His voice was soft, but there was no apology in it.

With a wordless sound of fury, Isobelle’s control broke and she lunged for him.

He caught her, gripping her arms tightly and bringing his mouth to her ear. “Izzie, stop it. I had to. Last night at the ball, what you said . . . if he found out in front of the whole county, he might’ve had her killed on the spot. I did it for you—I did what was best for you.”

Isobelle went still, panting for breath. “How convenient that deciding what was best for me earned you the money in my dowry.”

Orson’s hold slackened, and she staggered free of his grip.

There was a tale Isobelle once heard as a child. It was about a great ruler who claimed to be dressed in the finest of clothes—silks and furs that only the worthiest could see. None of his subjects wanted to admit they couldn’t see them, so they all pretended he wasn’t naked. Until a child called out the truth, and nobody could pretend anymore.