NineteenSebastian had just relaxed into an armchair at the Ebner when an urgent rapping at the door interrupted his heavy-hearted musings. “Mr Russell! Mr Russell!” Hotel manager Ned Castleton’s normally genial baritone had an agitated edge. “Miss Isabella’s had a mishap. She’s on her way back to the hotel now.”
Sebastian leapt up and wrenched the door open. “Mishap? What’s wrong?”
Ned’s mouth screwed up in dismay. “She went riding this morning and I believe she’s had a fall.”
“Riding? What possessed her to—”
He was interrupted by Isabella’s arrival at the top of the stairs in a wheeled bath chair held up either side by two sturdy barmen. They set her down with a light thump, and she pitched forward, restraining herself on the chair’s arms as she came to rest. The front of her pale-apr
