Shadows of liberty (Book 6 of the Legacy of Love Series)

Chapter 1: The Last Ball

The golden glow of chandeliers bathed the grand ballroom of the Beaumont mansion, reflecting off crystal and polished mahogany. For Elise Beaumont, the lavish scene felt surreal, a tableau of elegance that defied the darkness seeping into the streets of Paris. Beneath the strains of a lively minuet and the swirl of silk and lace, she could sense an undercurrent of tension, a sense that the world was shifting in ways even her family's wealth and status could not control.

As she moved through the throngs of familiar faces, Elise kept her expression calm, a mask of aristocratic poise that she had learned to wear effortlessly. She exchanged polite smiles with guests, each one a part of the glittering elite who seemed oblivious to the whispers of rebellion encroaching upon their lives. But behind her calm gaze, Elise's thoughts were anything but peaceful. She felt a gnawing dread that something irrevocable was coming, something that neither wealth nor name could protect her from.

Nearby, she spotted her brother, Henri, leaning against a marble pillar, his dark eyes scanning the room with a sharpness that matched her own unease. Though only three years her senior, Henri had always seemed older, more world-worn than his years, and tonight was no exception. He caught her gaze and inclined his head subtly, a gesture that spoke of unspoken understanding. Their family name, once a shield, was now a weight they carried, one that might soon become a mark of doom.

Elise moved toward the grand doors of the ballroom, pausing at the edge where the music softened, allowing the voices to filter through. Servants, faces tense and voices hushed, slipped through the shadows cast by the flickering candelabras. Elise caught snatches of their hurried whispers, fragments of news that tightened her stomach into knots.

"Another noble family... taken last night..." one whispered. "No trial... sent straight to the Tribunal."

"They say Citizen Robespierre himself signed the warrant..."

Her heart pounded at the name. Robespierre was more than a name to fear; he was the shadow that loomed over every nobleman and woman in Paris, the man who could, with a stroke of his pen, erase a legacy that had endured for generations. Her throat tightened as she looked over the room, at friends and acquaintances dancing with all the obliviousness of those whose only concern was the next step, the next laugh.

Elise turned away from the scene, catching sight of a familiar face in the crowd—a family servant, dressed in the dark uniform of the house staff, his eyes wide with urgency. He moved toward her, pausing just close enough to bow in deference before leaning in, his voice so low that only she could hear.

"Mademoiselle Elise," he murmured, barely audible above the music, "you and your family are no longer safe here. The Committee... they've taken an interest in the Beaumonts. You must prepare to leave, tonight if possible."

Elise's breath hitched, and for a moment, her carefully maintained composure faltered. The ballroom spun around her, its gilded edges blurring. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for her parents. Her mother, serene in her emerald gown, was in conversation with a friend, unaware of the storm brewing beyond the walls of their home. Her father's laughter rang out from across the room, deep and rich, as if they were gathered in celebration rather than standing on the precipice of disaster.

The servant gave a quick, sympathetic nod, understanding her hesitation. "Your brother, Mademoiselle Elise. He already knows."

She looked back at Henri, who was now watching her with an intensity that mirrored her own, and she knew that whatever illusion of safety they'd clung to was gone. This ball, this night of splendor and tradition, would be their last.

Elise's hand tightened around the fan she held, the ivory edges pressing into her palm. She felt the weight of the servant's warning settle over her, heavy and cold. With a steadying breath, she lifted her gaze toward Henri, who was still watching her with a grim intensity. She wove her way through the crowd, her movements graceful but purposeful, and when she reached him, he offered his arm as if they were simply stepping onto the dance floor.