The Spinster’s Retreat (The Odd Spinster #2)

Chapter 1

Of all the nights for Charlotte to end up disgracefully, unintentionally foxed, it had to be at the grandest masked ball to mark the end of the Season. Naturally.

Her black-and-buttercup striped gown, cinched with a high-waisted sash, and her silk gloves had been specially dyed for the animal-themed affair.

Sheer wings, fastened rather optimistically between her shoulders, completed the effect.

She had chosen her favourite creature—the bee—without realising the colours clashed most unflatteringly with her complexion.

Fashion, after all, had never been her strong suit.

It was the worst possible moment to be in her cups, and yet there she was, twirling through Lord Bamber’s glittering ballroom like a disoriented bumblebee.

Blast her sisters for lacing her lemonade with spirits.

She had noticed an odd aftertaste but, not wishing to appear ungracious, assumed the lemons were simply overripe and drank the whole glass out of politeness.

Only later, as a peculiar fuzz settled behind her eyes and her limbs grew light, did suspicion bloom.

And when she caught her sisters sniggering behind their feathered fans, the truth became painfully clear.

Now—much too late—she regretted both her creative enthusiasm for the garishly bright gown, which turned her stomach in the most unladylike fashion, and her na?veté in trusting her sisters with her lemonade.

They had done it deliberately, hoping she would humiliate herself before the entire ton. Of course they had. She could practically feel their smug smiles boring into her from across the floor.

Even the smallest amount of spirits sent her swiftly into catastrophe, which was why she took such care to avoid it altogether—and why they took such obvious pleasure in the possibility of her failure now.

They had never quite forgiven her for Papa’s favour.

Whilst her sisters concerned themselves with ribbons, dancing masters, and admiring glances, Charlotte had been the child trailing after her father with a book beneath one arm and mud on her boots, eager to hear his stories and accompany him on long rides.

As girls, they had formed their own neat little alliance, and Charlotte had always remained awkwardly outside it.

As they grew older, their methods only improved: whispers, snubs, carefully engineered embarrassments delivered with smiling precision.

And Mama? Mama saw nothing. Or worse, chose not to.

Charlotte had endured their games for years. But this—this was a new depth of mischief, even for them. To sabotage her at the most prestigious ball of the Season. Thank heavens it was masked.

May their porcelain skin turn coarse, she thought uncharitably.

When she encountered them again this evening, they would receive the full force of her tongue—just as soon as the tingling numbness in her lips and mouth subsided enough to form coherent words.

It always started this way: tingling, then warmth—and now... spinning. She teetered on her silk pumps. Was the room tilting, or was it her? She truly could not tell.

Her elderly partner spun her across the chequered marble floor, chandeliers blurring into streaks of firelight above. The violins swelled and warped in her ears, while perfume and candle wax overwhelmed her senses.

The world lurched—and her awareness snapped painfully back to the gentleman standing far too close. The smell of stale drink and sweat hit her at once, and she fought valiantly to keep her supper where it belonged. A hiccup escaped. Then another.

Oh dear.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a third, but a strangled squeal burst forth instead. Heads turned. She had to get out. The heat, the stink, the noise—she simply could not bear it.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked, smiling as he revealed several missing teeth.

She had not the faintest idea who he was.

And yet she was suddenly possessed by the absurd urge to stroke his sheep-wool head covering.

Charlotte clenched her free hand to prevent herself from doing so and tried to say nothing—but failed. Alcohol always made her entirely too truthful. ‘Your body odour is making me feel nauseous, sir.’

Oh no. I actually said it. Out loud.

Horrified, and maddeningly on the verge of laughter, she stumbled back.

The gentleman’s eyes widened behind the woolly mask; he dropped her hand at once.

Charlotte turned and fled before she could do further damage—though not before his damning cry rang out across the floor:

‘What a rude girl!’

She all but sprinted past several ladies tittering behind their fans.

If they recognise me, my reputation is ruined, panic blooming in her chest.

At four-and-twenty, still unmarried, she was already a walking disappointment to her mother.

If I am found in this state, there will be no forgiveness and... no mercy.

She scanned the room for an exit. A terrace door beckoned.

With a desperate twist of the handle, Charlotte slipped into the cool night—blessed darkness swallowing her whole

Moonlight bathed the garden in silver, and a few lanterns cast their glow along the stone path as she descended the wide staircase.

She veered off course, stumbling through a line of hedges—thankfully lit by a few more strategically placed lanterns—and found a bench tucked within a secluded alcove.

Two large potted ferns flanked either side.

She seized a pot and dragged it across the opening. It scraped against the stone with a grating protest. Muscles straining, she inched it into place, then doubled back for the second, hauling it after the first until the narrow gap was mostly blocked. The effort left her breathless.

At last, she collapsed onto the bench and fanned her face, hidden from view. She forced the sickly bile down with a few determined gulps. Gradually, the spinning eased, and the nausea subsided.

As her head cleared and her eyes adjusted to the dimness, the alcove slowly took shape around her.

Perhaps it was best to remain here for now.

If she waited until after the end of the ball and slipped into the family carriage, she might yet escape the evening’s disaster undetected.

From her vantage point, she saw a young couple step from the terrace doors and follow the well-lit path—no doubt to steal a few unchaperoned moments.

But as she contemplated her next move, a chill crept in.

The hard wooden bench grew steadily more unforgiving.

She rubbed her arms, shivering as gooseflesh prickled her skin.

The ladies’ retiring room suddenly seemed appealing—if she hugged the walls, perhaps she could reach it unnoticed.

Or better yet, she could slip into the family carriage, with its plush cushions and blankets, and wait there until the guests began to leave.

Another icy breeze rattled through the hedges, and the carriage seemed by far the wisest choice.

Just as she shifted to rise, leaves nearby rustled, and two male voices approached.

They stood a few yards away and glanced about in her direction, but the ferns were doing their job admirably; the gentlemen did not see her.

She hesitated. She considered making her presence known, but instinct—that strange, undeniable whisper—bade her remain hidden.

Charlotte shrank back against the bench, scarcely daring to breathe.

If she were discovered alone and unchaperoned with men... Scandal would be the least of her troubles. Her mother would skin her alive.

‘I say, old chap, that Arabian is a beauty. Where did you acquire such a prime article?’ the younger voice asked.

Charlotte let out a silent sigh. They seemed intent on discussing horses and smoking cheroots. She need not fear them; if she sat perfectly still and let them have their conversation, they would pass on unaware of her presence.

She turned her head to see whence they had come and discerned the dark silhouette of several outbuildings.

The stables, then—very likely where the family carriage was kept.

Perhaps she might even catch a glimpse of the Arabian hot-blood.

Horses were her second-favourite creatures; she could not help the small tug of curiosity.

‘She was gifted to me today,’ the older man replied, voice clipped. ‘By my odd friends.’

Charlotte quirked a brow—an unusual way to describe friends.

The young man nodded, as though there was nothing strange in the phrase. ‘Her coat practically glows silvery in the moonlight. What did you do to earn such a gift?’ he smirked.

The older man scoffed. ‘Let’s just say... they owe me for services rendered.’ He took a long pinch of snuff from a silver box; Charlotte caught the glint of an engraved rose on the inner lid as it caught the light, dazzling her.

Intrigued, she leaned in. Arabian horses were rare. Either his friends were extravagantly wealthy, or the ‘services rendered’ were very important indeed.

The younger man laughed. ‘Spill it. What did you do? Snatch another girl for them?’

Charlotte blinked.

Surely not. I must be hearing things.

But his next words made the blood in her veins run cold.

The older man chuckled darkly. ‘I killed for them.’

She stifled an involuntary gasp by clasping her hands over her mouth. The gentlemen, in unison, turned their heads in her direction. A feeling of utter dread coursed through her, and she shrank further into the hard, wooden bench, not daring to move—nor breathe.

After what seemed a lifetime, though in truth only seconds, they dismissed whatever had alerted them as likely a woodland squirrel and resumed their conversation.

The younger man let out a low whistle. ‘You don’t mean Lord Huntley?’ he said, as though he had solved an equation.

‘The very one,’ the older man replied.

Charlotte remembered reading of Lord Huntley’s death in a carriage accident—or so the Gazette had claimed.

Good heavens. He’s confessing to murder.