Chapter 2
Charlotte chose to follow the Stag into the card room.
There was nothing for it—she simply could not allow a man to be murdered right under her nose.
Not if she had anything to say about it.
Her earlier fear of being labeled as the “rude girl” had all but evaporated.
She no longer cared what the tabbies said.
A man’s life was at stake. Perspective had a way of clearing up fears.
She prised herself off the bench and discovered her legs had gone quite numb.
Wonderful. The saviour of the evening, and she could barely walk.
After punching some feeling back into them, she slowly crept from her hiding spot and glanced about, in case anyone was lurking nearby.
Thankfully, apart from the muffled giggling of a couple returning from their clandestine stroll, the garden was deserted.
She exhaled. ‘Right then, Charlotte,’ she muttered. ‘Prevent a murder. Do not hiccup. And, for heaven’s sake, do not let Mama find out. Oh—and do try not to get yourself caught by these nefarious people. The Odd Fellows, after all, could be anyone.’
A most ambitious undertaking, she reflected, as she ascended the stairs and opened the terrace door. One she had no notion how to fulfil, but whether it was the lingering effects of the spirits or the indignation stirred by the injustice about to be committed, she felt a flicker of boldness.
A flood of light, music, and heat hit her like a wall. She searched the ballroom for the Stag, but could not spot him. She would have to make her way to the card room and see if she could catch him there.
Charlotte wove through the crowd, keeping close to the walls. No one seemed to notice her, which she supposed was fortunate, and she shook her head in bemusement. Just earlier this evening she had been worried she might make the scandal sheets for misspeaking to a lord.
Normally, women were not permitted in the card room, but given the masked nature of the evening, the rules were somewhat more relaxed.
As she slipped into the masculine space, the smell of cigars prickled her nose, and the swirls of smoke hanging in the air lent the room a surreal, dreamlike quality.
If Mama could see me now, she thought wryly, she would faint into the nearest potted palm and never recover.
A few bold women had already entered, and some were even participating in the games, laughing rather too loudly at poor jokes. Most, however, were content to observe and flirt with whichever gentleman looked most promising.
Charlotte trailed in and joined a cluster of ladies cheering on a lively poker game.
The room was warmer than the ballroom—uncomfortably so—and soon beads of perspiration gathered at her temple.
She searched frantically for the young man, but many wore similar masks.
Each time she thought she found him, she realised it was not so.
She worried her lip as a feeling of impending doom settled in the pit of her stomach.
What if I’m already too late?
Just as the dreadful thought formed, she spotted him. Or rather, his ugly stag veneer.
He entered the room and brushed past her shoulder. Her heart leapt to her throat. ‘There you are, you villainous venison,’ she murmured.
He made his way to the far side of the room and sat at a round table with five other players. He seemed to know them all despite their masks, laughing and jesting like old friends.
Charlotte, aghast, could hardly believe his ease. How could he be so cheerful when he was about to commit murder? The monster!
She moved closer, perching on a chair beside two women observing their game, which was about to begin. Charlotte, of course, had no plan. She was improvising, trusting instinct—and a small dose of lunacy—to guide her.
At close quarters, even through the haze of smoke and his mask, she could now see his nervousness: the darting glances and his restless leg beneath the table.
Not quite the hardened villain after all. She softened a fraction. Perhaps he would not go through with it.
A footman moved among the gentlemen with a tray of drinks and coffee, followed by another offering the ladies cordial. Charlotte copied the women and accepted a glass, though her hand trembled so violently she nearly sloshed it down her bodice. She set it down immediately.
She had no idea who Lord Stanley was, but she guessed he must be one of the two gentlemen seated beside the Stag.
One was portly, bald, and gruff, wearing a pig mask that did nothing to flatter him.
The other was broad-shouldered and muscular, with a full head of dark, curly hair.
He wore a sleek black panther mask. It obscured little: a cleft chin, a firm mouth, and the sort of jaw that could have been sculpted for the express purpose of annoying women.
Charlotte, naturally, hoped the victim would be the pig. The panther looked far too dangerous for her interventions. The pig seemed safer, easier to manage.
‘What took you so long, my boy?’ the Pig said affably, clapping the Stag’s back. ‘We have been waiting this half hour!’
‘Oh, I bumped into an old flame...’ the Stag replied with a grin.
The men laughed. Charlotte rolled her eyes.
Old flame, indeed. More like eternal damnation, if he is not careful.
‘Come now, surely you are not getting into trouble again. We all remember last time,’ said the Panther in a deep, firm tone that brooked no nonsense.
Charlotte winced a little. She would not wish to be on his wrong side.
The Stag shrank slightly. ‘No, no... nothing like that. Just a bit of light-hearted fun.’
Charlotte could not help it; the words burst in her head like fireworks. Light-hearted? she thought savagely. If that is your idea of fun, I dread to think what you consider serious recreation.
Unfortunately, her exasperated snort escaped before she could swallow it.
A sharp pair of icy blue eyes—startling even behind the mask—flicked towards her. The Panther held her gaze for what felt like a lifetime before returning to his game.
Charlotte released a quiet breath; she felt her cheeks turn pink. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, shivering. ‘I should start carrying smelling salts.’
The game began—cards whispering against felt, coins clinking, men murmuring. Charlotte watched silently, her eyes fixed on the Stag’s hands. He laughed and chatted, but his Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.
Perhaps he will lose his nerve, she prayed. Perhaps his conscience will intervene.
Her hopes were dashed when the glint of glass caught her eye.
The Stag discreetly tipped the contents of a small vial into a cup of coffee—the cup meant for the Panther.
So that must be Lord Stanley. Charlotte could scarcely believe what she had seen. He had done it—truly done it. A wave of disappointment washed over her. He had seemed so young, so redeemable... and then she remembered: he was already a criminal. This was merely a promotion.
What should she do? Seek a private word with Lord Stanley? Slip him a clandestine note—
She shook her head at once. No, that would be most improper.
And if other members of this nefarious society were in the card room, watching the Stag to ensure he completed the task, they might suspect she knew something—and she might not live to regret it.
She wanted to warn him, but would not risk exposing herself to the Odd Fellows.
Her mind raced. Then—inspiration struck.
She would trip. Dramatically. Into the table. The drink would spill, the attempt ruined. It would, unfortunately, also make her look quite unhinged. But better unhinged than dead.
Lord Stanley lifted the cup towards his lips. It was now or never.
Charlotte whispered a brief prayer, and without a second thought, she launched herself forward.
She executed the most extravagant stumble of her life, emitting a perfectly dreadful squeal as she went down. The table shuddered. Cards flew. Coins rolled. And the coffee, poison and all, splashed across the green cloth instead of down the nobleman’s throat.
The entire room fell into silence, save for the occasional clink of coins. The footmen froze mid-serving.
Charlotte’s balance, alas, did not. She pitched forward. Lord Stanley moved swiftly; strong hands caught her by the waist, pulling her clear of the table’s edge, and she collided directly into his lap.
‘Good heavens,’ she muttered, just as a wave of citrus and spice—his cologne, distinctly expensive—overwhelmed her senses.
Her arms tangled around his neck, her bosom pressed against his chest, and for one utterly mortifying second, she became acutely aware of the solid warmth of him, the strength beneath his coat, the steady rise of his breath.
.. before her brain promptly abandoned ship.
‘Oh—oh, sir, I—I am so sorry,’ she babbled, attempting to scramble upright like an overturned beetle, but succeeding only in entangling herself further. ‘I tripped, you see, and my foot—oh dear—please do not move, I shall—oh heavens, is that your knee?’
‘Wait, madam,’ he said, his deep and dangerously calm voice reverberating through her.
He grasped her waist and lifted her as though she weighed no more than the coffee cup. Charlotte gasped, her hands instinctively tightening at his shoulders as she was steadied. The nearness of him was disconcerting, and every nerve sang where his hands had been.
Now upright, she saw him properly: tall, broad, and powerfully built, with the kind of presence that made the air shift around him. His beauty was the unkind sort—striking, severe, and utterly aware of it. And those eyes—piercing blue flecked with gold—were, at present, thoroughly unimpressed.
Charlotte opened her mouth but found no words. Magnificent, she thought helplessly. Pity he is about to roast me alive.
‘Young ladies such as you ought to be ashamed of such displays of wanton abandon,’ he said, his voice cutting through the silence. ‘Or did your mother put you up to this? Another unscrupulous ploy to entrap a lord?’
‘What? No—I tripped,’ she protested weakly.
He gave a weary sigh and tutted. ‘If that was a genuine “trip”, then I am the Prince Regent himself.’ He rolled his gaze down her body, making her squirm. ‘This would not be the first time a debutante has tripped and fallen onto me, miss. On purpose.’
Charlotte stepped back instinctively. ‘I did not!’ she cried—though, technically, she had. Just... not for that reason.
A few nervous giggles rippled from nearby ladies.
Even a bucket of ice water could not have chilled her more quickly. The flutter of attraction she had felt died instantly, replaced by righteous fury.
How dare he? And after I just saved his life! Heavens, what an odious man. Perhaps the poisoner was not a villain after all, merely performing a public service.
‘You chose incorrectly,’ he went on coldly.
‘You should have done your research, miss. You will have no luck with me. I am impervious to female charm and fortune hunters.’ His insolent gaze travelled down her coffee-stained, now crumpled, and thoroughly unflattering gown, lingering upon its garish colouring.
‘Not that you possess any charms to recommend you.’
That was the final straw.
‘I will have you know that coffee was poisoned!’ she snapped. ‘I just saved your life, my lord! That man—’ she jabbed a finger towards the Stag’s chair, ‘was the culprit!’
The chair was empty.
Charlotte froze.
Her stomach dropped as she whipped her head around, scanning the room frantically. The Stag was gone.
Oh no.
She had done it again—blurted out the truth when she really ought not to have. The lingering effects of the spirits had clearly not worn off.
Yet, who would believe her? Even to her own ears, the whole thing sounded ridiculous.
A few gentlemen chuckled; one woman gasped behind her fan; a footman stifled a laugh. The air quivered with ridicule.
Then the room erupted into laughter—loud, raucous, merciless.
Lord Stanley gave her a long, cool look. ‘I must give you marks for novelty, miss. I have not heard that one before. Now run along and find your mother. Tell her you fell wide of the mark this time.’
‘You arrogant brute,’ she muttered under her breath.
His eyes flickered, momentarily surprised, before turning to ice once more.
Charlotte could bear no more.
She turned and fled, cheeks aflame, wishing the floor would open and swallow her whole. Laughter chased her through the doorway. She did not stop until she reached the corridor, where she pressed a trembling hand to her chest and tried to remember how breathing worked.
Aside from becoming the night’s laughingstock—and likely tomorrow’s gossip column headline—she had a far graver problem.
She had very possibly exposed herself to the Odd Fellows.
And heaven help her if they had eyes in that room, because she had just painted a target squarely on her back.