Chapter 3
Charlotte was reeling, her thoughts knotted and muddled; she did not know what to do next. As she walked along the passage leading back to the ballroom, bodies closed in around her.
Aside from the humiliation in the card room, she could not shake the awful sensation of being watched. She glanced repeatedly over her shoulder, convinced someone was following her. But aside from a few debutantes spilling out after her—keen to spread the newly minted gossip—there was no one there.
As she neared the ballroom, she felt free from any immediate physical harm—for now—but she could not escape the scandal. She caught a few snickers as she passed a group of women near the corridor.
And to top it all off, she could still feel the press of his hands at her waist, the heat of his body as he caught her—the mortifying memory replaying every time she blinked. His words, harsh and clipped, struck harder than the sting of spilt coffee.
A fortune hunter, indeed! She snorted.
After all the effort she had taken to trip so convincingly, what had he said to her? That if it were a genuine fall, then he was the Prince Regent. Another most inelegant snort escaped her.
What could have possessed him to think she—or any other woman—would endure his royal haughtiness for more than a minute? Even if he possessed such hauntingly good looks.
If only he knew the truth: that she had no talent for seduction, no cunning schemes, only a cursed ability to stumble headlong into disaster.
And yet, somewhere between fury and shame, a spark of indignation flared.
She would not spend the rest of the evening cowering in the shadows. Not when she had been right.
She berated herself for her outburst, but that impossible man had said such dreadful things—assuming she was a scheming harpy, a common flirt. She could scarcely bear it. Her cheeks burned with the echo of his words. He might be a lord, but he had the manners of a boot boy.
Awful man.
Charlotte almost regretted saving his life... almost. Still, she admitted, however grudgingly, as undeserving and ungrateful as he was, no one deserved to be murdered.
Her instinct was to turn back and make Lord Stanley listen to reason, but she doubted he would grant her a private audience under any circumstances. No, he would merely assume she was attempting to “ensnare” him once more.
It was only a matter of time before the humiliation in the card room leaked to the rest of the party. She could already feel the ripple of whispers fluttering through the air. Ladies were darting furtive glances and muttering behind their fans.
‘I heard she fell on him—actually fell,’ a red-haired debutante giggled.
‘Desperate times,’ another tittered.
‘If she wished to be in his arms, there are simpler ways,’ someone said, and the laughter that followed was sharp enough to draw blood.
Charlotte placed her gloved hand over the coffee stains on her bodice, forcing herself to smile as though she had not heard. If the ton fed on scandal, she had just become their evening’s feast.
‘She tried to snare the Ice Baron, who does she think she is?’ one of them said quite loudly. ‘It seems they let anyone attend masked balls nowadays.’ Laughter erupted again.
So, he had a reputation. Of course he did. Cold, handsome, insufferable. Charlotte felt like a goose among swans, and no matter how she held her head high, her eyes burned with unshed tears. Luckily, no one had yet uncovered her identity—but she was skating on thin ice.
She tried to disappear into a particularly crowded area of the ballroom, but her sobs were rising uncontrollably. Her throat tightened, her chest heaved. Blinded by tears, she pushed through a set of double doors and out onto the terrace, seeking a few moments to collect herself.
The air outside was cool and sharp, easing the worst of her swelling emotion. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory surfaced—the stables.
The older man had said he would be waiting in the stables.
No one had believed her when she claimed someone was trying to murder Lord Stanley.
Well, she would get proof. And she would throw it in the Ice Baron’s perfectly chiselled face.
At the very least, she would try to uncover the identity of the ‘Wolf’—the true architect behind tonight’s assassination.
Then she hesitated.
Should she involve herself further? The haughty lord certainly did not want her help nor credit her warning.
Would it not be wiser to return to her mother, endure her sisters’ scorn, and pretend none of this had ever occurred?
She considered it—she truly did—but her conscience refused to comply, for she knew, however accidentally, that she had stumbled upon something far greater than herself.
If she had heard correctly, this shadowed group was responsible for the abductions of innocent girls. And in her heart, she knew she would not be able to forgive herself if she turned away now.
Her father had always said courage was not the absence of fear, but the defiance of it. Well, her knees were certainly trembling, but her heart refused to retreat.
The Stag might be a misguided youth, but Wolf was a different creature altogether. She recalled his last words: If you fail or are caught, you will be silenced forever.
Had she inadvertently stopped one murder only to be responsible for another? Was Stag in danger now—because of her?
Charlotte’s eyes widened at the direction of her thoughts.
She needed to get to the stables—at once.
After all, what fool would openly follow men she suspected of murder?
The sheer audacity of it seemed almost its own protection.
The Wolf would never expect anyone stupid enough to try.
And that, Charlotte realised, gave her the advantage.
Whether it was her convoluted logic—or fear and humiliation finally driving her to recklessness—Charlotte slipped after them into the night without hesitation.
She forced herself to descend the stone stairs once more and followed the outer wall of the mansion.
The shadows thickened as she moved farther from the well-lit terraces.
For one absurd moment, she imagined what her friends would say if they could see her now—skulking across Lord Bamber’s perfectly manicured lawn in the dark.
Grace would insist she turn back immediately, whilst Anne would likely commit the entire affair to paper for a future novel.
Behind her, the music dwindled into a ghostly echo, and the laughter of the ballroom dissolved into silence.
The grass soaked through her silk slippers with a miserable squelch, and the hem of her gown grew heavy and sodden.
Her mother would be apoplectic at the state of them.
But her gown was already stained with coffee—there would be no escaping a tongue-lashing now.
She followed the sounds of horses and the smell of manure and oiled leather, which eventually led her to a large outbuilding—the stables.
Several drivers had congregated near a building at the far end of the row, their voices drifting faintly through the night.
Lantern light flickered through the slats of the stable doors, glowing gold against the black.
She paused just short of one of the side doors, her pulse hammering.
What am I doing?
The enormity of her plan crashed over her all at once. What had seemed daring moments ago now felt utterly foolhardy. The Stag had seen her interfere; if he had warned the older Wolf, she could be in danger too.
A twig snapped behind her.
Charlotte spun—nothing. She strained her eyes, searching the shadows between the hedges and trees, but it was far too dark.
Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs. ‘Who’s there?’ she whispered, ridiculously, as though any lurking assassin would courteously answer.
Too frightened to remain in the dark, she forged on. Whether squirrel or stalker, she could not turn back now. At least the stables had a few lanterns—so if she were murdered tonight, she preferred to at least see her killer, she thought, macabrely.
She pushed against the stable door, and it opened a crack. She slipped to one side, peering in, listening. Hoofbeats. Neighing. The rustle of hay. No voices.
She crept into the nearest stall. Its sole occupant, a dapple-grey horse, snorted and stamped, its flank brushing the stall wall; he eyed Charlotte wearily.
She tried to steady her trembling hands by gripping the edge of the wooden beam as she extended her other hand towards his forelock.
After a moment’s assessment, he pressed his forehead onto her palm, and some of her nerves settled.
If anyone entered now, she would be trapped—a foolish move on her part.
‘At least you have this dapple-grey to mount if things turn awry,’ she muttered soundlessly to herself.
The smell of horse and hay tickled her nose. She sneezed—then slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with terror.
The sound echoed faintly off the wooden walls. She froze, pressing her back against the stall, every muscle taut. The horses shifted restlessly, their soft snorts loud as thunder to her ears.
Then she heard them—voices she could never forget, coming from the far end of the stable.
‘Foolish boy. You could not even complete such a simple task,’ said the Wolf, his voice so devoid of feeling it sent a chill down Charlotte’s spine.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Stag, pleading. ‘A girl in a yellow dress fell on top of him out of nowhere. There was nothing I could do. She must have seen me tip the poison into his coffee—she must have—’
Wolf gave a humourless laugh. ‘So you were seen poisoning his drink.’
‘I—I don’t know if she saw anything... it could have been a coincidence. She might have tripped—’ he stammered, trying to retract his earlier words.
‘Enough.’ The Wolf’s tone sharpened. ‘Where is the vial? Give it to me.’
‘Here.’ Stag’s voice faltered, like a schoolboy awaiting punishment.
Then Wolf’s voice flattened until it seemed stripped of all humanity.
‘Do you know,’ he said, almost conversationally, ‘there were three Grand Fellows at last year’s house party. They observed you and were... impressed.’
Stag’s breath caught. ‘Three? Among the guests? Who were they?’
‘I told them you were not ready,’ Wolf drawled. ‘And tonight, you have proved me right.’
‘No—wait—please—I can mend it. Tell them—I can do it. Give me another chance. Please... Wolf—’
He was cut off by a sound that did not sound human—a low, raw groan.
Perplexed by it, Charlotte crouched and peered beneath the stall wall.
At the sight that met her, she gasped and stumbled back, nearly upsetting a bucket. The horses stamped and snorted, mercifully masking the sound. She clapped a hand over her mouth, willing herself to silence.
At the far end of the stable lay the poor Stag, slumped against the wall with a knife protruding from his chest. His mask had fallen away, revealing a face barely out of the schoolroom—pale, bloodless, and stunned.
It had happened so quickly, there was little she could have done to prevent it.
His eyes—wide, desperate—locked onto hers.
‘Such a shame,’ Wolf continued, almost idly. ‘You had so much potential. The Grand Fellows had marked you to lead operations at Alderley. Now we must begin the recruitment process anew.’
His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he had not just murdered his “friend.”
At that moment, voices rose from outside—loud, laughing and jeering, likely grooms making their rounds and checking the horses.
Alerted to their presence, the Wolf hissed a curse and strode swiftly out the other side of the building, leading a silver-coated horse by the reins.
His shadow stretched long and monstrous across the lantern light before disappearing into the night.
Charlotte sagged with relief—for all of two seconds. Then she got up and slowly approached the young man who lay dying.
His breaths were gurgling and shallow. Blood spread steadily through his waistcoat from the knife buried in his chest, darkening the straw beneath him.
Charlotte hesitated, frozen between horror and pity. Then, with trembling steps, she crossed the stable and knelt beside him. His hand twitched weakly, reaching towards her, and she took it instinctively.
‘Cousin... I am... sorr—ry,’ he rasped, blood flecking his lips.
Charlotte did not correct him. ‘Who stabbed you? Give me a name,’ she whispered urgently.
He struggled for breath, his eyes glassy with pain. ‘Tell... tell him...’
‘Tell me who stabbed you?’ she pressed, leaning closer.
He gurgled, a wet, terrible sound. With his remaining strength, he pressed a crumpled letter into her hand. ‘Odd Fellows... codes...’
The words barely left his mouth. She recognised it instantly as the same parchment she had seen earlier that evening—the one Wolf had brandished in the garden. He must have snatched it from Wolf’s coat before he realised.
Then his hand fell limp.
His eyes stared blankly.
Charlotte took a sharp intake of breath.
He was dead.
The silence that followed felt deafening.
Charlotte stared at the lifeless boy—for he was little more than that—and the enormity of it crashed over her. ‘Dear Lord,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘What have I walked into?’
She looked at his face once more—a foolish, reckless boy drawn into a world far darker than he understood.
She reached out and gently closed his eyes. ‘May God forgive you,’ she whispered.
The straw beneath him was damp with blood, already cooling. She staggered back and turned away, bracing herself against the stable wall. The wood was rough beneath her palm.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured again, though she was not sure to whom—to herself, or to the boy she had just condemned by saving another. Guilt tightened in her throat. Had she caused this?
She may not have discovered the identity of the Wolf, but she had the code—the proof that the Odd Fellows were behind this.
Whoever this Wolf was, and whatever secrets that parchment held, she would uncover them.
Perhaps now the Ice Baron would believe her.
She needed to speak to him and warn him. His life was still in danger.
Outside, a horse whinnied sharply, followed by the sound of boots crunching on gravel. Someone was coming back.
She stuffed the parchment into her bodice and wiped her trembling hands on her skirts, unintentionally smearing blood across them.
‘Who goes there!’ a stable boy shouted from the front entrance.
Charlotte had only seconds. If she were found here with a dead man, the news would spread through the ball like wildfire, and she would be branded a murderer before she could offer any explanation. Panic seized her like a vice.
She fled.
Her silk slippers were silent on the hay-strewn ground as she bolted from the stall and darted out through the side door she had entered moments before.