Chapter 4
The biting night air hit her face like a slap, but she did not stop. She gathered her mud-splattered skirts and sprinted across the damp lawn, her silk slippers squelching and leaving dark, incriminating prints on the pale stone steps of the terrace.
Without glancing back to see if she was pursued, she yanked open the nearest door and slipped into the blinding blaze of candlelight and chatter.
Bodies, heat, perfume, and the shrill hum of conversation closed around her once more.
She stumbled, gasping, her pulse galloping wildly.
Her face burned; her hair had come loose in wild tendrils.
Thank heavens her oversized mask concealed most of her features—though her gown had fared far worse.
Coffee stains mottled the bodice, her hem was soaked through, and her once-delicate slippers looked as though she had trampled through a pigsty. And good heavens—was that blood?
She needed to disappear—quickly.
A cluster of matrons by the drapes spotted her and gasped in horror. Their ostrich feathers trembled like alarmed hens.
‘I—I fell outside,’ Charlotte stammered, attempting a sheepish smile.
They exchanged pitying looks, and one kindly gestured towards the ladies’ retiring room. ‘Go along, my dear. You’ll catch your death.’
She bobbed a quick curtsy. ‘Bless you.’
Keeping close to the wall, Charlotte glided behind the draperies, her breath coming in shallow bursts. If she hugged the alcoves, she might make it to the retiring room unseen.
At last, she reached the door, quietly turned the handle, and stepped inside.
The air was mercifully cooler, the light softer. Only one attendant occupied the chamber, arranging ribbons upon a vanity.
‘I have a dreadful headache and...’ Charlotte murmured, pressing a hand to her temple for effect. ‘I...I fainted while walking outside. Might I rest for a few minutes?’
The maid’s face softened at once. ‘Of course, miss. There are a few rooms open where you may lie down.’
Charlotte followed her through a small archway into a dimly lit antechamber.
Lady Bamber, it seemed, had spared no expense even in this sanctuary.
Silk screens and flowing satin drapes, patterned like leopards and zebras, divided each private chamber.
The flicker of candlelight glinted against gilt mirrors, and the faint scent of lavender hung in the air.
The maid gestured to a low couch behind a zebra-print curtain. ‘Here, miss. I shall fetch you something for your headache. Cook keeps a fine tincture that works wonders for Lady Bamber’s megrims.’
Charlotte mumbled her thanks and collapsed onto the cushioned couch the moment the maid vanished through the servants’ doorway—grateful for the solitude.
Only then did she remember the letter.
Her fist had been clenched so tightly that her palm was damp with sweat. She uncurled her fingers slowly and drew the letter from her bodice. Across its front it was signed simply, Lord W.
On the back, a wax seal stamped with a strange emblem—a vine wound around a rose—gleamed faintly in the candlelight. Her heart quickened. With shaking fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment within.
Blank.
She scowled. ‘What!’
The exclamation escaped louder than intended, echoing off the walls. She flipped the paper over, held it to the light, even rubbed a corner between her fingers as if the words might reveal themselves by force of will. Nothing. Not a single mark except that ominous wax seal and Lord W.
So this was it—a trick? A test? Had that poor boy been lured by promises of initiation into some secret brotherhood, only to be murdered for his trouble? Was this their intent all along?
Even if he had succeeded tonight, would they have killed him anyway?
Had Wolf been brandishing an empty sheet, claiming it held the coveted codes when in truth it was blank—making a mockery of the boy’s naivety?
Dismayed by the depth of their treachery, she berated herself for having risked life and limb for nothing. The silence of the empty room pressed in, and a heaviness settled on her shoulders.
Just how deep did this go?
These men were killers—powerful, organised, ruthless, and untroubled by even the loss of their own. Wolf had spoken openly of arranging Lord Huntley’s supposed accident, had attempted to assassinate Lord Stanley, and now his cousin lay dead upon the stable floor.
And there was another name connected to all of it.
Wilberforce.
This only raised more questions than answers.
The parchment lay limp in her trembling hands—mute and mocking.
A scream shattered the quiet.
Charlotte jumped to her feet, hastily shoving the parchment back into her bodice. Another shriek followed, louder this time, from the direction of the ballroom. Then came the unmistakable swell of panic—voices, running footsteps, gasps.
They’ve found him.
She sank back onto the couch, pressing a hand to her lips.
Moments later, a flurry of women burst into the waiting room—debutantes, matrons, and anxious mamas alike. Charlotte drew the curtain a fraction to observe them.
‘Quick, Leah! The smelling salts!’ cried one portly matron, collapsing dramatically into a chair.
Her companion rummaged in her reticule and produced a vial with all the solemn gravity of a surgeon. ‘Breathe deep, my dear. The poor man was stabbed clean through the heart... Can you believe it?’
A young debutante, cheeks flushed with ghoulish excitement, removed her swan mask and fanned herself furiously. ‘I wonder who killed him?’
Another, wide-eyed and eager, chimed in, ‘They say someone was seen fleeing the stables towards the ballroom.’
The swan gasped. ‘You mean the killer could still be here?’
The matron revived instantly at that. ‘Then we must return at once! Girls, find your fathers and brothers—there is no telling who the murderer might be.’
They swept out in a cloud of perfume and rustling skirts, leaving Charlotte alone again.
She slumped back into the couch, her pulse thudding in her ears. The stable boy had seen her—of course he had. And now everyone would be hunting her.
She looked at herself in the mirror across the room. Mud-streaked, bedraggled, her hem torn, her bodice stained—and blood! Oh heavens. She looked precisely like a murderess.
Charlotte had hoped to present the letter to Lord Stanley—but if she showed him a blank piece of paper, he would laugh her out of the room. There was no proof she had overheard an evil plot to assassinate him. She had no clue who this Wolf was—and he was long gone now.
She had nothing to redeem her earlier behaviour.
Her mind spun. If she left the room in this state, she would be arrested before she reached the front gate.
Think, Charlotte. Think.
She needed to disguise herself completely.
The zebra curtain fluttered gently beside her, and inspiration struck.
When the maid returned through the servants’ quarters, Charlotte rose with feigned composure.
‘Your tincture is most appreciated,’ she said, accepting the small glass.
Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘I have been terribly clumsy, and my gown is in a dreadful state. I cannot appear in public like this. Might there be a spare dress I could borrow?’
The maid frowned, clearly uncertain. ‘I can ask Lady Bamber’s maid, but—’
Charlotte caught her wrist lightly. ‘Wait. I was thinking... perhaps I could make do with this.’ She gestured towards the zebra-dyed satin hanging beside her. ‘With a needle and thread—and a few pins—I might fashion something Grecian, do you think?’
The maid looked uncertain for a moment, then smiled faintly. ‘It could be done, I suppose.’
‘Splendid,’ Charlotte said, forcing a smile. ‘Then let us waste no time.’
Together they worked swiftly. The maid fetched a sewing kit, and Charlotte slipped out of her yellow gown, shivering as the cool air brushed her skin, and wiped the worst of the mud from her slippers.
The maid wrapped the zebra fabric around her and pinned it securely, sewing the edges into something that, from a distance, could almost pass for a fashionable creation.
When they were done, Charlotte examined herself in the mirror. The black gloves and mask she still wore matched perfectly; her dishevelled curls lent the ensemble a kind of wild, exotic elegance.
She stared at her reflection—part Grecian, part escaped lunatic—and almost laughed. If fear had not clenched her throat, she might have.
It would, of course, fall apart if she tried to dance, but if she stood still and moved carefully, she might pass inspection.
‘Please dispose of that gown,’ she said softly. ‘It is ruined.’
The maid nodded, bundling up the incriminating silk and hurrying away.
Charlotte exhaled and straightened her shoulders. ‘Right then,’ she whispered. ‘Time to face the wolves.’
The ballroom was chaos incarnate.
Ladies swooned on chairs while footmen fanned them; others whispered behind trembling fans, delighting in the drama. The air buzzed with fear and morbid curiosity. A few reckless young bucks had even ventured out onto the lawn, craning to glimpse the scene of the crime.
The music had stopped. The dance floor lay empty.
Lord Stanley cut through the crowd like a blade—calm, composed, utterly commanding. Several gentlemen followed him toward the terrace doors to inspect the body.
Lord Bamber, by contrast, looked decidedly less commanding, wringing his hands beside the orchestra dais. ‘Please, everyone, remain calm. I am certain this is a terrible accident!’
‘An accident?’ scoffed a guest. ‘The stable boy said he was stabbed through the heart!’
Lord Bamber opened his mouth, then wisely closed it again.
Lady Bamber stepped in smoothly, her voice carrying above the din. ‘We do not yet know what happened. The stable boy may be mistaken. Lord Stanley has gone to investigate. Until the carriages are released, I must insist everyone remain here.’
‘Well, who gave him the authority?’ A stout man huffed.
Lady Bamber replied nonchalantly, ‘Lord Stanley is the new Chief Magistrate for London—newly appointed. The Bow Street Runners answer to him now. It came about after Sir Nathaniel Conant’s unfortunate death.’
Gradually, the panic subsided to a nervous murmur.
Charlotte hovered at the edge of the crowd, trying to blend in among the wallflowers. From her vantage point, she spotted her mother and sisters near the refreshment table, fanning themselves and gossiping with unholy enthusiasm.
As Charlotte approached cautiously, her mother turned, her gaze sweeping over Charlotte’s makeshift gown. ‘Good heavens. What are you wearing?’
‘I—spilled coffee on my gown,’ Charlotte lied swiftly.
Mrs Walker’s lips thinned. ‘You are the most disobliging, careless child I have ever known. Lord Haverley was eager to dance with you, and you vanished!’
Camelia smirked. ‘Yes, Char. Whatever happened to you?’
Charlotte’s temper flared. ‘I needed to rest. A headache—no thanks to the trick you played on me. Why did you lace my lemonade with strong spirits?’
Both sisters exchanged looks of feigned horror. ‘What nonsense!’ Clara declared, her voice syrupy with innocence. ‘Mama, she accuses us unjustly.’
Mrs Walker clucked her tongue. ‘Charlotte, really. To accuse your sisters after they brought you a drink? You should be ashamed. It was probably overripe.’
Charlotte’s hands balled into fists at her sides. Every nerve screamed to argue, to expose them—but this was neither the time nor the place.
‘Of course, Mama,’ she murmured instead, through gritted teeth.
Satisfied, Mrs Walker turned back to her favourite pastime: speculation. ‘This is precisely why I despise masquerades. Hidden behind masks, anyone could be a murderer. I am sure it was over a gambling debt or a quarrel over a woman.’
Charlotte’s eyes widened. ‘How can you be so sure...?’
Her mother shot her a venomous glare. Charlotte lowered her eyes, resolving to keep her mouth firmly closed.
‘The stable boy claims he saw a woman running from the stables,’ Camelia said brightly. ‘Perhaps a witness to the murder!’
Charlotte gave a silent prayer—thankful she was no longer in the blood-stained gown.
And then she heard the voice that made her skin prickle.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ boomed Lord Stanley, re-entering the room, his tone compelling instant silence, ‘I shall bring in the stable boy to identify the woman he saw fleeing the stables. Ladies, if you please—remove your masks and line up along the wall.’
A ripple of alarm swept through the crowd as the ladies rearranged themselves.
Charlotte fought to keep her expression composed.
He stepped forward, unmasking as he spoke. In the golden light, his features were even more striking—the chiselled jaw, a straight aristocratic nose, and the glint of authority in his icy blue eyes beneath menacing, low brows.
Stunning, Charlotte thought helplessly, and utterly terrifying.
She tried to steady her breathing.
Don’t move. Don’t draw attention.
She bumped into another lady and muttered an apology, earning a forgiving pat on the arm.
When the stable boy was led in, gangly and pale, Charlotte pressed herself flatter against the wall, holding herself in the smallest place she could manage—between a large matron and a pillar.
For one dreadful moment, she was certain Lord Stanley’s gaze found her—a flicker of recognition, a spark of memory—and then it was gone.
The boy’s eyes roved the line of women, lingering on those in yellow or cream. Charlotte held her breath so long she saw stars. All he had to do was look down at her slippers and she would be found out.
At last, he shook his head. ‘I am not sure, sir. It was dark.’
Relief hit her, turning her knees into water. She clung to the pillar for support.
Lady Bamber began ushering guests towards the foyer, but Lord Stanley raised a gloved hand. ‘Just a moment, Lady Bamber. I shall need a list of all guests and servants in attendance tonight. I will be conducting interviews,’ he said, his voice cutting through the hush like steel.
Lady Bamber blanched. ‘You cannot mean to start right now, my lord. It is very late.’
‘A list will suffice for now.’ Then, raising his voice, he addressed the rest. ‘I shall interview everyone, so no one is to leave London until I say so.’
A murmur of discontent rippled through the hall.
Ignoring this, he addressed the guests once more, his voice echoing through the ballroom. ‘Earlier this evening, a young lady in a yellow gown tripped and fell on top of me in the card room. I would like her to come forward. I wish to speak with her.’
The ballroom fell deathly silent.
Charlotte’s stomach dropped straight to her wet slippers
.