Chapter 14
Charlotte knew the list existed and knew where it was—the study.
The only problem was how she might gain access to it.
She toyed with the idea of asking Tom for another tour and risking him locking her in the cellar—or somewhere worse.
She dismissed it at once. Perhaps she might offer to assist with writing the invitations.
Thus embroiled in her contemplation, she walked into the schoolroom to hear Tom complain.
‘I’m dreadfully bored,’ he whined, slumping over the table.
‘Perhaps we can come up with some games,’ Charlotte suggested. ‘Tag, badminton, blind man’s bluff...’
Tom screwed up his face. ‘What’s blind man’s bluff?’
‘I’ll show you,’ Charlotte promised. ‘But only if you do one lesson with me first.’
Tom hesitated—then reluctantly agreed. Who knew bribery would work?
Charlotte produced a children’s book, but the boy’s face fell at once.
When she asked him to read aloud, he shoved the book off the table.
Realisation struck her; he appeared almost afraid of it.
‘Do you know your letters, Tom?’ she asked gently.
He did not respond. Instead, he turned away.
A pang of sadness pierced her. He was clever—only neglected. People were so distracted by his challenging behaviour that they paid no proper attention to his education.
Determined, Charlotte fetched crayons and transformed the alphabet into winding maze-like patterns, hoping to entice Tom’s interest.
‘I know that you enjoy it when I read stories to you. Would you not like to learn how to read them yourself? Then you may enjoy them whenever you wish.’
Tom nodded. ‘What if I can’t learn?’
‘Well, that is why I am here. I shall teach you. Can you copy these for me, like one of your drawings?’
‘I’ll try.’ He took the crayons, concentrated hard, and began to draw.
An hour later, fidgety but not angry, he earned his reward.
First, she blindfolded him and hid behind the curtains, but Tom quickly found her. Then Charlotte blindfolded herself, slipping the key from the door in case he attempted to lock it again.
‘Now, remember the rules, Master Tom.’
She stumbled about for half an hour, but it seemed Tom was an excellent hider. Charlotte refused to give in, laughing as she lunged at every creak and whisper.
‘Caught you!’ she cried, grabbing a hand.
A strong, muscled arm. A broad chest. A stubbled face.
Charlotte yanked off the blindfold—
—and found herself staring straight into the bemused eyes of Lord Stanley. His brows rose in evident surprise. She released his arm as though it were hot coal and abruptly stepped back.
‘What,’ he asked with mild confusion, ‘are you doing?’
Charlotte flushed crimson. Trying to think of an answer without appearing utterly incompetent, she floundered.
‘Teaching Master Tom... er... spatial awareness.’
Lord Stanley glanced towards the door.
‘Tom, I regret to inform you, has been taking luncheon with his mother for the last quarter of an hour.’
Charlotte wilted.
He arched an aristocratic brow and, inclining his head slightly, observed, ‘You are very odd, Miss Lucas,’ his voice a warm rumble.
He moved past her, placing a small box of crayons on the nursery table.
‘Tom asked me to get him more. Please see that he receives them.’
And then, with a ghost of a smile that might have been a smirk, he left her standing there—mortified.
Charlotte remained in the schoolroom, vexed, pressing a hand to her burning face as though she might will her dignity back into existence.
Of all the rooms in all the houses in England, he invariably appeared in whichever one she occupied whilst tripping, shouting, falling, or behaving like a complete lunatic. Truly, it was becoming a curse.
She half imagined him lurking behind doorways like some aristocratic spectre whose sole purpose was to materialise whenever she made a fool of herself. If he ever witnessed her in a state of composure or competence, he would probably drop dead of shock.
A few minutes later, once she had recovered from her embarrassment, Charlotte set off in search of Tom and, sure enough, found him sitting obediently beside his mother. He gave her a smile as though butter would not melt in his mouth.
‘Ah, Miss Lucas, come and join us,’ said Mrs Wilberforce cheerfully, pouring her a cup of tea.
‘Thank you,’ Charlotte replied, accepting it. ‘Master Tom has made some progress in his writing skills, have you not?’ She narrowed her eyes at the boy. ‘Though he still has much to learn about following certain rules.’
The boy looked momentarily afraid, so Charlotte relented.
‘I am sure we will get there.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ returned Mrs Wilberforce distractedly, reading from a parchment and missing the silent exchange between Charlotte and Tom.
Tom blew out a breath of relief and had the grace to look a little sheepish for the first time after pulling one of his pranks.
‘I do not know how I am going to write out all these invitations; it will take all day,’ Mrs Wilberforce bemoaned.
Charlotte jumped at her chance.
‘I can help you, Mrs Wilberforce.’ She tempered her tone to avoid sounding too eager.
‘Would you?’ she replied. ‘That will be most helpful, Miss Lucas.’
Who would have thought the list would fall so readily into her hands? Charlotte could scarcely believe her luck.
She took the list and scanned the names.
She recognised Sir Oswald at once—the architect who had arranged work on the mansion—as well as Mr Fraser, whom she had already met.
Another name—Lord Bainbridge—she recalled on behalf of her friend the previous year.
Otherwise, there were none who knew her from her former life.
Then, as her gaze travelled lower, her breath caught.
It had to be him—the killer.
There were no other lords’ names beginning with ‘W’ save one:
Lord Wolverton.
At last she had found her quarry. She was certain that, when he arrived, she would recognise him; his build and the silhouetted profile of his face were etched in her memory like writing upon stone.
The voice that haunted her dreams—the voice from the hedge, the shadowed figure who had ordered a murder—would soon be within arm’s reach.
Another memory surfaced from that dreadful night in the stable. Matthew Stanley had not been calling him “Wolf”—he had been about to say “Wolverton.” She was certain of it. He had scarcely begun the word before he was struck down.
She pressed her palm discreetly against the invitation list to steady her trembling fingers. If she could confirm him as the killer, if she could expose him, she might finally clear her name.
And perhaps—just perhaps—she might not need to hide any longer.
But then another thought surfaced—a deeply unsettling one.
What if he attempted to kill Lord Stanley again?
What if the killer discovered she had switched places with Anne? After all, the whole of London—nay, all England—was hunting Charlotte Walker.
Well, she had no choice. She simply had to expose the killer before he struck again.
She forced herself to remain calm, though her hand shook slightly as she continued writing out the invitations, surreptitiously noting all the other male names upon a separate sheet.
‘Oh Henry, I have decided to add a few more names to the list. Mrs Hill and Miss Underwood would be most offended not to be invited. And what of Captain Whitworth? He has become a veritable regular at our card games now. And William’s friends from Parliament—we must invite them,’ Mrs Wilberforce said as her brother sauntered in and sat in the large armchair.
Charlotte avoided his gaze, her blush returning from their last encounter.
‘Invite whomever you wish, Minerva, but just see that those on the list receive their invitation. I am certain you would not object now that the most capable Miss Lucas has so graciously offered her assistance.’
Charlotte glanced up at the mention of her name and caught his goading smile.
He was mocking her again.
She scowled at him; his smile only widened.
‘Is it not nice of her?’ Mrs Wilberforce said warmly, entirely missing the sarcasm. ‘Now, Henry, I know you are opposed to it, but it is high time you took a wife. I do think you ought to consider some of the debutantes who will be present.’
Lord Stanley pursed his lips.
‘You know how I feel about the matter. They are all fortune- or title-hunters—not a genuine bone amongst them.’
‘Yes... yes—your experience in London was not the happiest, I grant you. That hussy, Miss Templeton, proved herself quite the vulgar creature—but it does not follow that all ladies are alike. Her appalling views regarding your being Muslim were quite intolerable—quite beyond the pale.’
Charlotte wondered whether Miss Templeton was the source of his bitterness towards women.
‘And the Howarths... well, we were all deceived by them. They had every appearance of respectability—who could have guessed the father was so deep in gambling debts? You must get over it, Henry, and look again.’
Lord Stanley exhaled slowly.
Mrs Wilberforce took this as encouragement and forged on.
‘I think you should consider Miss Fraser. Her father is already wealthy, so there is no artifice there. And to boot, she is a beauty.’
Charlotte nearly choked on her tea—no artifice, indeed.
Lord Stanley, however, betrayed no reaction and continued with his correspondence.
‘Or there is the eldest Miss Pearson—well-born, well-fortuned, and a very sweet girl. To crown it all, Lady Pearson herself assures me that they have no objection to your faith, so long as the girl remains Christian. Or, if you prefer a more mature lady... there is Lady Susan. I know she is a widow, but she has financial independence and is very handsome,’ Mrs Wilberforce prattled on.
‘Enough, Minerva. Invite whom you please. I shall not oppose it—provided you cease this campaign on my behalf.’
Taking this as triumph, Mrs Wilberforce smiled and reached for a few extra invitation cards.
Charlotte hid a smile. The Ice Baron might yet be manoeuvred into matrimony, and she would have a front-row seat to the spectacle.
This, at least, promised some diversion.
Not to mention, he would be too preoccupied to trouble her.
After a brief silence, Lord Stanley murmured, ‘I have just received a letter from John; he is in the county. Do make sure he is invited to the house party.’
‘How lovely. John is one of your friends from Oxford, is he not?’ Mrs Wilberforce recalled.
‘Eton,’ he corrected.
‘Ah yes, I have already prepared one for him.’ She lifted the invitation from the stack. ‘Miss Lucas, cross off Lord Wolverton from the list.’
Charlotte’s heart jangled like a dropped tray.
So John was the elusive Wolverton.
She forced her hand to move steadily over the parchment, though her thoughts spun wildly. Lord Wolverton—her only certain lead—was coming, and he was a close friend of Lord Stanley. Why on earth did those closest to the Baron wish to kill him? First his cousin, now his friend.
Her throat tightened. She dipped her quill again, forcing the motion to appear effortless.
Lord Stanley’s gaze flicked towards her, observant as ever. He must believe her nerves were caused by their earlier encounter—if only he knew. If only he understood the real danger, the real reason for her trembling.
But he did not. And she could not tell him. Not yet.
Instead, she forced herself to dip her head politely and continued writing invitations.
Charlotte finished the last of the invitations just as the afternoon sun slipped behind Alderley Park, casting the study in long amber shadows.
Mrs Wilberforce excused herself to attend to some household matter, and Lord Stanley read a newspaper, though Charlotte suspected he was merely waiting for an opportunity to deliver another cutting remark.
She gathered the papers with a sigh and rose from the writing desk.
‘I shall take these to the footman for delivery,’ she said politely.
Henry folded his paper with unnecessary slowness.
‘Quite diligent today, Miss Lucas.’
‘I prefer to be useful, my lord.’
His lips twitched.
‘Indeed. The only trouble is one never knows your methods.’ He paused. ‘Leave the invitations here. I will see to them.’
Charlotte stiffened, searching his face for mockery, but his expression was unreadable.
‘As you wish, my lord.’
She curtseyed and fled the room before he could say anything further to make her blush, stammer, or combust upon the spot.