Chapter 16 #2
‘I always find tea restorative, my lady,’ she said lightly.
‘Yes... quite,’ Lady Boulton murmured gratefully.
As Charlotte guided her gently towards the fire, she felt Lord Boulton’s glare follow them across the room. The man might well have followed them himself had Mrs Wilberforce not intercepted him.
‘Lord Boulton,’ Mrs Wilberforce cried warmly. ‘I hope your room is to your liking. We placed you in the family wing, as I believe your wife is sensitive to draughts. Do let us know if you require anything else.’
He replied in affected tones, ‘It is quite tolerable, thank you.’
He looked down upon the room at large as though it were beneath him to be standing there.
Charlotte ignored him and conversed with his wife for a few moments, while surreptitiously repeating the suspect names like a mantra in her head, committing each face to memory.
Bainbridge. Hamilton. Payne. Oswald. Fraser. Boulton.
A knot formed in her stomach. It was hard to believe that three among them were Grand Fellows—murderers and kidnappers. She placed a hand briefly upon her chest and forced herself to breathe evenly.
Charlotte, however, was relieved to find that the remaining guests had been invited solely through Mr and Mrs Wilberforce’s acquaintance and were not connected to the sinister house party held the previous year.
She smiled fondly towards the spinsters and cast a coy glance towards the Captain, who bowed in return.
Charlotte also found herself in easy conversation with Miss Pearson and, for a brief, improbable moment, could imagine a friendship forming in some gentler future.
The younger guests, meanwhile, occupied themselves exactly as expected. Miss Payne cast hopeful glances towards young Mr Oswald, while Miss Oswald appeared equally intent upon ensnaring young Mr Payne—each no doubt pursuing fortune, romance, or, ideally, both.
Mr Wilberforce appeared content to remain with his friends—Mr Lionel, a man of rigid military bearing and an impressively ludicrous moustache, and the widower Mr Smythe, both of whom Charlotte had the misfortune of having as dinner partners.
Still, Charlotte released a quiet breath. She much preferred their company despite the lack of lively conversation; at least these gentlemen, in this den of vipers, were harmless—even if dull as ditchwater.
Then there was Lord Stanley.
He stood smiling—smiling—at something the radiant Miss Fraser had said. Her golden ringlets gleamed beneath the chandeliers, and her pale pink gown shimmered with every movement.
She dazzled the room and monopolised his attention with alarming ease. One gloved hand rested possessively upon his sleeve as she leaned close to whisper something in his ear.
Lady Susan, Charlotte noted, scowled at the exchange.
Was he not meant to be impervious to feminine charm?
She blew an inward raspberry.
Men. Even icy barons were fools before a pretty face.
And yet, as Charlotte watched more closely, she realised his smile did not quite reach his eyes.
It was polished, certainly. Courteous. Even handsome enough to be highly irritating.
But there was something weary beneath it, as though he had performed this particular social duty too often and found the script exhausting.
Strangely, this only irritated Charlotte further, though she could not have said why.
And then, quite abruptly, the atmosphere shifted. Everything and everyone stilled. A chill slid down Charlotte’s back.
He entered.
Dark, sharp, predatory features. Steely eyes. Silver streaks at his temples. He moved like a stalking wolf—the irony of his masquerade mask struck her afresh. If one acted like an animal, one was likely to become one, Charlotte realised with terror.
A wolf indeed. Quiet. Lethal.
‘Ah, Lord Wolverton!’ Mrs Wilberforce cried, rising eagerly. ‘We were beginning to worry.’
Charlotte could not move.
It’s him. From the terrace. The killer.
There was no doubt, even without the mask.
She felt the hair on her arms rise as Wolverton’s gaze swept the room. When his eyes passed over her, Charlotte flinched. A sharp breath caught in her throat—fear of recognition—but he looked beyond her without pause. Only then did she release it slowly.
Silly goose. How could he recognise me when he does not know who I am? Calm down.
He soon stood conversing with Lord Stanley, smiling with a warmth that suggested the closest friendship. His bow was elegant, his voice well-modulated, his manner so perfectly at ease that anyone might have thought him the safest gentleman in the room.
Charlotte knew better.
How could a childhood friend harbour such malice?
It was not merely the desire to kill that unsettled her—it was the betrayal. The willingness to do so despite shared history. Charlotte felt the imagined blade of such treachery as keenly as if it were directed at herself.
She swallowed the surge of sympathy.
Lord Stanley needed to be informed. She gathered her courage to speak to him privately after the evening concluded.
Until then, she would remain vigilant for any attempt at poisoning.
Thank goodness Lord Stanley kept his glass firmly in hand throughout the evening. Wolverton would have found it difficult to tamper with it unnoticed. Perhaps he did believe her letter, after all.
Wolverton, meanwhile, proved charming company for the ladies, particularly Lady Susan, who appeared to have shifted her attentions in his direction.
No doubt, Charlotte thought, giving up on Lord Stanley as a lost cause to Miss Fraser’s youth and Miss Pearson’s beauty.
Lady Susan smiled and fluttered her fan at Lord Wolverton’s remarks with renewed purpose.
Dinner was announced.
Charlotte continued to observe the company as she ate quietly near the lower end of the table. It was difficult to reconcile the convivial atmosphere with the possibility that someone up the table was a killer.
As she watched the continued easy geniality between Lord Stanley and Wolverton, a quiet, persistent voice began to trouble her mind, growing more insistent with every passing course.
If she accused Lord Wolverton now, Lord Stanley would undoubtedly dismiss her as a lunatic—particularly after her recent performance before him. She could not shake the uncomfortable suspicion that he regarded her as incompetent and meddlesome—if not entirely peculiar.
Especially after she had accused his cousin of similar crimes. Would he truly believe that his oldest friend might also belong to the Odd Fellows? Especially if the accusation came from her.
Her thoughts churned restlessly.
At that very moment, Lord Stanley glanced in her direction, and she felt the weight of his cool reserve. Or was she imagining it? Another fear surfaced: if she revealed herself as Charlotte Walker, would he even listen at all? Or send her straight to a holding cell?
She recalled how, despite the letter she had written explaining everything, he had focused his efforts upon finding her rather than the true killer. Worse still, he had publicly named her as the prime suspect.
No. It would be unwise to reveal anything further—not until she possessed undeniable proof of Wolverton’s connection to the Odd Fellows.
As Chief Magistrate with authority over the Bow Street Runners, Lord Stanley would surely know of the Odd Fellows and the work Grace and Lord Armitage had undertaken the previous year. If Charlotte could link Wolverton to the three Grand Fellows, even he could not dismiss such evidence.
Secret societies always bore symbols. She felt certain of it. Marks, tokens, coded gestures—something by which members recognised one another.
In that instant, she made her decision.
She would wait until the house party was fully underway. Surely they would attempt to convene. And if she could catch Wolverton among them, she would not only identify the killer, but the masterminds behind the scenes as well.
Until then, she would observe.
Then—to her horror—Wolverton’s gaze settled directly upon her.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was the look of a predator assessing prey, and she felt suddenly, absurdly, like a rabbit frozen in an open field.
She refused to look away.
Instead, she met his gaze steadily, neither smiling nor flinching. When he continued to regard her without embarrassment, she scowled at him.
To her astonishment, he smiled in return—a slow, deliberate smile—and finally turned aside.
Yet the exchange left a deep, unsettling sensation, as though she had unknowingly challenged him to some dangerous private game.
But she had not been the only witness.
Lady Susan had observed the entire exchange and now regarded Charlotte with unmistakable displeasure.
Splendid.
The first evening had scarcely begun, and already Charlotte had acquired both an enemy and a predator.
After dinner, many guests, weary from their travels, retired early. Charlotte gained no further insight that night, though the party would continue for several weeks.
Unease gnawed at her.
Wolverton had watched her too closely. Yet she no longer feared he suspected her of being the girl who had overheard them at the ball.
She had the distinct and deeply unpleasant impression that he had marked her as prey: a poor, friendless governess with neither fortune nor influential family to protect her.
The sort of woman society would scarcely notice missing.
She locked her door and, for good measure, wedged a chair beneath the handle.
After all, one could not be certain who prowled a country house after dark.