Chapter 21
Charlotte kept her head low the following day, avoiding interaction with the guests whenever possible. Matters had grown desperate, and though she had not informed Sarah of it, she had resolved upon something undeniably rash.
If Sarah made no progress searching the bedchambers because of her duties, then Charlotte would do it herself.
She slipped unnoticed from the drawing room after dinner. As usual, the gentlemen had retired to the card room, which made it the ideal opportunity. With luck, their valets would all be downstairs. Sarah had mentioned they generally lingered near the servants’ hall at this hour.
Charlotte returned first to the attic rooms and changed into one of Sarah’s plain black service gowns.
Over it she tied a servant’s apron and secured a mob cap over her hair, arranging the ribbons into an elaborate bow that obscured much of her face.
She smeared soot lightly along her cheeks and jaw for good measure, then armed herself with a coal bucket and fire poker.
Should she be discovered, she would simply pretend to be a tardy maid replenishing the fires.
She surveyed herself in the mirror. A thoroughly disreputable-looking housemaid stared back at her.
Satisfied, Charlotte set off towards the guest wing.
She searched every room she dared enter.
Lord Wolverton’s chamber yielded nothing. Nor did Mr Payne’s, Mr Hamilton’s, Mr Fraser’s, Lord Bainbridge’s, or Sir Oswald’s.
By the time she finished, her nerves were frayed and her patience nearly exhausted.
As the hour grew late, she resigned herself to failure and began making her way back towards the family wing. Yet as she passed Lord Boulton’s room, desperation overcame caution.
One final room.
Surely fate owed her something after all this.
Charlotte approached slowly and knocked first.
‘Hello?’ she called softly.
There was no answer.
After one last glance along the corridor, she turned the handle and slipped inside.
The moment the door closed behind her, she crept past the bed and towards the dressing table, every creak of the floorboards sounding deafening beneath her slippers.
Taking a steadying breath, she glanced around. The room smelled strongly of stale brandy and cigar smoke.
‘Three months ago,’ she muttered bitterly beneath her breath, ‘I was attending soirées. Now I am voluntarily disguised as a soot-smeared scullery maid. Mama would expire on the spot.’
She searched the wardrobe first, rifling carefully through coats and waistcoats, though she had little idea what precisely she hoped to find.
Nothing.
She moved to the dressing table. A few items lay scattered across its surface: perfume bottles, a hairbrush, shaving utensils.
Then something caught her eye.
A ring.
Charlotte felt a jolt of recognition.
Slowly, she picked it up and examined the enamel beneath the candlelight.
A rose entwined with a winding vine.
Exactly like the symbol upon the parchment Matthew Stanley had given her.
The realisation landed with uncomfortable force.
So Lord Boulton was indeed an Odd Fellow.
And now she had proof.
Suddenly, a calloused, beefy hand seized her wrist and yanked her backwards against a barrel-like chest.
Charlotte nearly cried out.
Lord Boulton towered over her, swaying slightly with drink, his flushed face split by a revolting grin whilst greasy yellow locks spilled across his brows, half concealing his small eyes.
‘Hullo, sweetie.’ He ogled her.
Charlotte yanked away in disgust. ‘I am merely the scullery maid, sir. Not a lady entertainer.’ At least he did not recognise her.
He tightened his grip painfully. ‘Scullery maid, eh?’ He leaned closer and sniffed at her neck. ‘You smell too gorgeous for that. Perhaps we can have ourselves a little sport anyway. I’ll give you a crown.’
Charlotte recoiled.
Oh dear... what now?
The more she struggled against his grip, the tighter he held her arm.
Panic spiked. Her mind, which ordinarily served her reasonably well, now abandoned her entirely, producing only useless thoughts.
You absolute idiot. Why did you not bring a knife like a sensible person?
Then salvation struck her.
The fire poker.
Unfortunately, it remained several feet away.
As Boulton attempted to drag her into an embrace, Charlotte planted both hands against his chest.
‘Sir,’ she said desperately, ‘I would be delighted, truly, but I have duties to attend to or I shall lose my position.’
‘I will give you a position at my estate, my beauty,’ he declared with a slobbering grin.
Charlotte’s stomach dropped.
She was in trouble now. How on earth was she to get out of this?
Then, to her astonishment, he released her wrist.
Only to shut the door.
Charlotte moved instantly.
She darted forward, seized the fire poker, and whirled around.
‘Stand aside,’ she warned, brandishing it with both hands, ‘or so help me, I will skewer you.’
He gawped at her, looking distinctly unprepared for resistance.
‘Eh? Some new game, is it?’ His expression shifted into a slow, knowing smile. ‘I do not mind a bit of a challenge.’
He lunged.
Charlotte struck blindly downward and managed to bring the poker crashing onto his foot. He howled and staggered back.
She bolted for the door—
—but before she reached it, it swung open.
Lord Stanley stood upon the threshold.
Charlotte skidded to a halt.
His appearance was decidedly disordered. His cravat hung loose, his waistcoat wrinkled across his chest, and his hair was tousled. His eyes possessed the hazy gleam of a man several glasses past his limit.
He stepped forward, his eyes glinting with recognition, his lips pursing as though to say, What the devil are you doing here?
‘Boulton,’ he drawled lazily, fixing Charlotte with a thoroughly displeased look, ‘this one belongs to me.’
The words sent an entirely inappropriate thrill through her.
Lord Boulton clutched his injured foot and scowled. ‘I’ll warn you, Stanley. She’s a feisty one.’
Before she could protest, Lord Stanley plucked the poker neatly from her grasp and swept her up over his shoulder with infuriating ease.
Charlotte gasped as the room tilted beneath her.
‘Put me down this instant!’ she demanded, pummelling his back and kicking furiously.
He ignored her struggles entirely, though she felt his arm tighten each time she fought him.
And then, most disastrously of all, she became acutely aware of everything.
The steady rhythm of his breathing.
The warmth radiating through him.
The powerful shift of muscle beneath her.
One arm remained firmly locked about her legs whilst the other steadied her against his shoulder, each stride pressing her more fully against him.
To her utter mortification, her struggles gradually weakened as her traitorous body softened against him despite every frantic effort to resist.
Opening a nearby door, he strode inside and shut it behind them with his foot before carrying her straight into his bedchamber.
Charlotte barely had time to comprehend where they were before he lowered her onto the bed.
For one perilous moment, neither of them moved.
Lord Stanley stepped back, yet she could still feel the warmth of his hands lingering through the fabric of her gown.
Her pulse fluttered wildly.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, she became aware that his breathing no longer sounded entirely steady either.
He abruptly turned away and dragged a hand through his already disordered hair. By the time he turned back towards her, his expression had settled once more into lazy amusement.
Leaning casually against the wall, he gave a low, humourless laugh. ‘You seem to have acquired a second occupation, Miss Lucas. Does a governess’s salary fail to satisfy?’
Charlotte gaped at him.
Then immediately made for the door.
He blocked her path at once.
‘Not so fast, my dear.’
She retreated further into the shadows of the room. She would not surrender without a fight.
Spotting another fire poker beside the fireplace, she snatched it up and pointed it directly at him.
‘Stay back, my lord, or I will skewer you as well.’
To her outrage, he chuckled.
Then, very steadily, he crossed the room and lit the candles one by one.
‘What exactly do you intend to do after you skewer me?’ The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. ‘You may lower the weapon. I have no intention of hurting you.’
Before she could react, he stepped towards her and gently took hold of the hand clutching the poker.
‘Like this,’ he murmured, adjusting her grip. ‘If you hold it properly, no one can easily wrest it from you.’
Then, taking her wrist, he guided the movement sharply sideways.
‘And strike here next time,’ he said quietly. ‘Done correctly, it would prove fatal.’
His warm body brushed against hers as he stood behind her, and she swallowed as a betraying flutter stirred in her stomach.
Charlotte stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
Releasing her at last, Lord Stanley stepped back and folded his arms once more, every trace of disarray suddenly replaced by cool composure.
Entirely sober.
The poker slipped from her fingers and struck the floor with a loud clatter.
‘You,’ she said accusingly, ‘are not drunk.’
‘Correct.’
‘You have been pretending this entire time.’
‘Yes.’
‘But Holden—your drinks—’
‘Cold tea and grape juice.’ He grimaced faintly. ‘Vile stuff, but necessary for my charade.’
Charlotte stared at him in disbelief.
‘Cold tea,’ she echoed numbly. ‘I risked life and limb amongst degenerates while you have been sipping luncheon refreshments?’
To her fury, he had the audacity to look amused.
‘Now it is high time you explain yourself, Miss Walker.’
Charlotte gasped upon hearing her real name.
‘I am Anne—’
He cocked his head.
She faltered.
Her game was up.
‘We switched places,’ she admitted, heat creeping into her cheeks. ‘Anne was meant to come. I took her place. But how did you—?’