Chapter 29
Charlotte awoke bleary-eyed to a knock at her door.
Before she could properly gather her senses, Mrs Wilberforce swept into the room like a gust of spring wind.
‘Good morning, my dear!’ she exclaimed brightly.
Then, to Charlotte’s surprise, her expression softened with genuine contrition.
‘I owe you an apology, Miss Lucas. Upon reflection, I realise you are precisely the sort of steady, sensible woman Henry needs. I was... rather caught off guard last evening.’
Charlotte recalled Mrs Wilberforce very nearly swooning onto the library sofa.
‘I understand,’ she replied diplomatically. ‘It came as rather a shock to me as well.’
Mrs Wilberforce gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Still, I hope we may be friends.’
She extended her hand almost shyly.
Relieved to have regained her goodwill, Charlotte accepted it at once. ‘Of course.’
‘Excellent. Now then—we must address this dreadful situation at once.’
Before Charlotte could ask what dreadful situation she meant, Mrs Wilberforce marched towards the wardrobe and flung open the doors.
A horrified silence followed.
‘Oh dear Lord,’ she whispered.
Mrs Wilberforce turned slowly towards Charlotte’s collection of plain governess gowns as though confronting a national tragedy.
‘Grey. Black. More grey. Miss Lucas, have you been dressing for mourning these past years?’
Charlotte opened her mouth to defend herself.
‘Come with me.’
Mrs Wilberforce marched her out of her room, towards the family bedrooms, and flung open a set of doors.
‘This is to be your new room. I had it readied this morning.’
Mrs Wilberforce ushered her inside. The chamber was a lavish, spacious boudoir of silks, cream covers, and plush carpets. Charlotte gaped at the height of luxury as the maid arrived.
Mrs Wilberforce clapped her hands decisively.
‘I do think darker shades will suit you far better than those pastel colours fashionable amongst the younger girls. You possess a more mature style of beauty, Miss Lucas. There is no need to dress like a debutante.’ She turned towards her maid.
‘We shall see what we can do this morning, but I dare say we may have to contrive a visit to the modiste. Make a note of it, Clarice...’
She proceeded to list an alarming number of colours, most of which Charlotte had never heard spoken aloud.
‘As you wish, my lady,’ Clarice replied before disappearing, only to return moments later with an assortment of gowns draped expertly across her arms.
‘This one,’ Mrs Wilberforce declared, selecting a gown of dark green silk. ‘It will set off her colouring beautifully.’
Charlotte had little voice in the matter. Clarice, though somewhat abrupt in manner, possessed astonishing skill. Her hands twisted Charlotte’s hair into elegant curls, piled high in some gravity-defying miracle.
The morning gown was exquisite. The rich fabric skimmed her figure gracefully, falling in soft folds in all the right places, though a little tight around the bosom.
A delicate touch of rouge warmed her complexion, whilst the faint darkening of her lashes with kohl rendered her eyes startlingly vivid.
For the first time, Charlotte began to understand what her friends meant when they described them as soulful.
When Charlotte finally turned towards the mirror, she paused.
For a moment, she scarcely recognised herself.
She looked... beautiful. Almost dangerously so.
Suddenly, Tom burst into her new room. ‘Miss Lucas! Are you going to be my aunt and live with us forever?’
Charlotte’s heart twisted painfully. She smiled softly and ruffled his curls.
‘And how did you hear such a thing, little rascal?’
‘Uncle told me,’ he said proudly, throwing his arms around her neck. ‘He said you will live with us forever, and I may call you Aunt now.’
Her throat tightened. ‘Did he indeed?’
Tom would be heartbroken when the truth finally emerged.
Mrs Wilberforce entered shortly thereafter and stopped abruptly upon the threshold, her expression lighting with triumph.
‘My, my, Miss Lucas... you have been hiding your light under a bushel all this time.’
Charlotte coloured faintly beneath the praise.
‘No more of that now,’ Mrs Wilberforce continued firmly. ‘Come along—Henry is waiting below, and the guests are absolutely dying to offer their congratulations.’
‘Wait—how does everyone know?’
Mrs Wilberforce gave a light, musical laugh. ‘My dear, after the scene you and Henry created in the library last evening, the whole house party naturally knows.’
Before Charlotte could form a proper response, she was swept from the room and hurried downstairs.
The moment they entered the breakfast parlour, conversation faltered.
Lord Stanley rose at once from his seat. For the briefest instant he appeared entirely arrested by the sight of her, his usually composed expression giving way to unmistakable astonishment. He recovered himself almost immediately, however, and crossed the room with smooth deliberation.
Bowing low, he took her hand and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles.
A shiver passed through her at his touch, but she forced herself to remain composed.
‘You look beautiful,’ he whispered, so low that Charlotte was certain no one else overheard.
Which made no sense at all. Surely such compliments were meant for the audience they were pretending to convince.
Charlotte glanced at him sharply, certain he must be teasing her again. Yet there was no mockery in his expression. If anything, his gaze appeared far too intent as it lingered upon her face.
She drew in a breath as he all but devoured her with his eyes. That, she was quite certain, everyone noticed. A slow blush rose into her cheeks and spread down her neck. She willed herself not to react.
Really, the man was being outrageous. She knew perfectly well he was doing this to convince others of his devotion, but surely there were limits to such theatrics. She huffed softly and looked away.
Mrs Wilberforce beckoned her over warmly, whilst Lord Stanley immediately moved to flank her on the other side, offering what felt suspiciously like a shield against gossip and malicious scrutiny.
Charlotte fidgeted with her bracelet, painfully aware of how ill at ease she felt.
Then Lord Stanley turned to the room, where whispers and curious glances were already circling like vultures above carrion.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, his voice clear and commanding, ‘allow me to present my fiancée, Miss Lucas.’
The room fell abruptly silent.
Charlotte instinctively sought out Mr Hamilton. He appeared sceptical, perhaps mildly perplexed, but utterly untroubled. As though he had not just murdered a man only hours earlier.
She studied him for as long as she dared without drawing notice. There was nothing in his expression. No guilt. No remorse. Only cool indifference.
Lord Boulton, by contrast, looked openly bewildered.
She scanned the rest of the room. Amongst the gentlemen there were varying degrees of surprise and curiosity. Amongst the ladies—particularly the unmarried ones—she detected something rather nearer hostility.
Only the Captain looked genuinely wounded.
The sight pierced her unexpectedly. Over the course of the last few weeks, she had begun to suspect he had formed a tendre for her, and now she appeared engaged to another man practically overnight. Shame stirred painfully within her.
What must he think of me?
For one desperate moment she wished she could explain everything to him—that none of this was real, that murder and secret societies lay beneath the absurdity of it all.
But of course she could say nothing. The disappointment in his eyes made uncomfortably clear what conclusions he had already drawn.
Perhaps, when it was all over, she might tell him, and perhaps then he would forgive her.
It was Sir Oswald who broke the strained silence.
‘Er... congratulations, old chap!’ he cried heartily, clapping Lord Stanley upon the shoulder. ‘Jolly good business, that is. She is a beauty,’ he added approvingly, in the tone of a man admiring a fine mare.
That seemed to release the rest of the gentlemen, who immediately followed with handshakes and murmured congratulations.
The ladies proved considerably less enthusiastic.
Charlotte noticed Miss Fraser whispering furiously behind her fan amidst a knot of equally displeased debutantes and ambitious mothers. Miss Oswald and Miss Payne made scarcely any effort at all to conceal their resentment that a mere governess had secured the season’s greatest prize.
Yet it was Miss Pearson’s expression that troubled Charlotte most. The poor girl looked utterly mystified and on the verge of tears—which, Charlotte admitted, was perfectly understandable.
Miss Pearson had every reason to believe Lord Stanley intended to offer for her, and now those hopes had been dashed.
Charlotte felt a pang of guilt.
Lady Pearson, her mother, looked positively murderous.
Charlotte swallowed nervously.
At that moment Lord Bainbridge, who had apparently missed the entire announcement whilst preoccupied with his kippers, looked up in confusion.
‘Eh? What?’ he demanded. ‘The governess? Surely Stanley’s not serious. No gentleman marries the governess after a dalliance. Absurd.’
His wife tutted at him and smacked his arm sharply with her spoon.
The room fell still, save for whispers.
Lord Stanley’s jaw ticked. Charlotte felt him stiffen beside her.
‘My lord,’ he said at last, in a voice of dangerous calm, ‘I would advise you not to insult my fiancée in such a manner.’
The whispering ceased entirely.
‘She is to be treated with the utmost respect,’ he continued, a steel edge entering his voice, ‘or you shall have me to answer to.’
He allowed his infamous icy stare to travel slowly about the room, lingering just long enough upon Miss Fraser for her to lower her fan with an offended pout that did her beauty no favours whatsoever.