Chapter 29 #2
Lord Bainbridge paled and wilted beneath the rebuke. ‘No offence, Stanley. Just a jest, of course. She is most becoming... and naturally no one would dare suggest otherwise.’
He returned to his kippers, chastened and quiet for the rest of the meal.
As conversations gradually resumed and the guests settled once more to their breakfast, Charlotte felt more awkward than ever. She was therefore deeply grateful when the spinsters, together with Lady Bainbridge, approached to embrace her warmly.
‘Congratulations. You are a lucky man, my lord. She is lovely,’ Lady Bainbridge declared with delight, as though she were living vicariously through Charlotte’s turn of fortune.
Lord Stanley bowed. ‘I’m well aware of it, my lady.’
Charlotte very nearly smirked.
If Lady Bainbridge only knew how entirely fabricated the whole arrangement was. Had Charlotte not known better, she might have believed it real herself.
Lord Stanley remained beside Charlotte throughout breakfast, fetching a plate for her and ensuring she was comfortably seated before returning to his own chair.
He spoke little during the meal, yet she became intensely aware of every accidental brush of his arm against hers.
Each slight touch sent her pulse racing.
More than once she caught him looking at her. And unless she was greatly mistaken, there were moments when the severity of his blue eyes softened altogether beneath her gaze.
Then a name reached her ear.
‘Lord Wolverton has left,’ Lady Susan was saying. ‘Something urgent to attend to.’
Mrs Wilberforce pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Why is it that guests keep vanishing in the middle of a house party without so much as a word?’
Charlotte’s head lifted sharply. Her eyes flicked instinctively to Lord Stanley across the table. He met her gaze for the briefest moment before calmly looking away.
She scanned the table to see how the others reacted to the mention of Wolverton’s name.
Lord Boulton looked a little uncomfortable, she thought, as he tugged at his cravat.
Lord Hamilton, however, sat utterly at ease, sipping his tea.
Too at ease.
She caught his eye and immediately looked away again as he all but smirked at her.
And who was the third man?
She searched along the table, looking for some trace of guilt, some fracture in composure amongst the guests.
If Hamilton had spoken truthfully... then one of them was the third Grand Fellow—Falcon.
Was it Mr Payne or Sir Oswald? But they both appeared wholly engrossed in their own conversations.
Or perhaps Lord Bainbridge or Mr Fraser, though they likewise seemed oblivious to the mention of Wolverton, intent instead upon their breakfast.
At length Lord Stanley leaned slightly nearer and murmured, ‘We shall visit the modiste this afternoon and replenish your wardrobe—if that meets with your approval.’
Charlotte nodded, still somewhat dazed by the morning’s events.
Mrs Wilberforce overheard at once and laughed lightly. ‘And naturally I shall accompany you. Henry would be utterly useless in such matters.’
Lady Bainbridge immediately declared her intention to join the shopping party as well.
Lord Stanley bowed his assent, and Charlotte found herself quietly relieved. Judging by the transformation inflicted upon her that morning, Mrs Wilberforce possessed formidable expertise.
Curiously, Lady Susan also requested to accompany the party.
The modiste proved to be a tall, willowy Frenchwoman who regarded fabric with an air of holy reverence.
Within minutes Charlotte found herself surrounded by swatches of satin, muslin, velvet, gauze, ribbons, lace, and trims.
Ball gowns, morning dresses, riding habits, evening slippers, shawls, reticules—every conceivable article was discussed with exhausting seriousness.
Charlotte herself was nearly useless in the matter.
During her childhood, her mother had selected every ribbon and gown she wore, leaving her with little notion of what suited her or what she preferred.
After several futile attempts to follow the rapid discussion between the ladies and the modiste, she surrendered altogether and allowed Mrs Wilberforce and Lady Bainbridge to direct matters as they pleased.
Everything was ordered with the greatest haste.
At one point Charlotte distinctly overheard Lord Stanley remark, in his usual indifferent manner, that expense was no consideration.
The modiste’s eyes widened like saucers, grateful for the boon of such lavish patronage. ‘Certainly, my lord. I shall hire more seamstresses from the village, if that is agreeable to you.’
He dismissed her concerns with a careless wave, and Charlotte rolled her eyes at him. No doubt he considered such practical matters beneath his notice.
The first gowns were promised for the following afternoon. At the sight of the final total upon the account sheet, Charlotte nearly blanched.
Surely even Lord Stanley would object to such extravagance.
Yet he did not so much as blink. Producing his pocketbook, he settled the staggering sum with calm indifference.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of silk, lace, shoes, jewellery, and parcels. By the end, Charlotte was thoroughly exhausted and no longer entirely certain what half the purchases even contained.
All she could think of was the irrationality of it. How could he spend so much on a fake fiancée? And what, precisely, was she to do with all the dresses afterwards? She could scarcely present herself as a governess clad in rose-coloured silk and embroidered satin slippers.
Nevertheless, she found it difficult not to be seduced by it all. The softness of fine fabrics against her skin. The sparkle of jewelled hair combs. The admiring glances from the shopgirls and seamstresses.
It awakened a longing deep within her.
A longing she had never properly acknowledged before.
A longing to be seen.
And she did feel seen by Lord Stanley, who lingered nearby throughout the afternoon, watching quietly as fabrics were held against her and gowns selected for her complexion.
Occasionally he offered an opinion upon a colour that suited her.
Sometimes he smiled. At other moments he simply stared with his mouth slightly agape.
Charlotte thought he was laying the besotted-fiancé act on rather too thickly and resolved to have words with him in private about his excessive performance.
Unfortunately, the ladies appeared entirely enchanted by the spectacle, exchanging knowing smiles and delighted little giggles whenever Lord Stanley looked her way.
Lady Susan joined Charlotte as she pretended to examine a selection of embroidered handkerchiefs—when in truth she was merely seeking a moment’s peace amidst the chaos.
‘Do you play, Miss Lucas?’
‘No.’ She tensed slightly. She could manage a little pianoforte, enough for a modest drawing room perhaps, but certainly not with the polished brilliance expected amongst the accomplished ladies of the ton.
‘Do you draw?’
Charlotte laughed, remembering her horrific sketch of Tom. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Ah, then surely you speak fluent French?’
‘I fear not.’
Lady Susan narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘How on earth did you become a governess?’
Charlotte winced. The question, though lightly spoken, was becoming far too particular for comfort.
‘I possess other talents,’ Charlotte replied carefully. ‘Particularly those suited to managing spirited boys like Tom.’
‘I should very much like to know more, Miss Lucas.’ Lady Susan’s smile remained pleasant, though there was unmistakable scrutiny beneath it.
Charlotte glanced around for a reprieve.
Lord Stanley stood nearby with Mrs Wilberforce.
‘Mrs Wilberforce,’ Charlotte said quickly, ‘will you take luncheon with Tom tomorrow? He was asking after you yesterday.’
‘My poor boy! I’ve neglected him shamefully.’
‘Miss Lucas seems exceedingly attached to him,’ Lady Susan observed. ‘I wonder what will become of the arrangement now.’
‘Arrangement?’ Mrs Wilberforce repeated blankly.
‘The governess position,’ she clarified. ‘Surely Miss Lucas cannot continue in such a role after marriage.’
Charlotte intervened. ‘I shall continue to teach Tom as usual.’
‘I do not think that would be appropriate,’ Lord Stanley said evenly.
‘Tom’s education is important to me. I see no reason to abandon him abruptly. That is, until a suitable replacement is found.’
She challenged him with her stare, but he did not contradict her.
‘Quite right,’ Mrs Wilberforce agreed warmly. ‘The child adores her. Truly, Henry, Miss Lucas has accomplished more with that boy in a few weeks than anyone else managed in years.’
His gaze settled upon Charlotte. ‘I am perfectly aware of it.’
‘And where did you say you were from, Miss Lucas?’ Lady Susan insisted, continuing her impromptu interrogation.
Charlotte hesitated. How could she answer without arousing suspicion?
Thankfully, Lord Stanley interceded.
‘Minerva, Lady Susan—come, let us fetch a becoming bonnet for Miss Lucas. Her current one is woefully inadequate.’ Then, to Charlotte, more curtly: ‘Miss Lucas, I believe you may wish to rest in the waiting area.’
‘Henry! Don’t be rude. She may stay if she wishes.’
Charlotte seized the opportunity at once. ‘That is quite all right, Mrs Wilberforce. I am rather tired. I shall retire for a little while.’
She slipped away, heart pounding.
She was meant to remain unnoticed—not be paraded about before society. The more attention she attracted, the greater the danger became.
And why was Lady Susan being suddenly so invasive? What did she suspect? And why was Lady Susan suddenly being so inquisitive? What did she suspect? Was she enquiring for herself—or on behalf of the Odd Fellows?
Charlotte withdrew earlier than usual that evening and waited.
As the guests retired for the night, a knock finally sounded at her door.
As expected, it was one of the footmen come to escort her discreetly to Wolverton’s room in the east wing, where the guest chambers were situated.
When she entered, Lord Stanley was already there waiting for her.
Together they searched the room in near silence, checking every trunk, valise, and box for hidden compartments. Even the furniture itself was tested and tapped, as though it might yield some concealed mechanism.
Yet for all their efforts, no passage, hollow, or secret contrivance revealed itself.
After more than an hour, the chamber had been turned thoroughly upside down, but there was still no sign of the elusive black book.
‘It may not be here at all.’ He sighed in exasperation.
Charlotte huffed as she knelt once more to inspect beneath the mattress. ‘It definitely is, my lord,’ she insisted, recalling what Boulton and Hamilton had said. ‘He meant to trade it for his freedom. It must be somewhere within this house.’
Lord Stanley folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Or he was bluffing. We may simply be wasting our time.’
‘Perhaps,’ she admitted, though doubt coloured her tone, ‘but I cannot believe he would have kept it far from his reach.’
‘Well... where else could he have concealed it?’
‘Could he have hidden it in another room?’
He shook his head. ‘Too risky. What if it fell into the wrong hands? A servant—or another Odd Fellow? No. I do not think he would have been so foolish.’
He paused, then added more slowly, ‘We might try the library. It was, after all, the last place he was seen alive. It may have slipped from his pocket during the struggle.’
Together they made their way towards the library, their steps slower now, as though the weight of failure had begun to settle upon them.
Charlotte entered first, Lord Stanley close behind her, and scanned the familiar seating area where Wolverton had last sat.
A side table beside the armchair near the window caught her attention. Upon it rested a pipe, cold and forgotten.
She checked beneath the cushions and behind the chair, but found nothing.
Meanwhile, Lord Stanley knelt and reached beneath the armchair itself. A moment later he withdrew clutching a small volume.
‘I thought we had it,’ he said dryly, rising to his feet, ‘but it appears to be only a volume of poetry.’
At that moment Charlotte’s gaze fell upon his snuff box.
She flicked the lid open and saw the same rose-and-serpent symbol.
She lifted the snuff box slowly. It felt oddly heavy in her hands.
A terrible certainty crept over her.
She gave it a cautious shake.
Then tipped the tobacco carefully upon the table.
And there—hidden neatly beneath—was a false bottom.
Charlotte prised it open.
For a moment she simply stared at it, speechless.
There it was. The black book.