A cluster of matrons by the drapes spotted her and gasped in horror. Their ostrich feathers trembled like alarmed hens.
‘I—I fell outside,’ Charlotte stammered, attempting a sheepish smile.
They exchanged pitying looks, and one kindly gestured towards the ladies’ retiring room. ‘Go along, my dear. You’ll catch your death.’
She bobbed a quick curtsy. ‘Bless you.’
Keeping close to the wall, Charlotte glided behind the draperies, her breath coming in shallow bursts. If she hugged the alcoves, she might make it to the retiring room unseen.
At last, she reached the door, quietly turned the handle, and stepped inside.
The air was mercifully cooler, the light softer. Only one attendant occupied the chamber, arranging ribbons upon a vanity.
‘I have a dreadful headache and...’ Charlotte murmured, pressing a hand to her temple for effect. ‘I...I fainted while walking outside. Might I rest for a few minutes?’
The maid’s face softened at once. ‘Of course, miss. There are a few rooms open where you may lie down.’
Charlotte followed her through a small archway into a dimly lit antechamber. Lady Bamber, it seemed, had spared no expense even in this sanctuary. Silk screens and flowing satin drapes, patterned like leopards and zebras, divided each private chamber. The flicker of candlelight glinted against gilt mirrors, and the faint scent of lavender hung in the air.
The maid gestured to a low couch behind a zebra-print curtain. ‘Here, miss. I shall fetch you something for your headache. Cook keeps a fine tincture that works wonders for Lady Bamber’s megrims.’
Charlotte mumbled her thanks and collapsed onto the cushioned couch the moment the maid vanished through the servants’ doorway—grateful for the solitude.
Only then did she remember the letter.
Her fist had been clenched so tightly that her palm was damp with sweat. She uncurled her fingers slowly and drew the letter from her bodice. Across its front it was signed simply, Lord W.
On the back, a wax seal stamped with a strange emblem—a vine wound around a rose—gleamed faintly in the candlelight. Her heart quickened. With shaking fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment within.
Blank.
She scowled. ‘What!’
The exclamation escaped louder than intended, echoing off the walls. She flipped the paper over, held it to the light, even rubbed a corner between her fingers as if the words might reveal themselves by force of will. Nothing. Not a single mark except that ominous wax seal and Lord W.
So this was it—a trick? A test? Had that poor boy been lured by promises of initiation into some secret brotherhood, only to be murdered for his trouble? Was this their intent all along?
Even if he had succeeded tonight, would they have killed him anyway?
Had Wolf been brandishing an empty sheet, claiming it held the coveted codes when in truth it was blank—making a mockery of the boy’s naivety?
Dismayed by the depth of their treachery, she berated herself for having risked life and limb for nothing. The silence of the empty room pressed in, and a heaviness settled on her shoulders.
Just how deep did this go?
These men were killers—powerful, organised, ruthless, and untroubled by even the loss of their own. Wolf had spoken openly of arranging Lord Huntley’s supposed accident, had attempted to assassinate Lord Stanley, and nowhiscousin lay dead upon the stable floor.
And there was another name connected to all of it.
Wilberforce.
This only raised more questions than answers.
The parchment lay limp in her trembling hands—mute and mocking.
A scream shattered the quiet.
Charlotte jumped to her feet, hastily shoving the parchment back into her bodice. Another shriek followed, louder this time, from the direction of the ballroom. Then came the unmistakable swell of panic—voices, running footsteps, gasps.
