They’ve found him.
She sank back onto the couch, pressing a hand to her lips.
Moments later, a flurry of women burst into the waiting room—debutantes, matrons, and anxious mamas alike. Charlotte drew the curtain a fraction to observe them.
‘Quick, Leah! The smelling salts!’ cried one portly matron, collapsing dramatically into a chair.
Her companion rummaged in her reticule and produced a vial with all the solemn gravity of a surgeon. ‘Breathe deep, my dear. The poor man was stabbed clean through the heart... Can you believe it?’
A young debutante, cheeks flushed with ghoulish excitement, removed her swan mask and fanned herself furiously. ‘I wonder who killed him?’
Another, wide-eyed and eager, chimed in, ‘They say someone was seen fleeing the stables towards the ballroom.’
The swan gasped. ‘You mean the killer could still be here?’
The matron revived instantly at that. ‘Then we must return at once! Girls, find your fathers and brothers—there is no telling who the murderer might be.’
They swept out in a cloud of perfume and rustling skirts, leaving Charlotte alone again.
She slumped back into the couch, her pulse thudding in her ears. The stable boy had seen her—of course he had. And now everyone would be hunting her.
She looked at herself in the mirror across the room. Mud-streaked, bedraggled, her hem torn, her bodice stained—and blood! Oh heavens. She looked precisely like a murderess.
Charlotte had hoped to present the letter to Lord Stanley—but if she showed him a blank piece of paper, he would laugh her out of the room. There was no proof she had overheard an evil plot to assassinate him. She had no clue who this Wolf was—and he was long gone now.
She had nothing to redeem her earlier behaviour.
Her mind spun. If she left the room in this state, she would be arrested before she reached the front gate.
Think, Charlotte. Think.
She needed to disguise herself completely.
The zebra curtain fluttered gently beside her, and inspiration struck.
When the maid returned through the servants’ quarters, Charlotte rose with feigned composure. ‘Your tincture is most appreciated,’ she said, accepting the small glass. Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘I have been terribly clumsy, and my gown is in a dreadful state. I cannot appear in public like this. Might there be a spare dress I could borrow?’
The maid frowned, clearly uncertain. ‘I can ask Lady Bamber’s maid, but—’
Charlotte caught her wrist lightly. ‘Wait. I was thinking... perhaps I could make do with this.’ She gestured towards the zebra-dyed satin hanging beside her. ‘With a needle and thread—and a few pins—I might fashion something Grecian, do you think?’
The maid looked uncertain for a moment, then smiled faintly. ‘It could be done, I suppose.’
‘Splendid,’ Charlotte said, forcing a smile. ‘Then let us waste no time.’
Together they worked swiftly. The maid fetched a sewing kit, and Charlotte slipped out of her yellow gown, shivering as the cool air brushed her skin, and wiped the worst of the mud from her slippers. The maid wrapped the zebra fabric around her and pinned it securely, sewing the edges into something that, from a distance, could almost pass for a fashionable creation.
When they were done, Charlotte examined herself in the mirror. The black gloves and mask she still wore matched perfectly; her dishevelled curls lent the ensemble a kind of wild, exotic elegance.
She stared at her reflection—part Grecian, part escaped lunatic—and almost laughed. If fear had not clenched her throat, she might have.
It would, of course, fall apart if she tried to dance, but if she stood still and moved carefully, she might pass inspection.
‘Please dispose of that gown,’ she said softly. ‘It is ruined.’
The maid nodded, bundling up the incriminating silk and hurrying away.
Charlotte exhaled and straightened her shoulders. ‘Right then,’ she whispered. ‘Time to face the wolves.’
