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.
