Then his expression shuttered abruptly.
‘I assure you, Miss Lucas, once these interviews are concluded, our arrangement shall come to an end. You may resume your... friendship with the Captain, whilst I shall marry the esteemed Miss Pearson.’ His mouth twisted faintly upon the final words.
Charlotte’s composure slipped for a moment.
‘Oh.’
The single word emerged painfully weak.
So he had made his choice. Miss Pearson. Not her.
‘I am certain the Captain would make you a suitable husband. And Miss Pearson the perfect bride for me.’
Charlotte’s heart twisted sharply in answer.
Perhaps the Captain truly would be the safer choice.
Then she dismissed the thought at once. No. She could not do such a thing to the Captain. She did not love him.
She loved the impossible, infuriating block of ice standing before her.
And he did not love her in return.
As he twirled her across the ballroom, Charlotte felt her heart breaking quietly in two. She averted her face, willing the tears away before he could notice them.
And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the waltz ended.
‘Thank you, Miss Lucas. This will all be over tomorrow. You may return to the others.’ His voice faltered slightly upon the final words.
He escorted her silently back towards the spinsters before taking his leave.
Charlotte could not endure another moment in the ballroom. Shortly afterwards, she slipped quietly away to her room, utterly wretched.
She no longer knew what to think or feel. Whatever triumph tomorrow might bring would now forever be shadowed by the unmistakable pain of a shattered heart.
But she would conceal it.
After all, she had become remarkably skilled at hiding.
Chapter 34
The Captain, Mr Wilberforce's friends and the Pearsons had already left at the close of the ball, as expected.
However, the very next morning, the household was turned upside down.
All remaining guests were due to leave and had gathered in the foyer to bid their adieux. Valets hovered discreetly with travelling cloaks, ladies adjusted gloves and pelisses, and there was the usual low murmur of departure plans, weather complaints, and insincere promises to visit one another in town.
Then Lord Stanley strode in.
There was something in his expression—clipped, controlled, and grim enough—that made the room fall quiet before he had even spoken. His step was purposeful, his jaw set, and if ever a man looked as though he had come to bring judgement upon a household, it was Henry Stanley in that moment.
‘Mr Hamilton and Lord Boulton,’ he declared in a voice that carried across the marble hall, ‘I place you both under arrest for the murder of Lord Wolverton. And Mr Payne, Mr Fraser, and Sir Oswald—under arrest for conspiracy to murder.’
For one long, suspended moment, no one moved.
Then outrage erupted all at once. Several ladies recoiled in horror, the gentleman protested. A handful of Bow Street Runners stepped forward from the edges of the foyer and moved to restrain the accused men.
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Sir Oswald cried. ‘We are not common criminals, old chap. We have rights. You cannot be serious about apprehending us in this manner.’
