‘I wonder who the girl in yellow was,’ Clara said at length, ‘I would wager Miss Pennington.’
‘No, she was dancing with Lord York—I saw them,’ Camelia said. ‘Perhaps one of the Harrow sisters? They are forever chasing titled gentlemen.’
‘It does not matter who she was,’ Mrs Walker declared. ‘Falling all over Lord Stanley in such a manner—like some hoyden, and with not a shred of propriety! Quite disgraceful. I am hardly surprised she went on to murder the poor man. Girls nowadays have no sense of decorum. In my day, I should not have dreamt of setting foot in a card room, masked ball or no.’
Clara nearly choked in excitement. ‘Murder? Mama, really?’
‘I heard it from Lady Dalrymple herself,’ Mrs Walker said with the certainty of someone who considered hearsay a branch of theology. ‘The stable boy saw a woman in a yellow gownfleeing the scene. Mark my words, the ton will unmask her soon enough.’
Camelia laughed. ‘How thrilling! The first female murderer in the ton.’
Charlotte listened in mounting horror as she was accused of murder by her own family. She shrank into her corner. She adjusted her skirts to hide her muddy and wet slippers.
Perhaps her invisibility, she thought with a bitter twist of irony, was for the best. Who knew that her family’s habitual dismissal of her would become her salvation?
Still, a restless guilt nagged at her ribs. Perhaps Lord Stanley deserved to know the truth. But how to accomplish this without bringing ruin upon herself?
An idea bloomed. She would discuss it with her father. He would know what to do.
Charlotte worried at her lower lip for the rest of the journey home.
At last, the carriage wheels ground to a halt outside the Walker townhouse. Charlotte exhaled softly as her sisters flounced inside ahead of her, all rustling silk and eager gossip, while she slipped away down the corridor towards the library.
The room was lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes, a pair of deep armchairs set before a generous fire that crackled and glowed. Father was there, just as she had hoped—reclined in his favourite armchair by the hearth, spectacles askew, a book slipping from one hand.
‘Papa,’ she whispered. ‘How are you feeling? Is your fever any better?’
He looked up at once, smiling—a warm, unguarded expression that always softened something inside her. ‘Ah, my darling girl. Back from the masquerade, are you? Did London’s splendour dazzle you?’
She crossed the room and pressed a hand to his brow. ‘You haven’t touched the tincture cook made.
‘It tastes as though it were scraped from a dockside barrel,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘A little cold never harmed anyone.’
‘Drink it,’ she said firmly, arms folding across her chest.
He sighed, obedient as a schoolboy, and swallowed it with a theatrical shudder. ‘You are far too much like your grandmother,’ he said weakly, ‘only kinder.’
‘That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all evening,’ she said, smiling despite herself. ‘Oh, Father, I wish you had come tonight. The most dreadful thing happened—’
Concern flickered across his face. ‘Did your mother make a scene again?’
‘No,’ Charlotte said. ‘She was perfectly herself, which is bad enough. But there was—’
A sudden fit of coughing cut her off. His face turned an alarming shade of pale; a bead of sweat glistened on his temple.
Charlotte sprang up, calling for a maid, then helped him to his bedchamber. When he was settled and breathing easier, she sat beside him until the colour returned to his cheeks.
‘What were you saying, my Char?’ he asked at last, his voice thin but steady.
She hesitated. The truth lodged in her throat. ‘Nothing important, Papa. You must rest. Truly, you look very ill.’
‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘I think there is, but I shall wrangle it from you tomorrow, when I am not quite so indisposed.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You look troubled, I can tell.’
Charlotte laughed softly. ‘Papa, you always have an uncanny ability to read my mind. But I shall only tell you if you get better quickly.’
‘Ah, my favourite medicine—a good mystery,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘Do stay a while, Char. The house feels less cruel when you are in it.’
She stayed until he drifted into sleep, the firelight painting soft amber across his worn features. The sight tightened something in her throat; she had not noticed before how frail he looked. He was her one true ally in a world of sharp tongues. But she could not burden him now—not in his present weakness. Instead, she would confide in one of her trusted friends, someone with the strength to listen.
