If they recognise me, my reputation is ruined, panic blooming in her chest.
At four-and-twenty, still unmarried, she was already a walking disappointment to her mother.
If I am found in this state, there will be no forgiveness and... no mercy.
She scanned the room for an exit. A terrace door beckoned.
With a desperate twist of the handle, Charlotte slipped into the cool night—blessed darkness swallowing her whole
Moonlight bathed the garden in silver, and a few lanterns cast their glow along the stone path as she descended the wide staircase. She veered off course, stumbling through a line of hedges—thankfully lit by a few more strategically placed lanterns—and found a bench tucked within a secluded alcove. Two large potted ferns flanked either side.
She seized a pot and dragged it across the opening. It scraped against the stone with a grating protest. Muscles straining, she inched it into place, then doubled back for the second, hauling it after the first until the narrow gap was mostly blocked. The effort left her breathless.
At last, she collapsed onto the bench and fanned her face, hidden from view. She forced the sickly bile down with afew determined gulps. Gradually, the spinning eased, and the nausea subsided.
As her head cleared and her eyes adjusted to the dimness, the alcove slowly took shape around her. Perhaps it was best to remain here for now. If she waited until after the end of the ball and slipped into the family carriage, she might yet escape the evening’s disaster undetected. From her vantage point, she saw a young couple step from the terrace doors and follow the well-lit path—no doubt to steal a few unchaperoned moments.
But as she contemplated her next move, a chill crept in. The hard wooden bench grew steadily more unforgiving. She rubbed her arms, shivering as gooseflesh prickled her skin. The ladies’ retiring room suddenly seemed appealing—if she hugged the walls, perhaps she could reach it unnoticed. Or better yet, she could slip into the family carriage, with its plush cushions and blankets, and wait there until the guests began to leave.
Another icy breeze rattled through the hedges, and the carriage seemed by far the wisest choice.
Just as she shifted to rise, leaves nearby rustled, and two male voices approached.
They stood a few yards away and glanced about in her direction, but the ferns were doing their job admirably; the gentlemen did not see her. She hesitated. She considered making her presence known, but instinct—that strange, undeniable whisper—bade her remain hidden. Charlotte shrank back against the bench, scarcely daring to breathe.
If she were discovered alone and unchaperoned with men... Scandal would be the least of her troubles. Her mother would skin her alive.
‘I say, old chap, that Arabian is a beauty. Where did you acquire such a prime article?’ the younger voice asked.
Charlotte let out a silent sigh. They seemed intent on discussing horses and smoking cheroots. She need not fearthem; if she sat perfectly still and let them have their conversation, they would pass on unaware of her presence.
She turned her head to see whence they had come and discerned the dark silhouette of several outbuildings. The stables, then—very likely where the family carriage was kept. Perhaps she might even catch a glimpse of the Arabian hot-blood. Horses were her second-favourite creatures; she could not help the small tug of curiosity.
‘She was gifted to me today,’ the older man replied, voice clipped. ‘By my odd friends.’
Charlotte quirked a brow—an unusual way to describe friends.
The young man nodded, as though there was nothing strange in the phrase. ‘Her coat practically glows silvery in the moonlight. What did you do to earn such a gift?’ he smirked.
The older man scoffed. ‘Let’s just say... they owe me for services rendered.’ He took a long pinch of snuff from a silver box; Charlotte caught the glint of an engraved rose on the inner lid as it caught the light, dazzling her.
Intrigued, she leaned in. Arabian horses were rare. Either his friends were extravagantly wealthy, or the ‘services rendered’ were very important indeed.
The younger man laughed. ‘Spill it. What did you do? Snatch another girl for them?’
Charlotte blinked.
Surely not. I must be hearing things.
But his next words made the blood in her veins run cold.
The older man chuckled darkly. ‘I killed for them.’
She stifled an involuntary gasp by clasping her hands over her mouth. The gentlemen, in unison, turned their heads in her direction. A feeling of utter dread coursed through her, and she shrank further into the hard, wooden bench, not daring to move—nor breathe.
After what seemed a lifetime, though in truth only seconds, they dismissed whatever had alerted them as likely a woodland squirrel and resumed their conversation.
The younger man let out a low whistle. ‘You don’t mean Lord Huntley?’ he said, as though he had solved an equation.
