Her knees weakened, and she sank back into her seat, grateful for the support.
He moved on, smiling and shaking hands with acquaintances and friends.
Charlotte allowed herself to breathe.
The party proceeded into the dining room, where Charlotte found herself seated near the lower end of the table beside a polite but painfully dull gentleman—one of Mr Wilberforce’s acquaintances, Mr Smythe, a widower in his forties and a gentleman farmer.
His idea of conversation was to describe, in exacting detail, the cabbage yield of the previous year.
Charlotte began to suspect that vegetables possessed more personality than he did.
Her gaze kept flickering—surreptitiously—towards Lord Stanley.
Twice, their eyes met.
Both times, he looked away.
Charlotte exhaled a slow breath.
He has not recognised me. I am safe.
She repeated it silently, more to reassure herself than anything else.
After dinner, they withdrew once more to the drawing room. Charlotte tucked herself into a corner and resumed her sewing. It was, she decided, the safest possible occupation for a woman on the verge of nervous collapse.
The evening wore on, and most of the guests gradually took their leave, until only the family remained.
‘Any news from London? Any leads on the murderer?’ asked Mr Wilberforce.
Charlotte’s needle halted mid-air.
‘No, unfortunately not,’ Lord Stanley replied. ‘The trail has gone cold. The girl I was searching for has fled her home.’
‘Ah yes, you mentioned that in your letter,’ Mrs Wilberforce said. ‘What was her name again?’
‘Miss Charlotte Walker.’
Charlotte stabbed her finger with her needle.
‘Ouch!’ she gasped, drawing the attention of the entire room to her.
‘You should use a thimble, my dear,’ Miss Hill said very loudly, making Charlotte wince. Her cheeks burned.
Lord Stanley glanced curiously towards Charlotte.
Mrs Wilberforce gave a sympathetic smile and rummaged through her sewing basket, shifting aside skeins of wool and a small ring of household keys before finally locating the item she sought. ‘Here we are,’ she said, pressing it into Charlotte’s hand.
Charlotte accepted it with a silent nod of thanks.
‘Do you truly believe she murdered him?’ Mrs Wilberforce asked.
‘I cannot rule it out. She is the principal suspect. She attempted to accuse Matthew of trying to murder me—and then a woman dressed in a similar yellow gown fled from the very stables where he was found stabbed.’
‘How utterly ludicrous, accusing him like that!’ Mrs Wilberforce exclaimed. ‘She must not have known you were cousins. He spoke so highly of you, Henry. Poor Matthew... he was always so full of life.’
Charlotte nearly snorted.Full of lies, more like.
Mr Wilberforce added, ‘But he always managed to get himself into trouble with his romantic entanglements. Perhaps she was one of his jilted lovers?’
