Mrs Dent pressed her lips together, her disapproval unmistakable.
‘Mrs Wilberforce is where she ought to be—at the dowager house. The late Mr Matthew Stanley was to have taken up residence here as the next Baron and had already moved in. It would not have been appropriate.’
‘Oh, I see. It must have been... difficult for him, when the missing heir returned.’
Mrs Dent’s mouth tightened, but she offered no reply.
‘I understand he held a house party last year. Is it not something of a tradition for new barons?’ Charlotte said lightly, as though the matter held little consequence.
‘An embarrassment,’ Mrs Dent said sharply. ‘He celebrated too soon—with that house party. He was advised against it, but young men are headstrong.’
‘I wonder why they all attended when he was not officially the Baron?’
‘The late Baron held the same parties each year—the same people attended—his friends and neighbours. I suppose it became habitual. They would often take turns hosting such gatherings across their various estates.’
Charlotte tilted her head. ‘Then Mr Stanley must have attended other house parties last year...’
Mrs Dent gave a curt shrug. ‘I am sure he wished to, but he was far too preoccupied with estate repairs and improvements,’ she replied definitively. ‘He simply did not have the time.’
And with that, she swept out.
Charlotte let out a quiet breath. Despite Mrs Dent’s obvious reluctance to be gregarious, at least her words confirmed one thing for certain.
If Matthew Stanley had attended only one house party—his own—then it must have been the one the Wolf spoke of: the gathering where three Grand Fellows had been present. And if she could discover who had attended, she would be one step closer to uncovering the true killer. The thought sent a flicker of renewed hope through her.
She remained where she was, her mind racing, then a disturbing thought struck her. If the same guests attended year after year, did that mean the late Baron himself had been a member of the Odd Fellows? The notion unsettled her. The more she considered it, the more it seemed to fit. Perhaps Matthew Stanley had been introduced to the society through his uncle.
Or perhaps it was all coincidence—and the late Baron had been entirely oblivious, unaware that at least four of his neighbours and acquaintances belonged to a nefarious society.
She would attempt to gather more information from Mrs Dent later. For now, she turned her attention to settling into her new accommodations.
Servants followed with the trunks. The rooms were surprisingly comfortable—bright, freshly whitewashed, and far warmer than the draughty dowager house they had left behind.
Charlotte’s room was spacious, with a larger bed and even an armchair beside a roaring fire that lent the space a cosy air.
A neat writing desk stood beneath the window; a wardrobe gleamed with new brass fittings.
Sarah and Charlotte set to unpacking at once.
‘This looks newer than the rest of the house,’ Sarah observed.
‘I think this section was rebuilt after the fire,’ Charlotte replied, running her fingers over the smooth plaster. The faint scent of fresh paint lingered—strangely comforting.
‘It is odd,’ she added softly. ‘From the outside, the house looks so forbidding—but here, it almost feels like home.’
Chapter 13
That evening proved long. Tom, intimidated by the grandeur of his surroundings, refused to sleep. He begged for stories, demanded water, and flinched each time the wind howled through the chimney. Charlotte felt a pang of sympathy for the boy; though he had been young at the time, she was sure he still recalled the fire and the upheaval that followed.
At last, Charlotte lay awkwardly along the edge of his bed, humming softly until his breathing slowed. She stayed there until dawn, her back aching and her mind restless. For some reason, her thoughts kept wandering to the master of this house. Had he arranged the comforts of their rooms, or was it Mrs Wilberforce? It seemed unlikely to have been Mrs Wilberforce, as she herself had said she had not visited the place since the refurbishments. He seemed so severe in manner, yet when Charlotte had seen him interact with Tom earlier, he had looked like a different man—warmer, softer, and oddly more human. Charlotte tutted to herself and turned over in the bed.
If she was to survive this house—and its unnerving master—she needed focus. Finding the real killer and caring for Tomwere her purpose. Everything else, including the Icy Baron, must remain a distant concern.
She managed to slip out of the bed without waking Tom and sought refuge in her own chamber, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. She repeated her purpose over and over until she finally fell into a fitful sleep, and struggled to open her eyes the next morning.
Lucy brought in the breakfast tray for them, but this time the ladies were surprised to find a far more lavish spread: warm toast with melting butter, eggs, rashers, and more. They ate with relish whilst Lucy bustled about tidying.
‘The servants’ quarters are so much nicer here, Miss Lucas,’ Lucy said excitedly. ‘The cook lets us have more treats too.’
