But as she brushed past him, she felt the weight of his gaze linger—unsettlingly close, almost tangible.
‘Miss Lucas,’ he said softly, ‘have we met before?’
Her stomach lurched. She kept her eyes fixed upon the banister.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘You seem... oddly familiar.’
Charlotte smiled awkwardly. ‘I do not recall meeting you, my lord.’
With that, she rushed up the stairs and nearly tripped. Behind her, his low chuckle followed.
She did not stop until she reached her bed chamber, where she flung herself onto the bed and groaned into the pillow.
‘Brilliant, Charlotte. Simply brilliant. Now he thinks you are a mad governess.’
The next few days brought a surprising flurry of life to the mansion. Lord Stanley’s return had stirred society like a hornet’s nest. Guests arrived in carriages to pay their respects to the new Baron, letters came and went, and Mrs Dent bustled through the corridors looking thoroughly exasperated. Charlotte encountered Lord Stanley only when escorting Tom to luncheon with his family.
He appeared to have forgotten the library incident and remained aloof, distant, and dismissive of her, which suited her just fine. Thankfully, the affair had stirred no further memory in him, and she was deeply grateful for it.
However, it had also spurred Charlotte on in her mission. Yet despite her best efforts, she could not persuade Mrs Dent to part with any useful information.
She was therefore surprised one morning to find Mrs Dent appearing in the nursery doorway, seemingly more amiable than her usual severe self.
‘You are to present yourself for the evening dinners once the house party begins, Miss Lucas—Master’s orders. The gown you wore last time will not do. Do you have others?’
Charlotte glanced down at herself. ‘Only my usual gowns.’
Mrs Dent tutted. ‘Just as I feared. Very well, I shall have a few made. You may be required to attend every evening once the house party begins.’
‘The master’s orders? Are you certain?’ Charlotte asked, for she was quite sure he scarcely acknowledged her existence.
Mrs Dent tutted again. ‘Precisely what I said. He was most particular on the matter.’
Charlotte was nonplussed. Surely Mrs Dent must be mistaken; perhaps Mrs Wilberforce had persuaded him to include her.
‘When will they arrive?’ she asked.
Mrs Dent surprised her with a civil answer.
‘I have no idea, miss, but as he has not been home in over seven years, I expect it to be a large affair.’
‘Seven years! When he saw his sister, it did not seem as though they had been so long apart,’ Charlotte ventured. ‘There appears a great deal of affection between them.’
‘They met in London recently. It is not his sister that is the difficulty,’ Mrs Dent said, lowering her voice. ‘I believe he dislikes this place—it was his childhood home. His father disowned him, you know, after he became a Saracen.’
Charlotte’s eyes widened at the slur.
‘You mean—he is Muslim,’ she corrected.
Mrs Dent gave a faintly disapproving sniff.
‘He inherited everything after the late Baron’s death. One might suppose society would cut him off for such...unconventional beliefs, but money smooths all offences. Goodness knows how he made his fortune abroad—ill-gotten means, I should think.’
Charlotte absorbed this, astonished.
‘How hypocritical of society—especially if his fortune was indeed acquired by questionable means,’ she muttered. Anne had claimed he dealt in antiquities, but Mrs Dent seemed to suggest otherwise.
