Charlotte chose to follow the Stag into the card room. There was nothing for it—she simply could not allow a man to be murdered right under her nose. Not if she had anything to say about it. Her earlier fear of being labeled as the “rude girl” had all but evaporated. She no longer cared what the tabbies said. A man’s life was at stake. Perspective had a way of clearing up fears.
She prised herself off the bench and discovered her legs had gone quite numb. Wonderful. The saviour of the evening, and she could barely walk. After punching some feeling back into them, she slowly crept from her hiding spot and glanced about, in case anyone was lurking nearby. Thankfully, apart from the muffled giggling of a couple returning from their clandestine stroll, the garden was deserted.
She exhaled. ‘Right then, Charlotte,’ she muttered. ‘Prevent a murder. Do not hiccup. And, for heaven’s sake, do not let Mama find out. Oh—and do try not to get yourself caught by these nefarious people. The Odd Fellows, after all, could be anyone.’
A most ambitious undertaking, she reflected, as she ascended the stairs and opened the terrace door. One she had no notion how to fulfil, but whether it was the lingering effects ofthe spirits or the indignation stirred by the injustice about to be committed, she felt a flicker of boldness.
A flood of light, music, and heat hit her like a wall. She searched the ballroom for the Stag, but could not spot him. She would have to make her way to the card room and see if she could catch him there.
Charlotte wove through the crowd, keeping close to the walls. No one seemed to notice her, which she supposed was fortunate, and she shook her head in bemusement. Just earlier this evening she had been worried she might make the scandal sheets for misspeaking to a lord.
Normally, women were not permitted in the card room, but given the masked nature of the evening, the rules were somewhat more relaxed. As she slipped into the masculine space, the smell of cigars prickled her nose, and the swirls of smoke hanging in the air lent the room a surreal, dreamlike quality.
If Mama could see me now, she thought wryly, she would faint into the nearest potted palm and never recover.
A few bold women had already entered, and some were even participating in the games, laughing rather too loudly at poor jokes. Most, however, were content to observe and flirt with whichever gentleman looked most promising.
Charlotte trailed in and joined a cluster of ladies cheering on a lively poker game. The room was warmer than the ballroom—uncomfortably so—and soon beads of perspiration gathered at her temple. She searched frantically for the young man, but many wore similar masks. Each time she thought she found him, she realised it was not so.
She worried her lip as a feeling of impending doom settled in the pit of her stomach.
What if I’m already too late?
Just as the dreadful thought formed, she spotted him. Or rather, his ugly stag veneer.
He entered the room and brushed past her shoulder. Her heart leapt to her throat. ‘There you are, you villainous venison,’ she murmured.
He made his way to the far side of the room and sat at a round table with five other players. He seemed to know them all despite their masks, laughing and jesting like old friends.
Charlotte, aghast, could hardly believe his ease. How could he be so cheerful when he was about to commit murder? The monster!
She moved closer, perching on a chair beside two women observing their game, which was about to begin. Charlotte, of course, had no plan. She was improvising, trusting instinct—and a small dose of lunacy—to guide her.
At close quarters, even through the haze of smoke and his mask, she could now see his nervousness: the darting glances and his restless leg beneath the table.
Not quite the hardened villain after all. She softened a fraction. Perhaps he would not go through with it.
A footman moved among the gentlemen with a tray of drinks and coffee, followed by another offering the ladies cordial. Charlotte copied the women and accepted a glass, though her hand trembled so violently she nearly sloshed it down her bodice. She set it down immediately.
She had no idea who Lord Stanley was, but she guessed he must be one of the two gentlemen seated beside the Stag. One was portly, bald, and gruff, wearing a pig mask that did nothing to flatter him. The other was broad-shouldered and muscular, with a full head of dark, curly hair. He wore a sleek black panther mask. It obscured little: a cleft chin, a firm mouth, and the sort of jaw that could have been sculpted for the express purpose of annoying women.
Charlotte, naturally, hoped the victim would be the pig. The panther looked far too dangerous for her interventions. The pig seemed safer, easier to manage.
‘What took you so long, my boy?’ the Pig said affably, clapping the Stag’s back. ‘We have been waiting this half hour!’
‘Oh, I bumped into an old flame...’ the Stag replied with a grin.
The men laughed. Charlotte rolled her eyes.
Old flame, indeed. More like eternal damnation, if he is not careful.
‘Come now, surely you are not getting into trouble again. We all remember last time,’ said the Panther in a deep, firm tone that brooked no nonsense.
Charlotte winced a little. She would not wish to be on his wrong side.
The Stag shrank slightly. ‘No, no... nothing like that. Just a bit of light-hearted fun.’
Charlotte could not help it; the words burst in her head like fireworks. Light-hearted? she thought savagely.If that is your idea of fun, I dread to think what you consider serious recreation.
