‘What,’ he asked with mild confusion, ‘are you doing?’
Charlotte flushed crimson. Trying to think of an answer without appearing utterly incompetent, she floundered.
‘Teaching Master Tom... er... spatial awareness.’
Lord Stanley glanced towards the door.
‘Tom, I regret to inform you, has been taking luncheon with his mother for the last quarter of an hour.’
Charlotte wilted.
He arched an aristocratic brow and, inclining his head slightly, observed, ‘You are very odd, Miss Lucas,’ his voice a warm rumble.
He moved past her, placing a small box of crayons on the nursery table.
‘Tom asked me to get him more. Please see that he receives them.’
And then, with a ghost of a smile that might have been a smirk, he left her standing there—mortified.
Charlotte remained in the schoolroom, vexed, pressing a hand to her burning face as though she might will her dignity back into existence. Of all the rooms in all the houses in England, he invariably appeared in whichever one she occupied whilst tripping, shouting, falling, or behaving like a complete lunatic. Truly, it was becoming a curse.
She half imagined him lurking behind doorways like some aristocratic spectre whose sole purpose was to materialise whenever she made a fool of herself. If he ever witnessed her in a state of composure or competence, he would probably drop dead of shock.
A few minutes later, once she had recovered from her embarrassment, Charlotte set off in search of Tom and, sure enough, found him sitting obediently beside his mother. He gave her a smile as though butter would not melt in his mouth.
‘Ah, Miss Lucas, come and join us,’ said Mrs Wilberforce cheerfully, pouring her a cup of tea.
‘Thank you,’ Charlotte replied, accepting it. ‘Master Tom has made some progress in his writing skills, have you not?’ She narrowed her eyes at the boy. ‘Though he still has much to learn about following certain rules.’
The boy looked momentarily afraid, so Charlotte relented.
‘I am sure we will get there.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ returned Mrs Wilberforce distractedly, reading from a parchment and missing the silent exchange between Charlotte and Tom.
Tom blew out a breath of relief and had the grace to look a little sheepish for the first time after pulling one of his pranks.
‘I do not know how I am going to write out all these invitations; it will take all day,’ Mrs Wilberforce bemoaned.
Charlotte jumped at her chance.
‘I can help you, Mrs Wilberforce.’ She tempered her tone to avoid sounding too eager.
‘Would you?’ she replied. ‘That will be most helpful, Miss Lucas.’
Who would have thought the list would fall so readily into her hands? Charlotte could scarcely believe her luck.
She took the list and scanned the names. She recognised Sir Oswald at once—the architect who had arranged work on the mansion—as well as Mr Fraser, whom she had already met. Another name—Lord Bainbridge—she recalled on behalf of her friend the previous year. Otherwise, there were none who knew her from her former life.
Then, as her gaze travelled lower, her breath caught.
It had to be him—the killer.
There were no other lords’ names beginning with ‘W’ save one:
Lord Wolverton.
At last she had found her quarry. She was certain that, when he arrived, she would recognise him; his build and thesilhouetted profile of his face were etched in her memory like writing upon stone. The voice that haunted her dreams—the voice from the hedge, the shadowed figure who had ordered a murder—would soon be within arm’s reach.
