‘Yes... quite,’ Lady Boulton murmured gratefully.
As Charlotte guided her gently towards the fire, she felt Lord Boulton’s glare follow them across the room. The man might well have followed them himself had Mrs Wilberforce not intercepted him.
‘Lord Boulton,’ Mrs Wilberforce cried warmly. ‘I hope your room is to your liking. We placed you in the family wing, as I believe your wife is sensitive to draughts. Do let us know if you require anything else.’
He replied in affected tones, ‘It is quite tolerable, thank you.’
He looked down upon the room at large as though it were beneath him to be standing there.
Charlotte ignored him and conversed with his wife for a few moments, while surreptitiously repeating the suspect names like a mantra in her head, committing each face to memory.
Bainbridge. Hamilton. Payne. Oswald. Fraser. Boulton.
A knot formed in her stomach. It was hard to believe that three among them were Grand Fellows—murderers and kidnappers. She placed a hand briefly upon her chest and forced herself to breathe evenly.
Charlotte, however, was relieved to find that the remaining guests had been invited solely through Mr and Mrs Wilberforce’s acquaintance and were not connected to the sinister house party held the previous year.
She smiled fondly towards the spinsters and cast a coy glance towards the Captain, who bowed in return.
Charlotte also found herself in easy conversation with Miss Pearson and, for a brief, improbable moment, could imagine a friendship forming in some gentler future.
The younger guests, meanwhile, occupied themselves exactly as expected. Miss Payne cast hopeful glances towards young Mr Oswald, while Miss Oswald appeared equally intent upon ensnaring young Mr Payne—each no doubt pursuing fortune, romance, or, ideally, both.
Mr Wilberforce appeared content to remain with his friends—Mr Lionel, a man of rigid military bearing and an impressively ludicrous moustache, and the widower Mr Smythe, both of whom Charlotte had the misfortune of having as dinner partners.
Still, Charlotte released a quiet breath. She much preferred their company despite the lack of lively conversation; at least these gentlemen, in this den of vipers, were harmless—even if dull as ditchwater.
Then there was Lord Stanley.
He stood smiling—smiling—at something the radiant Miss Fraser had said. Her golden ringlets gleamed beneath the chandeliers, and her pale pink gown shimmered with every movement.
She dazzled the room and monopolised his attention with alarming ease. One gloved hand rested possessively upon his sleeve as she leaned close to whisper something in his ear.
Lady Susan, Charlotte noted, scowled at the exchange.
Was he not meant to be impervious to feminine charm?
She blew an inward raspberry.
Men. Even icy barons were fools before a pretty face.
And yet, as Charlotte watched more closely, she realised his smile did not quite reach his eyes. It was polished, certainly. Courteous. Even handsome enough to be highly irritating. But there was something weary beneath it, as though he hadperformed this particular social duty too often and found the script exhausting.
Strangely, this only irritated Charlotte further, though she could not have said why.
And then, quite abruptly, the atmosphere shifted. Everything and everyone stilled. A chill slid down Charlotte’s back.
He entered.
Dark, sharp, predatory features. Steely eyes. Silver streaks at his temples. He moved like a stalking wolf—the irony of his masquerade mask struck her afresh. If one acted like an animal, one was likely to become one, Charlotte realised with terror.
A wolf indeed. Quiet. Lethal.
‘Ah, Lord Wolverton!’ Mrs Wilberforce cried, rising eagerly. ‘We were beginning to worry.’
Charlotte could not move.
It’s him. From the terrace. The killer.
