There was no doubt, even without the mask.
She felt the hair on her arms rise as Wolverton’s gaze swept the room. When his eyes passed over her, Charlotte flinched. A sharp breath caught in her throat—fear of recognition—but he looked beyond her without pause. Only then did she release it slowly.
Silly goose. How could he recognise me when he does not know who I am? Calm down.
He soon stood conversing with Lord Stanley, smiling with a warmth that suggested the closest friendship. His bow was elegant, his voice well-modulated, his manner so perfectly at ease that anyone might have thought him the safest gentleman in the room.
Charlotte knew better.
How could a childhood friend harbour such malice?
It was not merely the desire to kill that unsettled her—it was the betrayal. The willingness to do so despite shared history.Charlotte felt the imagined blade of such treachery as keenly as if it were directed at herself.
She swallowed the surge of sympathy.
Lord Stanley needed to be informed. She gathered her courage to speak to him privately after the evening concluded.
Until then, she would remain vigilant for any attempt at poisoning.
Thank goodness Lord Stanley kept his glass firmly in hand throughout the evening. Wolverton would have found it difficult to tamper with it unnoticed. Perhaps he did believe her letter, after all.
Wolverton, meanwhile, proved charming company for the ladies, particularly Lady Susan, who appeared to have shifted her attentions in his direction. No doubt, Charlotte thought, giving up on Lord Stanley as a lost cause to Miss Fraser’s youth and Miss Pearson’s beauty. Lady Susan smiled and fluttered her fan at Lord Wolverton’s remarks with renewed purpose.
Dinner was announced.
Charlotte continued to observe the company as she ate quietly near the lower end of the table. It was difficult to reconcile the convivial atmosphere with the possibility that someone up the table was a killer.
As she watched the continued easy geniality between Lord Stanley and Wolverton, a quiet, persistent voice began to trouble her mind, growing more insistent with every passing course.
If she accused Lord Wolverton now, Lord Stanley would undoubtedly dismiss her as a lunatic—particularly after her recent performance before him. She could not shake the uncomfortable suspicion that he regarded her as incompetent and meddlesome—if not entirely peculiar.
Especially after she had accused his cousin of similar crimes. Would he truly believe that his oldest friend might also belong to the Odd Fellows? Especially if the accusation came from her.
Her thoughts churned restlessly.
At that very moment, Lord Stanley glanced in her direction, and she felt the weight of his cool reserve. Or was she imagining it? Another fear surfaced: if she revealed herself as Charlotte Walker, would he even listen at all? Or send her straight to a holding cell?
She recalled how, despite the letter she had written explaining everything, he had focused his efforts upon finding her rather than the true killer. Worse still, he had publicly named her as the prime suspect.
No. It would be unwise to reveal anything further—not until she possessed undeniable proof of Wolverton’s connection to the Odd Fellows.
As Chief Magistrate with authority over the Bow Street Runners, Lord Stanley would surely know of the Odd Fellows and the work Grace and Lord Armitage had undertaken the previous year. If Charlotte could link Wolverton to the three Grand Fellows, even he could not dismiss such evidence.
Secret societies always bore symbols. She felt certain of it. Marks, tokens, coded gestures—something by which members recognised one another.
In that instant, she made her decision.
She would wait until the house party was fully underway. Surely they would attempt to convene. And if she could catch Wolverton among them, she would not only identify the killer, but the masterminds behind the scenes as well.
Until then, she would observe.
Then—to her horror—Wolverton’s gaze settled directly upon her.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was the look of a predator assessing prey, and she felt suddenly, absurdly, like a rabbit frozen in an open field.
She refused to look away.
