Unfortunately, her exasperated snort escaped before she could swallow it.
A sharp pair of icy blue eyes—startling even behind the mask—flicked towards her. The Panther held her gaze for what felt like a lifetime before returning to his game.
Charlotte released a quiet breath; she felt her cheeks turn pink. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, shivering. ‘I should start carrying smelling salts.’
The game began—cards whispering against felt, coins clinking, men murmuring. Charlotte watched silently, her eyes fixed on the Stag’s hands. He laughed and chatted, but his Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.
Perhaps he will lose his nerve, she prayed. Perhaps his conscience will intervene.
Her hopes were dashed when the glint of glass caught her eye.
The Stag discreetly tipped the contents of a small vial into a cup of coffee—the cup meant for the Panther.
So that must be Lord Stanley. Charlotte could scarcely believe what she had seen. He had done it—truly done it. A wave of disappointment washed over her. He had seemed so young, so redeemable... and then she remembered: he was already a criminal. This was merely a promotion.
What should she do? Seek a private word with Lord Stanley? Slip him a clandestine note—
She shook her head at once. No, that would be most improper.
And if other members of this nefarious society were in the card room, watching the Stag to ensure he completed the task, they might suspect she knew something—and she might not live to regret it.
She wanted to warn him, but would not risk exposing herself to the Odd Fellows.
Her mind raced. Then—inspiration struck.
She would trip. Dramatically. Into the table. The drink would spill, the attempt ruined. It would, unfortunately, also make her look quite unhinged. But better unhinged than dead.
Lord Stanley lifted the cup towards his lips. It was now or never.
Charlotte whispered a brief prayer, and without a second thought, she launched herself forward.
She executed the most extravagant stumble of her life, emitting a perfectly dreadful squeal as she went down. The table shuddered. Cards flew. Coins rolled. And the coffee, poisonand all, splashed across the green cloth instead of down the nobleman’s throat.
The entire room fell into silence, save for the occasional clink of coins. The footmen froze mid-serving.
Charlotte’s balance, alas, did not. She pitched forward. Lord Stanley moved swiftly; strong hands caught her by the waist, pulling her clear of the table’s edge, and she collided directly into his lap.
‘Good heavens,’ she muttered, just as a wave of citrus and spice—his cologne, distinctly expensive—overwhelmed her senses. Her arms tangled around his neck, her bosom pressed against his chest, and for one utterly mortifying second, she became acutely aware of the solid warmth of him, the strength beneath his coat, the steady rise of his breath... before her brain promptly abandoned ship.
‘Oh—oh, sir, I—I am so sorry,’ she babbled, attempting to scramble upright like an overturned beetle, but succeeding only in entangling herself further. ‘I tripped, you see, and my foot—oh dear—please do not move, I shall—oh heavens, is that your knee?’
‘Wait, madam,’ he said, his deep and dangerously calm voice reverberating through her.
He grasped her waist and lifted her as though she weighed no more than the coffee cup. Charlotte gasped, her hands instinctively tightening at his shoulders as she was steadied. The nearness of him was disconcerting, and every nerve sang where his hands had been.
Now upright, she saw him properly: tall, broad, and powerfully built, with the kind of presence that made the air shift around him. His beauty was the unkind sort—striking, severe, and utterly aware of it. And those eyes—piercing blue flecked with gold—were, at present, thoroughly unimpressed.
Charlotte opened her mouth but found no words. Magnificent, she thought helplessly. Pity he is about to roast me alive.
‘Young ladies such as you ought to be ashamed of such displays of wanton abandon,’ he said, his voice cutting through the silence. ‘Or did your mother put you up to this? Another unscrupulous ploy to entrap a lord?’
‘What? No—I tripped,’ she protested weakly.
He gave a weary sigh and tutted. ‘If that was a genuine “trip”, then I am the Prince Regent himself.’ He rolled his gaze down her body, making her squirm. ‘This would not be the first time a debutante has tripped and fallen onto me, miss. On purpose.’
Charlotte stepped back instinctively. ‘I did not!’ she cried—though, technically, she had. Just... not for that reason.
A few nervous giggles rippled from nearby ladies.
