Could it have been her? He rolled the thought around in his mind while he walked the room. The War Office knew a woman was involved. The Black Dahlia, they called her, and she headed the operation. They suspected she was a member of the aristocracy, and if she had been here tonight, as an anonymous tip had revealed, that meant they were right.
But with hundreds of bodies crammed in the ballroom downstairs, it was nearly impossible to figure out who had been here.
He cursed, tugging on his cravat. He should have been on time. If he'd done his duty, this would be over. He would know who she was and the identity of one of her lackeys. But he'd failed. And now his last mission would continue.
Lord, how he was ready for this to be done. He traced the furniture again, searching the cushions, the mantle, the heavily polished end tables for something, anything that they could have left. Something to reveal their identities.
Nothing.
He skimmed around the sofa, resting his hands on the spine. Five minutes. That's the most he could have missed them by. Five. Bloody. Minutes. He hung his head, blowing out a breath.
Something in the shadows caught his eye. He cocked his head, kneeling to touch whatever disrupted the darkness. His eyes widened. Silk. He pulled the snowy white glove toward the light, eyeing the feminine garment and then the darkened hiding space behind the couch.
Carefully, he brought the fabric to his nose. A light lemon scent clung to the material.
Nerves tingled up his spine. No, he shouldn't jump to conclusions. This glove could belong to anyone. Someone could have been in here earlier, sat on the couch, and dropped their glove without notice.
But then, what lady would return to a ball missing a glove? No, she would have returned for it.
And there was no way this glove belonged to the Black Dahlia. The woman was too meticulous to leave any traces of herself.
His eyes gleamed. There were other explanations, but only one stood out firmly. Only one felt true.
There was a witness.
Chapter 2
Charlotte stumbled into the ladies' retiring room, grateful no one else occupied the space. Her breath puffed as her lungs struggled to pull in enough air. Plopping into one of the stuffed stools, she stared at her reflection in the oversize mirror, her cornflower eyes wide, her cheeks leeched of color. She pinched her skin, but it did little to add life.
A maid brought her a cool glass of water in offering, and Charlotte accepted it, drinking the chilled beverage in one gulp.
"Would you like another, my lady?"
"No." Charlotte cleared the lump in her throat. "No, thank you."
"May I help you with your hair?"
Charlotte swiveled back toward the gilded mirror, wincing at the mess of golden curls. She'd be lucky if half her pins were intact. How had that happened? Had she pulled on her hair on the way back? "I would appreciate it."
"Of course." The firm tugs from the maid's ministrations helped ground her in the present.
Her hands fisted in her lap, and her palm smoothed over silk. Her mouth gaped at the ungloved hand. My glove. She gasped. She lost her glove. How could she have been so careless? She couldn't return to the ballroom without it.
But she couldn't go back to the room she had left it in either. She wouldn't.
Her stomach turned as her mind replayed what she'd overheard.
She wanted to run home, curl in a ball, and forget everything that had happened. But she couldn't leave. No matter what happened, she had to stay. She might not know who she could trust, but two people had murdered someone and gotten away with it. Lord Barnsal may have been an old man with no family, but he meant something to someone. It was her duty to figure out who the people from the room were. To do that, she'd have to converse and dance with as many peers as possible until she recognized their voices. She might not get another opportunity like this again. Whoever they were, she was sure they were here tonight. She couldn't say that for subsequent gatherings.
She shuffled her feet and cleared her throat. "I, um, seemed to have misplaced my glove."
"Oh, well, there are extras you can have. Lady Leatherby keeps them stocked in case a glove tears or is soiled. I could fetch a pair, if you would like."
"Yes, please. How thoughtful of her ladyship."
"I've always thought so." The willowy maid patted Charlotte's styled hair. "There. That should hold much better now."
Charlotte shook her head, testing the strength of her new pins. "It's perfect. Thank you. I will dance with confidence."
"Very good. I'll go fetch those gloves."
Charlotte nodded, focusing back on the mirror. Her color had improved. Even her lips were rosier. Her eyes looked haunted though, changing the color from a rich blue to something deeper. Something darker. That same darkness swirled within her chest. Nothing could change what she'd experienced. She had to move forward, and be grateful whoever had been in that room had never seen her. No one would ever know what she'd heard.
She'd left her glove there, but it was impossible that someone could figure out who it belonged to. Every lady in attendance wore similar gloves.
The maid delivered the snowy garments, and Charlotte whispered her thanks as she tugged them on. Slipping from the room, she gulped deep breaths, forcing herself toward the ballroom, to face the crowds, to find a murderer.
The heat from too many bodies in one room hit her as she stepped onto the crowded floor. It was a crush tonight, as no one would dare miss a ball at the Leatherbys'. The orchestra played a brisk quadrille, but its chords were muted by the roar of conversation.
She stepped around a portly gentleman. "Excuse me." She nodded politely, working her way to where she had last left her mother. She had to be around here somewhere.
She nodded to Lady Howard as she passed, hoping the plump matron wouldn't pull her in for further conversation. She wasn't so lucky.
"My dear Lady Charlotte, do come over here and offer us your opinion!" the woman shouted, and the crowd around her shuffled at the breach in etiquette.
Charlotte groaned, but stifled the sound. Lady Howard wasn't mean-spirited, but conversation with her was less than pleasant because she attempted to rule the ton's gossip ring.
Steeling her shoulders, Charlotte joined the group. "Good evening." Charlotte squeezed between two pale-faced debutantes she had recently been acquainted with, but could not recall their names. Drat.
"We're so glad you joined us." Lady Howard glanced around the circle that comprised the rest of her audience. Lady Pembroke had married an earl several years earlier, and Charlotte only felt pity for the man. The woman was a viper. The other, Lady Rose, had been out in society longer than Charlotte and was considered on the shelf. Although Charlotte could not fathom why a twenty-three-year-old was considered past her prime. Women she knew still had children well into their thirties. It was absolute rubbish.
Lady Norland, the recently widowed countess, shifted nervously next to Lady Pembroke, shrinking her shoulders and successfully deflecting the group's attention. It must be horrible to be so shy. Lord Buckley had accidentally bumped into the woman at the Grovers' ball last week, and the widow almost fainted from the unintentional contact and resulting attention.
"I'm happy to join the group." Charlotte eyed the misfits one more time.
Lady Howard lowered her voice. "Lady Pembroke and I were discussing who the catch of the season was, and there seems to be some debate. I think the Marquess of Huntly at the top. What is your opinion?"
All eyes shifted to Charlotte, and she forced back a groan. This is what was so important? Figuring out who was the catch of the season? Just another bickering match between the two women? For heaven's sake, she'd just been in the presence of two murders. Who gave a fig whether one man was a better catch for a husband or not? "The Marquess of Huntly is without a doubt a great catch," she said noncommittally before scanning the crowd. Where were her parents?
Lady Howard harrumphed. "Yes. But that wasn't the question, dear. Is he the catch?"
"Yes. Yes." Lady Pembroke flicked her fan in annoyance. "What of the Duke of Devonshire? He outranks the Marquess."
"But he doesn't have nearly as much income," Lady Howard said.
Lady Pembroke smiled, her lips curving sharply. "But he's handsome. A handsome duke counts for something."
Such malice. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. Could Lady Pembroke be the murderess? She listened to the woman continue to argue on the Duke of Devonshire's personal attributes, but couldn't decide if her voiced matched the woman from the room or not.