Or was it a stallion?

She tore her gaze from the spectacle.

Mrs. White had wandered away from the ladies arranging the picnic baskets. Her enormous, confounding bonnet bobbed toward the other side of the hill.

Charlotte hurried to catch up with her. “Oh, Mrs. White.”

The woman slowed.

“Mrs. White, do you remember me from the other evening? I’m Miss Highwood.”

“Oh.” The widow looked her up and down. “Yes, of course.”

Charlotte curtsied. “Isn’t it a fine morning for a hunt?”

“I suppose it is.”

Mrs. White looked a bit baffled at Charlotte’s friendly overtures.

Perhaps she was shy.

Or . . . perhaps she was riddled with guilt over her torrid, illicit affaire in Sir Vernon Parkhurst’s library.

“I think I’ll remove my hat,” Charlotte said, unpinning her pert riding hat and making a show of basking in the sun. “Oh, the sunshine feels divine. Wouldn’t you like to remove your bonnet?”

Mrs. White smiled. “I freckle most dreadfully.”

“Just tip it back for a moment,” Charlotte urged. “Truly, the sun feels so delicious. You won’t freckle that quickly.”

The widow seemed to consider it, tilting her head skyward.

The sun promptly moved behind a cloud.

“Perhaps later,” she said.

Charlotte sighed. She began hoping for a strong gust of wind to catch that bonnet like a sail and pull it back. Even a stiff breeze would suffice, if it could tug loose a small wisp of hair. She wasn’t asking for much.

“Do let’s take a turn about the hill.” Charlotte linked arms with the woman. “I’d be so grateful if you could point out the local landmarks.”

The widow didn’t seem especially eager, but Charlotte hadn’t left her any polite way to refuse.

“I wish we’d had more opportunity to talk the other night,” Charlotte forged on, once they’d left the earshot of the others. “I could tell at once we’d have so much in common.”

“Truly?”

Mrs. White sounded skeptical, and Charlotte couldn’t blame her. The woman was at least ten years her senior, and, it was becoming increasingly apparent, not terribly vivacious. It was difficult to imagine what they would have in common.

It was also difficult to imagine Mrs. White wearing a scarlet garter, dousing herself in rich perfume, and shrieking her carnal pleasure atop a desk.

But it had to have been her. Charlotte’s deductions left no other option.

“Appearances,” Charlotte said, taking another approach, “can frequently be deceiving. Don’t you agree? The heart has so many secrets.”

The widow pointed. “There’s Oxton, over there. And to the north, all that green is Sherwood Forest.”

They’d completed their circle of the hill. Soon they’d be heading back to join the others.

She looked askance at her companion. She’d yet to spy even a stray lock at her nape or temple. What sort of hair preparation did the woman use? Plaster of Paris?

She had to do something. Something rash. She might not have another chance.

She gave a dramatic gasp. “Mrs. White, do be still. There’s a spider.”

“A spider?”

“A large spider. On your bonnet. Don’t startle, or you’ll tip it down your neck.” Charlotte moved close and slowly reached for the ribbons tied beneath the woman’s chin. “I’ll just unlace this very cautiously and then I’ll shake it out on the grass.”

“There’s no need.”

“But there is! Believe me, Mrs. White, this is a very nasty spider. It’s . . . it’s hairy. And fanged.”

Mrs. White put her hands over Charlotte’s, stopping her. “My dear girl, let us do away with pretense.”

“Pretense?”

“There’s no spider, and I know it.”

Charlotte’s shoulders sank. “You do?”

Mrs. White smiled. “My dear, you were correct. We do have something in common. I, too, know what it is to be young and confused. Wondering if you’ll ever meet a soul who understands the desires in your heart.”

“Really?”

Charlotte held her breath. Never mind the bonnet or the hair. Perhaps the woman was going to confess. This was going better than she’d dared to hope.

“There are many like us,” Mrs. White continued. “So many more than you’d think. You needn’t feel alone. I can’t say it will be easy, but there are ways to follow your heart.”

“What ways?”

“You could follow my example, marry an older man. Just a few years of submitting to his”—she cleared her throat—“attentions gave me a lifetime of security and freedom. My darling Emmeline, on the other hand . . . Well, the dear thing couldn’t countenance the prospect of marriage. She went straight into service. We took different paths, but somehow we found each other.”

Charlotte frowned in confusion. “But Mrs. White—”

“Oh, we can’t attend balls and picnics together. But in our own home, no one troubles us. We’re happy. You will find that happiness, too.” The widow pressed a fingertip over Charlotte’s lips. “You are a lovely young lady. So pretty and lively. There will come a day when you needn’t resort to imaginary spiders. Save your kisses for someone else.”

Save her kisses?

Her kisses.

“Oh, dear.” She forced a little laugh. “Mrs. White, I do beg your pardon. I think I’ve been misunderstood.”

“It’s all right. I’m rather flattered, truly. And I’d never dream of telling a soul.”

With a genuine, sympathetic smile, Nellie White turned and walked back toward the picnic gathering.

Well.

Charlotte was left to stand there, blinking at the Nottinghamshire landscape and absorbing the enormity of her foolishness.

She still hadn’t learned the color of Mrs. White’s hair, but apparently it didn’t matter. The widow wasn’t interested in the company of men.

Her investigation had reached another blind end.

Had she missed someone else on the list of guests? Had the perfume shopkeeper lied about the dark hair? Her deductions must have gone wrong somewhere.

So unspeakably frustrating.

Everything hung in the balance. Her reputation, the Grand Tour with Delia . . . the entirety of her future. And yet, Charlotte was most disappointed simply because she’d gotten it wrong.