An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 8.1. Gentle Art Of Retaliation

   Charlotte stared at the sumptuous array of breakfast dishes on the sideboard, her stomach churning with anxiety. The smell of skippered herrings made her feel slightly ill. The bite of hot buttered toast she'd taken wedged in her throat like sawdust.

   Strathmere might be hungry though; being a surly beast probably worked up a good appetite. She ought to sneak some of those sausages up to him. No. On second thought she ought to let him starve, drive him out like the wolf he was at heart. Heaven forbid she should encourage his insane behavior by feeding him buttered toast. Heaven forbid he regain any weight and grow stronger.

   "Dear, dear Charlotte, you have hardly eaten a crumb," her aunt chided, expelling a dramatic sigh. "You must have heard the awful news. It has affected my appetite, too."

   Uncle Humphrey glanced at Charlotte over the top of his newspaper and gave a subtle shake of his head. Presumably he was reassuring her that the awful news did not involve Damon.

   "What news?" Charlotte asked in a casual voice as she folded her napkin into tiny squares. In Chistlebury a chimney catching fire was liable to be viewed as an earth-shattering event.

   Her aunt paused to make sure she had everyone's attention. "The Strathmere Ghost struck again last night."

   Charlotte put down the mangled napkin, her heart giving a loud thump. "Oh?"

   Aunt Penelope nodded. "He seduced another young innocent as she slept."

   Charlotte caught her uncle rolling his eyes heavenward. "Seduced—"

   "Oh, for the love of God, Pennie," Humphrey said. "Don't fill her head with these lurid tales so early in the morning."

   Aunt Penelope looked offended for a full three seconds before continuing her tale. "Veronica Jersey was seduced last night in bed by the Strathmere Ghost, " she announced.

   Charlotte blinked. "Say it isn't so."

   Her aunt nodded. "There was a witness to the deed."

   "A married woman in her forties is hardly a young innocent," Uncle Humphrey mumbled into his newspaper. "Besides, Veronica looks like a scarecrow. I should think even a ghost would show better taste."

   Paulina grinned at Charlotte over the rim of her teacup. "I wonder what her husband makes of this."

   "He is understandably mortified," Aunt Penelope said. "In fact, he was the one to witness the act."

   Humphrey lowered his newspaper in exasperation. "Are you telling us that Howard actually saw the ghost having relations with his wife?"

   "Well." Penelope paused again. "The ghost was apparently invisible as spirits so often are. But Howard distinctly heard Veronica cry out, 'Oh, Strathmere, Strathmere! Do stop that, you daring devil! It tickles so!' And, for your information, the bed covers flew into the air."

   A deep silence swept across the room. Through the crack in the door Charlotte saw the maid come to a skidding halt in the hall; her duster was frozen in midair above the bust of Sir Francis Drake, her uncle's personal hero.

   Humphrey shook his head in chagrin. "Stop repeating this hysterical nonsense, Pennie, do you hear me? Strathmere was an honorable man in his prime when he was viciously murdered. I imagine the poor fellow is turning over in his grave at the very mention of—of tickling Veronica Jersey."

   Charlotte looked down at the table, suffering a sharp pang of guilty concern. The viscount's wounds had indeed been vicious. He might yet not survive them, and his death would indirectly be on her conscience. He really must have medicine. And sustenance. He had put her in the most precarious position. To think she had longed for some excitement to enliven her exile. Not to turn it upside down. She stared at the steam rising from her tea cup as if the wispy vapors could provide an answer. Could he really hold the key to Bernard's death? She wondered what her brothers would do in her place.

   Of course, being young men with a penchant for reckless behavior, they would probably join Strathmere's crusade for revenge. A young woman hardly had that option. What would her older sister, Lizzie, do? Instruct the viscount in the gentle art of retaliation? Insist he knock before breaking into a lady's bedchamber?

   She unfolded her napkin on her lap to catch the sausages and slice of toast she was nonchalantly sliding off her plate. "Does anyone have an idea as to who might have killed him? I should think catching him would be a priority."

   Her uncle set aside his paper. "That is the first intelligent thing anyone has said today."

   "And inappropriate." Aunt Penelope huffed. "Murder at this hour of the morning."

   No one said anything. No one was brave enough to point out that her ladyship had brought up the unnerving subject. Only after Uncle Humphrey raised the paper back to his face did he glance at Charlotte to mouth, "It's all most peculiar."

   Charlotte wanted very much to know what he thought, but even her liberal-minded uncle would be horrified if he discovered what she was doing.

   That she had virtually spent the night with a man who was so controversial that someone had intended to stab him to death. A man so strong willed he had risen from his grave to seek revenge.

   What was she to make of him? The village of Chistlebury seemed to be divided into who revered and those who despised him. Neither camp would be surprised to discover that his "ghost" had visited Lady Charlotte Brumidge in the middle of the night.

   Like attracts like, they would say.

   Perhaps they would even be right.

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