An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 12.1. The Chosen Victim

   When Charlotte came downstairs for breakfast the following morning, it was to find the household in chaos. Uncle Humphrey was hurrying through the hall with his walking stick tucked under his brown greatcoat. His hair was unbrushed, and his cravat was askew as if he had dressed in haste. He gave Charlotte a panicked look as he noticed her at the foot as he noticed her at the foot of the stairs.

   "Fetch your cloak and escape with me while you can, my dear," he said in a stage whisper. "A madness has descended on us, and I wish no part in it."

   "What madness?" Charlotte asked, but her voice was drowned out by the furor of female voices in the parlor and the yapping of dogs outside waiting for Humphrey's promised walk in the woods.

   Paulina appeared in the parlor doorway, her freckled face animated and pink. "Oh, Charlotte, at last you are here. The meeting has already begun."

   "The meeting," Charlotte echoed, her brain still in a fog as Paulina came forward to pull her into the parlor. "What meeting?"

   "My mother has called the ladies of Chistlebury together to discuss our common crisis."

   Charlotte's temples began to tighten with the unpleasant tension of an impending headache. She was cross and tired from laboring unsuccessfully over Bernard's letter until four in the morning. And she was still angry and at odds over whether Benedic had actually touched her during the night or whether she had dreamed those naughty things he had done to her.

   She couldn't decide which was worse. She did know she was in no mood to sit and discuss the misconduct of the Strathmere Ghost. The parson's wife rose to shepherd Charlotte to the overcrowded sofa, where a matron and her two unmarried daughters sat avidly discussing this frightening threat to the female community. Paulina squeezed beside her.

   A deep hush fell over the parlor. All attention moved to Charlotte in a combination of sympathetic curiosity and prim disapproval. Almost as if she, by dint of her reputation, had brought this scandal upon their excitement-starved village. She cleared her throat and met their stared with guileless smile.

   All at once the women began to speak again.

   She rested her head back on the sofa, stifling a yawn. Numbers from Bernard's cryptic message danced behind her burning eyelids. Why had he felt the need to write in code in Nepal? Had Napoleon's agents been sent to that distant outpost to challenge British interests?

   She opened her eyes in startlement as the woman seated next to her shook her arm. "He must be laid. Don't you agree, Lady Charlotte?"

   "What did you say?"

   The woman looked at her in concern. "It is our duty to lay him."

"To do what to whom?"

   "Lay him. To rest, my dear. The poor spirit is clearly seeking a woman to help him find peace."

   To Charlotte's way of thinking, the "poor spirit" had been seeking something else from a certain woman last night, and laying him might or might not be the answer.

   "How do you propose to do this?" she asked, thinking she probably did not want to be involved.

   Before the matron could answer, the room erupted in an uproar. A newcomer had arrived, a striking Gypsy woman in a scarlet skirt and fringed green shawl, gaudy silver bracelets stacked on each wrist. Her sparkling brown eyes, set above a small hooked nose in a thin face, surveyed her audience with amused disdain.

   Aunt Penelope pushed a Chippendale chair into the center of the crowded room for her esteemed guest to hold court. "Tell us, Madame Mara," she demanded, clasping her hands to the back of the chair. "Tell us which one of us will be his next victim."

   "Madame" Mara, who was probably nineteen if she was a day, circled the chair with indolent grace, recognizing an enrapt audience when she saw it.

   "Get me something to drink."

   The parson's wife sprang from her chair to pour a cup tea. She passed the cup and saucer to Paulina, who passed it in turn to the woman beside her, who handed it to Penelope with the reverence one might impart to the Holy Grail.

   Madame Mara took the tea and sat. The other women in the room watched her slurp in fascinated silence as if even this simple act held grave import for their future.

   Charlotte's eyelids felt heavy with fatigue. She was dying to go back upstairs and work on Bernard's letter, but she had slept much in the past two days. The strain of what was happening had begun to catch up with her.

   "It is . . . you."

   She heard the collective gasp that went around the room and looked up in curiosity, alarmed to see the Gypsy pointing straight to the sofa where Charlotte sat. Her heart jumped into her throat. The Gypsy could not possibly know. It was a wild guess, an unfair judgment to pass due to the gossip about her scandalous past.

   "Now wait a moment," she said, her face growing warm. "Just because I am the stranger among you is no reason to assume—"

   She did not have a chance to finish. The chatter in the room rose into a cacophony of voices, shrill, shocked, a dozen women sympathizing with the chosen victim.

   "This really is not fair," Charlotte said in embarassment.

   Aunt Penelope was veering toward her with such a look distress that Charlotte could not help feeling guilty. Was it possible the Gypsy knew the truth? No. She couldn't know. Labeling Charlotte as the ghost's chosen one was—

   "A mistake," Aunt Penelope sputtered. "It must be a mistake. Not my innocent little lamb."

   Charlotte blinked, turning her head to examine the young woman seated beside her. Paulina? The Gypsy had not pointed to Charlotte at all, but to her cousin, who was grinning like an elf at being singled out for this unexpected honor.

   "I shall fight this with all my strength," Aunt Penelope cried in a militant voice, raising her fist to the heavens. "The Strathmere Ghost will not have my daughter!"

   The Strathmere Ghost, Charlotte thought cynically, might have a word or two to say on the subject himself. But considering the fact that for the first time in ages Charlotte was not center of scandal, be it real or imagined, she chose to hold her tongue and enjoy a little obscurity.

   It would be nice, for a change, to be ignored. It might even give her a measure of liberty. Of course, Benedic would not appreciate having this ludicrous attention drawn to him again. But then if he did not want his spirit laid, he should not sneak into women's bedrooms to take advantage of them as they slept. Someone really ought to put a stop to him. He was certainly more lascivious than he would admit.

   Still, he had stolen back his letter, and Charlotte thought it unlikely that she would ever have another chance to scold him as she would like. Given the danger that surrounded him, she told herself this was for the best.

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