The news rocked the tiny village of Chistlebury to its roots. Charlotte, who seemed to have developed an intolerance to clean country air, had caught a nasty chest cold and could not attend the funeral. The truth was that even before he died, Benedic had become a ghost to her, haunting her thoughts at all hours. She had dreamed of that kiss in the rain. She'd sworn to snub him the next time they met. She'd imagined kissing him again. She had even vowed that one day she and her brothers would hunt down his murderer.
She had cried in bed for two full days after the funeral, privately mourning her rude but attractive rescuer for reasons she could not explain. Her older brothers—Geordo, Henry, and David—had made a brief journey to pay their respects. No one appeared to have any idea who had killed Strathmere. His uncle Edward had rushed all the way from Wales to investigate and handle practical matters.
But the parson had let it slip that Strathmere might have a done a little spying during his war days; an old enemy could have resurfaced to murder him. And then his alleged attraction to a few married women had not exactly won him friends. He was a man who had lived as he pleased and apparently iced to please no one but himself. Little wonder he was not widely mourned.
He was dead, and Charlotte had no choice but to forget him. She would not have been wise to encourage his attention anyway. He was a man who had lived on the darker side of life. For all she knew, he had done something to merit death. For all she knew, he would have been her downfall. And yet, for many reasons, she hoped his killer would be caught.
Paulina's high-pitched voice drew her back to the less interesting present. "He came here right after you left," she whispered as they entered Charlotte's bedchamber.
"Who came here?" Charlotte asked blankly, resenting the return to reality.
"Your brother, of course."
For a few irrational seconds Charlotte had thought that Paulina meant the Strathmere Ghost. As matters stood, however, she did not have the luxury of worrying about the dead. It was the living who were tormenting her. Specifically, the living in the form of her brother Damon, who had become a wanted outlaw as the result of a prank he'd played last month.
On the way home a gaming hall in Chelsea, Damon and two of his cocksure friends had held up a carriage that they believed was transporting a young courtesan who had been encouraging their attentions as well as denuding their pockets all evening.
The carriage, however, had belonged to an elderly banker. Shots had been fired, a doorman wounded, and Damon had gone into hiding while his brother the marquess pulled strings to smooth down the mess his reckless sibling had made.
Charlotte unbuttoned her blue muslin gown and sank down onto the bed with an involuntary shiver, staring at one of the bulging leather trunks that had arrived during the day. The other had been dragged into the dressing closet for lack of closet for lack of space. Her sister Lizzie had sent a costume to cover every occasion, not guessing how empty Charlotte's social life had become.
"I suppose Damon wanted more money," she said, staring around the room. Was it her imagination, all the talk of ghosts, that made her edgy and alert? Or was she worried because it seemed that her family was on the verge of falling apart? Except for Geordo, happily married to his clever wife, Joan, all her Brumidge siblings appeared to be unsettled. Perhaps she should concentrate on her newfound admirer Lord Sinclair. He had the most gorgeous brown eyes and teasing grin, even if he had seemed a trifle shallow. Why could she not be satisfied with a young man like him?
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