Chapter 4.1.2. Torn Between Wild Terror And Self-survival

"Our secret?" Strathmere's shadow had moved again on the wall. Not enough to give him away. Only a menacing reminder to Charlotte that he was listening to every word, that she could not so much as exhale without his awareness of it. "What secret, Uncle Humphrey?" She asked blankly.

"Our secret about Damon." He gave her an odd look. "I'm not upset at you, Charlotte. It's natural to protect your brother. But you must warn him the house could well be under scrutiny. Chistlebury is a far cry from London—"

"You certainly do not need to tell me that."

Her uncle frowned at her. "The authorities here never have enough enough to occupy their hours. The silly boy is liable to get shot before anyone realizes he is young lord in search of idle mischief. Gloves and garters, Charlotte. Ah, well. At least no one was hurt this time."

She leaned her forehead on the door. The suspense of knowing Strathmere was waiting for her made it impossible to concentrate on the conversation. Surely he did not mean to spend the night in her room. "Damon is not here."

"I say, is there something wrong with you, Charlotte? Your color looks rather off. You aren't taking sick again, are you?"

The closet door gave a distinct creak. Couldn't her uncle hear it? Could he not guess by the panic in her eyes that a man was holding a pistol at her back?

"It must have been that talk in the carriage," she said in an undertone.

"Talk? In the carriage? You mean about the cat dragging a mouse to the person's chair? I never took you for a squeamish miss."

She resisted the urge to grab him by the lapels of his dressing robe and shake him into understanding.

"Not the cat," she said in a low, precise voice.

"Then—ah, yes." He raised his heavy white eyebrows in disapproval. "That ghost nonsense again. Poor Strathmere. You women are showing no respect for the dead."

Charlotte's head began to throb. "Respect?" Her uncle harbored sympathy for a man who was holding her hostage under his very nose?

"Look how pale you've gone, Charlotte. Are you afraid of ghosts? If so, I assure you that Strathmere's shade is not about to seduce anyone in this household." He chuckled at the thought. "Why would he sneak about doing in death what he could have done in life? With a snap of his fingers that poor man could have had his pick of our silly Chistlebury ladies. Excluding you and my Paulina, of course."

Spots of light danced before Charlotte's eyes. Never mind seduction. Would Strathmere really go so far as to shoot them? If she squeezed through the door and bolted, she might make it down the stairs to hide.

But then Uncle Humphrey would be left standing in the hall, not understanding the danger on the other side of the the door. He might try to defend himself against Strathmere.

"It's Damon who should concern us," he added in a somber voice. "Go to bed. We shall have to come up with a plan in the morning to straighten out the young rakehell."

"In the morning," she repeated nimbly as he hurried off, his spry figure disappearing down the stairs. Would she even be alive in the morning to hold a conversation? Would she be disgraced by the ghostly Galahad?

She stared after her uncle, torn between a wild terror and self-survival. This was her last chance. No one would venture up to her room again tonight, believing her safe in bed.

'Tell him the Statfield Ghost is holding you hostage. Tell him before it's too late. . . .'

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