Page 198 of A Perilous Passion

“Caught one of whom?” Charlotte asked as the startled cleric leaped down from the box and tied up his horses. She jumped to the ground without waiting for assistance, while Reverend Daniell hurried toward the house.

My goodness, but paving stones were chilly and rough when one had no shoes on! Charlotte hobbled along in his wake, then stopped in her tracks when she reached the parlor and looked upon Flora’s handiwork in admiration and shock.

Propped awkwardly against one of the parlor chairs, a weaselly-looking man was snoring gently. One eye was red and starting to puff closed, and his clothes and hair were disheveled. Charlotte thought she’d seen him before but couldn’t quite place his mangled face.

After an anxious glance at Mama, Flora hurtled into an explanation. “When Mr. Harris brought me home, he left me at the gate. The front door was ajar. But how could I tell if it was Charlotte or a burglar? Taking a leaf from Charlotte’s book, I entered cautiously, like a spy.”

“You didn’t!” Mama exclaimed.

“I did, and what did I hear but rustling and bumping noises coming from above! My instincts told me this was no neighborhood cat, nor a billowing window curtain. I grabbed the warming pan and quietly stole upstairs. Peeping into Charlotte’s bedroom, I saw yonder fellow rummaging through her tallboy, his back to me.”

“What?” Charlotte asked, alert now. “My dresser?”

“Indeed. I crept forward, raised the warming pan, and— Oh, I do so hate to inflict pain upon a fellow creature. But he must have been evil, mustn’t he, to be rummaging through Charlotte’s drawers like that?”

Charlotte thought the story sounded a bit too glib, but everyone else was too enthralled to notice.

Flora concluded, “I aimed carefully and landed him the hardest blow to the pate that I dared, and the man just collapsed.”

“How courageous of you, Flora,” Mrs. Daniell said. “Well done!”

At that, Aunt Flora looked self-conscious. Was there more to this tale than met the eye? Charlotte would never have expected such violence from her soft-hearted aunt.

“What happened then?” asked Thea, her eyes bright.

“I knew I should tie him up, but I had no rope, and I didn’t want to get too close for fear he’d lay hands on me. So it occurred to me I might keep him unconscious long enough to get help. I fetched a bottle of Dr. Campaign’s sleeping draught, rolled the man over, and poured the entire bottle into him.”

“All of it?” Charlotte was horrified. “You might have poisoned him!”

Aunt Flora gave her a stern look. “Ephraim’s most potent medicines are only sold in very small bottles. There’s no risk of poisoning from any of his nostrums, I assure you.”

Charlotte hid a smile. “Of course not.”

Flora continued, “Soon afterward his breathing changed, so I knew he was asleep. But I couldn’t leave him up in Charlotte’s bedroom, could I? That would have been highly improper. So I took him by the heels and dragged him down here to the parlor.”

“What, all the way down the stairs? By yourself?” Mrs. Daniell asked incredulously.

Flora flushed and looked down at her feet. “Well, yes. But his head bumped about dreadfully. That may have been how he acquired his bruised eye.”

To Charlotte’s surprise, her mama swept forward and embraced Aunt Flora. “My dear, well done!” she enthused. “I never would have thought you had it in you. I’m sure I’d have done exactly the same thing myself.” She turned to Charlotte and smiled. “I feel very proud that we’re such a resourceful family.”

Reverend Daniell asked, “What would you like me to do with this miscreant thief?”

“He’s no ordinary thief, sir,” replied her aunt. “I should tell you—”

Her words were cut off as a loud cry rent the air.

Charlotte swung round in alarm and saw Thea standing transfixed, staring with a look of horror at the open doorway behind them.

Her friend screamed, “It’s the highwayman!”

Chapter Forty-Four

Reverend Daniell pulled his daughter behind him and stepped forward to confront the tall figure. Charlotte scanned the room for something to use as a weapon but kept a tight rein on her fears—they were six against one, so unless the fellow turned a pistol on them, the odds were in their favor.

“What do you want?” demanded the parson, his stocky bulk quivering with indignation. “Shame on you, frightening God-fearing women in their own home at this hour of the night.”

Their unwelcome visitor was breathing heavily. He held no pistol, Charlotte observed, and his sword was still sheathed at his side. Surely, if he wished them harm, he’d be brandishing a weapon?