But now he was forced to retreat to Dovehouse Farm and change his clothes. It was a long walk for a hot day, but he was accustomed to walking.
A frown creased his brow as he strode back through the village toward the lane leading to the nearby village of Byroad. Normally he didn’t mind walking everywhere, even though a gentleman of his station usually rode his horse or was driven in a carriage. However, he’d developed an irksome sensitivity to any horse with which he was unfamiliar. New horseflesh—or more specifically, horsehair—made him sneeze, which was usually nothing serious.
Unless, of course, the untimely sneeze came during a sensitive military maneuver.
Anger lengthened his stride. Never had he felt as humiliated as in the moment that had destroyed his military career! His ambush had been so carefully planned, designed to capture a small band of French scouts before they could disperse. What secrets they could have told! What vitally important military information they might have imparted!
Yet Rafe had sneezed at the worst possible moment, all because a fellow officer hadn’t tied up his mount securely and the horse had strayed too close. The French scouting party had immediately scattered, and the maneuver had failed miserably.
As the commanding officer, he should have been the one to conceal and protect his men. Instead, he’d given away their position.
He couldn’t apologize, for that would have undermined his men’s respect for him. He’d already lost respect for himself. When the mutterings and sniggers had begun circulating among the other regiments, and even among civilians, he’d had enough. He’d resigned his commission and bid the army farewell.
The shame had followed him back to England, where he’d hidden himself away at Beckport House, unable to face anyone of higher status than a servant for fear of being treated as a laughingstock.
Until he’d struck on the idea of serving his country in another way entirely.
As a spy.
And, if Fortune favored him for a change, as a spy-catcher, too. If he could win back his reputation by crushing a ring of cutthroat free traders into the bargain, it was all to the good.
He drew a hand across his damp brow. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t realized how hot he’d become. A cloud drifted across the sun but did nothing to cool the air. The sheep in the nearby pasture were huddled beneath the shade of a spreading oak, too hot to bleat, and even the rooks in the distant poplars were silent.
As he got closer to home, a weasel-faced man walked toward him along the road, touching his broad-brimmed hat in greeting as they passed one another. Was it his own suspicious nature, or had that man looked shifty? Any of the folk hereabouts could be involved in the smuggling and were worth investigating, especially if they might be in the pay of the traitor—the kingpin who posed the greatest threat of all.
Smugglers should not be underestimated. It took a particular kind of brazen courage to make rum runs under the very noses of the soldiers billeted at the fort overlooking Fortuneswell village.
Brazen, or desperate? He could understand why a man might defy the law to put bread on the table for his wife and children. But it never ended there, did it?
Thinking about smugglers reminded him of the young woman on the strand and the bit of lace she’d been after.
She’d said nothing condemnatory when she’d seen the lace, even though it had clearly fallen from an illegal consignment as it was brought ashore.
Did she know more than she let on about that consignment?
Or did her lack of disapproval of such illegal enterprise simply prove her to be capricious—a woman who cared nothing for the source of the lace, only that it would make some bonnet or gown look more fetching?
He wondered what she’d say if he asked her outright.
No, he mustn’t seem too curious—he didn’t want to give his game away.
Nor did he want to countenance the immediate stir of interest he’d experienced as he watched her walking disconsolately along the sand. A normal, healthy, masculine interest in a lovely young woman with a delightful figure.
But he had no time for libidinous pursuits. Indeed, such entanglements could prove dangerous to his cover and distract him from his mission. The very last thing he should be thinking about was female temptation.
Thank Moses—he’d nearly reached the farm. He needed a significant dousing of cold water to stifle the feelings aroused by that bronze-haired beauty.
He’d once had something of a reputation as a rake. But his shame at his departure from the army was so strong, and his determination to redeem himself so great, that nothing—and no one—on earth would be permitted to deflect him from his purpose.
If he ever had dealings with the young woman from the beach again, it would be to question, not to court.
Mayhap, one day, when his mission was ended and his reputation restored, he’d rejoin the social whirl of the ton, able once again to enjoy female company. But for now, his purpose was immutable.
Chapter Three
Mercifully, Charlotte’s mother, Mrs. Lucinda Allston, had been out visiting when Charlotte and Aunt Flora returned to the house after yesterday’s adventures. This morning, however, it soon became clear that neither had escaped the hook.
When Charlotte came down to breakfast, her mother was standing in the middle of the parlor, the water-stained gown in her hands. “What,” she asked ominously, “is this?”
“An accident,” Charlotte answered, assuming an air of innocence. “I slipped into the rill on my way down to the beach.”
Her mama immediately turned to her younger sister. “Flora Hartington! You let her go to the beach? You should have known better! You must understand by now how much Charlotte loves to mope by the sea, having silly daydreams and imagining herself in love with inappropriate scoundrels. I’ve a good mind to make you visit the Emburys, to punish you for your folly.”
“Oh no, Lucinda, I beg you!” Aunt Flora protested. “Last time I went, their baby was sick all over my new paisley shawl. Please don’t make me go—you’re so much better with poor folk than I am!”
Charlotte could see what her mother could not. Flora, for some unknown reason, was very distressed. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes as if she hadn’t slept, and her hair had been scraped up severely into her matronly cap so that not one strand fell about her face to soften it. She looked like an errant nun doing penance.
Stepping in front of her aunt, Charlotte said, “Mama, it’s not her fault. I went to the beach without her permission but came back as soon as I fell over. I realized I was being foolish.”
Aunt Flora cleared her throat and said enthusiastically, “My attention was taken by a quack doctor on the green crying his wares in a most convincing manner. Dr. L. E. Campaign, he’s called, and he had an excellent water to cure the summer rheum. You know, when the flowers are all out and make people sneeze—”
“Enough! Don’t tell me you were slack-witted enough to buy some?”
Aunt Flora, who was dressed to go out, shifted nervously, and her reticule emitted a faint clink.
“Not one, but two bottles?” Mama inquired in frosty tones.
“But if you bought one, the second came at only two shillings,” Aunt Flora explained.
“I’m sure Aunt would be the last person to squander money unwisely,” Charlotte broke in. “Now do please sit down, Mama. Your face is quite red. You know it’s bad for you to get overwrought.” Whether or not this was true was immaterial. It was the only way Charlotte had ever discovered to successfully interrupt one of her mother’s rants.
With a quiet nod of thanks, Aunt Flora hastened out the front door while Mama subsided into a chair and put her hands up to her face. “You two will be the talk of the village.” She sighed. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
Anxious to avoid further confrontation, Charlotte promised to clean the gown immediately after breakfast.
So, in less than half an hour, she was sitting on a bench in the August sunshine wi
th a bowl of soapy water beside her, dabbing and scrubbing at her silt-stained muslin.
If truth be told, she, too, had had a sleepless night, pondering over yesterday’s perplexing encounter. Even now, she couldn’t stop thinking about the brown-eyed stranger and the peculiar effect he’d had on her. Why hadn’t she had the sense to ask his name? Madman or no, he was the most interesting person she’d met since arriving in Portland. And the most fascinating man she’d ever encountered—apart from Justin, of course.
Too bad the stranger had been such a pill about the lace. Although nothing had been said outright, they both knew where the flounce of lace had come from, and by what nefarious means it had made its way to the English coast.
What would he say if he knew that she came from a smuggling family?
She couldn’t expect sympathy from any quarter. She hadn’t even told Justin the truth about her background. Who could possibly approve of her father’s choice of business? He was the notorious Abraham Cutler, who’d made a fortune running a string of ale houses in East Anglia, which acted as the perfect front for distributing smuggled goods from across the North Sea. But he’d made sure that Charlotte and her mother had never been involved in any of his dealings. If the hammer was ever to fall, he’d wanted it to fall upon him only.
Gazing up at the gulls circling on the wind, she reminded herself how fickle Fate could be.
Just one year ago, Papa had been taken seriously ill with a lung fever but had recovered. His brush with death, and doubtless some robust conversations with Mama, had convinced him to turn King’s Evidence—to give up the names of his associates and be rewarded with a Royal Pardon.
This proved his undoing. Before he could complete his confession, someone discovered—by fair means or foul—what he was doing, and put an end to his plan, and his life, with a garrote.
A hot tear fell on her wrist, and then slid down into the washing bowl. No wonder she’d sought solace with Justin. It had all been so utterly awful, having to grab what little they could carry and flee in the middle of the night, lest the infuriated free traders come to silence Cutler’s family, too. Mama changed their name to Allston, after a distant ancestor.
The memory of that time still made Charlotte shudder, and it was the experience of living through it that had made Mama into the termagant she was today.
She wrung out the gown and held it up to the light. Not clean yet. Knuckling the moisture from her eyes, she let her thoughts run to more recent times.
Fortunately, Mama’s younger sister, Flora, possessed a comfortable cottage in Dorset, bequeathed to her by a fiancé who’d died at sea. Charlotte and Mama had invaded her, destroyed her peace, and cluttered her simple living space with all manner of gewgaws covertly rescued from their old home. Aunt Flora now dwelled uncertainly in the midst of them, desperately trying to please her sister—and inevitably failing—but grateful, nonetheless, for a share in the monthly allowance generated by a trust fund set up by Charlotte’s father just days before his death.
Getting used to their more austere existence would have been hard, had Charlotte not met Justin Jessop.
Ah, Justin! His image was instantly before her—a pale-faced, blond young man with long, elegant fingers and an eagerness to please. He’d captured her heart with his beautiful piano playing, forlorn blue eyes, and the pocket edition of Milton’s poetry he always carried close to his heart.
She closed her eyes and scrubbed the dress harder, the muslin heavy with the weight of water. No, she absolutely would not weep at the thought of those slender fingers curled around the trigger of a rifle, the golden hair pummeled by the dismal rains of Scotland, nor that poetic soul tortured by the loud barks of command from superior officers. It was too tragic, it really was.
Bother! In her distraction she’d ripped the delicate fabric of her gown. Now she’d have to mend it. If the rent was extensive, she might be able to conceal it with some embroidery, or maybe a frill of lace.
Curse that stranger on the beach! Why had he taken the lace? It was her lace. She’d found it. Of what use would it be to a man? He couldn’t give it to anybody without first getting it cleaned, starched, and pressed, a complex process no man was likely to understand.
Which might explain his response when he’d seen it. Not that of a man coming across a treasure. The discovery had troubled him, and he’d hidden the lace away in his pocket, as if from prying eyes.
Suddenly, she gasped. He must be a smuggler himself, and feared to alert suspicion!
Not that she’d betray him. He could trust her. She knew not all smugglers were inherently evil. Ironically, as a girl she’d even dreamed of joining the adventurous profession—well before she’d learned of Papa’s involvement in it. She’d often pictured herself galloping full tilt along the shore, the wind in her hair, outrunning the revenue men with a bundle of lace bouncing against her saddle on one side, and a small keg of cognac at the other.
“Charlotte? Oh, what have you done—put a finger through your gown? I’ve never known such a clumsy child. All that money spent sending you to finishing school was a complete waste. You have fingers like a laborer’s.”
“It’s only a little hole, Mama. I can mend it.”
“Give it to me. I’ll make a better job of it than you will in a month of Sundays. Now, go out and find Flora and tell her I need her back here this instant.”
At that, Charlotte’s thoughts headed off down a different road entirely. One that most certainly did not involve Aunt Flora. Perhaps the handsome stranger was out and about. It was a lovely day, after all, not one a man would wish to waste indoors.
She could ask him to give back the lace.
She grabbed a shawl and hurried out before her mother could change her mind about letting her go alone.
Mama would be furious if she knew what she had in mind, but Charlotte was mercifully too much an adult to warrant a beating. In fact, if anyone ever raised the birch to her again, she would snap it in front of their eyes and throw the pieces into the fireplace.
Her mouth twisted as she recalled the treatment she’d received from Mr. Hampney, the tutor employed by her mama to remove her childhood stutter. Mr. Hampney would burn in hell, if there was any justice in the world.
Charlotte’s pace quickened as her mind traveled back to the frightened, stammering child she’d once been. According to Mama—who was a minor baronet’s granddaughter—no young lady of breeding could be permitted such an impediment, which was why the elocution teacher had been employed.
Thankfully, his frequent use of the cane on his pupil hadn’t terrified her into stammering more, but rather, had simply made her determined to improve herself in order to be rid of him. As a result of this horrid experience, her young self had vowed never again to be cowed by threats or bullying.
From any quarter.
Which firm resolve had served Charlotte well in life, as it had turned out, even if it didn’t exactly earn her the admiration of her mother.
Beyond the heath, the dark cliffs of Portland rose up, crowned by the gray walls of its castle, recently refortified and enlarged in fear of a French invasion. Spread out below, well within sight of the fort, lay the beach, hemmed in at either end by tumbled rocks and flattened slabs of limestone, looking just like ruined cities shattered by the sea.
She barely took in the sight of the bent-backed cockle women, or the swarm of children freshly released from Mrs. Carboys’ Dame School.
Because she spied the very gentleman she sought.
He stood stiff and erect by the water’s edge, watching the antics of the children and occasionally dusting his sleeve and straightening a cuff.
Anticipation balled in her stomach. Was he waiting for someone? Could that someone be her? Flushing, she realized she must make it look as if she’d happened along by chance, so he didn’t get any inappropriate ideas. All she wanted was the lace.
Today he wore serviceable moleskin trousers, battered Hessian boots, and a forest green coat, clothing
that made him look like a country squire. But the military bearing and his cultured accent hinted at a different background. The man was a conundrum. She was bored in this small village, she was heart-sore missing her banished sweetheart, and she needed a diversion. Here was the perfect solution to her ennui.
Stopping just behind him, she gave a little cough.
Immediately he swung round, and she knew a moment of alarm at his fierce expression. Upon recognizing her, his look softened, but only for an instant. He said sharply, “So, you’ve ignored my advice about walking out unchaperoned. You feel equipped, do you, to protect yourself against highwaymen and smugglers?”
She said, “A very good day to you, sir. How delightful to see you again. I’ve come to reclaim the lace I found yesterday.”
“Have you, indeed?”
“I have. Return the lace, and I’ll take your advice and head home forthwith. Although, I could point out there are plenty of people abroad, more than a match for a single felon, should one choose to attack me.”
He gave a disparaging sniff. “All I can see are old women and children. And surely you must recall that no one helped you when I threw you onto your back yesterday.”
She straightened her spine. “I was unlucky no one happened to be looking. Or should I say lucky, due to the indignities you heaped upon me? No one molested me yesterday as I walked home in broad daylight. Your fears were quite unjustified.”
He regarded her somberly. “Are all the folk hereabouts as wool-witted as you?”
“I’m sure they know when they’re under threat, and when they are not.”
“We’re all under threat,” he said darkly. “Napoleon gathers his fleet and his armies at Boulogne as we speak.”
“Thankfully, we have our new garrison to protect us,” she countered.
“True. But I doubt any of the soldiers have been detailed to follow wayward wenches around all day. I advise you to curtail your unchaperoned wanderings.”
A Perilous Passion Page 2