God rot Mrs. Allston, and all such women! They made a doctorate of studying the eligible bachelors of the ton. No gentleman of quality was safe from their quizzing glasses. It was more than unfortunate. How could he possibly have envisaged that someone in such a remote part of Dorset not only read magazines but committed to memory every single engraving therein? The likeness she referred to had been drawn years ago, before he shaved off his mustache and let his hair grow to avoid recognition. Clearly, a futile endeavor. What did a fellow have to do to gain a little anonymity? Wear an apple sack over his head?
Soon the word would be out, and the villagers would all be beating a path to his door—the match-making mamas, the town bucks with pockets to let, the eager entrepreneurs looking for new investors. He’d enjoyed his inadvertent escape from such people, and if it hadn’t been for the lack of intelligent conversation, he might almost say obscurity suited him.
No. This wouldn’t do. He’d made too much progress in his mission to abandon it now. He must find a way to remain incognito, at all cost.
He’d just turned for home when he recalled there was a charlatan doctor visiting the village. He’d watched the fellow with interest, but the man didn’t seem to be doing anything more suspicious than selling questionable potions, and continually writing and drawing in a notebook while dining at the Admiral Duncan.
Might such a man have some kind of concoction for lightening the hair? If Rafe were to turn blond, he’d look much less like himself. Spinning about, he strode rapidly in the direction of the inn.
And while he was there, he might inquire about the scandal that had touched the Allston family. His interest was purely professional, of course. The fact that Charlotte was delightful had nothing to do with his curiosity. He’d already forgotten the feel of her soft flesh beneath him, the silk of her naked thighs, and the appealing tilt to her nose. He had no business thinking about a potential conquest at the moment, lest it distract him from his important task.
But the yard of the Admiral Duncan was empty. There was no sign of the charlatan’s colorful caravan, or of his dog. Still hopeful, Rafe peered into the stables, but the horse that had pulled the wagon was gone, as well. He’d have to remain dark haired for the foreseeable future. Damnation!
Turning toward the sea, he silently cursed his foolishness in following the mule-headed chit home. Was his whole mission to be put at risk just because he was being chivalrous? A brisk breeze had come in, and he sucked in great lungfuls of the fresh air, stretching his body until his sinews cracked. The long walk back to Dovehouse Farm would clear his head and help him decide what to do.
A few people nodded to him as they passed. He was becoming known in the village, but he was still just Mr. Seabourne, his false identity accepted by the villagers without question.
Village life was not something he’d experienced before. His estates at Beckport House were so vast the village seemed miles away, though it was only a short gallop from the bottom of the avenue of lime trees. If he had a wife, no doubt there’d be far more involvement in the lives of his tenants. As it was, until he took up his commission in the army, he’d remained remote from all but his peers in society, the only point of contact with his tenants being his estate steward.
How different his life was now. He talked to everyone, no matter what their station. Some of the locals thought him eccentric and tended to avoid him, but when in their cups, they all spoke loudly enough for him to overhear their gossip.
None of this gossip had touched on Charlotte Allston, however… But perhaps her situation was of no interest to the men who drank at the inn.
Her person must be, though. No man could look at her without wanting her, surely? With those luscious curves, that rare bronze-colored hair… Just thinking about her made his mouth go dry.
A gust of wind tumbled his hair about his head, blowing it into his eyes. He pushed at it irritably. It was a huge nuisance that trying to look unlike himself instead made him look like the famous Beau Brummell. Long hair was dashed impractical. Lord preserve men from ladies who thought it romantic.
His brisk stride had brought him to the lane close to the farm. Here, the scrubby trees grew close, shrouding the path, their full burden of leaves almost blocking out the salty wind from the sea. The farmhouse itself was shielded from prying eyes by a thick yew hedge, making it the perfect place for plotting and investigating.
Opening the gate, he swore softly at the overgrown brambles that caught in his sleeves and hair. Silent as a ghost, his lookout, Paynter, appeared, wished him a good evening, and vanished back into the shadows.
Rafe returned the greeting automatically, forgetting to ask if all was well until after the man had disappeared. His mind was still working feverishly on the problem of having his identity revealed to the Allstons. If it got out, people would immediately start wondering why a peer of the realm should leave his grand estates and live in obscurity in a small Dorset village. They’d think he was up to something. The smugglers, local men no doubt, would become doubly cautious, just as he would in their place, making it that much harder to catch them. Anything out of the ordinary looked suspicious to a man who knew he was breaking the law.
Most suspicious of all would be the traitor. Rafe and his superiors had reason to believe this man held considerable power, and could even be a member of the aristocracy. He could be someone Rafe knew, had played cards with, had conversed with over the port or brandy at his club. If so, the traitor would definitely want to know why one of the nobility was lurking incognito on a dilapidated farm between Fortuneswell and Byroad. And would take pains to discover the answer.
He should just turn around right now, go back into the village, and swear Mrs. Allston to silence, on pain of death. That wording was perhaps a bit excessive, but his mission was too important to let one provincial family jeopardize it.
He’d have to bully the mother. And Miss Allston, too. Although he suspected she wouldn’t be afraid of him, even at his most menacing.
Was there not something more subtle he could do to ensure they didn’t reveal his identity?
Coming to an abrupt halt, he let out a low whistle. Perhaps there was a way. An unconventional one—and highly improper—but it might just give the desired result. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be done in daylight. He’d have to wait until darkness fell.
Yes, it could work.
And settle the problem of the Allstons, once and for all.
Chapter Six
Charlotte lay in bed staring up at the shadowy ceiling, her thoughts too busy for sleep. It had been a difficult day. In fact, it had been a difficult four days, ever since the stranger on the beach had been unmasked as the Earl of Beckport. Now he was Mama’s sole topic of interest, and it was impossible to avoid her questioning. He should have known, foolish man. It was like a red rag to a bull to tell her mother he couldn’t share his reasons for wanting to remain incognito.
Not that Charlotte could avoid speculating on what he was up to, either. He must be in some deep trouble. Could it be bankruptcy, love, or even murder? The aristocracy did occasionally kill one another in fights, and Rafe certainly seemed the sort of man who could hold his own in a duel.
His keen interest in the signs of smuggling activity intrigued her, too, but she’d said nothing to Mama on that score. Ha! If only Beckport knew about Papa’s involvement in free trading—that would surely stop him in his tracks.
Possibly due to the fact that Mama was being unbearable, Aunt Flora had decided to visit relations of her deceased fiancé, Frank Veale. It was a cruel blow—Charlotte had come to rely on her softhearted aunt as an ally. Flora had been kindness itself after Charlotte’s ill-fated attempt at elopement with Justin, but had been careful to hide her feelings from Mama. It must be tiresome for her to have her home invaded by her peevish older sister.
Closing her eyes, Charlotte finally managed to drift into a light sleep. It wasn’t at all restful, however, but punctuated by a most vivid and some
what disturbing…dream. Justin was in her room, larger than life, overwhelming her senses with his hot, male body, vibrating with energy and virility. His arms enfolded her dream-self to his chest, and she grasped his shoulders and pulled him close, wanting to feel every inch of him.
Resting her cheek against his, she let his warm hand caress her derriere and the curve of her waist, which roused an insistent heat in her belly. Her hands slid wantonly over the silky skin of his shoulders, down his mounded biceps and sinewy forearms. How strong Justin had grown from his time in Wellington’s army! Much stronger than she remembered.
He was sinfully, deliciously naked, too, his hips pressed against her through her thin summer nightgown. His breath was labored, and he delved his hands into her hair, tugging and snagging it in his passion…
Enough to force her out of the dream with heart-stopping suddenness.
“Oh great heav—!”
A hand over her mouth stifled her cry.
She heard a muffled male curse, followed by the metallic clatter of something falling to the floor. Something that sounded ominously like a knife.
The blood froze in her veins.
Scrambled thoughts chased around her sleep-fogged brain—images of the two dubious-looking men on the beach, the broad shoulders of the intriguing Earl of Beckport, and the ghastly certainty she was about to die.
“Miss Allston, don’t be alarmed. It’s Beckport.”
Nonsense! The very idea was absurd.
She tried baring her teeth to sink them into the hand pressed over her face. But failed. The hand shifted slightly, the mattress dipping as he knelt on it, and she abruptly feared death was not the fate that awaited her.
Although it might still come…afterward.
“It’s me. Rafe. Calm yourself. I mean you no harm.”
It did sound like him. But…
Her eyes struggled to cope with the darkness, and her heart rammed so hard against her ribs it hurt. What did he want with her?
“I’ll remove my hand if you promise not to scream.”
Yes, it was, indeed, Beckport’s deep, clipped voice. She went limp with relief.
He lifted his hand, smoothed it reassuringly over her cheek, then struck a spark in his tinderbox and blew gently on the flame. Leaning across her, he applied it to her candle. Her bedroom filled with a warm, flickering light that accentuated the shadows beneath his high cheekbones and made his dark eyes glitter.
What in the name of all that was holy was he doing in her chamber, in the middle of the night, sitting on her bed?
Not naked.
Shockingly, she couldn’t decide whether that made her vastly thankful or more than a little disappointed.
Before she could decide, after stowing his tinderbox away he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and sank his head into his hands in an attitude of despair so poignant she immediately forgot her fears.
Hardly the behavior of a rapist or murderer. Thank heaven.
She blinked at him in surprise.
“What ails you, my lord?” she ventured hesitantly.
He shook his head and sucked in a breath of air. “You’d think,” he said, turning to her with a wry smile, “I’d have the good sense to bring a sharp knife with me rather than a blunt one, or at the very least, a pair of my valet’s sewing scissors.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t worry. I’d no intention of harming you, my dear Miss Allston. I just wanted a lock of your hair.”
She stared at him in astonishment. “I believe the usual mode is to ask the lady to provide one, not to climb into her room in the middle of the night and cut one off while she sleeps. I presume you’ve climbed up the trellis, as nobody would have let you in.”
“There is, indeed, a well-placed creeper,” he replied in a low voice. “I could see your window was open. Most ill-advised, when there are desperate smugglers and so forth about.”
Mention of smugglers again. What would he say if she told him he was speaking to the daughter of one of England’s most notorious smugglers? “I’ll bear that in mind,” she whispered back. “But I think you’d better go.”
“Go?” He looked bewildered.
“Surely, you didn’t expect me to welcome you? I believe I’m insulted.”
He tilted an eyebrow. “Am I not to receive a slap for my audacity?”
“I’m not a violent person, sir. To slap you would be to make a noise and risk rousing the house. I’ve already tasted scandal and been punished for it. So, whatever reason you have for coming here, forget it and be on your way.”
His expression hardened. “Regrettably, I can’t do that. My presence here is to force you to say nothing of me being in Dorset, and to ensure your mother and aunt also keep silent.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And how would a lock of my hair help achieve that?”
“It would be all the proof I needed that I’d compromised you.”
The man truly was addle pated. His simply being here compromised her. Mama would be chasing him round the house with a poker if she knew. Or possibly Papa’s dueling pistol.
She shook her head. “I rather think you’d already done that by throwing yourself on top of me on the beach.” She grimaced. “And in the cave. But why would you want to compromise me?” She went for Mama’s most disapproving tone, and added, “I’ve done nothing to harm you. I’m most sorely disappointed in you.”
His eyes darkened, and his well-built form appeared to swell. She suddenly felt small and vulnerable in her thin nightgown, with just a sheet to cover her. Harsh words were probably not the best defense against a powerful man.
Once again, he surprised her. His head went back, and he gave a throaty chuckle.
“You have your mother’s skill at putting a man in his place,” he said. “Does nothing frighten you, Miss Allston?”
“I’m more puzzled than afraid. I believe my initial assessment of you was correct—you are a little touched in the head.”
He pushed out a breath. “I’m beginning to think you may be right. But the motives behind my actions are the very noblest, I assure you.”
It was noble to throw young ladies onto the sand and try to saw their hair off with a blunt knife? Honestly. She would never fully comprehend the English aristocracy.
“I still don’t understand about the lock of hair,” she persisted.
He shifted his weight on the bed, reminding her of their intimate position. Unbidden, a spark of physical desire ignited in her belly.
She crushed it mercilessly. The impropriety of having a man sitting on one’s bed in the middle of the night shouldn’t excite a woman—it should shock and appall her.
Shouldn’t it?
“I believed that by convincing your mama there is something…intimate between us, I could buy her silence,” he explained.
“But that would be a lie. And if it got out, it could ruin me.” Not that she wasn’t ruined already, according to Mama. But, thankfully, hardly anyone knew about that.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve met mothers like her before, though. Their desire to avoid scandal is almost as strong as their need to get their daughters wed to a nobleman. I was to show the lock of hair as irrefutable proof that you and I had an understanding.”
Ah. “Thus, blackmailing her into silence.”
He winced slightly as he nodded.
She was starting to enjoy having the moral high ground for a change. He deserved to squirm. She inquired, “Which particular falsehood had you decided to dupe my relations with—the one where we are secretly engaged, or the one where we’d had an affair but it was now over?”
“The latter. Fewer…complications. I would promise not to blacken your good name if your mama agreed to say nothing of my presence in the area.”
She clamped her jaw. “You’d really have done that?”
What a dreadful man! She truly wasn’t a violent person, but there were limits.
He held her gaze somberly.
“I’d do whatever it took.”
“Short of simply asking, as any normal person would.”
His shoulders stiffened. “I need absolute certainty my secret won’t be betrayed, not vague promises. It’s vital to both your safety and my own that no one in this household says they know me, either as Beckport or as Mr. Seabourne. And you must never speak of what we found in the cave that day.”
She scowled at his commanding tone. “Why not? Is smuggling really so terrible a thing?” In fact, she was far more worried about whether someone else might speak of what they saw in the cave that day…
A heavy silence filled the air between them. The candlelight flickered, etching shadows onto his face, and she pulled the sheets more tightly around her. Lit from beneath, even a face as ruggedly handsome as his could look…demonic.
“You think not?” he growled.
She held up a hand. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. I just meant that smugglers have mouths to feed, as do all men. Though, I don’t suppose an aristocrat like yourself would know anything about deprivation.”
“Don’t presume to lecture me,” he warned, “or I’ll be tempted to carry out my threat of exposing you to ruin.” He closed his eyes a moment and took a deep breath. “I can say no more. It might be dangerous for you to be caught up in my affairs.”
Ah, the irony. “Too late for that,” she pointed out. “My face is known here, and I’ve been seen in that cave. With you on top of me.”
He hissed softly through his teeth. “True. But they’ll assume you were far too preoccupied to see anything but me. And with any luck, they didn’t get a good look at your face.”
“But what if they did recognize us? Won’t they be suspicious if we’re never seen together again? Not that I’m implying,” she added quickly, the heat rising in her cheeks, “that I particularly wish to see you again.”
“Be that as it may, we must appear strangers from now on. There may come a day when it’s dangerous for anyone to admit acquaintance with Rafe Seabourne. Or even, God forbid, with the Earl of Beckport. Your mother and aunt must be sworn to secrecy. Swear to me.”
A Perilous Passion Page 4