“Disgusting,” Goves muttered.
Rafe had to find the mastermind behind all this. The creature was entirely lacking in morals. “He’s not a Frenchman, I’m fairly certain,” he said. “I believe he’s English, someone who can pass unnoticed amongst lay and military alike without arousing suspicion.”
“A pillar of the community, eh?”
“Very likely.” Rafe was looking forward to seeing the villain hang.
“But you have no clue as to his identity?”
“None. I need more time.”
Goves grimaced. “My lord—” he began.
Rafe waved an impatient hand at him. “Mr. Seabourne, please.” Would no one ever remember to use his nom de guerre?
“Your pardon, Mr. Seabourne. Time’s something you may no longer have. Word is the commander wants to move you before you’re found out. There’s talk of Northumbria.”
“Northumbria!” Rafe spluttered. What good did they think he was going to do there? He balled his fists, infuriated. “I’d prefer to have the spider at the center of this web safely in shackles first,” he growled. “Mayhap I should remind the commander I’m a volunteer, not a conscript, and can walk away whenever I choose.”
The other man shrugged. “I’m just the messenger—I don’t give the orders.”
Rafe raised his hands. “I know. Sorry.”
“How will the Frenchies tell the difference between their signal fires and our own regular system of warning beacons?” Goves asked.
“Gunpowder. Each beacon has an explosive charge, so the ships will hear the noise as well as see the flash.”
It only took a second for the awful truth of that to sink in. “But the children lighting the fires will be blown to bits!” Goves exclaimed in horror.
Every time Rafe thought about that he wanted to be sick. “Why should Boney care about that? They’re nothing more than English maggots to him. This is the ugly face of war. And why it’s imperative we catch the devil behind this plot. Before I’m sent somewhere else.”
Goves’s mouth quivered in disgust. “Can’t we find the beacons and destroy them?”
“Believe me, I’m trying desperately to discover their locations. But I imagine only our traitor has that information—which is why I must take him alive. If we send militia or revenue men beating about the hedges and spinneys in search of the beacons, our quarry will go to ground. He’s too dangerous for us to risk losing him. Who knows what other atrocities Bonaparte has him carrying out?”
“But if they’re planning to move you—”
“Somehow, I must draw him out into the open.”
Goves nodded, and they locked eyes for a long moment. “But how?”
Rafe took a steadying breath. “I could offer myself as bait.”
This suggestion was met with a stunned silence. “That is a very bad idea, sir,” Goves muttered.
“What other way is there? If they capture me, they’ll take me to the mastermind for questioning.”
“Or they’ll just kill you without asking questions.” Goves spat into the dirt.
“If he’s half the man I think he is, he’ll want answers from me. He won’t get those from a corpse.”
“A tortured corpse, sir.”
“Only if something goes wrong. I’ll be in no danger with you and Paynter keeping watch. Between the three of us, I’m sure we can overpower anyone he sends after me. The smugglers in league with our traitor are an untrained rabble. And there aren’t more than a handful operating locally since the militia arrived at the fort.”
“You’re willing to bet your life on that?”
Rafe nodded. “Our spider prefers to let only a few into his confidence—he knows it’s safer that way. If I can get myself captured, Paynter will tell you where they’ve taken me, and you can get a small force together to catch our nest of vipers.” He knew the stakes were high, but he if he wanted to win this game, he had to pay the price.
They mulled over his idea a while longer, then bade each other a good night. Rafe waited until Goves was well clear of the quarry before he made his own exit. A brief scramble took him to the top of the low cliff above the cleft where they’d met. Once there, he crouched low and looked around, hoping to skyline anyone who might be about. The moonlight showed nothing more than a couple of swooping bats that whirred softly past his ears, and some rabbits feeding on the scrubby grass. The evening chorus had reduced to the occasional chink of a still-wakeful blackbird and the chafing of a wakeful cricket, and he could hear nothing else but his own breathing.
Starting back on the ten-mile trek, he once again devoutly wished he’d taken a chance and ridden the horse. He fought his way through the tangled foliage that gave way onto the road, and looked it up and down. The moon was setting and it was getting much darker, so he was unlikely to meet anyone. But he remained alert for any sound out of place, so he could take cover immediately.
Damnation. The War Office wanted to move him elsewhere, did they? Not if he had any say in the matter.
He dug his hands into his pockets and marched on, his mind buzzing with Goves’s revelation. Aside from the dangers of this mission, he’d settled comfortably into the farm and village and was enjoying its proximity to the sea. He also liked living amongst the sort of humble folk he’d never encountered as a nobleman. Their company had mellowed and enlightened him. A fascinating world lay beyond the high iron gates of privilege—one filled with as much hardship and sorrow as joy—but one in which he now moved with confidence and compassion.
Being incognito had also, of course, allowed him to spend time in the company of a certain unconventional young lady. Miss Charlotte Allston had impressed him with her presence of mind when he’d invaded her bedchamber, and he recalled with lascivious delight the touch of her lips behind the dripping laurel bush.
It was hard to find a name for what he’d detected in her tremulous response to his kiss, but his primal, masculine senses had regarded it as an invitation—one his higher self had struggled to resist.
Charlotte cried out to be loved. Her body—whether she knew it or not—was eager to welcome a man’s touch and possession.
After meeting her mother and hearing about the so-called Unfortunate Incident, he’d cornered her more sympathetic aunt at the inn, where she was waiting to catch the stagecoach into Dorchester. He’d cajoled her into confessing about her niece’s failed elopement with one Mr. Justin Jessop. It was clear the young pup hadn’t satisfied her, at least not physically.
Now Rafe had taken her in his arms and kissed her properly, he’d opened the lid on a welter of sensual feelings the girl was battling to come to terms with.
His throat tightened. He could be going away very soon and a greedy part of him wanted to spend just a little more time in her company. Partly to enjoy the pleasure of it…but also to discover if he was right about her eagerness for his touch.
Because her behavior toward him earlier in the leafy arbor suggested she did, indeed, want him just as badly as he wanted her.
Chapter Ten
It was now early September, and nearly three weeks had passed since Charlotte had last seen Lord Beckport. She’d peeped out of the window frequently and wandered around the garden in a very obvious fashion when the weather dried up, but if he’d been watching for her, he gave no sign.
Truth be told, the very space around her felt empty. She would have sensed his presence, she was sure.
Not that she cared he was ignoring her. He’d kissed her—that was all. What of it? Kissing was what rakes did, and he undoubtedly was an inveterate one. With his good looks and physique, not to mention the benefit of wealth, he was bound to be.
It was all too easy to sink into a fit of the blue devils. Not only had she lost Justin, but she’d also lost the distraction from her loneliness and heartbreak that Rafe had presented. But moping about wouldn’t do.
To fill the emptiness, she threw herself with gusto into chores around the house—repainting a screen, changing sle
eves in gowns, and re-trimming a bonnet. She also stepped up her visits to the poorer homes in the neighborhood, where she read from the amusingly illustrated Tommy Tagg to the younger children, and helped the older ones with their letters and numbers.
Fortunately, she had a strong stomach, for the interiors of the hovels she visited generally smelled vile, and sometimes she was obliged to douse the children under the village pump. It was ghastly when they just sat there scratching themselves. Despite steeling herself against it, she always felt exactly the same itch.
Today she was visiting the widowed Mrs. Scadden and her five progeny. No sooner had she entered their cottage than the woman handed her a letter that set her heart racing painfully. She instantly recognized the handwriting.
Good heavens!
She took it in trembling fingers and asked, “How came you by this?”
“Thomas the Carrier came by and said he’d been told not to deliver it to you direct, but to give it to me, secret-like, to pass on to you. Whoever wrote it must know you visit often. Miss Allston, have you come over queer? I’ll get you a cup of water.”
She shook her head, capable of just enough rational thought to remember she shouldn’t chance drinking from one of Mrs. Scadden’s cups. Fanning herself vigorously with the letter, she willed her heart back to a steady beat, with limited success.
Only one person she knew wrote in that romantic, flowing script.
Justin.
Tucking the paper into the pocket of her gown, she took up her book and wandered out into the sunshine, nearly tripping over one of the children, and almost missing the old milking stool when she went to sit down.
Justin! He’d written to her!
Despite the threats of disownment from his father.
Somehow, he had managed to send a letter all the way down from deepest, darkest Scotland. It was a good thing Thomas Harris—the village mail carrier, grocer, and coal merchant—knew how to be discreet. Mama would have a fit if she found out.
Charlotte hurtled through the children’s lesson, then hurried back to the cottage, hoping for a few moments alone in her bedchamber. Though she should be thrilled to receive a letter from her exiled sweetheart, she couldn’t help a feeling of dread.
How could it possibly contain news that would please her? If he was coming home on furlough, she’d never be permitted to meet with him. And even if they were able to arrange a meeting, it would just open old wounds best left alone.
She’d said farewell and adieu once to him. She wasn’t sure she could cope with having to do it again. No, whatever the letter said, she mustn’t allow herself to be upset by it. She was stronger now.
And she’d also discovered that Justin was not the only man on earth who could make her heart miss a beat.
Any hope of peace and privacy was shattered on her arrival home, however, when she discovered the parlor carpet awash with brown paper wrappings, in the midst of which her mother and aunt were sitting.
Aunt Flora was barely able to raise a smile in greeting. She’d been depressed since her return from visiting Frank Veale’s parents in Dorchester. Her unfortunate suitor had been dead these three years, but the memories must be thinly buried.
Mama, on the other hand, was in great good humor, exclaiming, “Charlotte dear, such news!”
“Why’s the room in such a mess?” she asked warily. “Has something happened?”
“Oh, nothing to take alarm at. Something delightful, in fact. You’ll never guess!”
Charlotte, her letter looming like a storm cloud in her mind, was in no mood for a guessing game. “Mama, please just tell me.”
“No need to be so Friday-faced, child. Life’s not only about visiting noisome neighbors, mending, and worrying about credit notes, you know. Sometimes there’s pleasure to be had, and quite out of the blue.”
Her mother being cheerful was nearly as irritating as her mother being difficult. “What pleasure?” Charlotte persisted in annoyance.
“We’ve been invited to a ball!”
She blinked in surprise. “A ball?”
“Indeed,” confirmed Aunt Flora. “I’m not sure I should go, mind. It’s been so long since I attended such a thing, I won’t know what to say. Or I’ll forget the dance steps.”
“I’ll help you, Aunt,” Charlotte promised.
At the same time, her mama chimed in, “You could always try taking a dose of Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Wonder Nostrum before you go.”
Aunt Flora paled and turned her head away.
With a quelling glance at her mama, Charlotte sank into a chair. “But we can’t go to a ball. We’re not gentlefolk. We don’t have the clothes, the connections—”
“When I say a ball, I actually mean an assembly,” her mother qualified. “It’s at the Dorchester Assembly Rooms, so nothing too fine. But it’s all quite gratis, sponsored by Lord Culverdale. See? He’s sent us vouchers. It’ll be a sad crush, I fear, for the Culverdales are generous, and will no doubt have invited everyone in the county.”
“I wonder why they’re doing it,” Charlotte mused, vaguely astonished at so much generosity.
“To cheer us all up, I imagine,” her mama replied. “It’s been so dismal lately, with all this worry about Napoleon sailing over the Channel, and the fear of highwaymen and such operating beneath our very noses.”
“Like the footpad who haunts the heath,” Flora said gloomily.
Charlotte thought of Rafe and all the warnings he’d plagued her with about that very thing. Mama was right—they were living in dangerous times, and in a dangerous area.
She couldn’t see how going to a ball was going to help, though. All she’d be thinking about was the fact Rafe wouldn’t be there.
Or Justin, of course.
Her fingers closed around the letter in her pocket and she felt a stab of guilt. Bother this ball! Mama clearly wanted to talk about it, and she wouldn’t be able to escape for ages.
What if Justin’s news was urgent? What if he needed her help?
She sat on the edge of her seat and assumed an air of calm she was far from feeling. “When is this great event to be held?” she asked.
“On September twenty-third, with supper at nine and dancing until two.”
“Surely, everyone will be too exhausted and hot to dance that late,” Flora murmured.
“Not necessarily,” said Mama. “I’m sure there’ll be ices. Culverdale has his own icehouse, you know. And we won’t be wearing much.”
Charlotte sat forward, incredulous. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
Her mother smiled broadly. “It’s a masked ball with a classical theme. I’m sure that is a great condescension on Lady Culverdale’s part, to ensure no one need feel uncomfortable about their costume. The guests can make do with simple bed sheets, pinned and draped over their underclothes.”
Good lord.
Perhaps this ball would be more entertaining than she thought. She tried to imagine the buxom Thea Daniell in a Grecian tunic, and smiled. The style would actually suit her friend. “But wouldn’t a costumed masque be more the thing?”
“You need to keep up with the fashions more,” replied her mother with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Instead of mooning over that wretched Justin Jessop, or wandering around with your head in the clouds thinking up poetry, and other frivolous pursuits, you should be looking at fashion magazines or reading about the royal princesses.”
Charlotte glanced up sharply. Why was Mama talking about Justin? She couldn’t possibly know about the letter. Could she?
“Child, you’re looking very flushed. Go and fetch yourself a drink of water. When you return, we can look at the theatrical masks Lady Culverdale sent us to go with our classical dress. I’m quite at a loss which to choose. But I suppose you must choose first. There’ll be many eligible gentlemen at the assembly, I’m certain, so you must look your absolute best.”
Rising to obediently fetch some water, Charlotte pointed out that if everyone was masked, she was hardly
likely to know which were the eligible gentlemen. Nor would the gentlemen be able to detect who she was, and thus know she was young and, as yet, unspoken for.
Not that her prospects for making a good marriage were very high. In fact, with her past, they were practically nonexistent.
“I can’t help but think there is something a bit improper about a masked ball,” Charlotte said. “Matrons might dress like maids, those with better figures easily passing for much younger, and thus trap unwary young gentlemen. Persons of wealth rubbing elbows with those of lesser status, possibly leading to highly unsuitable liaisons.”
Mama laughed. “All these years I’ve thought my daughter wild and wayward, but here you are, fretting about the impropriety of a masked ball. Lest you become a complete milk-and-water miss, I insist you attend this ball with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. You have my permission, and Flora’s, to thoroughly enjoy yourself without fear of condemnation. I’ll do my best to recognize the gallants beneath the masks and steer you in the direction of the most suitable. Now, get your water and go for a lie-down, child. You look quite done in.”
Thank heavens! Finally, an opportunity to read Justin’s letter. She fetched her water and scurried upstairs, scarcely able to breathe in anticipation.
Chapter Eleven
My dearest, most precious Charlotte,
How I miss you! Words are not adequate to explain my Feelings, so much stronger, so much more Desperate now that we have been torn from each other’s arms. I would not wish you to feel the Pain I am feeling, though I would hope you love me no less than I do you. Oh, for the sight of your gentle Face, the spark of humor in your eye, the heavenly vision of your hair wafted by the zephyrs of summer.
What of my grim Lyfe here? I have borne the Cold, the Wet, the endless drills, the hefty weight of my weapons, and of the responsibility, which hangs like the sword of Damocles over me, just waiting for me to make a mistake, sending some poor Fellowe to his Death.
I know not how I can bear this much longer. It is not the Lyfe for me, whatever Papa may say. He has sent me a cruel punishment, indeed, for loving you.
A Perilous Passion Page 7