A Perilous Passion

by Elizabeth Keysian

  How young, how foolish were our Hearts when we planned to elope! My Heart has hardened—not toward you, my most darling Charlotte, but toward myself. I should never have embarked on so foolish a Venture, I should never have risked destroying your Good Name. Although I think my father has greatly overstepped the mark, I do now realize how much I have disappointed him and the rest of my family with such selfish actions.

  I resent my Punishment, but begin to hate myself for what I did to deserve it, and this Battle within my soul is tearing me apart. I cannot help but Hope that it will be over soon.

  Please spare a moment to think of me, your poor, wretched Justin, lest Fate decree we never meet again. But I still hope otherwise, for what else do I have left to hope for? I care not for what happens in my Lyfe, but I do still care about yours. Tell me you are Well, tell me you are bearing up. And yes, even though it would pain me to hear it, tell me you are Happy.

  Yours until my Dying Day,

  Justin

  Charlotte folded the paper back over and stared sightlessly out the window. Her mind buzzed like a beehive in a thunderstorm. What was she to understand by his words? That he was going to do something drastic? Take his own life, perhaps?

  She turned the paper over and over in her hands, waiting for the tears to come, but discovered she felt numb rather than grief-stricken, worried rather than distraught.

  Before she had time to question this lack of emotion, a knock on her chamber door had her leaping up and stuffing the letter under the mattress.

  “What is it?” she called, her heart thudding painfully.

  “Your friends have come for you,” Aunt Flora called back through the elm panels.

  “Just one moment.” Hester and Thea, of course, had arrived, eager to discuss the Culverdale ball. Dare she tell them about her letter? They’d have to go somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard.

  She rushed down the stairs and steered them right back out the front door. “I need some air,” she declared.

  “How whey-faced you are, Charlotte!” said Hester, as they stepped out into the sunshine. “Aren’t you excited about this rout?”

  “Of course I am. But I’ve just come from the Scaddens, and feel a bit low.”

  “Let’s head for the church, then,” Thea replied. “I can see if my floral display needs watering yet.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the dancing,” Hester said, as she took Charlotte’s arm and held her parasol over them both.

  “It’s healthful exercise, the best that can be got if you don’t ride,” Thea agreed.

  “Aye, indeed, and if you’re the Earl of Beckport, it may be the only exercise you can get,” said Hester with a laugh.

  Charlotte frowned.

  “I declare, your face is growing longer by the minute, Charlotte. Whatever ails you?” asked Thea.

  Hester gave her a searching look, then pronounced, “She’s still missing Justin, I’ll be bound. But it’s been a full six months since he was sent away. Surely, that’s long enough for a heart to mend.”

  “It has mended,” Charlotte answered. “But I can’t help worrying about him. He’s not robust enough for the army. You know how prone to colds he is. It’s very damp in Scotland, I hear.”

  “But he’s still young,” Thea offered. “He can’t be more than twenty, and fit enough. I’m told anyone can become stronger if they exercise.”

  “He’s very slender,” Charlotte said. “Those swords can be heavy.”

  “Nonsense!” interjected Hester. “They’re as light as a butter knife. I held one once, a cavalry saber.” She made a feint with an invisible sword by way of demonstration. “If my wrist’s sturdy enough, Justin’s must be.”

  “But what if the men under his command mutiny? How would he fare then? He’s not one for giving orders—he’d far rather ask nicely, and that won’t do at all with the rank and file.”

  As she said these words, she unconsciously pictured Rafe in Justin’s place, barking orders to his men. They’d scramble to obey him, without a doubt—he’d brook no opposition. He was also the sort of officer who would command respect amongst his troops.

  And look very dashing in his uniform…

  Suddenly, she realized what a blow it must have been for him to lose his military career in the blink of an eye. Her heart bled for him anew.

  “Why worry about him now?” Hester asked. “Six months ago, Justin might have struggled with his fears, but by now he’s a well-trained officer, fit and ready to do his duty. I’m sure you’d find him a strapping young fellow, were you to meet him again. I’m quite sure you’d hardly know him.”

  With an effort, Charlotte returned her attention to the conversation.

  Justin. They were talking about Justin. Had she really brought him up?

  “I don’t think they should make young men with gentle natures and poetic souls go into the army,” she said. “It’s a cruel waste.”

  “You really think Mr. Jessop might have made his name as a poet?” Hester queried. “Well, perhaps the military life will give him fodder for his verses, and put a bit of dash into them. But I don’t think you should fret, Charlotte. I’m sure there’s nothing you can do for him, anyway. Both your families have forbidden any contact.”

  Charlotte nodded. Time to change the subject before she gave herself away. First Rafe’s secret, and now she had to keep Justin’s safe, as well.

  Life was becoming very complicated.

  “Charlotte, don’t think of him a moment longer. He wouldn’t want to spoil your pleasure, would he?”

  Charlotte focused on Thea’s face and managed a smile. “Of course he wouldn’t. Forgive me. I must think of the here and now and not waste time fretting over the past. A past we cannot change.”

  “Very philosophical,” agreed Hester. “Now, tell me, what mask have you chosen to wear to the ball? Not tragedy, I hope.”

  Charlotte winced inwardly. She had chosen tragedy. “There were only two masks for comedy, and Aunt Flora looked so wistful. Mama tried on the tragic one and looked a fright, so I insisted she give it to me.”

  “There won’t be too many eligible gentlemen beating a path to your side, I fear,” said Hester.

  “Only those whom no one else wants to dance with,” said Thea with a laugh, but not unkindly.

  “Who knows? She might end up in the waltz with the horse-fearing Earl of Beckport, whom no one else will surely accept.”

  Charlotte, recalling that kiss, couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather dance with than Rafe. The rest of the world, and Hester in particular, had quite the wrong idea of him.

  Selfishly, she felt a little glad of that. For, it meant she could have him all to herself.

  “He’ll be too tired to dance. He will have walked all the way from his vast estates because he can’t ride,” Thea suggested, her eyes twinkling.

  “Charlotte will have to hold him up!” declared Hester.

  “If they developed a tendre for each other,” Thea said, warming to her subject, “they might have to elope on foot.”

  Charlotte’s patience reached its limits. “Enough! What has poor Lord Beckport done to the pair of you, that you mock him so cruelly? Have you nothing else to talk about? And what on earth has possessed you to link my name with his in such a way?”

  Hester came to a halt and looked at her askance. “There’s no need to fly up into the boughs. We’re only teasing, aren’t we, Thea?”

  “Of course, for why would anyone as lovely as you care for him? He must be a good ten years older than Justin, and dark, not fair, although he is exceedingly handsome under that very unfashionable beard and eccentric mustachios.”

  “You’ve seen him, then?” Charlotte inquired, reining in her impatience. The more they derided Rafe, the more she wanted to leap to his defense. It was beyond frustrating that she could not.

  “Only from a distance. He rarely comes this far south.”

  “According to the Spectator, he’s as rich as Croesus,” said Hester,
“and was very popular with the ladies before all the trouble with the army and being snubbed by the ton. It’s rumored he’s had several mistresses and one or two quite scandalous affaires.”

  “Dozens of mistresses, I’ve heard,” Thea put in, tugging on Charlotte’s arm to get them moving again. “He’s known to have an eye for beauty. Beckport House contains a vast collection of classical statues, mostly female. Some are kept in a room where only close male friends are allowed.”

  “I’m sure many gentlemen of taste have similar collections,” Charlotte said, trying to banish a vivid image of Rafe disporting himself with his dozens of mistresses.

  Thea said, “There were rumors about Harriette Wilson—”

  “There always are,” interrupted Hester with a sniff.

  Charlotte found it difficult to reconcile the reclusive, secretive Lord Beckport she knew with the wealthy, lascivious rake her friends were making him out to be. Experience had taught her that gossip was a cruel weapon. It could ruin one’s character in a single blow—often without good reason—and she set little store by it.

  Yet, this new picture of Beckport held a particular fascination. It seemed he was more dangerous to her than she’d thought. Had she been aware of the voraciousness of his…appetites, she might have been much more alarmed when she’d woken to find him in her bedchamber.

  Or more excited, a devilish voice within her murmured.

  “I wonder if the highwayman will attend the ball.”

  “Thea, whatever made you think such a thing?” Hester said with a snort.

  “He is supposed to be very dashing and bold…and used to wearing a mask.”

  Charlotte chuckled, despite herself.

  “Well,” Hester said, “the Culverdales are hardly likely to send a voucher to a high toby. Even if they had his direction, which I’m sure they don’t.”

  “But he could be anyone, couldn’t he?” Charlotte ventured, her imagination taking flight.

  “Exactly,” Thea said. “So, no one would know him. I think he sounds quite gallant, myself. He held up Martha Weeks and Philip Carey the other day, and he kissed Martha on her cheek, took only a little of her coin, and refused to touch the locket she inherited from her grandmother. He said a beautiful object like that belonged on the bosom of a beautiful woman.”

  “Did Philip Carey do nothing to protect her?” Charlotte asked, intrigued by such benevolent behaviour in an outlaw.

  “What could he do? He had only a sickle and a basket of eggs he was carrying for Martha, while the robber had a brace of pistols. Carey had no coin on him at all, but the highwayman took away a few eggs in his pocket.”

  She laughed again and digested the fascinating tale a moment, then told Thea, “You won’t be meeting this generous thief at the assembly. If he has to resort to stealing eggs for his supper, I can hardly imagine he’ll have even a bed sheet to wear for a costume, let alone get his hands on an appropriate mask.”

  “No,” disagreed Hester. “He’ll put in his appearance after two o’clock, on the road, in hopes of catching out unwary guests returning homeward.”

  “He’ll hang if they catch him,” said Thea, becoming serious as she opened the lych-gate into the churchyard. “Whether gentleman or commoner.”

  Hester frowned. “What a gloomy thought. I’d far rather talk about the ball.”

  “Yes! I’m so looking forward to it,” Thea said, her whole face lighting up.

  “Oh dear,” said Hester, as they drew nearer to the church. “Someone’s moved your display into the porch, Thea, and it’s wilted.”

  “Bother!” exclaimed Thea, her face falling. “Why didn’t I think to bring a watering pot with me?”

  “No matter,” Charlotte said. “I’ve just remembered something I urgently need to do at home. I’ll run back and send Adam up with a bucket, if you don’t mind waiting.”

  Before her friends could either say yea or nay, she hurried off, back the way they’d come.

  Seeing the graveyard, she suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about Justin’s letter. How depressed he sounded! He had something terrible planned, she was sure of it. She vividly recalled how he could sometimes be afflicted with a black melancholy.

  She knew now she cared for him only as a friend. But how could she live with herself if he took his own life, when a few carefully chosen words from her might have prevented it?

  She must write back to him, whatever the risk.

  And somehow let him down gently. Because she was coming to realize her love for him had just been the brief flutter of a young girl’s heart. Now that she was older—and much wiser—she found her heart yearned for someone else. For a man who took her breath away. A man who made her long for things she’d never experienced.

  For a man who—as he’d avoided her for the past three weeks—clearly did not return her feelings.

  Chapter Twelve

  September was nearly over before Rafe spoke with Charlotte again.

  He’d seen her, of course—he told himself his mission involved keeping an eye on everyone, including her—but the truth was, he couldn’t keep away.

  He’d been attracted to a number of women in the past—and they to him—but none had impressed him as much as Miss Charlotte Allston. She wasn’t of his lofty social class, which made her refreshingly unspoiled, and she constantly surprised him with her opinions and observations. He couldn’t condone her support for the smuggling trade but assumed it stemmed from her being tender-hearted and naive—which made her all the more charming.

  When he learned of the ball at the Assembly Rooms in Dorchester, sponsored by Lord and Lady Culverdale, he made sure Charlotte would be going. He also obtained an invitation for himself, pretending to be the vicar’s long-lost cousin come to stay. The vicar, of course, knew nothing of this.

  A masked ball was the perfect opportunity to glean information while remaining incognito. And it would give him a chance to see Charlotte again—hopefully even dance with her. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be kept in his present posting, so this might be his last chance to hold the intriguing miss in his arms.

  Goves had warned him against going. Someone only needed to rip off his mask, and he’d be exposed. In such a throng, there were bound to be members of the upper classes who’d recognize him even more readily than Mrs. Allston had.

  Rafe had argued he deserved some pleasant diversion for once. He’d worked unceasingly for weeks and had already succeeded in finding one of the hidden beacons. It was only a matter of time before he or his men found more and could then establish the pattern of their placement. He wouldn’t take any risks at the ball, just listen to conversations, dance a little, and play a few hands of cards.

  Having promised Goves to tie his tragic mask so tightly not even a sailor could undo the knot, on the day of the ball he convinced Hamblett, his valet, to fashion him a Greek chiton and a laurel crown. Checking the results in a mirror, he was satisfied he looked fine, but not enough to attract undue attention. The hired chaise arrived at his door to take him to Dorchester, and once there, he joined the noisy throng in the Assembly Rooms.

  The evening was cool rather than cold, with a bright moon and a smattering of early stars, but these were nothing compared to the cut-glass chandeliers and candelabra inside. Hothouse geraniums, grapevines, and orchids ornamented the walls, the supper table was festooned with scented sweet peas, and with most of the company wearing white, it truly felt as if one were on Mount Olympus amongst the gods.

  He accepted a glass of punch, then headed up to the gallery, whence he could examine the people below. Easily identifiable was a gaggle of gauche young men, who must be officers from the fort above Fortuneswell. Others he recognized from their forms, their voices, the way they laughed, and their mannerisms and movements.

  There wouldn’t be anyone here from the taproom of the Admiral Duncan, nor were there likely to be any of the smugglers amongst the guests, though doubtless, many here were their customers.

  Was
the spider at the center of their web present? Rafe took a deep swig of his punch. Damn the man. How had he evaded detection for so long?

  His eye shifted to the hosts of the ball, greeting new arrivals by the door. He knew Lady Culverdale only slightly—she’d always had too high an opinion of herself, so he’d avoided her social circle in his pre-army days.

  Her husband was a slender, stately gentleman, wearing a gilded laurel wreath, with a golden lyre embroidered on his purple-edged toga. He snapped a bow like a rifle crack and held his head as if wearing the highest and stiffest of collars.

  Both husband and wife moved in the loftiest social circles now. Lord Culverdale looked ill at ease in his classical costume compared to his wife, and none too keen on the frivolity of the ball. No whiff of scandal was attached to him, and Rafe had him marked down as a bore. The pair were easily distinguished from their guests by the individually fashioned masks they wore—considerably more tasteful than the comedic and tragic ones they’d sent out with the invitations.

  When Charlotte entered the room, he knew her instantly. No one else had that sedate walk, that elegant curve of the neck, or such delightfully curled bronze-colored hair. He stood transfixed, gazing his fill and trying to steady his breath as gentleman after gentleman approached to sign their names on her dance card.

  Great Moses! If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss his chance. Feeling like a lovesick fool, he hurtled down the stairs and plowed through the crowd until he stood bowing in front of her. When her eyes met his, his heart leaped to his throat.

  Did she know him? Did the trembling of her fingers suggest that she did, or was she nervous for some other reason? He crushed his suspicions. This was Charlotte, an innocent young woman, not a heinous spy plotting to betray king and country. What had his time as a spy-catcher done to him? Did he suspect everybody now?

  Yes, she knew him. The parting of her lips, the intake of breath, the rosy hue that stole over her heaving breast confirmed it. Gods, how he wanted to kiss those lips, press his own on the tempting swell of her bosom, and bury his fingers in those glowing curls.