A Perilous Passion

by Elizabeth Keysian

  “Sit down,” he ordered. “I’ve some questions for you.”

  Folding her dignity about her like a cloak, she sat opposite his desk. Feeling very much the inquisitor, he took his place behind it.

  “What do you know of the smugglers hereabouts?”

  She looked genuinely surprised. “Nothing, save that you want to round them up. And that they’ve been using a cave off the beach. Have you explored it more thoroughly yet?”

  He raised a hand. “I’m asking the questions, remember?”

  “Of course.” She looked so like a schoolgirl attending to her lessons, he almost smiled. How could anyone think she had a shameful past? She appeared innocence itself.

  But looks could be deceiving.

  “Nothing else?” he persisted. “No names, no suspicions?”

  “No. You know I’d help you if I could.”

  “Have you told anyone about my assignment?”

  Again, that look of wide-eyed innocence. “Of course not! You were most emphatic we should stay silent.”

  He pressed his fingers together and stared down at a scratch on his desk. This was probably the truth. If she’d been in league with the local free traders, a knife between the ribs would have sent him to an early grave by now.

  Tilting his gaze up again, he met hers squarely and asked, “Before you came to this part of the world, did you live in Essex?”

  She went deathly still. “Yes, I was born in Essex. It’s where my family comes from. There’s a jest there that every other baby born in Walden has Hartington blood.” Her eyes grew moist and she looked away. “I miss my home dearly.”

  If she was acting, this was a creditable performance. His doubts faded. “Could you not go back? If only for a visit?”

  “We can’t afford to travel. As you must know if you’ve been prying into our affairs.”

  The look she gave him made him feel a swine. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I suppose I must forgive you,” she said, “since spying is your trade.” Again, she met his gaze squarely. “Now it’s my turn to question you. What exactly did happen on the heath last night?”

  How could he not believe in her?

  “A soldier was shot and killed,” he said. “A small detachment from the fort was on patrol. They’d received intelligence that a frigate was due in bearing contraband from France and were working with the revenue men to intercept the cargo. It went badly. A small patrol of young, ill-trained militia is no match for hardened free traders.”

  “That’s awful,” she said sincerely.

  He pushed out a frustrated breath. “I wish I’d known of their plans. I’m positive not just cargo, but secret papers are being brought to Dorset, direct from Napoleon. The ringleader of the smugglers is also a spy for the French, a traitor.”

  He glanced up to see what effect this revelation had on her. Her lips were parted and she looked genuinely horrified. “An Englishman?” she asked incredulously.

  “Presumably. The date of the drop was no doubt chosen to coincide with last night’s ball, when the whole village was occupied elsewhere.” His chair scraped back and crashed against the window ledge as he rose and stalked over to the fireplace. “I should have been there, in charge of those soldiers. I’d never have let them be such an easy target.”

  “You didn’t know. It wasn’t your fault, Rafe,” she said, her eyes filled with compassion.

  He stalked back to the desk again. “I should have known. I was a short-sighted idiot to attend that ball. I should have been at my post, vigilant. But instead, I made a tryst with you. Had it not been for my selfish desires, that soldier might still be alive, and I might have intercepted those vital dispatches from Napoleon. Intelligence that could have saved thousands of British lives.”

  His voice had risen with each word. Charlotte’s eyes were wide as saucers. He stared down for a moment at his balled fists to calm himself. “Make no mistake, I don’t blame you. The fault is all mine. I’ve threatened you, I’ve forced you to meet with me, I’ve pushed my unwanted attentions upon you. I’m truly sorry, Charlotte.” When she said nothing, he looked up. “Charlotte?”

  She seemed not to be listening.

  Suddenly, she shot out of her chair and grasped him by the sleeve. “Rafe! I think I know who the ringleader is!” In her face was pure excitement, not deceit.

  “How is that possible?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

  “At the ball last night I danced with the Earl of Culverdale. He was dressed as Apollo—you must have seen him.”

  “Of course. What about it?”

  “I noticed he vanished for a long while, which seemed odd for the host. At first, I thought he was just at cards or smoking a pipe or whatever gentlemen do. But when he appeared for his dance with me, his hands were cold, as if he’d been outside. And his boots dropped something on the floor that felt gritty under my slippers, like sand. I thought it very strange he’d gone to the beach and not had his boots cleaned before the ball.”

  Rafe stared at her, instantly grasping her meaning. “You think he went during the ball.”

  “He must have ridden faster than the wind. But…yes, it’s the only plausible explanation.”

  Rafe paced the room, his mind tangled in frenzied thought.

  Culverdale.

  The earl would have just the right amount of authority to tempt secrets out of unwary ministers and generals but was too high in the instep to be considered a potential traitor. Even Rafe had dismissed him as a self-important bore. Clearly, he’d underestimated the man.

  What might the earl’s motives be? Capital interests in France? Family connections? Was he being blackmailed, or being promised the earth by Bonaparte?

  Or simply a man with no loyalty or patriotism?

  “I think you may be right,” he said slowly, “but don’t involve yourself in this. Let me deal with it. We need to concentrate on getting you home safely with your reputation intact. Wait here in the study for now, and don’t move a muscle. Promise me?”

  She nodded, but her eyes sparked with pleasure. Because she’d successfully turned his focus away from herself? Or because she’d helped him?

  He hoped the latter.

  As soon as he found Paynter, he brought him back inside and introduced him to Charlotte. Having been reassured the man’s pistol was primed, Rafe bade him wait in the hallway for a moment.

  “Pay attention,” he said to her, returning to his study. “No more midnight walks, unless it’s a matter of life or death. Never go out alone. And I strictly forbid you ever to come here again. If there’s something urgent you must tell me, have Thomas the Carrier find me. I’ll come straight away or send one of my men. But only if you’re in dire straits. Understood?”

  She nodded, but her disappointment was palpable. Clearly, she’d been poised to share his adventure. If nothing else, the woman had great courage.

  Either that, or she’d been brought up by a master felon who’d taught her to take care of herself.

  “I understand,” she replied primly. “I’ll go with Paynter, and I’ll try to restrain myself from troubling you again in future. Good luck with your endeavors, my lord.”

  He ached to take her in his arms and say a proper farewell, the way his heart desired, but forced himself to step back. “One day, when all this is over, I hope to be able to make amends to you.”

  She pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders and moved past him into the passageway. “No need, sir,” she said icily. “I’ve had a little adventure, which has relieved the tedium of my existence. If I’ve helped my country by offering up a suspected traitor, then I’m satisfied. I neither want, nor expect, anything further from you.”

  Touché, Charlotte! Of course she was angry; of course she was cold. He’d given her every reason to be.

  He wasn’t accustomed to being hurt by a woman’s words. But hurt him they had. As she walked away from him and out into the night with Paynter, he felt as if he’d just been kicked in the chest. />
  His heart ached with her rejection.

  And he wondered how long it would take to numb the pain.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charlotte obediently followed Paynter to the front door of the farmhouse. As he was lifting the bolt to bring them outside, she noticed a strange object on Rafe’s hall table, partly concealed by a pair of leather gloves.

  They’d walked several yards down the lane before she realized the significance of what she’d just seen. It had been a black, half-face mask, with holes cut out for the eyes.

  But it was no masquerade mask worn to a ball. The only person likely to wear this distinctive type of mask was that most notorious and dashing of criminals—the highwayman.

  Her mind buzzed at the implications.

  Good heavens. Could Rafe be the highwayman?

  Could it possibly be Rafe who’d been holding up unwary travelers on the heath road and in the surrounding woods?

  She struggled to comprehend it. The idea was absurd.

  But the more she thought about it, the more the pieces fell into place. The local highwayman always went on foot. None of his victims had been hurt, and very little had been stolen. He was always charming to the ladies, even kissing the younger, prettier ones on the cheek.

  Yes, that could be Rafe all right, rake that he was.

  What earthly reason could he have for endangering his life with such an enterprise? The man was wealthy and titled, and wanted for nothing.

  Her imagination took flight. What did she truly know about him? There were too many secrets hovering like an obscuring cloud around the Earl of Beckport.

  Was he really a government agent intent on catching French spies and smugglers? Or was he playing some deeper, less honorable game of his own?

  “Is this the place, miss?” asked Paynter.

  Heavens, they were home already. The problem of Rafe had taxed her so greatly she’d no memory of the long walk back from Dovehouse Farm.

  “Yes,” she said, and prepared to climb back up the vine.

  But as soon as her companion saw what she was doing, he whispered, “Wait. I can get you in the door.”

  She looked up. The window seemed farther up, the ivy more slender than she remembered. She’d wisely tucked the key to her chamber into her bodice, so if he could get her into the house, that would be infinitely preferable.

  He had a disturbing ability to pick the lock, which he accomplished in the blink of an eye. Was he another government agent? Or a member of the criminal underworld?

  Long after she’d tucked her chilled body under the bedclothes, she lay awake, desperately trying to solve the conundrum of the mysterious Earl of Beckport.

  Eventually she fell asleep, but awoke the next morning with a dull headache that refused to go away.

  While her aunt and mother pottered about the house tidying, mending, and organizing, she drove them mad by littering the floor with old newspapers and journals from the stack by the fireplace, scouring them for information about the highwayman. She even turned down an outing with Aunt Flora after lunch to continue her research.

  But her search proved fruitless. Nothing she found linked the highwayman with Rafe. The descriptions of the man varied so much, he sounded like several different people. Women remembered him as tall, dark, and slender, whereas the men recalled him as being short and stocky of build, like a pugilist. The women had him without a beard, whereas the men distinctly recalled a full set of thick, bristly whiskers.

  By late afternoon, she’d given up. Her headache was no better—even after a draught of one of the traveling doctor’s nostrums—so her mother sent her off on an errand so she could get some air. Jenny, their maidservant, accompanied her, carrying a covered basket of newly baked apple tarts for Mrs. Carboys.

  As they passed the Admiral Duncan, Charlotte noticed a grand coach stationed outside it—an uncommon sight in Fortuneswell. She slowed to examine its markings and stopped dead in her tracks.

  It was the Culverdale coat-of-arms.

  The black-hearted villain was here, bold as you please. Was he meeting his treacherous confederates? Making nefarious plans?

  Cold fury surged through her. But what could two young, defenseless ladies do to capture the traitor?

  The answer was…nothing.

  Unless she could send word to Dovehouse Farm…

  Jenny interrupted her thoughts. “It’s clouding over, miss. We’d better hurry up and deliver these pies before it starts to rain.”

  Charlotte thought quickly. “You take them, Jenny. I need to go to the other side of the village for something.”

  The servant looked uneasy. “Apologies, miss, but Mrs. Allston insisted I remain with you.”

  Damn her overprotective mother! “Very well,” she said. “We’ll finish our errand quickly, then. No stopping for chit-chat.”

  The skies had darkened ominously by the time they were done with Mrs. Carboys, and they headed back toward home. The coach still stood outside the inn as they passed it, thank goodness. She needed to find Thomas the Carrier to send Rafe a message.

  No sooner had she turned in the direction of Harris’s stable, than a fat drop of water splattered on her nose. Soon, the rain was rattling all around them, bending the leaves and twigs that overhung the road, creating little runnels in the dirt and gurgling in the gutter.

  She threw her shawl over her head, and Jenny held the empty basket over hers, and they broke into a run, darting under the trees for protection. They’d barely gone a hundred yards when, above the roar of the rain, Charlotte heard the clip-clop of several hooves and the creaking wheels of a vehicle coming up at speed behind them.

  Out of breath, with her blood pounding in her ears, she was relieved to hear the driver call, “Whoa!” to his team.

  A coach drew to a halt just ahead of them. With an all-too familiar coat-of-arms.

  She tugged her dripping bonnet down over her face and prepared to hurry past.

  But the window lowered, and a refined male voice called, “Ladies, please permit me to take you up.”

  She laid a restraining hand on Jenny’s arm as the maid surged eagerly forward. Charlotte’s mind was in a tumble. To refuse a lift in the pouring rain would be considered odd, and she didn’t want to arouse Culverdale’s suspicions. Nor did she want to climb into a coach containing a coldblooded traitor.

  The fact she had Jenny with her was scant comfort—the young maid wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

  For good or for ill, the choice was taken from her. The coachman had already climbed down to install the steps, and Culverdale was gesturing to them impatiently to get in.

  Schooling her expression to one of innocent gratitude, Charlotte preceded her maid into the ornate interior. Jenny wedged herself into a corner and sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast dutifully down. Charlotte sat opposite Culverdale, giving him a genteel greeting and summoning a grateful nod of thanks.

  He raised a quizzing glass to his eye and observed her coolly, then gave her a thin smile. “Not quite a drowned rat yet, Miss— Excuse me, I don’t know your name. I’m Culverdale.”

  She kicked Jenny as she held the earl’s gaze and said—very convincingly she thought—“I’m Elizabeth Bettany, my lord. This is my maid…Emma. Thank his lordship for his considerate gesture, Emma.”

  Jenny’s eyes were popping as she winced in pain, but she dutifully nodded, and stammered, “I’m s-sure I’m very g-grateful to you, your lordship. Very grateful, indeed.”

  “Miss Bettany, eh?” He smoothed long fingers over a pair of white kid gloves on his knee, then pulled a repeater watch from his gold-embroidered waistcoat and snapped open the cover. “Where am I to set you down?”

  While his attention was on the watch, Charlotte shot Jenny a sharp warning look. Hopefully she was getting the message. “We are just on an errand to see the carrier, Tom Harris,” she said.

  “He lives beyond the village, does he not?”

  She nodded. “Aye.”

/>   “I’m not much acquainted with Fortuneswell. Have you dwelled here long?”

  “All my life,” she lied. The less accurate information she gave to such a cunning and dangerous man, the better.

  Hard spatters of rain struck the roof of the coach as the road took them under a stand of trees. A loud thump from above, followed by a dramatic lurch, had her grabbing for the straps in fear the vehicle was about to overturn.

  “What the devil?” Culverdale reached down to a compartment at his feet and withdrew a gleaming pistol, which he rested against his lips to exhort her and Jenny to silence. There was another thump from the coachman’s box, followed by a hoarse shout.

  The carriage came to a juddering halt, nearly throwing Charlotte into Culverdale’s lap. As she righted herself, she heard a command from outside that froze her blood.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Chapter Twenty

  These ominous words, dreaded by every traveler, struck a quite different chord with Charlotte.

  Oh great, good heavens!

  It sounded like Rafe.

  It must be Rafe. The mask she’d seen at Dovehouse Farm confirmed he was a highwayman.

  The highwayman.

  Culverdale pulled down the sash and peered cautiously out the window, his pistol upright against his cheek. The instant she saw his hand tense to point the weapon, she knew she must act at once.

  She threw herself at him, catching him unawares, and dragged his arm down.

  Alas! Not soon enough. An ear-splitting blast from the gun was followed by the sound of splintering wood as the ball cracked through the side of the carriage.

  A bellow of pain assaulted her ears.

  No!

  Rafe had been hit!

  Culverdale, his hat awry and his thin face twisted in fury, turned to wrestle with her. He kicked the door open, struggling to throw her out of the carriage. Just as she was about to lose her balance, he let go abruptly and collapsed across her, the gun clattering to the floor.

  She quickly extracted and righted herself. Blood was soaking through Culverdale’s wig, running down his neck and over the ruffled front of his shirt. She looked up, and there was Jenny, a broken wine bottle quivering in her hands.