A Perilous Passion

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Mama and Aunt Flora sat with her in their hired chaise, and her friends and their families were traveling in convoy in Reverend Daniell’s conveyance. Occasionally, Charlotte would look over her shoulder and wave, forcing a smile, but she was not at all in the right frame of mind to be sociable.

  First, there was the problem of Rafe. Yes, she’d given him her heart. But they’d been thrown together in such extraordinary circumstances… Would love fade with the danger that had given birth to it? Would he be a different person when he was no longer Mr. Seabourne? Might his arrogance and commanding nature come once again to the fore, or had his experiences as a commoner put a period to that?

  More concerning than any of these was the thought that she was hardly the right wife for an earl. Would he be ridiculed, or worse, shunned, for his choice—at the very moment he was hoping to be most lauded?

  If he expected his reputation to be restored through his heroic deeds as a spy, how could he possibly risk marrying the daughter of an infamous smuggler?

  Could she bear to endanger the good name Rafe had striven so hard to rebuild?

  Her mama’s voice broke in on these troubling thoughts. “I’m surprised the Culverdales haven’t vouchsafed a reason for this party. If they’re celebrating some happy event, why not say so?”

  “I’ve heard,” said Flora, “that they might be going away soon. But it’s only the very vaguest of rumors.”

  To France, most likely, Charlotte thought bitterly. They’d be out of harm’s way when the invasion occurred, taking up residence in a new chateau, enjoying whatever gifts Napoleon had promised. She shuddered at the thought that the Culverdales might install themselves in a home whose original owners had sacrificed their heads on the guillotine.

  But she must pay attention and catch as much of the gossip as she could tonight.

  “Such a pity dear Lord Beckport won’t be able to attend,” her aunt said. “But as everyone believes Dovehouse Farm to be infected with typhoid fever, he wouldn’t be a welcome guest. So clever of you to think of such a ruse to protect him from inquisitive visitors! I never imagined you’d be strong enough to tackle those church bells. Are your hands feeling better now?”

  “They are, thank you.”

  “Ephraim’s remedies really are very satisfactory. Wasn’t it kind of him to assist with your plan?” Flora asked, looking meaningfully at Mama.

  “Aunt, you know it wasn’t for me that he went along with our fabrication.”

  “Nonsense!” came Flora’s crisp reply. “He’s an intriguing gentleman, certainly, but I’m not setting my cap at him, nor he at me. We inhabit very different worlds. Now, hush. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Mama frowned in disapproval.

  The chaise turned off the road and started up the long drive toward Finchcombe House. Ten minutes later, they disembarked at the impressive facade of Lord Culverdale’s mansion.

  Finchcombe House was very grand, with interiors enthusiastically decorated in rococo style. The plaster carvings around chimneypieces and pier glasses looked like the work of a magician, until Charlotte tapped on some and discovered them to be wood, cunningly painted. The same she found of the pillars in the saloon, which appeared to be of the finest colored marble, but in reality were painted plaster over a solid core.

  All sham. Like the man himself.

  She felt a rush of anxiety as they joined the reception line and greeted their hosts. When Culverdale bowed over her hand, she prayed fervently that, dressed in her finery, she looked nothing like the damp, bedraggled Elizabeth Bettany he’d picked up in his carriage a few short weeks ago.

  His expression as he looked at her was completely bland, a card player’s face. But with his duplicity, there was every chance he knew exactly who he’d picked up—and why he’d been hit on the head—and was playing some cunning game with her.

  Thankfully, he wasn’t likely to cause a scene in his own saloon, with all his guests around.

  She felt herself flushing as she curtsied and hoped he’d put it down to maidenly coyness rather than guilt. She didn’t want him to think her behavior anything out of the ordinary. She needed to mingle unimpeded.

  Many of her fellow guests spoke in hushed voices, impressed to have been invited into this splendid abode, and peered about with avid curiosity at the lush furnishings and decorations. Despite the cool evening, the long windows had been flung open onto the terrace at the back of the house, encouraging people to spill out onto the gravel paths and promenade around the formal gardens.

  Charlotte walked to the terrace, a glass of punch in her hand, as a string quartet started up behind her. She had no particular wish to dance. Indeed, it would seem frivolous to do so when she knew Rafe was out in the wilds, risking his life.

  Suddenly, Thea and Hester appeared at her side.

  “I know what that look means!” exclaimed Hester. “You’re mooning over Lord Beckport. Shame on you! You’ve barely recovered from that affair with young Mr. Jessop, and now you’ve thrown yourself at a renowned rake and eccentric. Thea and I are positively shocked at you, aren’t we, Thea?”

  “Shh! This is no place to mention his name. Promise you won’t do so again,” Charlotte said urgently.

  “Why? Do you think us surrounded by smugglers and French spies?” asked Thea lightly. “These are private grounds. With walls and gates.”

  Shooting them an agonized look, Charlotte went to stand behind the high plinth supporting a great stone eagle and motioned them to join her. She glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear.

  “Thea,” she whispered, regretting she’d ever confided in her friends. “You mustn’t speak openly of such things. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to know about them? Rafe has told me a dozen times that nobody can be trusted. Smugglers are not all of the lower classes, and not all traitors are French. They can be as English as you or I, and completely respectable. Please, abandon that topic, and let’s return to the ballroom. Or to the supper table if you prefer.”

  “Shall we pay court to Lady Culverdale before eating?” asked Hester. “Alas, his lordship has already abandoned the festivities. I saw his butler whisper something in his ear, and Culverdale smiled broadly, then they both disappeared. A terrible host, if you ask me.”

  An icy hand grasped Charlotte’s heart. Rafe!

  Culverdale must have captured Rafe! What else could the blackguard be smiling about? Nothing less than Rafe’s imprisonment could have put a smile on the traitor’s habitually saturnine face.

  The punch cup trembled in her hand, and she placed it hastily on the plinth. “Well,” she said with false brightness, “I’m sure his presence won’t be missed, as he’s not the most sociable of men. Um…excuse me, I think I dropped my handkerchief on the lawn. No, there’s no need to follow—I won’t be a moment.”

  Giving them no chance to protest, she skipped down the steps onto the gravel, hesitated a moment, and set off round the side of the house in search of the outbuildings.

  If Culverdale had vanished from his own party without making excuses to his guests, he couldn’t have gone far. Just far enough, perhaps, to be sure of the intelligence he’d received, by speaking directly to the messenger? He’d no doubt return soon.

  Should she try to find him so she might eavesdrop? Or discover where he was keeping his captive, assuming she was right?

  No, that sounded too dangerous. But she could look for clues.

  If someone had recently arrived with intelligence for Culverdale, there should be a well-ridden horse in the stables. She could go and see.

  Strolling nonchalantly across the yard, she thought of Rafe’s taunts that she’d read too many Gothic novels. He was—though she hated to admit it—quite correct. She felt she was living in one at this very moment. She just prayed the ending this time would not be tragic.

  Entering the warm semidarkness of the stables, she listened intently for any sound of human activity.

  What was that?

  Duck
ing down, she gathered her skirts and hoped she wasn’t ruining her best gown. A horse was being rubbed down, but had it only just arrived? She’d have to get closer to see. If the groom or stable lad were engrossed in their task, she might manage it silently in her light silk dancing slippers.

  A rustle behind her made her jump in alarm. Then agony crashed through her head, and everything went black.

  Chapter Forty

  In preparation for his ambush of the smugglers, Rafe had concealed himself in the branches of a leafy oak above the entrance to the cave by the sea. The one that had brought him and Charlotte together so many weeks ago. How much had happened since that fateful day… With any luck, his mission would soon be over, and they could begin to enjoy their future together.

  His perch wasn’t the most comfortable of lookouts, but unless someone passed directly beneath—and looked up in the right place—the yellowing leaves of the tree concealed him well.

  His view of the surrounding countryside was as good as could be expected in the evening light. The gloom could work to his advantage, though, as it would hamper the enemy, too. From his position, he could skyline them. They couldn’t do the same to him.

  The coast and its hinterland bristled invisibly with soldiers hiding in the bracken, their bright scarlet uniforms long-since abandoned in favor of earth-hued rustic gear. Their line stretched right across the heath, behind the dunes, and above the cliffs, fully covering the bay where the French frigate’s jolly boat was likely to land. From his elevated vantage point, he could just make out the dark steel of rifle barrels, poised and ready.

  He’d exchanged his own clothing for the close-fitting black worsted he wore in his guise as a highwayman, complete with a hastily made silk mask and borrowed cocked hat. That way, he hoped, his quarry would have no idea he was the Earl of Beckport—the man Culverdale so desperately wanted to get his hands on.

  The churr of a nightjar close at hand startled him. When the noise came again, he realized it was an alarm signal.

  Damn! He didn’t want to risk giving away his position. After scanning the countryside, he slipped down the tree as surreptitiously as he could and jumped lightly to the ground.

  “Well?” he demanded peremptorily. “This had better be deuced important.”

  “It is, sir.” Jessop stepped forward. “This note is addressed to the Earl of Beckport.”

  The lad had obviously learned Rafe’s true identity along with the rest of the village. Well, no help for that.

  Giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness beneath the tree, Rafe took the young man’s arm and pulled him down so they were hidden by an ancient standing stone. It was one of the few places one could use a lantern on this part of the heath, without being spotted.

  Looking pallid in the flickering light, Jessop handed him a folded piece of paper. “Hamblett brought this from Dovehouse. The man who delivered it was one of Culverdale’s footmen, all rigged out in livery for that supper party they’re having tonight.”

  What the devil?

  Rafe’s hand trembled slightly as he unfolded the note. Something catastrophic must have happened for Culverdale to be so blatant in his actions. But the contents weren’t what he’d expected.

  They were far worse.

  “Beckport, I have your delightful Miss Allston,” the note read. “Be at Finchcombe by nine o’clock, exactly, or her life will be forfeit. Come alone and weaponless, and I’ll let her go as soon as I have you in hand. Should you disobey, you’ll never see your sweetheart again. Or perhaps you will, but not in a condition that will bring you any joy, nor the comfort that she died quickly. Culverdale.”

  “Sir? What is it?”

  Time slowed to a crawl. As he turned to face Jessop, he felt like a wooden puppet, no longer in charge of his own limbs. “Hold the lantern,” he ordered as he took out his pocket watch.

  Almost eight o’clock. More than enough time to get to Finchcombe House.

  Why had Culverdale been so generous? Was nine o’clock chosen to coincide with the landing of the jolly boat, hoping any action Rafe had planned would founder without him at the helm? Which meant Culverdale had anticipated an ambush, damn his eyes! And that he knew of the connection between Rafe and Charlotte.

  Rafe’s jaw clenched painfully. He was missing something.

  Ah, of course! If Culverdale had also learned Rafe’s real identity, he’d assume Rafe’s affliction with horses meant he couldn’t ride, and granted him enough time to reach Finchcombe by foot.

  Rafe had never thought he’d be glad of that fateful sneeze. But at this moment he was immensely grateful.

  Because Culverdale’s wrong assumption meant Rafe could take the black-hearted devil by surprise.

  “Sir? Do we have new orders?” asked Jessop.

  “Not exactly. We have a dilemma.” Rafe handed him the note.

  Jessop read it, then read it again in furious disbelief. “The villain! I’ll strangle him with my bare hands. What a coward, to use a defenseless woman as a bargaining tool. May he rot in hell!”

  Rafe barely heard the younger man’s outrage. He felt sick. He’d known fear before and had learned to vanquish it, but the terror he was feeling now surpassed all previous experiences. Charlotte was in deadly peril, but his duty demanded he remain here, in command of this vital operation. The security of the entire country might depend upon its outcome.

  His own good name certainly did.

  What would Charlotte want him to do? His duty, almost certainly.

  But he couldn’t abandon her. Impossible!

  Unless he could find a way to be in two places at once…

  Jessop tugged at his sleeve. “Let me go, sir,” he pleaded. “I’ll find where they’re keeping her and set her free. Maybe I could borrow a couple of men. We have enough to destroy a whole troop of smugglers and traitors. Your duty is here, sir, but I can easily be spared.”

  “No!” Rafe snapped. The idea of Jessop rescuing Charlotte, of her throwing herself gratefully into his rival’s arms, was like a killing blow. “Where’s Hamblett?” he demanded.

  “Out of sight beyond the ridge, sir. He galloped into one of our patrols and was advised to come no further. It’s about ten minutes away, though I could probably run it in five.”

  “As could I,” growled Rafe. His fists clenched at his sides. The urge to cuff the young man was almost overwhelming. He had to remind himself Jessop was just as concerned about Charlotte as he was.

  The crux of the matter was that somebody must remain here in charge of this operation, and it ought to be Rafe. It was his responsibility to give the order to fire, and his responsibility to send up the flare signaling the fort to discharge their cannon. If his scheme worked, the French ship would turn hard-a-starboard and make for the safety of the open water beyond the point where the frigate HMS Euryalus waited to intercept it.

  How could he risk his country’s safety for a selfish thing like love? If he chose a woman over duty, his reputation and his family honor would be in ruins—this time, permanently.

  Jessop was jiggling from foot to foot in front of him, waiting for an answer. He stared at the young man a moment, his thoughts chasing frantically around in his head.

  This was the most momentous decision of his life.

  And he needed to make it fast.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Charlotte surfaced to consciousness slowly, and in considerable discomfort. She was cold, she was in pain, and found herself in a place where barely anything could be seen through the gloom. There was a dank, moldy smell, totally different to the stables.

  Where was she?

  As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she could see a dim disc of moonlight above her, coming through an oculus in a domed ceiling. She was in a circular building, windowless, with a sunken and uneven floor that glistened faintly with moisture.

  It was cold. Very cold. Maybe she was in some kind of dungeon?

  But where in Portland could one find a dungeon, except perhap
s at the fort? And it was highly unlikely she was there.

  A huge shudder shook her body, making her teeth rattle. Her flimsy dinner gown was no protection against such intense cold. She couldn’t chafe her chilled arms because her hands were bound with cord. So were her feet.

  The knobbly ground on which she lay was actual ice. She rolled over and, suddenly, she understood.

  She was in an icehouse. Lord Culverdale’s icehouse, of course.

  Had he left her here to die of cold?

  No, that wasn’t his way—he’d just kill her if he were so inclined. There must be a reason for keeping her alive. She dreaded what it might be.

  There was no time for fear, no time for self-pity. She had to escape.

  If she hadn’t been unconscious too long, the party might still be going on. If she’d been missed, there could even be people looking for her. Hoping against hope that someone was within earshot, she shouted an experimental, “Help!”

  Her voice bounced back at her from the domed roof of the icehouse, a fearful, lonely sound. She took in a deep breath, and made a more robust effort.

  “Help!”

  It was no good. She was in too awkward a position to fill her lungs properly. If she could wriggle across to the wall, she might be able to push herself up and at least get partly upright.

  After a considerable struggle, she was able to do so.

  She let out another rasping shout. “Help me!”

  Relief flooded through her at the sound of a door scraping open, but her relief was short-lived. The short, thickset man who entered didn’t look like a party guest—or a rescuer.

  With a shock, she recognized him as one of the free traders she and Rafe had seen that day they found the cave, so many weeks before.

  “Keep the noise down, my lovely. It’ll do you no good, only annoy his lordship. Believe me, you don’t want to annoy him.”

  “In what way might she annoy me?” Another voice, cultured and cold, cut the air like a blade.

  Culverdale!

  She tried to control her shaking. He must never see she was afraid.