Page 10 of A Perilous Passion

She frowned at the question, but he appeared genuinely concerned rather than impertinent. “We have an elderly manservant, Adam, but he doesn’t live in. Otherwise, it’s just Mama, Aunt Flora, and our maid Jenny. Why?”

“Unsatisfactory. Women should not dwell unprotected.”

She resisted the urge to tell him that compared to the kind of company Papa had kept, no one in Fortuneswell made her feel the least bit threatened. Indeed, until her meeting with Seabourne, no one but Justin had made her feel much of anything, at all.

“I assure you, we’re in no danger,” she said.

“You’re too young to know much of the world beyond your portals. Trust me, there is considerable danger.”

They reached the front doorstep. She turned to face him and snapped, “I wish you’d stop calling me young, sir. I’m already in my nineteenth year. It’s most provoking, as is your reluctance to explain to me why you are so interested in smugglers.”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that.”

He’d just reached for her hand, presumably to give it a parting shake, when the door was flung open, and her mother’s astonished voice said, “Great heavens, girl, whatever are you doing with Lord Beckport?”

Chapter Five

The next fifteen minutes were conceivably the most embarrassing of Rafe Pomeroy’s life. Worse, even, than the notorious Sneezing Incident.

Initially, he tried to deny his identity. But Miss Allston’s terrier of a mother insisted she’d seen his likeness in an issue of The Gentleman’s Magazine.

Having finally confessed to being himself, he was promptly lectured for gallivanting about with her daughter. Mrs. Allston said she’d no idea what he’d been up to since his abrupt disappearance from Society, but it had doubtless been something shocking, involving impressionable young women and their unwary mothers.

Fortunately, Miss Allston didn’t witness the tongue lashing he received. A matronly-looking woman—who’d evidently just returned from an outing—exchanged gloves and bonnet for a bunch of keys and escorted Miss Allston upstairs. Once satisfied her prisoner was secure, the lady—who bore a close resemblance to Mrs. Allston—returned to enjoy his set-down.

He was a proud man and objected strongly to the accusations being made against him, but it was well-nigh impossible to deny them without revealing his real purpose in the village, so he said very little. He sincerely pitied Miss Allston for the misfortune of having such a mother and hoped the traces of acerbity she, herself, had exhibited did not hint at more awful tendencies to come. If a sweet, beautiful girl like Charlotte one day became a harridan like her parent, it would be a tragedy, indeed.

As he did his best to defend her by taking all the blame upon himself, he became aware of an undercurrent to Mrs. Allston’s lecturing. She kept making oblique mention of a Regrettable Event in Charlotte’s past, which she couldn’t possibly let happen again.

Interesting. Had there really been scandalous goings-on with Miss Allston? Or was her mother simply exaggerating? Nothing in the young woman’s demeanor had suggested she’d ever been intimate with a man. His own behavior in the cave had come as a shock and a revelation to her, though she’d tried to hide it.

Like a mill without wind, Mrs. Allston eventually ground to a halt. Seizing the moment, he rose, tipped his hat, and said, “Once again, madam, you have my apologies. I meant well—I was unhappy to see your daughter had lost her companions and was wandering about alone. One can’t be too careful when we live in such dangerous times.”

He’d invented the companions. He was certain Miss Allston must have some friends in the village she could have been out with and subsequently become separated from. He thought it a stroke of genius on his part…until he realized she wouldn’t know the lie he’d used to protect her. If he were found out, he’d look even more of an ass than he did already.

Mrs. Allston asked brusquely, “Exactly what danger do you believe us to be in, my lord?”

“The French and the footpad on the heath, for a start. And in areas like this, there is always the risk of—” He broke off. It wouldn’t do to talk about the smuggling with the mother, too. He’d already revealed to her delectable daughter rather more than he’d intended.

Mrs. Allston seemed to make up her mind, and said graciously, “As you are a gentleman, I can only hope you speak the truth. Since you knew nothing of her recent scandal, you weren’t to know that being seen with Charlotte might give grist to the gossip mills.”

Gods, how he yearned to know what that scandal was! There had to be a way to find out.

He offered Mrs. Allston a low bow. “I appreciate your sufferance. If you would be so kind as not to mention my presence here, I’d be most grateful. For reasons I can’t divulge, I wish to remain incognito for the present. Farewell, Mrs. Allston, Miss—”

The younger lady leaped to her feet and gave him an encouraging smile, bobbed politely, and said, “Miss Hartington, your lordship.”

“Miss Hartington. Let me again offer my apologies for this misunderstanding.”

He felt a huge sense of relief as the cottage door closed behind him. But that feeling was short-lived. He needed to find a way to silence the three ladies concerning his true identity for certain. They’d given him assurances, but he knew how enticing a good bit of gossip could be to those with little else to occupy themselves.

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.