Page 106 of A Perilous Passion

The shame had followed him back to England, where he’d hidden himself away at Beckport House, unable to face anyone of higher status than a servant for fear of being treated as a laughingstock.

Until he’d struck on the idea of serving his country in another way entirely.

As a spy.

And, if Fortune favored him for a change, as a spy-catcher, too. If he could win back his reputation by crushing a ring of cutthroat free traders into the bargain, it was all to the good.

He drew a hand across his damp brow. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t realized how hot he’d become. A cloud drifted across the sun but did nothing to cool the air. The sheep in the nearby pasture were huddled beneath the shade of a spreading oak, too hot to bleat, and even the rooks in the distant poplars were silent.

As he got closer to home, a weasel-faced man walked toward him along the road, touching his broad-brimmed hat in greeting as they passed one another. Was it his own suspicious nature, or had that man looked shifty? Any of the folk hereabouts could be involved in the smuggling and were worth investigating, especially if they might be in the pay of the traitor—the kingpin who posed the greatest threat of all.

Smugglers should not be underestimated. It took a particular kind of brazen courage to make rum runs under the very noses of the soldiers billeted at the fort overlooking Fortuneswell village.

Brazen, or desperate? He could understand why a man might defy the law to put bread on the table for his wife and children. But it never ended there, did it?

Thinking about smugglers reminded him of the young woman on the strand and the bit of lace she’d been after.

She’d said nothing condemnatory when she’d seen the lace, even though it had clearly fallen from an illegal consignment as it was brought ashore.

Did she know more than she let on about that consignment?

Or did her lack of disapproval of such illegal enterprise simply prove her to be capricious—a woman who cared nothing for the source of the lace, only that it would make some bonnet or gown look more fetching?

He wondered what she’d say if he asked her outright.

No, he mustn’t seem too curious—he didn’t want to give his game away.

Nor did he want to countenance the immediate stir of interest he’d experienced as he watched her walking disconsolately along the sand. A normal, healthy, masculine interest in a lovely young woman with a delightful figure.

But he had no time for libidinous pursuits. Indeed, such entanglements could prove dangerous to his cover and distract him from his mission. The very last thing he should be thinking about was female temptation.

Thank Moses—he’d nearly reached the farm. He needed a significant dousing of cold water to stifle the feelings aroused by that bronze-haired beauty.

He’d once had something of a reputation as a rake. But his shame at his departure from the army was so strong, and his determination to redeem himself so great, that nothing—and no one—on earth would be permitted to deflect him from his purpose.

If he ever had dealings with the young woman from the beach again, it would be to question, not to court.

Mayhap, one day, when his mission was ended and his reputation restored, he’d rejoin the social whirl of the ton, able once again to enjoy female company. But for now, his purpose was immutable.

Chapter Three

Mercifully, Charlotte’s mother, Mrs. Lucinda Allston, had been out visiting when Charlotte and Aunt Flora returned to the house after yesterday’s adventures. This morning, however, it soon became clear that neither had escaped the hook.

When Charlotte came down to breakfast, her mother was standing in the middle of the parlor, the water-stained gown in her hands. “What,” she asked ominously, “is this?”

“An accident,” Charlotte answered, assuming an air of innocence. “I slipped into the rill on my way down to the beach.”

Her mama immediately turned to her younger sister. “Flora Hartington! You let her go to the beach? You should have known better! You must understand by now how much Charlotte loves to mope by the sea, having silly daydreams and imagining herself in love with inappropriate scoundrels. I’ve a good mind to make you visit the Emburys, to punish you for your folly.”

“Oh no, Lucinda, I beg you!” Aunt Flora protested. “Last time I went, their baby was sick all over my new paisley shawl. Please don’t make me go—you’re so much better with poor folk than I am!”

Charlotte could see what her mother could not. Flora, for some unknown reason, was very distressed. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes as if she hadn’t slept, and her hair had been scraped up severely into her matronly cap so that not one strand fell about her face to soften it. She looked like an errant nun doing penance.

Stepping in front of her aunt, Charlotte said, “Mama, it’s not her fault. I went to the beach without her permission but came back as soon as I fell over. I realized I was being foolish.”

Aunt Flora cleared her throat and said enthusiastically, “My attention was taken by a quack doctor on the green crying his wares in a most convincing manner. Dr. L. E. Campaign, he’s called, and he had an excellent water to cure the summer rheum. You know, when the flowers are all out and make people sneeze—”

“Enough! Don’t tell me you were slack-witted enough to buy some?”