Page 141 of A Perilous Passion

Mama gave her a suspicious look. “If you’re up to something, abandon it, or it’ll turn out for the worse. Remember when you and your Essex friends stole out one night and fell into the horse trough?”

“Mama, I was nine!”

“Or when you climbed the tree to fetch Will Hopkirk’s kite and tore your stockings.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Ten! Eleven at most.”

“Or when you thought Jane Gudge was copying your gown and went out after dark to watch her sewing through the window.”

She made a face. “I’ll admit, I was a little older then. But taking a walk hardly counts as wild behavior. I’m not spraying my gown with water so it clings to my figure, nor creating a risqué tableau for the amusement of my friends, nor…nor…taking snuff!”

Her mother looked instantly horrified. “I should think not. But I promise you, the key will be turned in the lock tonight. In case you have any thought of a tryst with Lord Beckport. No, don’t look so shocked. I know you better than you think, my girl.”

Charlotte sincerely hoped not.

“The very idea.” She turned away with a huff and straightened a print on the wall to hide the heat in her cheeks. If it hadn’t been for last night, she could have brazened it out with a blunt denial. She could have pretended innocence.

But after Rafe’s caresses, nothing would ever be the same.

“Lucinda, dear,” broke in Aunt Flora, “we promised never to mention the Earl of Beckport. He said his life depended on it. He won’t want anything more to do with this family, anyway. Not after the tongue-lashing you gave him.”

Charlotte met her aunt’s eye and could have sworn she winked.

Hope resurfaced.

“Very well, Mama. I submit to being your prisoner, though I assure you it’s not necessary. But perhaps, as we had a long day yesterday, we could dine and retire early tonight?”

This was readily agreed to, and Charlotte hid her triumph. With or without the connivance of Aunt Flora, she would make her escape later this evening and hasten to Dovehouse Farm to find out what had become of Rafe.

It was risky, she knew, and she’d have to keep her wits about her. But not knowing if he was alive or dead was agony.

Chapter Seventeen

Charlotte retired early, and Aunt Flora was detailed to escort her up to bed. Flora handed her the key and whispered that she should lock her bedchamber door from the inside, lest Mama try it when she came up.

“Be careful, and please don’t stay out too long.”

Since when had Flora become a fellow conspirator? She’d always been too much under the command of her older sister to rebel, yet here she was, doing exactly that. Would she be abetting her, Charlotte wondered, if Flora knew what she was planning?

At ten o’clock, when all was quiet in the house, Charlotte peered over the window sill. The sky was lit by the rising moon sailing amongst intermittent clouds, casting just enough light to see by.

The thick vines on the trellis looked horribly vertical. But if Rafe could do it, so could she. She was lighter, and there were bushes below to break her fall, just in case.

Heavens, what had the man done to her? She was supposed to be redeeming herself after her escapade with Justin, but instead, Rafe was making her do even more scandalous things.

Much more unladylike things. Her skirts had to be tucked right up, and her bent knees kept wide apart as she clambered down. It wasn’t until she reached the ground that she stopped to think whether she’d be able to get up again.

No matter. She’d worry about that when the time came.

It was critical she know that Rafe was safe. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest at the idea that he might not be. How she would miss his voice, the touch of those masterful fingers, and the intriguing brown of his dark-lashed eyes! Even though they weren’t supposed to meet again, the idea of its being impossible—for eternity—sent a wash of grief through her almost too intense to bear.

She tamped down the anguish and quickened her pace.

A tawny owl kee-wicked from the wood to her left and was answered by the ghostly hoot of another up ahead. All senses alert, she bent low and tiptoed past the houses, avoiding the busy tavern and taking a shortcut through the tumbled churchyard to avoid discovery.

It was full dark by the time she reached the outskirts of Byroad village, but the moon had now risen above the cloud, giving her more light to see her way. Following Thomas’s description, she located the ancient milestone almost hidden by a patch of rank nettles, which indicated she was nearing Dovehouse Farm.

Around the first bend, a small notice signaled the turnoff to the farm. A chill of fear skittered up her spine as she stepped between the arching trees of the lane. The moonlight cut off abruptly, and the shadows deepened, and sometimes—though she hoped she was imagining it—moved. She increased her pace.