Page 147 of A Perilous Passion

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!”