Page 161 of A Perilous Passion

“You don’t trust me?” His eyes shadowed with hurt.

“Of course I do. But the less you know, the less your peril will be. Besides, if the army’s looking for you, surely your sweetheart’s house will be one of the first places they look. You’d better stay here for now, and keep out of sight while I work out what to do.”

“I can look after myself,” he said staunchly. “I’ve been doing it long enough. Who’s this other man you mentioned?”

“Bear with me, for I think he might be able to help us. He’s very well connected, and he owes me a great favor. Please, just lie low, and as soon as I can, I’ll bring a basket of food for you.”

He made a move toward her, but she stepped briskly away and headed for the barn’s open doorway. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called over her shoulder. “Speak to no one, not even the village children. Nobody can be trusted right now.”

As soon as she was out in the sunlight, she had to force herself not to race back to the path. When she reached it, she was shaking.

It had been an enormous shock to find Justin hiding out in the remote barn. It was an even greater shock to discover the drastic turn her feelings had taken.

After Rafe’s lack of trust in her, she was sure her opinion of him could sink no further. And yet, he still affected her more deeply than the man she’d once been head-over-heels in love with. If she could overlook Rafe’s faults to such a degree, there could surely be only one explanation.

She had fallen foolishly, hopelessly, utterly in love with Rafe Pomeroy, Earl of Beckport.

A man who didn’t trust her. And if he didn’t trust her, how could he ever love her back?

Not that it mattered. Even if he did care for her, they could never marry.

Because he was quite right not to put any faith in her. She was unworthy of his trust. She still hadn’t told him the ugly truth about herself.

Knowing Rafe, he was bound to find out, sooner or later.

Then he’d hate her.

And that would truly tear her apart.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rafe stared gloomily out of his study window at the bright October sunshine. The riot of overgrown greenery in the garden was starting to fade, dappled with yellowing leaves or the dark swell of berries. The days were getting shorter, the risk of a French invasion lessening—at least, he hoped it was. Though, he still hadn’t completed his task and caught the traitor in the act of treason.

However, the blackness of his mood had been lifted slightly by a small breakthrough in his assignment. A patrol on the heath had uncovered a large pile of kindling.

It might be nothing—or it might be the beginning of another of the beacons intended to signal Napoleon as to the best moment to attack the English coast. He’d already found one completed beacon a few weeks earlier. If this kindling was the beginnings of another, he was close to being able to extrapolate a pattern, which would help him find the rest. He just needed to watch carefully, to see if the beacon would be completed, and, if so, who was directing the work. Hopefully, it would be the traitor, Lord Culverdale.

They’d left the pile undisturbed, but he’d mapped it carefully and informed his superiors in London. The letter he’d received in response had granted him more time to uncover the rest of the beacons, thank Moses.

An additional letter had arrived in the same packet, written in response to his inquiry to the Customs and Excise Office. Unlike the first, this letter contained nothing that pleased him. In fact, it had devastated him.

Corporal Triggs’s assertions concerning Charlotte were true.

The letter gave him the whole story of Abraham Cutler’s life, his deeds, and his death. There was also mention of his family, which described Mrs. Allston and Charlotte so accurately, there could be no doubt in his mind.

Cutler was the youngest son of a noble family, was educated well, and trained to become a lawyer’s clerk. Having performed a special service for a wealthy client, he’d been rewarded with a legacy. The advent of so large a sum of money apparently turned his thoughts away from his respectable but low-paying profession in favor of purchasing a thriving tavern. He’d become an innkeeper.

So successful had Abraham Cutler been at this, he was soon able to employ others to run the inn, and rose to the status of a country gentleman. He was thus able to garner a wife from the lower echelons of the gentry. The only surviving child from this union was a daughter, sent away to be educated as a lady.

This fact, at least, eased Rafe’s mind. If Charlotte was away at school while Cutler was committing his crimes, she was only guilty by association, and not by actual involvement.

But she should still have told him.

As her father’s business prospered, he opened several taverns across Essex, along the route between London and the coast, as far as the Blackwater estuary. Suspicion increased over how he’d managed to make so much money so quickly in the brewing trade. Either he was a magician when it came to producing good quality liquor, or he had a superlative—and cheap—supplier.

Such as France.

Cutler’s inns were ideally placed to both store and disperse contraband cargoes that landed on the East Coast. The local revenue men had tried—and failed—to catch this mastermind red-handed. Rumors abounded about how he’d avoided capture, some of which even credited him with demonic powers of disguise and illusion.