Page 162 of A Perilous Passion

On one occasion, he supposedly hid up a chimney during a raid, even though a fierce blaze burned in the hearth below. On another raid, the investigators arrived only to discover Cutler had died. They were shown his cold body, stiff and pale, in a coffin on the kitchen table of one of his inns. How he managed to fake his death convincingly enough to deter the king’s own customs men was a mystery that had followed him to his premature grave several years later.

Rafe’s correspondent confirmed that, after falling prey to a bout of lung fever, Cutler had sought out the king’s authorities and offered to give up the names of all his contacts in the world of smuggling, in exchange for a Royal Pardon.

It wasn’t known what had occasioned this change of heart. Perhaps he’d turned patriotic, in light of how seriously the situation was developing with France. Or the specter of imminent death whilst lying critically ill had made him reconsider his options with regard to the afterlife.

Cutler had divulged the names of some—but not all—of his contacts before his death but had not yet received the official pardon. They had hoped to get further information from his wife, but she and her daughter had literally vanished overnight.

With the blockade being put in place against France, no resources could be spared to track them down. It was no concern to the customs men that mother and daughter might be pursued by the betrayed smugglers with deadly intent, to ensure their silence.

Their continued survival was evidence they’d hidden their trail well.

Rafe watched a song thrush capture a snail and bang it gleefully on top of an old staddle stone to get at the tender flesh within. He felt as battered and bruised as the snail, as if his soul had been beaten between hammer and anvil.

So it was all true. The sister of Cutler’s wife must be Charlotte’s Aunt Flora. Her surname was Hartington, and the church register in Thaxted showed that Abe Cutler’s bride had also been born a Hartington.

Had Charlotte inherited her rebellious spirit from her papa? She certainly viewed free trading in an entirely different light from himself—as a way for poor folk to feed themselves and their families. He could see her point, but the law was the law, was it not? If he turned a blind eye to any crime, it was the thin end of the wedge.

If the authorities showed any weakness at all, in a heartbeat, both rural and urban poor could be rioting, bringing the threat of a revolution like that in France even closer.

Charlotte Allston stood for everything his own class detested. Except, of course, when they were being hypocritical and buying the cheap brandy, tobacco, and lace the free traders had to offer…

Rafe turned the letter over and over, then crumpled it up in his fist and threw it into the fireplace.

Damnation! He should have just left well alone and ignored his suspicions. But now that he had concrete proof of her smuggling connections, he felt duty bound to investigate her and her family further.

It was a cruel twist of Fate, considering how much they’d already done to help him.

As if to shame him, his thigh cramped painfully. He grasped the windowsill until his knuckles whitened, and the pain abated. Limping back to his desk, he shuffled his maps around pointlessly, then let out a string of curses.

If he were to investigate Charlotte, it would mean betraying her trust yet again. And if he found any direct evidence she was in league with the smugglers—such as that letter she’d been so keen to hide—he’d be forced to give her up to the authorities.

Which would break his heart in a million pieces.

Did he really have the stomach to betray the only woman he’d ever truly loved?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It hadn’t been as easy as Charlotte hoped to contrive a way to bring food to Justin. Flora, who’d been much distracted of late, let slip that she’d given Charlotte some time alone the previous day. Mama had accused her of failing in her duty as a chaperone. Now, every time Charlotte looked out the window, Flora would be there, too, anxious to see at what, or at whom, she was looking.

The only way Charlotte could think of to get provisions to Justin was to propose a picnic. After all, the weather was still passably warm, and it would be an excellent opportunity to see Hester and Thea.

She dissuaded her mother from coming by reminding her how sitting on the ground would inflame her sciatica. Aunt Flora was detailed to go in Mama’s stead.

Charlotte packed much more than enough food for their small party. She urged them to haste, so they might reach Oldfield Farm before the shadows grew too long.

What if Justin had been captured already? What if he was faint from lack of sustenance?

Upon arrival at her chosen spot, the blanket was spread on the ground in the lee of the trees that framed the ruined barn. Even though it had happened over a week ago, conversation focused on the Culverdales’ masquerade ball.

“Such a pity their philanthropic gesture should be marred by that awful killing on the heath the same night,” said her aunt.

Fortunately, it was Hester who answered, because just then, Charlotte heard a rustle in the bushes directly behind her. From the corner of her eye, she saw a hand gesturing at her. Justin’s. She recognized the tarnished copper ring she’d given him as a love token before he left for Scotland.

Hastily, she waved him back out of sight, then reached for a plump chicken leg and stood up, pretending to stretch. When she was close enough to the bush, a hand snaked out and whisked it away. She glanced anxiously back, but the rest of the party were still deep in conversation.

“It was not the highwayman who shot that poor soldier?” Thea asked.

“I believe not,” replied Hester. “I think the patrol came across several men, and shots were fired from various quarters. Maybe the soldiers were ambushed, or perhaps quite unwittingly stumbled upon some chicanery.”