Page 163 of A Perilous Passion

“Ooh!” Thea’s eyes were popping. “What kind of chicanery?”

“I’ve heard talk of smuggling,” said Hester, cutting herself a slice of game pie.

“I’d hate to think the culprits are folk from the village, people with whom we exchange greetings every day,” Flora said, with a shudder.

Charlotte seized a thick slice of beef, a large portion of cheese, and pretended to stretch again. Both items disappeared as rapidly as the chicken joint.

“There may even be Frenchmen who’ve learned to speak English well, living right among us as spies!” offered Thea dramatically.

“Don’t be silly,” said Hester. “We’d have noticed strangers with peculiar accents. Unless they’ve tricked their way into the militia at the fort. Could a Frenchman disguise himself as an English soldier, I wonder?”

Charlotte picked up a couple of mushroom pasties and a small flagon of cider, then wandered slowly toward the barn. She set them just inside the midstrey door, then ambled nonchalantly back to her companions.

Thea had returned to the subject of the highwayman, her eyes bright. “I’m so glad it wasn’t the highwayman who did the shooting. He sounds a gallant fellow. I should hate to think him a murderer.”

“My dear child,” interjected Aunt Flora. “I can’t help but wonder at you, sympathizing with criminals! The man should get his just deserts for stealing. If the militia takes him, all well and good. But it will take more than one patrol of soldiers to scour this part of the coast thoroughly. Some of it is very wild, indeed. I fear he may remain at large for some time.”

Charlotte’s cheeks burned. What would her companions say if they knew she’d been lying in the arms of that very highwayman only a few short nights ago? Or that at this very moment, she was giving succor to a wanted man, an army deserter? How ironic that she, who’d lived so blameless a life until very recently, should be consorting with such desperate men!

“Charlotte, what is it that amuses you? Surely, the prospect of a hanging is one for sober reflection and prayer, not hilarity?”

“Forgive me, Aunt. I thought a greenfly just flew up my nose; I was trying to snuff it out again.”

“Then pray do it with your back to us, and at a respectful distance. Really, you can be quite vulgar at times. What kind of example do you set for your friends?”

Thea and Hester managed to look both smug and sympathetic at the same time. Charlotte straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and returned to the picnic. She sank to the ground and tucked her skirts carefully around her, grateful no one was watching. She didn’t want to have to explain why her cheeks were stained crimson, why she toyed with her food, and why her eyes darted anxiously about.

She still needed to find a solution for Justin’s dilemma. It would be easy to decide that he’d made his own bed—and therefore must lie in it—but as she was the reason he’d come to Portland in the first place, she couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Yet, what did she know of armies, of court-martials, of military laws? How could she help him, when she was so ignorant of the authorities who’d be hunting him?

Her heart sped up. True, she didn’t know. But she did know a man well acquainted with such things.

Rafe.

The thought had been fleeting when first she’d mentioned him to Justin, but now the idea hung before her with absolute clarity. Asking Rafe for help was the best course open to her.

In truth, it was the only possible way to help save her friend.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dusk had fallen and the lamps were lit. It had been a fine day, and it was still warm enough in Rafe’s study for him to fling off his jacket and undo the ties of his shirt. He was standing next to Goves, braced over his desk, poring over a map.

His bad leg still ached, but he could now keep his weight upon it for considerable periods of time. The rapidity of its healing had almost convinced him to believe in quack medicine. He had frequently doused the wound with Dr. L. E. Campaign’s nostrum, and always felt better for several hours thereafter.

He batted at a moth that flew across his vision, then pointed to a drawing on the map. “Here is where I found that first beacon.” He moved his finger. “Here is where the patrol found the kindling. If we assume it is the beginnings of a second beacon, we might be able to establish a pattern, and the likely placement of the rest.”

“Aye, if they’re equidistant, or perhaps on the highest points in the landscape.”

An unexpected sound made Rafe jerk upright. He snatched up his pistol and looked at Goves, who’d produced a dagger as if by magic.

“What was that?” Rafe whispered.

“It sounded like someone knocking softly on the front door,” Goves said incredulously.

“Who on earth could be calling at this time of night? Is Paynter about?” Rafe moved silently across to the shadows by the study door.

“I believe so, sir.”