Page 166 of A Perilous Passion

“Wait.” Jessop was pointing at the place where he’d sketched in the potential beacon. “What’s this?”

“Just the location of a bonfire a farmer is planning after the harvest.” He continued to roll up the map.

“I believe it’s more than that. I saw something similar when I was hiding out in the scrubland north of here. It looked remarkably like a Roman funeral pyre, with stout wooden logs laid square at the base, tapering toward the top, and backfilled with furze shrub. It smelled of black powder. The whole was covered with an old waxed sailcloth, then concealed with more branches and bracken. I wondered if it was for signaling to a vessel carrying contraband, or suchlike.”

Rafe stilled. “Did you leave it as you found it?” he asked sharply.

“Of course. I recognize a secret when I come upon one, and I wouldn’t want to anger its builders by interfering with it. My entire design these days is to leave no trace of my passing. I want to keep my skin whole.”

Rafe stared at the young man for a moment, then unrolled the map and spread it out again. “Where, exactly, was this pyre?”

Jessop traced his finger over the paper. “A hundred paces this way, twenty that… About here.” He tapped the map. “It was on a distinct rise, I suppose to keep it dry.”

Rafe penciled a cross where Jessop was pointing. Excellent! They now had the positions of two completed beacons, as well as the unfinished one. If someone came back to complete the partially built one, they’d know for sure if the distribution was based on distance, or topographical. Once all were discovered, they could be used against their creators.

This was no time for complacency. There could be other networks like this all around the English coast, wherever there was rough, uninhabited land or impenetrable terrain. The French attack could come from the east, the south, and even the west, where Boney found support among some of the Irish.

But if Rafe had the locations of the beacons, he could arrange to have them lit while the English fleet lay in wait, and Napoleon’s navy would be lured into an ambush. How was he to know the fires had been lit by English spies, not French ones?

What Rafe desperately needed was more men, more spies…and more time.

The room had fallen silent. Glancing up, he found everyone staring at him, waiting for him to speak. He looked from the ardent appeal in Charlotte’s eyes to Jessop’s wary distrust, and realized the answer was staring him in the face.

Rafe could help Charlotte save her young man and benefit his own cause as well. If Jessop was no coward, as Charlotte proclaimed, the boy wouldn’t flinch at joining the fight in a different way than serving in the army, thus cleansing him of the charge of desertion.

Striding to the fireplace, Rafe tugged on the bell pull. When Hamblett appeared, he said, “Bring in the decanter and four glasses. I shall also need my writing box. Thank you.”

As the servant left to do his bidding, he turned to Charlotte. “Please sit down, Miss Allston,” he said. Hope flickered in her eyes. He responded with a mirthless smile. “I’ve decided, much against my better judgment, to save Mr. Jessop’s skin. But I require something in return. You must submit to my interrogation.”

She paled. “You want to question me? I don’t know anything that could possibly be useful.”

“That remains to be seen,” he said stiffly.

“I say—” began Jessop, but Rafe gestured him to silence, his gaze never wavering from Charlotte’s face.

“Have I your promise,” he asked, “that you will be totally truthful with me?”

The air around her prickled with animosity. “As truthful as you have been with me,” she retorted.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. When Hamblett appeared with the decanter, Rafe pounced on it and poured himself a generous measure of sack.

It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Charlotte sat opposite Justin, leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap. Neither of them spoke, and nothing could be heard above the soporific ticking of the clock and the scratch of Rafe’s pen.

The awkward silence ended only when he pushed the inkwell aside, dusted over what he’d written, and flourished the page in front of her. “Will this serve?”

Moving closer to the lamp, she scanned the page, then sat back, marveling at his ingenuity. He’d written to his superiors saying that he’d learned of the skills and local knowledge of a Mr. Justin Jessop through an acquaintance in Fortuneswell. He’d sent a message to Jessop, followed by another to his commander in Scotland, outlining why his services were required back in Dorset. Rafe explained that an increase in smuggling activity, the soldier’s death, and his own injury had delayed the sending of the second letter. Justin had not deserted the army but was to be engaged in matters directly for the War Office, and that any warrant for his arrest should be withdrawn immediately and his record cleared.

Despite Rafe’s threat about interrogating her, she couldn’t help but admire him for what he’d done for Justin. Of course, Justin’s exemplary character and knowledge of the local area would genuinely benefit Rafe’s cause.

“It will do very well,” she said gratefully. “And any obligation you might feel toward my family for…any reason whatsoever…you can consider more than discharged.”

And perhaps she would also have to forgive him for having such a suspicious mind regarding her…

As she handed the letter back, she hoped the two men would become friends. It delighted her to think they’d be working for the common good.