Page 188 of A Perilous Passion

Rafe had just finished examining the newly discovered beacon, when he heard the frantic ringing of church bells from Fortuneswell.

What the hell?

Despair flooded over him. The enemy was already here and he’d received no warning? Each peal of the bells was a knife blow to the heart.

He’d failed in his duty.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, not when his plans had been laid so carefully. After mapping the last beacon, he’d worked out they were all set just below high points along the coast. Working on this premise, he’d sent the militia out in small groups, which discovered a further six beacons covering a full five miles of coastline.

He’d set a watch on each one, with strict instructions that any child approaching should be swiftly removed from danger, and any adult should be taken into custody for questioning.

How could a signal possibly have been sent to Bonaparte if the beacons hadn’t been lit? And even if some further down the coast had been ignited without his knowledge, how could the French have arrived so quickly?

Too many things just didn’t add up.

The erratic clanging of the church bells continued. How could someone in Fortuneswell have seen what he had not?

Impossible.

Something else must be afoot in the village. A house collapse, perhaps? Or a child falling down a well? A fire?

The bells were being rung with considerable clumsiness—therefore, not in the hands of their usual operators. This was curious.

And everything out of the ordinary required investigation.

Stepping back from the latest pyre, he dusted his hands on his breeches and eyed the band of riflemen borrowed from the fort. Leaving a pair of men as lookouts, he ordered the others to return to Dovehouse Farm with him.

By the time they reached the farmhouse, the clamor from the village had ceased. All was eerily quiet. Even the weather seemed to be holding its breath, the air still and cool with low clouds covering the sun.

His troop had traveled openly but met not a soul on the road. There was no sound of human activity at all. No herdsman whistling to his dog, no children laughing or shouting in the fields.

The hair on the back of Rafe’s neck prickled. This was definitely not normal.

As soon as Hamblett let them in, Rafe sent his men to the kitchen to grab a bite and took his valet aside, out of earshot. “The bells ringing in Fortuneswell earlier,” he said quietly. “Do you know what they were for?”

“I’m afraid I do, my lord. A young lad was here not ten minutes ago with an extraordinary piece of news—a troubling one. Will your lordship be able to keep the riflemen here for a while?”

“As long as the invasion hasn’t begun.” He frowned. “Does what’s happened in Fortuneswell affect our assignment?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. The message was from Miss Allston. Your real identity has somehow become generally known, although the reason for being incognito has not. She has devised a plan whereby the farm might be protected from unwanted visitors.”

“A plan?” An uncomfortable feeling of foreboding knotted Rafe’s stomach. What had his dear, foolish girl done now?

“Indeed, my lord. The bells have been rung to inform the local inhabitants of an outbreak of typhoid fever at Dovehouse Farm. This fact has been endorsed by an itinerant physician by the name of Dr. L. E. Campaign.”

Rafe stalked over to his study window and stared out. “I know him. He treated my leg,” he informed Hamblett. “He’s used to manipulating lesser minds, so I imagine his warning sounded credible.” Still, Rafe wasn’t entirely sure he trusted the fellow. “What else do we know?”

“The gentleman has apparently assured the villagers he’ll prevent an epidemic and will save the lives of every soul at the farm. But until he says otherwise, people are cautioned to avoid us for their own safety.”

Rafe clapped a hand to his forehead. Not only did he have a gang of traitors and smugglers to apprehend, and a wayward betrothed to control, but he must now appear to endorse the diagnoses of a highly questionable itinerant potion-maker.

How he yearned for the comparative order and tranquility of Beckport House, and the wild peace of his remote Scottish estate.

Suddenly, to the consternation of his valet, he started to laugh. It rumbled out of him in great cathartic bursts.

“Oh, she’s a treasure, that wayward sweetheart of mine!” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes. “I wonder how I’ve managed without her all my life. Hamblett, I’ll give you fair warning, Miss Allston is shortly to become my wife. You may be the first to congratulate me.”

He’d expected his servant to bow and politely offer his felicitations, but it was abundantly clear that things had changed between them since he became plain Mr. Seabourne.