Page 190 of A Perilous Passion

Her mama’s voice broke in on these troubling thoughts. “I’m surprised the Culverdales haven’t vouchsafed a reason for this party. If they’re celebrating some happy event, why not say so?”

“I’ve heard,” said Flora, “that they might be going away soon. But it’s only the very vaguest of rumors.”

To France, most likely, Charlotte thought bitterly. They’d be out of harm’s way when the invasion occurred, taking up residence in a new chateau, enjoying whatever gifts Napoleon had promised. She shuddered at the thought that the Culverdales might install themselves in a home whose original owners had sacrificed their heads on the guillotine.

But she must pay attention and catch as much of the gossip as she could tonight.

“Such a pity dear Lord Beckport won’t be able to attend,” her aunt said. “But as everyone believes Dovehouse Farm to be infected with typhoid fever, he wouldn’t be a welcome guest. So clever of you to think of such a ruse to protect him from inquisitive visitors! I never imagined you’d be strong enough to tackle those church bells. Are your hands feeling better now?”

“They are, thank you.”

“Ephraim’s remedies really are very satisfactory. Wasn’t it kind of him to assist with your plan?” Flora asked, looking meaningfully at Mama.

“Aunt, you know it wasn’t for me that he went along with our fabrication.”

“Nonsense!” came Flora’s crisp reply. “He’s an intriguing gentleman, certainly, but I’m not setting my cap at him, nor he at me. We inhabit very different worlds. Now, hush. You’re embarrassing me.”

Mama frowned in disapproval.

The chaise turned off the road and started up the long drive toward Finchcombe House. Ten minutes later, they disembarked at the impressive facade of Lord Culverdale’s mansion.

Finchcombe House was very grand, with interiors enthusiastically decorated in rococo style. The plaster carvings around chimneypieces and pier glasses looked like the work of a magician, until Charlotte tapped on some and discovered them to be wood, cunningly painted. The same she found of the pillars in the saloon, which appeared to be of the finest colored marble, but in reality were painted plaster over a solid core.

All sham. Like the man himself.

She felt a rush of anxiety as they joined the reception line and greeted their hosts. When Culverdale bowed over her hand, she prayed fervently that, dressed in her finery, she looked nothing like the damp, bedraggled Elizabeth Bettany he’d picked up in his carriage a few short weeks ago.

His expression as he looked at her was completely bland, a card player’s face. But with his duplicity, there was every chance he knew exactly who he’d picked up—and why he’d been hit on the head—and was playing some cunning game with her.

Thankfully, he wasn’t likely to cause a scene in his own saloon, with all his guests around.

She felt herself flushing as she curtsied and hoped he’d put it down to maidenly coyness rather than guilt. She didn’t want him to think her behavior anything out of the ordinary. She needed to mingle unimpeded.

Many of her fellow guests spoke in hushed voices, impressed to have been invited into this splendid abode, and peered about with avid curiosity at the lush furnishings and decorations. Despite the cool evening, the long windows had been flung open onto the terrace at the back of the house, encouraging people to spill out onto the gravel paths and promenade around the formal gardens.

Charlotte walked to the terrace, a glass of punch in her hand, as a string quartet started up behind her. She had no particular wish to dance. Indeed, it would seem frivolous to do so when she knew Rafe was out in the wilds, risking his life.

Suddenly, Thea and Hester appeared at her side.

“I know what that look means!” exclaimed Hester. “You’re mooning over Lord Beckport. Shame on you! You’ve barely recovered from that affair with young Mr. Jessop, and now you’ve thrown yourself at a renowned rake and eccentric. Thea and I are positively shocked at you, aren’t we, Thea?”

“Shh! This is no place to mention his name. Promise you won’t do so again,” Charlotte said urgently.

“Why? Do you think us surrounded by smugglers and French spies?” asked Thea lightly. “These are private grounds. With walls and gates.”

Shooting them an agonized look, Charlotte went to stand behind the high plinth supporting a great stone eagle and motioned them to join her. She glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear.

“Thea,” she whispered, regretting she’d ever confided in her friends. “You mustn’t speak openly of such things. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to know about them? Rafe has told me a dozen times that nobody can be trusted. Smugglers are not all of the lower classes, and not all traitors are French. They can be as English as you or I, and completely respectable. Please, abandon that topic, and let’s return to the ballroom. Or to the supper table if you prefer.”

“Shall we pay court to Lady Culverdale before eating?” asked Hester. “Alas, his lordship has already abandoned the festivities. I saw his butler whisper something in his ear, and Culverdale smiled broadly, then they both disappeared. A terrible host, if you ask me.”

An icy hand grasped Charlotte’s heart. Rafe!

Culverdale must have captured Rafe! What else could the blackguard be smiling about? Nothing less than Rafe’s imprisonment could have put a smile on the traitor’s habitually saturnine face.

The punch cup trembled in her hand, and she placed it hastily on the plinth. “Well,” she said with false brightness, “I’m sure his presence won’t be missed, as he’s not the most sociable of men. Um…excuse me, I think I dropped my handkerchief on the lawn. No, there’s no need to follow—I won’t be a moment.”

Giving them no chance to protest, she skipped down the steps onto the gravel, hesitated a moment, and set off round the side of the house in search of the outbuildings.