Page 191 of A Perilous Passion

If Culverdale had vanished from his own party without making excuses to his guests, he couldn’t have gone far. Just far enough, perhaps, to be sure of the intelligence he’d received, by speaking directly to the messenger? He’d no doubt return soon.

Should she try to find him so she might eavesdrop? Or discover where he was keeping his captive, assuming she was right?

No, that sounded too dangerous. But she could look for clues.

If someone had recently arrived with intelligence for Culverdale, there should be a well-ridden horse in the stables. She could go and see.

Strolling nonchalantly across the yard, she thought of Rafe’s taunts that she’d read too many Gothic novels. He was—though she hated to admit it—quite correct. She felt she was living in one at this very moment. She just prayed the ending this time would not be tragic.

Entering the warm semidarkness of the stables, she listened intently for any sound of human activity.

What was that?

Ducking down, she gathered her skirts and hoped she wasn’t ruining her best gown. A horse was being rubbed down, but had it only just arrived? She’d have to get closer to see. If the groom or stable lad were engrossed in their task, she might manage it silently in her light silk dancing slippers.

A rustle behind her made her jump in alarm. Then agony crashed through her head, and everything went black.

Chapter Forty

In preparation for his ambush of the smugglers, Rafe had concealed himself in the branches of a leafy oak above the entrance to the cave by the sea. The one that had brought him and Charlotte together so many weeks ago. How much had happened since that fateful day… With any luck, his mission would soon be over, and they could begin to enjoy their future together.

His perch wasn’t the most comfortable of lookouts, but unless someone passed directly beneath—and looked up in the right place—the yellowing leaves of the tree concealed him well.

His view of the surrounding countryside was as good as could be expected in the evening light. The gloom could work to his advantage, though, as it would hamper the enemy, too. From his position, he could skyline them. They couldn’t do the same to him.

The coast and its hinterland bristled invisibly with soldiers hiding in the bracken, their bright scarlet uniforms long-since abandoned in favor of earth-hued rustic gear. Their line stretched right across the heath, behind the dunes, and above the cliffs, fully covering the bay where the French frigate’s jolly boat was likely to land. From his elevated vantage point, he could just make out the dark steel of rifle barrels, poised and ready.

He’d exchanged his own clothing for the close-fitting black worsted he wore in his guise as a highwayman, complete with a hastily made silk mask and borrowed cocked hat. That way, he hoped, his quarry would have no idea he was the Earl of Beckport—the man Culverdale so desperately wanted to get his hands on.

The churr of a nightjar close at hand startled him. When the noise came again, he realized it was an alarm signal.

Damn! He didn’t want to risk giving away his position. After scanning the countryside, he slipped down the tree as surreptitiously as he could and jumped lightly to the ground.

“Well?” he demanded peremptorily. “This had better be deuced important.”

“It is, sir.” Jessop stepped forward. “This note is addressed to the Earl of Beckport.”

The lad had obviously learned Rafe’s true identity along with the rest of the village. Well, no help for that.

Giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness beneath the tree, Rafe took the young man’s arm and pulled him down so they were hidden by an ancient standing stone. It was one of the few places one could use a lantern on this part of the heath, without being spotted.

Looking pallid in the flickering light, Jessop handed him a folded piece of paper. “Hamblett brought this from Dovehouse. The man who delivered it was one of Culverdale’s footmen, all rigged out in livery for that supper party they’re having tonight.”

What the devil?

Rafe’s hand trembled slightly as he unfolded the note. Something catastrophic must have happened for Culverdale to be so blatant in his actions. But the contents weren’t what he’d expected.

They were far worse.

“Beckport, I have your delightful Miss Allston,” the note read. “Be at Finchcombe by nine o’clock, exactly, or her life will be forfeit. Come alone and weaponless, and I’ll let her go as soon as I have you in hand. Should you disobey, you’ll never see your sweetheart again. Or perhaps you will, but not in a condition that will bring you any joy, nor the comfort that she died quickly. Culverdale.”

“Sir? What is it?”

Time slowed to a crawl. As he turned to face Jessop, he felt like a wooden puppet, no longer in charge of his own limbs. “Hold the lantern,” he ordered as he took out his pocket watch.

Almost eight o’clock. More than enough time to get to Finchcombe House.

Why had Culverdale been so generous? Was nine o’clock chosen to coincide with the landing of the jolly boat, hoping any action Rafe had planned would founder without him at the helm? Which meant Culverdale had anticipated an ambush, damn his eyes! And that he knew of the connection between Rafe and Charlotte.