Page 192 of A Perilous Passion

Rafe’s jaw clenched painfully. He was missing something.

Ah, of course! If Culverdale had also learned Rafe’s real identity, he’d assume Rafe’s affliction with horses meant he couldn’t ride, and granted him enough time to reach Finchcombe by foot.

Rafe had never thought he’d be glad of that fateful sneeze. But at this moment he was immensely grateful.

Because Culverdale’s wrong assumption meant Rafe could take the black-hearted devil by surprise.

“Sir? Do we have new orders?” asked Jessop.

“Not exactly. We have a dilemma.” Rafe handed him the note.

Jessop read it, then read it again in furious disbelief. “The villain! I’ll strangle him with my bare hands. What a coward, to use a defenseless woman as a bargaining tool. May he rot in hell!”

Rafe barely heard the younger man’s outrage. He felt sick. He’d known fear before and had learned to vanquish it, but the terror he was feeling now surpassed all previous experiences. Charlotte was in deadly peril, but his duty demanded he remain here, in command of this vital operation. The security of the entire country might depend upon its outcome.

His own good name certainly did.

What would Charlotte want him to do? His duty, almost certainly.

But he couldn’t abandon her. Impossible!

Unless he could find a way to be in two places at once…

Jessop tugged at his sleeve. “Let me go, sir,” he pleaded. “I’ll find where they’re keeping her and set her free. Maybe I could borrow a couple of men. We have enough to destroy a whole troop of smugglers and traitors. Your duty is here, sir, but I can easily be spared.”

“No!” Rafe snapped. The idea of Jessop rescuing Charlotte, of her throwing herself gratefully into his rival’s arms, was like a killing blow. “Where’s Hamblett?” he demanded.

“Out of sight beyond the ridge, sir. He galloped into one of our patrols and was advised to come no further. It’s about ten minutes away, though I could probably run it in five.”

“As could I,” growled Rafe. His fists clenched at his sides. The urge to cuff the young man was almost overwhelming. He had to remind himself Jessop was just as concerned about Charlotte as he was.

The crux of the matter was that somebody must remain here in charge of this operation, and it ought to be Rafe. It was his responsibility to give the order to fire, and his responsibility to send up the flare signaling the fort to discharge their cannon. If his scheme worked, the French ship would turn hard-a-starboard and make for the safety of the open water beyond the point where the frigate HMS Euryalus waited to intercept it.

How could he risk his country’s safety for a selfish thing like love? If he chose a woman over duty, his reputation and his family honor would be in ruins—this time, permanently.

Jessop was jiggling from foot to foot in front of him, waiting for an answer. He stared at the young man a moment, his thoughts chasing frantically around in his head.

This was the most momentous decision of his life.

And he needed to make it fast.

Chapter Forty-One

Charlotte surfaced to consciousness slowly, and in considerable discomfort. She was cold, she was in pain, and found herself in a place where barely anything could be seen through the gloom. There was a dank, moldy smell, totally different to the stables.

Where was she?

As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she could see a dim disc of moonlight above her, coming through an oculus in a domed ceiling. She was in a circular building, windowless, with a sunken and uneven floor that glistened faintly with moisture.

It was cold. Very cold. Maybe she was in some kind of dungeon?

But where in Portland could one find a dungeon, except perhaps at the fort? And it was highly unlikely she was there.

A huge shudder shook her body, making her teeth rattle. Her flimsy dinner gown was no protection against such intense cold. She couldn’t chafe her chilled arms because her hands were bound with cord. So were her feet.

The knobbly ground on which she lay was actual ice. She rolled over and, suddenly, she understood.

She was in an icehouse. Lord Culverdale’s icehouse, of course.