Page 38 of A Perilous Passion

“I doubt you need worry,” said Mama. She gave Charlotte a meaningful look. “Smugglers would have no interest in ladies. Perhaps it’s a revenue man who’s been killed. In which case, the perpetrators must fear for their lives.”

“Since when did you come to know the minds of miscreants, Lucinda?” Flora asked.

Ignoring her, Mama said, “Charlotte, you really must eat something and restore your energy after last night’s exertions.”

“This murder’s put me off my food. It’s much too close to home. I do hope the victim was no one we know.”

“No one of our acquaintance would be out on the heath after dark, especially knowing the highwayman haunts it.”

“If you’re feeling bilious, perhaps one of my nostrums could help,” Flora offered kindly.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, pushing back her chair. “I believe I’ll go for a walk. I’m sure the fresh air will help.”

Flora pushed away from the table so abruptly her chair teetered on its back legs. “I’ll just get my shawl and accompany you.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,” Mama called after them. “You just want to gather the gossip. If one of you could at least bring back a pot of fresh whelks from the stall? And remember you’re meant to be Charlotte’s chaperone, Flora. Don’t take your eyes off her for a moment.”

Charlotte had on her pelisse, gloves, and bonnet in the blink of an eye, and grabbed up her reticule from the hall stand.

Flora was equally swift. She couldn’t blame her aunt for seizing the opportunity of escape, as well.

Once they reached the center of the village, Flora turned in the direction of the inn. “I’m sure I can pick up some news there,” she said. “I’ll get the whelks on the way. There’s really no need for you to come with me if you don’t want to.”

Blessed Aunt Flora! She clearly understood her niece’s desperate need for freedom. Indeed, Flora must have felt like a caged bird, too, when she was younger, until Frank Veale left her his house, permitting her to live independently.

Until Charlotte and Mama had arrived. She couldn’t help but feel a great deal of sympathy for her longsuffering aunt.

“I’ll just pay a visit on Mrs. Carboys,” Charlotte said, “and see if she wants to borrow another book for her little scholars.”

They parted, and Charlotte began her inquiries, hailing everyone she knew and trying to discover—without seeming too anxious—what they knew of last night’s events.

By the time she got to the edge of the village, her spirits were much depressed. She’d learned nothing but surmise, and even when she boldly started asking if anyone knew Mr. Seabourne’s direction, she was disappointed. They knew him, yes, but no one knew anything about him or his abode.

If Rafe had been killed on his way home from meeting with her, she’d truly never forgive herself. Though she had just this morning vowed to hate him forever, it was awful not knowing his fate, and her feelings of guilt worsened every moment.

“Good day to you again, Miss Allston,” came a deep, cheery voice.

She spun round. “Mr. Harris! I’ve been trying to find out about what happened last night. Have you heard anything more?”

He jumped down from his cart and touched his hat brim. His Suffolk Punch dray horse, Daisy, stamped her feathered hooves, and her harness creaked and jingled. Charlotte stroked her silken nose absent-mindedly.

“I don’t know who got shot yet, miss. I wonder if the soldiers might know? Could have been a military matter. Wait up, Daisy,” he said as the horse moved away from Charlotte and nudged his shoulder. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”

Daisy tossed her head and snorted, her expression hidden behind thick leather blinkers.

Charlotte sighed. “It was terrible thing,” she said.

“Aye, indeed,” he agreed.

She was about to turn away when he added, “I’ll ask Mr. Seabourne, if I see him. He always keeps his nose to the ground.”

“Oh! You know Mr. Seabourne?” Her fingers shook so much she almost dropped her reticule.

“The fellow as lives at Dovehouse Farm, out toward Byroad, just beyond the milestone? Aye. He hasn’t been here long, but I’ve taken the odd packet out to him. He’s oftimes in the Admiral Duncan, always up for a good talk. Well-traveled he is, and understands my business— But sorry, miss, you’re anxious to be away.”

Dovehouse Farm! At last, she knew where to find him.

“Not at all Mr. Harris. I have a slight acquaintance with him, too. He doesn’t talk much about himself, does he?”