Page 43 of A Perilous Passion

Tilting his gaze up again, he met hers squarely and asked, “Before you came to this part of the world, did you live in Essex?”

She went deathly still. “Yes, I was born in Essex. It’s where my family comes from. There’s a jest there that every other baby born in Walden has Hartington blood.” Her eyes grew moist and she looked away. “I miss my home dearly.”

If she was acting, this was a creditable performance. His doubts faded. “Could you not go back? If only for a visit?”

“We can’t afford to travel. As you must know if you’ve been prying into our affairs.”

The look she gave him made him feel a swine. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I suppose I must forgive you,” she said, “since spying is your trade.” Again, she met his gaze squarely. “Now it’s my turn to question you. What exactly did happen on the heath last night?”

How could he not believe in her?

“A soldier was shot and killed,” he said. “A small detachment from the fort was on patrol. They’d received intelligence that a frigate was due in bearing contraband from France and were working with the revenue men to intercept the cargo. It went badly. A small patrol of young, ill-trained militia is no match for hardened free traders.”

“That’s awful,” she said sincerely.

He pushed out a frustrated breath. “I wish I’d known of their plans. I’m positive not just cargo, but secret papers are being brought to Dorset, direct from Napoleon. The ringleader of the smugglers is also a spy for the French, a traitor.”

He glanced up to see what effect this revelation had on her. Her lips were parted and she looked genuinely horrified. “An Englishman?” she asked incredulously.

“Presumably. The date of the drop was no doubt chosen to coincide with last night’s ball, when the whole village was occupied elsewhere.” His chair scraped back and crashed against the window ledge as he rose and stalked over to the fireplace. “I should have been there, in charge of those soldiers. I’d never have let them be such an easy target.”

“You didn’t know. It wasn’t your fault, Rafe,” she said, her eyes filled with compassion.

He stalked back to the desk again. “I should have known. I was a short-sighted idiot to attend that ball. I should have been at my post, vigilant. But instead, I made a tryst with you. Had it not been for my selfish desires, that soldier might still be alive, and I might have intercepted those vital dispatches from Napoleon. Intelligence that could have saved thousands of British lives.”

His voice had risen with each word. Charlotte’s eyes were wide as saucers. He stared down for a moment at his balled fists to calm himself. “Make no mistake, I don’t blame you. The fault is all mine. I’ve threatened you, I’ve forced you to meet with me, I’ve pushed my unwanted attentions upon you. I’m truly sorry, Charlotte.” When she said nothing, he looked up. “Charlotte?”

She seemed not to be listening.

Suddenly, she shot out of her chair and grasped him by the sleeve. “Rafe! I think I know who the ringleader is!” In her face was pure excitement, not deceit.

“How is that possible?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

“At the ball last night I danced with the Earl of Culverdale. He was dressed as Apollo—you must have seen him.”

“Of course. What about it?”

“I noticed he vanished for a long while, which seemed odd for the host. At first, I thought he was just at cards or smoking a pipe or whatever gentlemen do. But when he appeared for his dance with me, his hands were cold, as if he’d been outside. And his boots dropped something on the floor that felt gritty under my slippers, like sand. I thought it very strange he’d gone to the beach and not had his boots cleaned before the ball.”

Rafe stared at her, instantly grasping her meaning. “You think he went during the ball.”

“He must have ridden faster than the wind. But…yes, it’s the only plausible explanation.”

Rafe paced the room, his mind tangled in frenzied thought.

Culverdale.

The earl would have just the right amount of authority to tempt secrets out of unwary ministers and generals but was too high in the instep to be considered a potential traitor. Even Rafe had dismissed him as a self-important bore. Clearly, he’d underestimated the man.

What might the earl’s motives be? Capital interests in France? Family connections? Was he being blackmailed, or being promised the earth by Bonaparte?

Or simply a man with no loyalty or patriotism?

“I think you may be right,” he said slowly, “but don’t involve yourself in this. Let me deal with it. We need to concentrate on getting you home safely with your reputation intact. Wait here in the study for now, and don’t move a muscle. Promise me?”

She nodded, but her eyes sparked with pleasure. Because she’d successfully turned his focus away from herself? Or because she’d helped him?