Page 45 of A Perilous Passion

He had a disturbing ability to pick the lock, which he accomplished in the blink of an eye. Was he another government agent? Or a member of the criminal underworld?

Long after she’d tucked her chilled body under the bedclothes, she lay awake, desperately trying to solve the conundrum of the mysterious Earl of Beckport.

Eventually she fell asleep, but awoke the next morning with a dull headache that refused to go away.

While her aunt and mother pottered about the house tidying, mending, and organizing, she drove them mad by littering the floor with old newspapers and journals from the stack by the fireplace, scouring them for information about the highwayman. She even turned down an outing with Aunt Flora after lunch to continue her research.

But her search proved fruitless. Nothing she found linked the highwayman with Rafe. The descriptions of the man varied so much, he sounded like several different people. Women remembered him as tall, dark, and slender, whereas the men recalled him as being short and stocky of build, like a pugilist. The women had him without a beard, whereas the men distinctly recalled a full set of thick, bristly whiskers.

By late afternoon, she’d given up. Her headache was no better—even after a draught of one of the traveling doctor’s nostrums—so her mother sent her off on an errand so she could get some air. Jenny, their maidservant, accompanied her, carrying a covered basket of newly baked apple tarts for Mrs. Carboys.

As they passed the Admiral Duncan, Charlotte noticed a grand coach stationed outside it—an uncommon sight in Fortuneswell. She slowed to examine its markings and stopped dead in her tracks.

It was the Culverdale coat-of-arms.

The black-hearted villain was here, bold as you please. Was he meeting his treacherous confederates? Making nefarious plans?

Cold fury surged through her. But what could two young, defenseless ladies do to capture the traitor?

The answer was…nothing.

Unless she could send word to Dovehouse Farm…

Jenny interrupted her thoughts. “It’s clouding over, miss. We’d better hurry up and deliver these pies before it starts to rain.”

Charlotte thought quickly. “You take them, Jenny. I need to go to the other side of the village for something.”

The servant looked uneasy. “Apologies, miss, but Mrs. Allston insisted I remain with you.”

Damn her overprotective mother! “Very well,” she said. “We’ll finish our errand quickly, then. No stopping for chit-chat.”

The skies had darkened ominously by the time they were done with Mrs. Carboys, and they headed back toward home. The coach still stood outside the inn as they passed it, thank goodness. She needed to find Thomas the Carrier to send Rafe a message.

No sooner had she turned in the direction of Harris’s stable, than a fat drop of water splattered on her nose. Soon, the rain was rattling all around them, bending the leaves and twigs that overhung the road, creating little runnels in the dirt and gurgling in the gutter.

She threw her shawl over her head, and Jenny held the empty basket over hers, and they broke into a run, darting under the trees for protection. They’d barely gone a hundred yards when, above the roar of the rain, Charlotte heard the clip-clop of several hooves and the creaking wheels of a vehicle coming up at speed behind them.

Out of breath, with her blood pounding in her ears, she was relieved to hear the driver call, “Whoa!” to his team.

A coach drew to a halt just ahead of them. With an all-too familiar coat-of-arms.

She tugged her dripping bonnet down over her face and prepared to hurry past.

But the window lowered, and a refined male voice called, “Ladies, please permit me to take you up.”

She laid a restraining hand on Jenny’s arm as the maid surged eagerly forward. Charlotte’s mind was in a tumble. To refuse a lift in the pouring rain would be considered odd, and she didn’t want to arouse Culverdale’s suspicions. Nor did she want to climb into a coach containing a coldblooded traitor.

The fact she had Jenny with her was scant comfort—the young maid wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

For good or for ill, the choice was taken from her. The coachman had already climbed down to install the steps, and Culverdale was gesturing to them impatiently to get in.

Schooling her expression to one of innocent gratitude, Charlotte preceded her maid into the ornate interior. Jenny wedged herself into a corner and sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast dutifully down. Charlotte sat opposite Culverdale, giving him a genteel greeting and summoning a grateful nod of thanks.

He raised a quizzing glass to his eye and observed her coolly, then gave her a thin smile. “Not quite a drowned rat yet, Miss— Excuse me, I don’t know your name. I’m Culverdale.”

She kicked Jenny as she held the earl’s gaze and said—very convincingly she thought—“I’m Elizabeth Bettany, my lord. This is my maid…Emma. Thank his lordship for his considerate gesture, Emma.”

Jenny’s eyes were popping as she winced in pain, but she dutifully nodded, and stammered, “I’m s-sure I’m very g-grateful to you, your lordship. Very grateful, indeed.”