Page 89 of A Perilous Passion

“I know what that look means!” exclaimed Hester. “You’re mooning over Lord Beckport. Shame on you! You’ve barely recovered from that affair with young Mr. Jessop, and now you’ve thrown yourself at a renowned rake and eccentric. Thea and I are positively shocked at you, aren’t we, Thea?”

“Shh! This is no place to mention his name. Promise you won’t do so again,” Charlotte said urgently.

“Why? Do you think us surrounded by smugglers and French spies?” asked Thea lightly. “These are private grounds. With walls and gates.”

Shooting them an agonized look, Charlotte went to stand behind the high plinth supporting a great stone eagle and motioned them to join her. She glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear.

“Thea,” she whispered, regretting she’d ever confided in her friends. “You mustn’t speak openly of such things. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to know about them? Rafe has told me a dozen times that nobody can be trusted. Smugglers are not all of the lower classes, and not all traitors are French. They can be as English as you or I, and completely respectable. Please, abandon that topic, and let’s return to the ballroom. Or to the supper table if you prefer.”

“Shall we pay court to Lady Culverdale before eating?” asked Hester. “Alas, his lordship has already abandoned the festivities. I saw his butler whisper something in his ear, and Culverdale smiled broadly, then they both disappeared. A terrible host, if you ask me.”

An icy hand grasped Charlotte’s heart. Rafe!

Culverdale must have captured Rafe! What else could the blackguard be smiling about? Nothing less than Rafe’s imprisonment could have put a smile on the traitor’s habitually saturnine face.

The punch cup trembled in her hand, and she placed it hastily on the plinth. “Well,” she said with false brightness, “I’m sure his presence won’t be missed, as he’s not the most sociable of men. Um…excuse me, I think I dropped my handkerchief on the lawn. No, there’s no need to follow—I won’t be a moment.”

Giving them no chance to protest, she skipped down the steps onto the gravel, hesitated a moment, and set off round the side of the house in search of the outbuildings.

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.