She was about to protest when he reached out and placed a finger under her chin, silencing her most effectively.
She gazed into his dark eyes as his gaze roved over her face. He was waiting for her assent, but his light touch had robbed her of all thought. Somehow, she managed the tiniest of nods.
He nodded back, but continued to appraise her, his expression turning nearly as befuddled as she felt.
“Lord Beckport?”
“Hmm?”
“You can stop touching me now.”
“I just…”
He seemed to be in a daze, gazing at her mouth. His thumb came up and stroked along her lower lip, sending flickers of excitement up and down her spine. She parted her lips in surprise.
Abruptly, he stiffened and pulled away.
Had he been thinking about…kissing her?
Good heavens. Had she been about to let him?
“I should leave now,” he said. “Please accept my apology for using such crude methods to persuade you, but lives could be at risk if you reveal what you know of me. It might, indeed, be safer for you to go away until the danger is past. If you have family you could visit, I strongly advise you to do so.”
He kept speaking of danger. What danger? She wasn’t afraid of smugglers, although she daren’t tell him why. But before she could frame her next question, he stood up and blew out the candle.
His voice sounded like velvet in the darkness as he said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Allston. Mayhap one day we’ll meet again under better circumstances. I’m going to close your window behind me, in case someone less gentlemanly should notice it open.”
“I can’t think of anyone less gentlemanly,” she muttered, but the window had already closed. She climbed out of bed and padded across the room to look outside. Nothing moved in the garden, not even a shadow. The man was certainly good at passing unnoticed.
Should she lock the window, lest he return? Heaven knew what might happen if he did. She was far too easily affected by his touch and the nearness of his body. Good lord, the thoughts she’d entertained! The only protections she had against him were carefully chosen words, a detached expression, and keeping at a considerable physical distance.
None of which she’d managed while sitting next to him on her bed.
She’d trembled…and not from fear.
Lying back on the sheets, she pondered over what he’d said and done—and not done. Like that kiss. She was sure he’d been looking at her lips and thinking about kissing her, the shameless rogue. Now there’d always be a question in her mind, and almost certainly some feverish imagining of what it might be like to be kissed for real by a far more experienced man than Justin.
She punched her pillow in frustration. What was she supposed to do now, after all his dire warnings? Infuriating man! Was she expected to lock herself in, with a knife under her pillow and the copper warming pan within easy reach, in case the smugglers took it into their heads to climb the creeper in the middle of the night and put an end to her?
Unacceptable.
It simply wouldn’t do. Her freedom had already been curtailed once, for far too long, and she wasn’t about to let that happen again. She would be the one to decide if it was safe to walk around Fortuneswell, not Lord High-and-Mighty Beckport.
Besides, it would be interesting to uncover more about the free traders working this little piece of the Dorsetshire coastline. And maybe by doing that, she could find out what exactly Rafe Seabourne, or rather, Rafe Pomeroy, Earl of Beckport, was up to.
What if he was working for the revenue men, sent here to catch smugglers? Should she help or hinder him? Could she, in good conscience, help send men like her father to prison? True, some of the ringleaders might be driven by greed and avarice, but the poor sailors and local men were probably simply trying to feed their families.
And it might be rather fun to get in Beckport’s way. He was far too toplofty, thinking he could order her around and blackmail her family with impunity.
She had an advantage he was unaware of. Because of her father, she was acquainted with the business. The easiest way to track down smugglers was to work out who their customers were—which gentlemen kept a stock of unusually fine brandy or were profligate with tobacco or snuff, and which ladies were sporting Brussels lace on their newest caps.
Rafe Seabourne couldn’t enter the houses of the gentry lest he be recognized as Lord Beckport. She, on the other hand, could.
It would also be vastly reassuring to make sure none of the smugglers around Fortuneswell knew who her father had been. There could still be some of his former associates who were out for revenge over his intended betrayal to the crown. They might well believe like father, like daughter.
She, like Beckport, could not afford for her true identity to be discovered.
Chapter Seven
The morning after Rafe’s ill-advised clandestine visit to Miss Allston’s bedchamber, he decided to pay her another unofficial call. Had she taken his warnings to heart or not?
He didn’t like loose ends.
In the hour before noon, he stationed himself beneath the parlor window of her aunt’s ancient cottage, shrouded in shrubbery and decidedly damp. The weather had broken and rain trickled down the back of his neck, but he daren’t move. Miss Allston was sitting with two other young ladies just the other side of the diamond-paned window, their morning gowns bright blurs of color beyond the glass. The lead flashing had crumbled around some of the mullions, creating chinks through which he could hear their conversation.
It was proving an interesting one.
Which was just as well, otherwise he’d be consumed with guilt. How low had he fallen that he was reduced to eavesdropping on a chattering group of chits barely out of the schoolroom?
“Hester, you were going to tell me about Lady Butler-Davis’s new gown,” one of the other ladies had said a moment ago.
Miss Allston’s voice had then chimed in, “Did you say it had a two-inch flounce of lace?”
At which point Rafe’s ears had perked up.
Lace. She was asking about lace.
“Oh yes, indeed,” answered the young woman they’d called Hester. He wished they’d said her last name, as well. “At least two inches deep at the hem and maybe even three at the neckline. It puts the sorry bit of lace on my bonnet quite into the shade.”
“What sort of lace was it?” Miss Allston asked. “From the Midlands, perhaps? Or closer to home, Downton maybe?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Or could it have been from Brussels?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. She’d make a terrible spy if she couldn’t be more subtle than that.
“Oh dear,” said Hester. “I didn’t look that closely. It had motifs and was more like the Buckinghamshire sort, I suppose. Why are you so interested?” She giggled. “Have you taken up lace-making?”
“Heavens, no. One just likes to keep abreast of fashion, you know.”
Does one, indeed? thought Rafe, his lips quivering.
The third young lady said, “Well, I don’t think any of us can quite aspire to the grandeur of Lady Butler-Davis. Her husband keeps her in the height of fashion, lucky old thing. My papa is against lace altogether. Why, he even mentioned it in one of his sermons the other week, as a sign of sinful vanity.”
So, she must be the vicar’s daughter. Dorothea Daniell, he believed her name was.
Rafe grimaced, recalling the usual tenor of her father’s sermons. It was enough to put a man off church altogether.
“I wonder what they paid for the lace,” mused Hester.
“Probably less than they should, considering the amount of smuggling that goes on round here,” offered Miss Daniell.
He leaned in closer. Perfect! Now if they would only mention a few names…
“Good heavens, there are free traders around here?” Miss Allston asked, sounding shocked. As if she didn’t already know. “Are they local men, do you think?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,
” Miss Daniell said. “But Papa often writes sermons condemning them.”
“Is it so very wrong do you think?” Miss Allston asked innocently.
There she was again, actually supporting the illegal trade. Thank Moses he’d not hinted at his mission to her. Then again, it was hard to picture her dashing off in search of one of the villains to warn them a government spy was on their tail.
“Anything that’s illegal is wrong. You know that,” countered Miss Daniell.
“But not everything that’s wrong is illegal,” said Miss Allston. “I think it very wrong that men should struggle to feed their families while customs monies go into the pockets of corrupt officials. And a profligate prince.”
“Good lord. Are you a revolutionary, Charlotte?” asked Hester.
Rafe was asking himself the same question.
But no. That was a ridiculous notion. She was too young and too inexperienced to hold such radical beliefs.
“Of course not,” Miss Allston snapped. “But I’m still curious. Are all the smugglers from hereabouts? You’ve not heard of any links with Essex or East Anglia?”
“I would not assume,” said Hester, rising to stroll farther back into the room, making Rafe duck down below the sill, “that every criminal knows every other criminal in the land.”
Damn! He could barely hear her now. Miss Allston replied at some length, but she must have followed her friend.
Why had she asked about East Anglian smugglers? He needed to know.
He edged as close to the window as he dared, just in time to catch Hester saying something about lace attracting a man’s attention. Excellent—she was walking back toward him again.
“I do wish there were more eligible young men close by. The Bentincks and the Pierpoints spend more time up in Nottingham than they do here, or they might be worth considering. There’s always Mr. Williams of Herrington, I suppose, but he has appallingly bad teeth.”
“Oh, but so very tall, with such an aristocratic nose!” said Miss Daniell.
Hester replied, “Well, his height would be an advantage, in that it conveys his bad breath over the top of one’s head.”
“How cynical you are!” said Miss Daniell. “What about Mr. Goodden the High Sheriff’s son, or Mr. Darmer, or Mr. Strode?”
He began to ease himself away from the window. There was nothing more he could learn if they were just going to catalog all the local gentlemen.
But stopped dead when Miss Daniell said, “I know he lives a bit further away and doesn’t mingle with the ton in this part of Dorset, but what about Lord Beckport?”
His head jerked up so violently he almost knocked himself unconscious on the windowsill. Good God. This he had to hear.
“Charlotte, do be careful,” warned Hester. “You don’t wish to spill tea all down your front. It leaves the devil of a stain.”
Warmth stole through him. He had affected her, then. Even though she’d appeared so calm and poised when he’d invaded her chamber last night. He smiled in satisfaction.
“Hester! Such language!” The parson’s daughter. Obviously.
“Well, it does. Worse even than red wine.”
“Lord Beckport?” Miss Allston queried in a strained voice. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of him.” Liar. “He’s a bachelor?”
“And an earl,” said Miss Daniell.
The relentless downpour had started to invade his oilskin coat, but Rafe ignored it. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away now. Not even a whole herd shedding hairs on him.
“Indeed. But I disagree that he’s eligible,” Hester replied.
Really? Why not? Had his meddling mother announced an engagement he wasn’t aware of?
“To marry him,” Hester explained, “a lady must be prepared to be a laughingstock.”
Fury swept through him at the insult.
“He was drummed out of the army because he couldn’t ride a horse,” said Miss Daniell.
He knuckled his forehead in frustration. Why did gossips always blow everything out of proportion?
“I heard,” said Hester, “that he couldn’t even go near one. It sends him into some sort of fit.”
If one considered a sneeze or two a fit…
“No good officer can operate without a horse,” said Miss Daniell.
He would dispute that. He’d done quite nicely without one, walking alongside his men. He’d gained their loyalty and respect, not disdain, by being one of them, down in the mud and gore, and not keeping himself apart, mounted sixteen hands above them in the heat of battle.
Until that blasted sergeant had forgotten to tie his horse up properly.
“Beckport left the army in humiliation. He’s been a recluse ever since.”
“Ashamed to hold his head up in public, no doubt,” Miss Daniell said. “I heard his family disowned him and his fiancée deserted him. He’s invited to none of the routs and parties in town. Most people don’t even remember what he looks like.”
Well, he hoped that last part was accurate. The rest was pure—and vicious—fiction. He saw his mother and sister regularly, and he’d never even had a fiancée.
“Charlotte, are you feeling quite well? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine. Just a bit warm.”
“Nonsense—it’s cold and miserable. Whatever ails you? You’re trembling!” said Miss Daniell.
“It must be the mention of Lord Beckport,” scoffed Hester. “Dear Charlotte is horrified at the idea of such a cowardly gentleman.”
He should stop listening now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear Charlotte’s response to that. Not that there was any reason her opinion should matter in the least. He hadn’t come to Fortuneswell to try to impress the ladies.
Focus on the mission. No distractions.
“I’m perfectly well,” Charlotte returned. “Please put the smelling salts away.” After a moment, she said, “Well, regardless of all that, Beckport is still an earl. That must count for something in Society. Is he considered handsome, at least?”
He made a face. That was what she wanted to know?
“Oh yes,” Miss Daniell said. “Like an Adonis.”
He flushed. Thank you.
Hester said, “What is it men say about other men when they admire them and think they would be good wrestlers or boxers?”
Miss Daniell giggled. “That they would strip to advantage.”
Miss Allston gasped. “Thea!”
All three women tittered.
“I once overheard some gentlemen say that of Beckport,” Hester supplied. “They didn’t know I was listening, of course.”
He rather wished gentlemen would keep such opinions to themselves. Perhaps he would decide never to rejoin Society after the war was over.
Miss Allston continued to query, and Hester continued to share her knowledge of him. Clearly also an avid reader and memorizer of the gossip columns.
“He’s wealthy, mind you, very comfortable, indeed,” she stated. “He doesn’t go out much, as I mentioned, but uses an agent to pick out his furnishings and art.”
Miss Allston said, “You say he can’t ride a horse, but has anyone ever suggested he ride a mule or a donkey instead? That might suit him better.”
Her friends erupted into gurgles of laughter. Eventually, Hester gasped, “An aristocrat on a donkey! Oh, what a corker! You do say the most remarkable things at times. I’m so glad you came to live in Fortuneswell.”
Rafe couldn’t decide if he echoed that sentiment, or wished she’d been sent to the Colonies as a babe.
The rain had eased. He could probably get back to Dovehouse Farm without drowning. He should leave. He was no longer learning anything useful. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He eased back from the window, crouching low, and slipped around the side of the house, grateful for the overgrown laurels that gave him cover. He’d just vaulted the gate and landed softly in the lane when he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening behind him.
Blast it! He mustn
’t be caught spying, especially if it was Miss Allston’s mother at the door. Quickening his pace, he turned up his collar and prayed to go unnoticed.
Because if he needed to apply any further pressure on Miss Allston’s family, it was highly likely she would be hurt by his actions.
Which was something he really didn’t want to happen.
Chapter Eight
As Charlotte waved her friends good-bye, she spotted a man in a long oilskin coat hurrying away down the lane.
Surely, she recognized that form, that confident stride?
Beckport!
She needed to catch him. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. He hadn’t told her everything last night, and she meant to find out what he’d omitted.
Seizing an umbrella from the old Delft vase beside the door, she picked her way over the puddles in the flagstone path and sped off in pursuit of the swiftly retreating figure. However, her much shorter stride couldn’t match his, so she called out, “My lord! Wait!”
He spun round, and before she had time to react, he had her securely in his grasp, and half pushed, half carried her behind a thick laurel bush growing amidst a hawthorn hedge. “Never call me that!”
Buried deep within its thick foliage, they were hidden from prying eyes, the only clue to their presence the umbrella she’d dropped in the lane, lying there like a collapsed crow. There was so little room behind the laurel, she found herself pinned in place, with Rafe’s legs pinioning hers, his hands pressed against the prickly hawthorn hedge on either side of her head.
Despite her shock at his dramatic reaction to her call, she couldn’t stop staring at the way the rain plastered his shirt against the superb musculature beneath his unbuttoned coat. His long hair was flattened against his head and hung in dripping tendrils over his brow. Raindrops glittered amongst his lashes.
Her heart leaped to life in delicious anticipation.
Of what, she couldn’t begin to guess.
A Perilous Passion Page 5
