She dissuaded her mother from coming by reminding her how sitting on the ground would inflame her sciatica. Aunt Flora was detailed to go in Mama’s stead.
Charlotte packed much more than enough food for their small party. She urged them to haste, so they might reach Oldfield Farm before the shadows grew too long.
What if Justin had been captured already? What if he was faint from lack of sustenance?
Upon arrival at her chosen spot, the blanket was spread on the ground in the lee of the trees that framed the ruined barn. Even though it had happened over a week ago, conversation focused on the Culverdales’ masquerade ball.
“Such a pity their philanthropic gesture should be marred by that awful killing on the heath the same night,” said her aunt.
Fortunately, it was Hester who answered, because just then, Charlotte heard a rustle in the bushes directly behind her. From the corner of her eye, she saw a hand gesturing at her. Justin’s. She recognized the tarnished copper ring she’d given him as a love token before he left for Scotland.
Hastily, she waved him back out of sight, then reached for a plump chicken leg and stood up, pretending to stretch. When she was close enough to the bush, a hand snaked out and whisked it away. She glanced anxiously back, but the rest of the party were still deep in conversation.
“It was not the highwayman who shot that poor soldier?” Thea asked.
“I believe not,” replied Hester. “I think the patrol came across several men, and shots were fired from various quarters. Maybe the soldiers were ambushed, or perhaps quite unwittingly stumbled upon some chicanery.”
“Ooh!” Thea’s eyes were popping. “What kind of chicanery?”
“I’ve heard talk of smuggling,” said Hester, cutting herself a slice of game pie.
“I’d hate to think the culprits are folk from the village, people with whom we exchange greetings every day,” Flora said, with a shudder.
Charlotte seized a thick slice of beef, a large portion of cheese, and pretended to stretch again. Both items disappeared as rapidly as the chicken joint.
“There may even be Frenchmen who’ve learned to speak English well, living right among us as spies!” offered Thea dramatically.
“Don’t be silly,” said Hester. “We’d have noticed strangers with peculiar accents. Unless they’ve tricked their way into the militia at the fort. Could a Frenchman disguise himself as an English soldier, I wonder?”
Charlotte picked up a couple of mushroom pasties and a small flagon of cider, then wandered slowly toward the barn. She set them just inside the midstrey door, then ambled nonchalantly back to her companions.
Thea had returned to the subject of the highwayman, her eyes bright. “I’m so glad it wasn’t the highwayman who did the shooting. He sounds a gallant fellow. I should hate to think him a murderer.”
“My dear child,” interjected Aunt Flora. “I can’t help but wonder at you, sympathizing with criminals! The man should get his just deserts for stealing. If the militia takes him, all well and good. But it will take more than one patrol of soldiers to scour this part of the coast thoroughly. Some of it is very wild, indeed. I fear he may remain at large for some time.”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned. What would her companions say if they knew she’d been lying in the arms of that very highwayman only a few short nights ago? Or that at this very moment, she was giving succor to a wanted man, an army deserter? How ironic that she, who’d lived so blameless a life until very recently, should be consorting with such desperate men!
“Charlotte, what is it that amuses you? Surely, the prospect of a hanging is one for sober reflection and prayer, not hilarity?”
“Forgive me, Aunt. I thought a greenfly just flew up my nose; I was trying to snuff it out again.”
“Then pray do it with your back to us, and at a respectful distance. Really, you can be quite vulgar at times. What kind of example do you set for your friends?”
Thea and Hester managed to look both smug and sympathetic at the same time. Charlotte straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and returned to the picnic. She sank to the ground and tucked her skirts carefully around her, grateful no one was watching. She didn’t want to have to explain why her cheeks were stained crimson, why she toyed with her food, and why her eyes darted anxiously about.
She still needed to find a solution for Justin’s dilemma. It would be easy to decide that he’d made his own bed—and therefore must lie in it—but as she was the reason he’d come to Portland in the first place, she couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Yet, what did she know of armies, of court-martials, of military laws? How could she help him, when she was so ignorant of the authorities who’d be hunting him?
Her heart sped up. True, she didn’t know. But she did know a man well acquainted with such things.
Rafe.
The thought had been fleeting when first she’d mentioned him to Justin, but now the idea hung before her with absolute clarity. Asking Rafe for help was the best course open to her.
In truth, it was the only possible way to help save her friend.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dusk had fallen and the lamps were lit. It had been a fine day, and it was still warm enough in Rafe’s study for him to fling off his jacket and undo the ties of his shirt. He was standing next to Goves, braced over his desk, poring over a map.
His bad leg still ached, but he could now keep his weight upon it for considerable periods of time. The rapidity of its healing had almost convinced him to believe in quack medicine. He had frequently doused the wound with Dr. L. E. Campaign’s nostrum, and always felt better for several hours thereafter.
He batted at a moth that flew across his vision, then pointed to a drawing on the map. “Here is where I found that first beacon.” He moved his finger. “Here is where the patrol found the kindling. If we assume it is the beginnings of a second beacon, we might be able to establish a pattern, and the likely placement of the rest.”
“Aye, if they’re equidistant, or perhaps on the highest points in the landscape.”
An unexpected sound made Rafe jerk upright. He snatched up his pistol and looked at Goves, who’d produced a dagger as if by magic.
“What was that?” Rafe whispered.
“It sounded like someone knocking softly on the front door,” Goves said incredulously.
“Who on earth could be calling at this time of night? Is Paynter about?” Rafe moved silently across to the shadows by the study door.
“I believe so, sir.”
He had to hope Paynter was doing his job properly and hadn’t fallen asleep. He’d flay the man alive if he had.
“Mayhap the caller is someone he knew, and let pass,” Goves suggested.
A thrill of anticipation tightened Rafe’s throat. There was only one person he imagined Paynter might allow to visit. But, surely, it could not be Charlotte who’d come. Not when he’d strictly forbidden her to do so.
Not when their parting had been so bitter.
And if it was Charlotte, he must remember she could not be trusted.
He was at the door in an instant. Ignoring the heaviness of his heart, he stood back against the wall, presenting as small a target as possible. With the reassuring touch of the pistol at his cheek, he called softly, “Who’s there?”
“Mr. Seabourne? It’s me.”
Charlotte’s voice. Damnation!
He lowered the pistol.
“I bring someone in dire need of your help,” she said. “Please let us in.”
He raised the weapon again and tipped his head back, resting it against the plaster of the wall with an inward groan. Oh God. She wasn’t alone. Was this the moment he’d been dreading? The moment when she betrayed him to her smuggler friends?
Or the moment he would betray her because of those friends?
Biting down on the pain that coursed through his chest, he schooled himself to stay calm and cautiously opened the door.
She stood on the threshold, he
r lovely face gilded by the light from the lantern she carried. She was accompanied by a fresh-faced, sinewy young man with a very wary look.
“Who the hell is this?” Rafe growled, pointing his pistol squarely at the man’s chest.
“I’ll explain when you let us in,” she replied tartly.
Lord, had the woman no fear? Didn’t she understand he’d never point a gun at someone if he wasn’t prepared to use it?
He squared his stance, blocking the doorway. “I thought I’d made myself clear that you’re never to come here,” he said, eyeing her companion. The fellow didn’t appear to be armed, but one couldn’t be too careful.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Charlotte said, her voice hardening. “Do you really want us to explain our business on your doorstep? Paynter let us through, so I don’t see why you can’t.”
After a brief hesitation, Rafe reluctantly uncocked the pistol and stood aside.
She wafted past him on a breath of night air, her head held high.
“We weren’t followed,” the youth said stiffly as Rafe motioned him into the study. “I’ve spent the last five weeks evading notice, and can assure you, I’m very good at it. In future, Mr. Seabourne, I’d be much obliged if you’d treat Miss Allston with more respect.”
“Arrogant young pup!” he snapped. “You come wanting my help, then have the gall to lecture me on my manners?”
“Justin!” Charlotte said with a gasp.
Rafe pressed his lips together as his heart did an unsteady somersault.
Justin, eh?
He stared at the man with distaste. So, this was Charlotte’s banished sweetheart, Justin Jessop. He was young, damn him, with the sort of boyish good looks that were bound to set a girl’s heart afire.
But wasn’t he meant to be in the military, up in Scotland? Why was he out of uniform and dressed like a laborer?
Rafe’s gut twisted and his hands clenched at his sides. “I should throw you out on your ear! But maybe I’ll shoot you first, just to teach you a lesson.”
Charlotte immediately stepped between himself and the boy. “Don’t be put off by Mr. Seabourne’s manner, Justin. He can be very abrupt but has a good heart.”
Giving him a warning look, she glided past him and stood in front of his desk.
From his position by the door, Goves asked, “Shall I stay, sir?”
“Yes, please. A witness is always valuable.”
That made Charlotte take a step back. He turned his attention to Jessop and asked, “Have you come to reclaim your lost love?”
The young man scowled and started to speak, but Charlotte laid a restraining hand on his arm. “We’ve come on a delicate matter,” she said. “I’m hoping that, as a man of the world and a former soldier, you can advise us. In fact, it’s a matter of life or death, or I wouldn’t have troubled you.”
Was she planning to elope again, perhaps? Rafe folded his arms across his chest and waited, not trusting his voice.
“You see, Justin has deserted. Oh, please don’t look so stern! He’s no coward, I promise,” she said in a rush. “If I’d had his direction, naturally I would have stopped him, but he just turned up, and there was nothing I could do.”
A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “That letter you were hiding the other day—”
“Was from Justin, yes. But he didn’t say he actually planned to desert. Had I known, I’d have—”
He waved her into silence. His thoughts—and his feelings—were in utter chaos. The letter over which he’d lost so much sleep was not from some dangerous smuggling crony of her father’s.
Thank God.
But this… This was almost worse. Even if she was proven completely innocent of any wrongdoing, she was now back with the man she loved, and slipping further than ever out of Rafe’s reach.
To hide the despair that washed over him, he busied himself opening a desk drawer and laid the pistol within. He gave Jessop a look to let him know the gun could be deftly retrieved and deployed before the pup had time to blink.
Before he could even think about blinking.
Rafe steeled himself to look at Charlotte. “Why would I assist a deserter? A traitor to his duty?” he asked.
“I’m not asking you to help, necessarily. Just advise,” she said, her glowing hazel eyes giving him a look of earnest entreaty.
Minx. She was trying to manipulate him, knowing he felt guilty about his prying.
She was succeeding.
“Justin needs to disappear for a while,” she went on. “Or even be thought dead, until the army tires of chasing him. He could go abroad. The colonies, perhaps. I thought you might have contacts who could help.”
He frowned. The idea of helping a deserter was preposterous, no matter how good the boy’s reasons. And reuniting with a sweetheart was a selfish, thoughtless reason.
“Exactly how much does this fellow know of my business?” he demanded.
“Nothing, of course. I merely said you were a well-connected military man, more than capable of dealing with a crisis—and that I trust you with my life.”
Surprise flashed through him. Along with a large dose of guilt because he couldn’t say the same of her.
Not yet.
He must tread carefully—he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Not for any reason.
He said, “I’m flattered by your confidence in me. But I doubt I’m well connected enough to have the charge of desertion overlooked. It’s a serious offense.”
Jessop was gazing at the desk in front of him, evidently too proud to beg. Suddenly, he bent forward and peered closely at the map.
Rafe clamped his jaw. Why hadn’t he hidden it before letting them in?
“What is the purpose of this map?” Jessop demanded.
“Nothing,” Rafe said evenly. “I was just showing Mr. Goves some of the local places of interest. We’re new to the area.” He reached to roll up the map.
“Wait.” Jessop was pointing at the place where he’d sketched in the potential beacon. “What’s this?”
“Just the location of a bonfire a farmer is planning after the harvest.” He continued to roll up the map.
“I believe it’s more than that. I saw something similar when I was hiding out in the scrubland north of here. It looked remarkably like a Roman funeral pyre, with stout wooden logs laid square at the base, tapering toward the top, and backfilled with furze shrub. It smelled of black powder. The whole was covered with an old waxed sailcloth, then concealed with more branches and bracken. I wondered if it was for signaling to a vessel carrying contraband, or suchlike.”
Rafe stilled. “Did you leave it as you found it?” he asked sharply.
“Of course. I recognize a secret when I come upon one, and I wouldn’t want to anger its builders by interfering with it. My entire design these days is to leave no trace of my passing. I want to keep my skin whole.”
Rafe stared at the young man for a moment, then unrolled the map and spread it out again. “Where, exactly, was this pyre?”
Jessop traced his finger over the paper. “A hundred paces this way, twenty that… About here.” He tapped the map. “It was on a distinct rise, I suppose to keep it dry.”
Rafe penciled a cross where Jessop was pointing. Excellent! They now had the positions of two completed beacons, as well as the unfinished one. If someone came back to complete the partially built one, they’d know for sure if the distribution was based on distance, or topographical. Once all were discovered, they could be used against their creators.
This was no time for complacency. There could be other networks like this all around the English coast, wherever there was rough, uninhabited land or impenetrable terrain. The French attack could come from the east, the south, and even the west, where Boney found support among some of the Irish.
But if Rafe had the locations of the beacons, he could arrange to have them lit while the English fleet lay in wait, and Napoleon’s navy would be lured into an ambush. How was he to know t
he fires had been lit by English spies, not French ones?
What Rafe desperately needed was more men, more spies…and more time.
The room had fallen silent. Glancing up, he found everyone staring at him, waiting for him to speak. He looked from the ardent appeal in Charlotte’s eyes to Jessop’s wary distrust, and realized the answer was staring him in the face.
Rafe could help Charlotte save her young man and benefit his own cause as well. If Jessop was no coward, as Charlotte proclaimed, the boy wouldn’t flinch at joining the fight in a different way than serving in the army, thus cleansing him of the charge of desertion.
Striding to the fireplace, Rafe tugged on the bell pull. When Hamblett appeared, he said, “Bring in the decanter and four glasses. I shall also need my writing box. Thank you.”
As the servant left to do his bidding, he turned to Charlotte. “Please sit down, Miss Allston,” he said. Hope flickered in her eyes. He responded with a mirthless smile. “I’ve decided, much against my better judgment, to save Mr. Jessop’s skin. But I require something in return. You must submit to my interrogation.”
She paled. “You want to question me? I don’t know anything that could possibly be useful.”
“That remains to be seen,” he said stiffly.
“I say—” began Jessop, but Rafe gestured him to silence, his gaze never wavering from Charlotte’s face.
“Have I your promise,” he asked, “that you will be totally truthful with me?”
The air around her prickled with animosity. “As truthful as you have been with me,” she retorted.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. When Hamblett appeared with the decanter, Rafe pounced on it and poured himself a generous measure of sack.
It was going to be a very long night.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Charlotte sat opposite Justin, leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap. Neither of them spoke, and nothing could be heard above the soporific ticking of the clock and the scratch of Rafe’s pen.
The awkward silence ended only when he pushed the inkwell aside, dusted over what he’d written, and flourished the page in front of her. “Will this serve?”
A Perilous Passion Page 17
