The crisp chill of the early autumn morning echoed her mood as she unlocked the door and entered the silent house. Avoiding the treads that creaked, she made her way to her bedchamber where she stripped off her clothes and got into her nightgown.
She thought of Rafe, out in the wilds with his men hunting for traitors and smugglers, and forced herself to believe he was in no danger.
But she’d not be able to rest until his assignment was over and they were safely wed. Only then would she feel secure in the knowledge that he was entirely hers, and the duties that might take him from her side were not potentially fatal.
Rolling over, she closed her eyes and prayed that sleep would put an end to her fears.
But it did not.
So she deliberately filled her mind with the pleasant memories of Rafe’s touch, the image of his well-honed body, and the words of love he had spoken.
Which only brought a whole other avalanche of fears to her tormented mind.
Thus, she was still awake when Jenny arrived at the cottage to light the stove and start preparing the breakfast. In the next room, Aunt Flora started clonking about as she prepared for the day. Moments later, the door closed and she heard her aunt make her way downstairs.
With a sigh, Charlotte lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She may as well admit defeat and get up.
A muffled sound of voices came up from the kitchen, followed by footsteps clattering up the stairs. A rapid knocking on her door had her up in an instant. She swung it open to reveal a flustered-looking Aunt Flora.
“Whatever’s the matter?” she asked.
“Jenny’s just arrived and told me she heard in the village that the Earl of Beckport is known to be staying in the area under the alias of Mr. Rafe Seabourne and living at Dovehouse Farm. If everybody knows it’s him, won’t that prejudice his mission?”
Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face. Rafe’s presence was known? Her pulse sped. Now his mission would be even more treacherous.
If word reached Lord Culverdale, it would put Rafe in serious danger.
She had to think of something, fast, to save the man she loved!
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Charlotte, sit down at once! I’ll fetch the smelling salts.”
Ignoring her aunt, Charlotte picked up the clothes she’d been wearing the previous day, still a little damp from the dousing, and hastily got dressed.
When her aunt returned, she was dragging a comb through her tangled curls and cursing each time it snagged.
“Sit down!” repeated Aunt Flora, with unexpected authority. “I don’t know why you’re in such a rush. What can you do about anything?”
She sat obediently on the edge of her bed, but when the pungent smelling salts were wafted under her nose, she waved them away. “I’m just so worried. Rafe— I mean, Lord Beckport’s mission was more important than you know.”
Her aunt gazed at her a moment, then sat down beside her. “I may know more than you think,” she said gently. “What can I do to help? You can rely on my complete discretion.”
If only Charlotte could confide in someone! If people went to Dovehouse Farm to catch a glimpse of Rafe—as the gossips undoubtedly would for an infamous peer—not only would Rafe be exposed, but Justin would be, too. And be mistaken for a deserter. All hell would break loose.
Whatever was she to do? She must warn them both!
“What’s going on, Charlotte?”
She forced herself to calm down. Panic would solve nothing. Perhaps she should confide in Aunt Flora—she’d always been very level-headed.
Before she could frame a sentence, Flora said, “Perhaps you’ll be cheered by the other news I have to share. There’s to be supper party tomorrow night at Finchcombe House.”
Charlotte’s heart jolted. “Finchcombe House? Isn’t that the Culverdales’ estate?”
“It is, indeed. But it’s very odd, them giving virtually no notice. We’ve accepted, of course, though I don’t suppose there’ll be anybody there I want to talk to.” Her aunt looked wistful, but Charlotte’s mind was buzzing too busily to wonder why.
The Culverdales were having an impromptu supper party? If Rafe was right that the previous ball had been to distract the locals during a smuggling run, did it mean another run was happening tomorrow?
Rafe couldn’t possibly know about this, or he’d have mentioned it.
But how on earth was she to get word to him covertly, especially now that everyone knew his true identity and direction?
She chewed on her lip. There had to be a way.
There was concern in her aunt’s eyes. “You look very tired. Shall I fetch you one of Ephraim’s nostrums?”
“It’s nothing. I’ve just not been sleeping well.”
Flora gave her a hard stare. “No, it’s something else. Something you can’t stop worrying over. If you tell me what the matter is, maybe I can help.”
Suddenly, Charlotte felt like a small child again. The secrets she’d been keeping, her love and fears for Rafe, crowded in upon her, and all she wanted was to lean on her aunt’s shoulder and sob.
She sucked in a shuddering breath and schooled her mind to calm. “Prepare yourself for a major confession, Aunt,” she said. “I hope you won’t be too shocked.”
A peculiar expression crossed her aunt’s face, but the sensitive smile was soon back in place. “I may not be as easy to shock as you imagine.”
“Very well,” said Charlotte, and took a steadying breath. “I’ve fallen in love with Rafe.”
“I thought as much,” Flora said.
“There’s more. Remember Justin Jessop, the young man I tried to run away with?”
Her aunt nodded. “How could I forget?”
“He deserted from his company up in Scotland to be with me. I never asked or expected him to,” she protested when her aunt’s brows flew up. “He just arrived one day and shocked the life out of me. I took him to Rafe, who very generously offered Justin a position on his staff to save him being shot for desertion. I’m afraid now that Rafe’s identity is known, both his and Justin’s lives are at risk.”
Her aunt asked sharply, “What is Beckport’s mission, exactly?”
Charlotte explained it in full, including their suspicions concerning Lord Culverdale. As well as her fears over what the last-minute supper party might presage.
“I’m sure Lord Culverdale is up to something,” she said. “He may even be planning to light the beacons tomorrow while everyone is at Finchcombe House. I can’t bear to think of those poor children lighting those horrid explosive bonfires!”
Flora took her hand and squeezed it. “Nor the idea of those beacons signaling Napoleon that he can invade our country. There’s much at stake here.”
“We mustn’t go to the supper party. We need to warn Rafe, and somehow keep people at bay while he completes his mission.”
“Will our absence not be remarked upon? The invitation came yesterday while you were out, and Lucinda has already sent our acceptance. Besides, what can three ladies do in the face of such despicable treachery?”
Charlotte glanced at her aunt. She looked a different person somehow—younger, but also wiser. Maybe Mama was right and there was something going on with that gypsy healer, Dr. Campaign.
“Even if Napoleon does try to invade,” Flora said, “we have a whole fleet of ships and fearless admirals like Horatio Nelson. There are militias stationed in every county.”
Charlotte smiled wanly. “True. But it doesn’t help us today.”
“What if,” Flora said after a lengthy silence, “you send Rafe a message via one of the village children? Jacky Scadden would do anything for a penny or two.”
Charlotte nodded, and felt a bit brighter. “Then all we’d need is a way of keeping the gossips, the match-making mamas, and the local gentry clear of the farm.”
Now that she had a co-conspirator, Charlotte felt much more optimistic about finding an answer. Between the two of them, surely they
could come up with something.
She jumped at the loud ringing of the dinner bell downstairs. Mama hated anyone to be late for breakfast.
Suddenly, Charlotte knew exactly what to do. “Aunt Flora!” she said excitedly. “Are you still in contact with your doctor friend?”
Her aunt’s cheeks pinked, and she looked so self-conscious Charlotte felt inclined to laugh. The answer was clearly yes.
“Why do you ask?” Flora queried cautiously.
“Because I think I’ve hit on exactly the solution we need. But we’re going to need a little bit of help from a medical practitioner.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rafe had just finished examining the newly discovered beacon, when he heard the frantic ringing of church bells from Fortuneswell.
What the hell?
Despair flooded over him. The enemy was already here and he’d received no warning? Each peal of the bells was a knife blow to the heart.
He’d failed in his duty.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, not when his plans had been laid so carefully. After mapping the last beacon, he’d worked out they were all set just below high points along the coast. Working on this premise, he’d sent the militia out in small groups, which discovered a further six beacons covering a full five miles of coastline.
He’d set a watch on each one, with strict instructions that any child approaching should be swiftly removed from danger, and any adult should be taken into custody for questioning.
How could a signal possibly have been sent to Bonaparte if the beacons hadn’t been lit? And even if some further down the coast had been ignited without his knowledge, how could the French have arrived so quickly?
Too many things just didn’t add up.
The erratic clanging of the church bells continued. How could someone in Fortuneswell have seen what he had not?
Impossible.
Something else must be afoot in the village. A house collapse, perhaps? Or a child falling down a well? A fire?
The bells were being rung with considerable clumsiness—therefore, not in the hands of their usual operators. This was curious.
And everything out of the ordinary required investigation.
Stepping back from the latest pyre, he dusted his hands on his breeches and eyed the band of riflemen borrowed from the fort. Leaving a pair of men as lookouts, he ordered the others to return to Dovehouse Farm with him.
By the time they reached the farmhouse, the clamor from the village had ceased. All was eerily quiet. Even the weather seemed to be holding its breath, the air still and cool with low clouds covering the sun.
His troop had traveled openly but met not a soul on the road. There was no sound of human activity at all. No herdsman whistling to his dog, no children laughing or shouting in the fields.
The hair on the back of Rafe’s neck prickled. This was definitely not normal.
As soon as Hamblett let them in, Rafe sent his men to the kitchen to grab a bite and took his valet aside, out of earshot. “The bells ringing in Fortuneswell earlier,” he said quietly. “Do you know what they were for?”
“I’m afraid I do, my lord. A young lad was here not ten minutes ago with an extraordinary piece of news—a troubling one. Will your lordship be able to keep the riflemen here for a while?”
“As long as the invasion hasn’t begun.” He frowned. “Does what’s happened in Fortuneswell affect our assignment?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. The message was from Miss Allston. Your real identity has somehow become generally known, although the reason for being incognito has not. She has devised a plan whereby the farm might be protected from unwanted visitors.”
“A plan?” An uncomfortable feeling of foreboding knotted Rafe’s stomach. What had his dear, foolish girl done now?
“Indeed, my lord. The bells have been rung to inform the local inhabitants of an outbreak of typhoid fever at Dovehouse Farm. This fact has been endorsed by an itinerant physician by the name of Dr. L. E. Campaign.”
Rafe stalked over to his study window and stared out. “I know him. He treated my leg,” he informed Hamblett. “He’s used to manipulating lesser minds, so I imagine his warning sounded credible.” Still, Rafe wasn’t entirely sure he trusted the fellow. “What else do we know?”
“The gentleman has apparently assured the villagers he’ll prevent an epidemic and will save the lives of every soul at the farm. But until he says otherwise, people are cautioned to avoid us for their own safety.”
Rafe clapped a hand to his forehead. Not only did he have a gang of traitors and smugglers to apprehend, and a wayward betrothed to control, but he must now appear to endorse the diagnoses of a highly questionable itinerant potion-maker.
How he yearned for the comparative order and tranquility of Beckport House, and the wild peace of his remote Scottish estate.
Suddenly, to the consternation of his valet, he started to laugh. It rumbled out of him in great cathartic bursts.
“Oh, she’s a treasure, that wayward sweetheart of mine!” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes. “I wonder how I’ve managed without her all my life. Hamblett, I’ll give you fair warning, Miss Allston is shortly to become my wife. You may be the first to congratulate me.”
He’d expected his servant to bow and politely offer his felicitations, but it was abundantly clear that things had changed between them since he became plain Mr. Seabourne.
Hamblett grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, wreathed in smiles. “A brave and resourceful young woman,” he enthused, “if you don’t mind me saying so, my lord. And evidently very fond of you, if I may make so bold.”
Rafe chuckled. “Yes, you may,” he replied, “but only for now. When I return to my accustomed status, you must set a good example for the rest of my household. Otherwise, they’ll all think they can shake my hand and make me listen to their opinions.”
Hamblett stood up straight and saluted him with a nod. Acknowledging this with a grin, Rafe strode to his study, calling for bread, bacon, and ale.
His beloved Charlotte had bought him some precious time—time he and his men could use to take stock of all the new developments and decide their next course of action.
He’d barely set his lips to his tankard when there was a sharp knocking on the study door. Goves hurried in and stood breathless and bedraggled before Rafe’s desk.
“What is it, man?” he asked. “Have you been in a fight?”
“No, sir, but my horse threw me and bolted—damned miserable creature. He sauntered back here without me and is now sucking at hay in your stables, calm as can be, leaving me to run here nearly all the way from the coast.”
Rafe put his tankard down and leaned forward. “You bring urgent news? Out with it, man!”
“A frigate has anchored offshore, just beyond the point. It’s quite misty on the water today, so she can’t be seen from the fort. But I was above that cave you found back in the summer, and spotted it. I couldn’t see much, but she didn’t look to be flying any colors.”
A foolhardy omission, if the ship was a friendly one. “Which would suggest she’s up to no good.”
“Agreed. I think you need to come and see, sir.”
“I’ll bring the men with me. Well done, Goves. Sit here and rest. Help yourself to some bacon and ale.” Clapping the man on the shoulder, Rafe seized his coat, checked his pistols, and swept out, his heart thumping in anticipation.
Bonaparte had not attacked—yet. Which meant Rafe hadn’t failed in his mission. Having tasted the bitter possibility, his resolve hardened. He must send word to Portsmouth for a fast ship to capture the frigate and set an ambush for any party that came ashore.
And he would not, under any circumstances, sneeze.
He fetched the bottle of nostrum Charlotte had given him and took a big swig of the liquid. With the potion inside him, he barely reacted to unfamiliar horses anymore, and his own mount caused no trouble at all. But just in case, he slipped the bottle into his
pocket.
Soon, his reputation would be restored, he could return to the duties he was born to, and he would have achieved something to make his darling Charlotte proud.
Nothing must interfere with this enterprise. It was the opportunity he’d been awaiting for months.
His entire future was pinned on its success.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The following evening, Charlotte sat in the carriage en route to the Culverdale’s supper party, decked out in green-striped muslin and fizzing with anticipation. She’d managed to rest most of the morning, and now felt much restored after the excitements—and revelations—of the previous day.
The afternoon had been spent with Thea and Hester, who were also attending the gathering, discussing apparel and hairstyles for the evening. At least, that was what they pretended to be talking about each time Mama came within earshot.
But the only thought in Charlotte’s head was Rafe. So, she couldn’t help but let her friends into some of her secrets.
She confessed to them what he was doing in the area—though she hadn’t mentioned Culverdale’s likely involvement in the plot. She wasn’t quite as sure of their discretion as she was of her own.
Thea could hardly contain herself over the fact that Charlotte had an understanding with the Earl of Beckport, but Hester had been more circumspect, implying it was all happening far too quickly. She’d advised Charlotte to insist on a long courtship so she could find out what manner of man the earl was in his natural surroundings. He was very different to Justin, Charlotte’s first choice of husband, and she shouldn’t allow Beckport’s elevated status to sway her.
Charlotte turned her hands over and stared her palms, grateful she was wearing gloves. She’d been in such a desperate hurry, she’d rung the church bells herself, although several of the Scadden children had come running, thrilled at the idea of a disaster, and had climbed onto chairs and helped her. She wished someone had told her that ropes could burn. Thankfully, the damage was only slight, and an application of a Dr. Campaign remedy had soon removed the sting.
A Perilous Passion Page 23
