Page 146 of A Perilous Passion

His heart ached with her rejection.

And he wondered how long it would take to numb the pain.

Chapter Nineteen

Charlotte obediently followed Paynter to the front door of the farmhouse. As he was lifting the bolt to bring them outside, she noticed a strange object on Rafe’s hall table, partly concealed by a pair of leather gloves.

They’d walked several yards down the lane before she realized the significance of what she’d just seen. It had been a black, half-face mask, with holes cut out for the eyes.

But it was no masquerade mask worn to a ball. The only person likely to wear this distinctive type of mask was that most notorious and dashing of criminals—the highwayman.

Her mind buzzed at the implications.

Good heavens. Could Rafe be the highwayman?

Could it possibly be Rafe who’d been holding up unwary travelers on the heath road and in the surrounding woods?

She struggled to comprehend it. The idea was absurd.

But the more she thought about it, the more the pieces fell into place. The local highwayman always went on foot. None of his victims had been hurt, and very little had been stolen. He was always charming to the ladies, even kissing the younger, prettier ones on the cheek.

Yes, that could be Rafe all right, rake that he was.

What earthly reason could he have for endangering his life with such an enterprise? The man was wealthy and titled, and wanted for nothing.

Her imagination took flight. What did she truly know about him? There were too many secrets hovering like an obscuring cloud around the Earl of Beckport.

Was he really a government agent intent on catching French spies and smugglers? Or was he playing some deeper, less honorable game of his own?

“Is this the place, miss?” asked Paynter.

Heavens, they were home already. The problem of Rafe had taxed her so greatly she’d no memory of the long walk back from Dovehouse Farm.

“Yes,” she said, and prepared to climb back up the vine.

But as soon as her companion saw what she was doing, he whispered, “Wait. I can get you in the door.”

She looked up. The window seemed farther up, the ivy more slender than she remembered. She’d wisely tucked the key to her chamber into her bodice, so if he could get her into the house, that would be infinitely preferable.

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?