Page 156 of A Perilous Passion

No, she couldn’t possibly put him through that kind of ignominy.

She had truly grown to love Rafe. Marrying him was her heart’s greatest desire. But she knew it could never happen.

Not in this lifetime.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Reaching for his walking stick, Rafe eased himself out of the chair in which he’d spent most of his waking hours for the past three days. His wound was healing cleanly, but the muscle around it was badly bruised by the impact of the ball, making it a struggle to stand.

Yet stand he did, and walk, as well. Every moment he remained in the Allston house brought the family closer to danger, and himself further away from catching his quarry.

Pain lanced through his thigh as he put his foot to the floor, but he gritted his teeth and started toward the door, determined to exercise the muscles.

Stiffly, he made his way to the window at the top of the stairs, which offered a view of the path and the world beyond the crumbling brick walls of the Allston’s cottage garden. Each step felt like a white-hot poker being driven into his thigh. But the pain would ease in time. It had to.

He approached the window, as he always did, on the shaded side, and peered out from behind the drape. It was many months since he’d dared reveal himself fully in a window, lest someone take a pot shot at him. If only he knew for sure that the traitors weren’t on to him, and that Culverdale had no idea he was being sought by someone other than the bumbling local militia.

Charlotte appeared below, looking divinely lovely, her unbound tresses catching the light like spun gold.

He sucked in a breath and his gut clenched. His fingers tightened on the drape as he watched her pace up and down in front of the house, engrossed in reading a letter.

It was unfair of him to blame her for what had happened the other night. She was innocent and untried. She genuinely didn’t understand what it meant to tempt a man beyond endurance.

The really difficult thing was, his interest in her now went way beyond simple flirtation. But to pursue her any further was to make a rod for his own back.

Yet, still he gazed at her, drinking in the sublime vision, barely remembering to breathe.

But as he watched her, he realized something was wrong. He’d learned to read people well—an essential skill for a spy. Charlotte was in distress; her shoulders were tight, her steps short and abrupt, and she gnawed at her lower lip.

She quickly folded up the letter she was reading, looked about her, and tucked it surreptitiously into her apron pocket. Fisting her hands, she marched back into the house, her face set.

He drew back. What was in that letter that had so disturbed her? And how had she come by it? There’d been no post today—he’d have heard it arrive. Having made the business of the household his own, he knew Charlotte had been to the village briefly this morning to visit a distressed widow by the name of Mrs. Scadden. Had she picked up the letter then?

Anything untoward that concerned her concerned him, too. He needed to know what was in that letter.

But how to find out without Charlotte’s knowledge? She certainly wouldn’t willingly divulge the contents of her private correspondence. Something to ponder…

By the afternoon, his leg felt strong enough for a careful descent of the stairs to join the family for luncheon. There, he declared himself fit enough to be hoisted onto a cart to travel, so Adam was dispatched to ask Thomas the Carrier to help get him home to Dovehouse Farm.

He used the meal as an opportunity to explain to Mrs. Allston and Flora as much as he dared about his mission. The less they knew, the less danger he was putting them in, but they deserved to be informed they should be on the lookout for trouble. The idea of the free traders putting this surprisingly resourceful family to the torture was untenable.

Flora had proved to be particularly helpful, with her medical knowledge. She’d even brought the potion-making doctor up to see him the morning after he was shot. The man had tidied and bandaged the wound very satisfactorily, giving Rafe a deeper respect for that occupation than he’d had hitherto.

Both of the older women were impressed when Rafe outlined his assignment, and they professed their gratitude that such a distinguished gentleman was risking his life in the service of national security. Therefore, they seemed to look more kindly on his association with Charlotte, especially when he sang her praises for being both level-headed and discreet when faced with a crisis. Though, he didn’t correct their belief that he’d been wounded in a duel.

During the conversation, his gaze kept straying to the hook on which she’d hung her apron. Was her letter still in the pocket?

No, she wouldn’t have left it in such an obvious place. She’d have hidden it somewhere in her room, if it was meant to be a secret. He decided to search her chamber for it when she was out. But this wouldn’t be an easy task with so many people dancing attendance on him, wanting to help him every time he took a step in any direction.

His moment finally came when she was sent into the garden to cut some wallflowers for an arrangement. He hobbled quickly upstairs and into her chamber, heart racing.

Making straight for the bed, he felt beneath the pillow, then tipped up the thick horsehair mattress—holding his breath—and prodded about beneath.

He found nothing.

He stamped softly on the floor in search of loose boards.

There were none.