Page 29 of A Perilous Passion

“No matter,” Charlotte said. “I’ve just remembered something I urgently need to do at home. I’ll run back and send Adam up with a bucket, if you don’t mind waiting.”

Before her friends could either say yea or nay, she hurried off, back the way they’d come.

Seeing the graveyard, she suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about Justin’s letter. How depressed he sounded! He had something terrible planned, she was sure of it. She vividly recalled how he could sometimes be afflicted with a black melancholy.

She knew now she cared for him only as a friend. But how could she live with herself if he took his own life, when a few carefully chosen words from her might have prevented it?

She must write back to him, whatever the risk.

And somehow let him down gently. Because she was coming to realize her love for him had just been the brief flutter of a young girl’s heart. Now that she was older—and much wiser—she found her heart yearned for someone else. For a man who took her breath away. A man who made her long for things she’d never experienced.

For a man who—as he’d avoided her for the past three weeks—clearly did not return her feelings.

Chapter Twelve

September was nearly over before Rafe spoke with Charlotte again.

He’d seen her, of course—he told himself his mission involved keeping an eye on everyone, including her—but the truth was, he couldn’t keep away.

He’d been attracted to a number of women in the past—and they to him—but none had impressed him as much as Miss Charlotte Allston. She wasn’t of his lofty social class, which made her refreshingly unspoiled, and she constantly surprised him with her opinions and observations. He couldn’t condone her support for the smuggling trade but assumed it stemmed from her being tender-hearted and naive—which made her all the more charming.

When he learned of the ball at the Assembly Rooms in Dorchester, sponsored by Lord and Lady Culverdale, he made sure Charlotte would be going. He also obtained an invitation for himself, pretending to be the vicar’s long-lost cousin come to stay. The vicar, of course, knew nothing of this.

A masked ball was the perfect opportunity to glean information while remaining incognito. And it would give him a chance to see Charlotte again—hopefully even dance with her. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be kept in his present posting, so this might be his last chance to hold the intriguing miss in his arms.

Goves had warned him against going. Someone only needed to rip off his mask, and he’d be exposed. In such a throng, there were bound to be members of the upper classes who’d recognize him even more readily than Mrs. Allston had.

Rafe had argued he deserved some pleasant diversion for once. He’d worked unceasingly for weeks and had already succeeded in finding one of the hidden beacons. It was only a matter of time before he or his men found more and could then establish the pattern of their placement. He wouldn’t take any risks at the ball, just listen to conversations, dance a little, and play a few hands of cards.

Having promised Goves to tie his tragic mask so tightly not even a sailor could undo the knot, on the day of the ball he convinced Hamblett, his valet, to fashion him a Greek chiton and a laurel crown. Checking the results in a mirror, he was satisfied he looked fine, but not enough to attract undue attention. The hired chaise arrived at his door to take him to Dorchester, and once there, he joined the noisy throng in the Assembly Rooms.

The evening was cool rather than cold, with a bright moon and a smattering of early stars, but these were nothing compared to the cut-glass chandeliers and candelabra inside. Hothouse geraniums, grapevines, and orchids ornamented the walls, the supper table was festooned with scented sweet peas, and with most of the company wearing white, it truly felt as if one were on Mount Olympus amongst the gods.

He accepted a glass of punch, then headed up to the gallery, whence he could examine the people below. Easily identifiable was a gaggle of gauche young men, who must be officers from the fort above Fortuneswell. Others he recognized from their forms, their voices, the way they laughed, and their mannerisms and movements.

There wouldn’t be anyone here from the taproom of the Admiral Duncan, nor were there likely to be any of the smugglers amongst the guests, though doubtless, many here were their customers.

Was the spider at the center of their web present? Rafe took a deep swig of his punch. Damn the man. How had he evaded detection for so long?

His eye shifted to the hosts of the ball, greeting new arrivals by the door. He knew Lady Culverdale only slightly—she’d always had too high an opinion of herself, so he’d avoided her social circle in his pre-army days.

Her husband was a slender, stately gentleman, wearing a gilded laurel wreath, with a golden lyre embroidered on his purple-edged toga. He snapped a bow like a rifle crack and held his head as if wearing the highest and stiffest of collars.

Both husband and wife moved in the loftiest social circles now. Lord Culverdale looked ill at ease in his classical costume compared to his wife, and none too keen on the frivolity of the ball. No whiff of scandal was attached to him, and Rafe had him marked down as a bore. The pair were easily distinguished from their guests by the individually fashioned masks they wore—considerably more tasteful than the comedic and tragic ones they’d sent out with the invitations.

When Charlotte entered the room, he knew her instantly. No one else had that sedate walk, that elegant curve of the neck, or such delightfully curled bronze-colored hair. He stood transfixed, gazing his fill and trying to steady his breath as gentleman after gentleman approached to sign their names on her dance card.

Great Moses! If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss his chance. Feeling like a lovesick fool, he hurtled down the stairs and plowed through the crowd until he stood bowing in front of her. When her eyes met his, his heart leaped to his throat.

Did she know him? Did the trembling of her fingers suggest that she did, or was she nervous for some other reason? He crushed his suspicions. This was Charlotte, an innocent young woman, not a heinous spy plotting to betray king and country. What had his time as a spy-catcher done to him? Did he suspect everybody now?

Yes, she knew him. The parting of her lips, the intake of breath, the rosy hue that stole over her heaving breast confirmed it. Gods, how he wanted to kiss those lips, press his own on the tempting swell of her bosom, and bury his fingers in those glowing curls.

All his planned speeches flew out of his head. Breath failed him. So he just signed her card and departed in search of an iced drink and some cooler air.

Once recovered, he laughed at his foolishness and realized he must dance with other ladies, too, or someone might notice his particular attention to Charlotte. But it was a torment to do so, and an enormous relief when the waltz he’d booked with her arrived.

She was noticeably aloof as he took her fingers in his, making him worry she’d not recognized him, after all. Or was she punishing him for something? For not seeking her out these last few weeks, perhaps?