Page 55 of A Perilous Passion

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.

Damn it! He was going to have to search the drawers. It felt wrong to be rooting through a lady’s small clothes, no matter how laudable the motive.

He approached the tallboy and had just pulled open the top drawer when he heard a sound in the hallway that sent his heart into his boots.

The chamber door opened.

Charlotte stood frozen with a hand on the door knob, her face a picture of astonishment.

Feeling like a schoolboy caught stealing cakes, he swung round and faced her in an agony of guilt, not knowing what to do or say.

“Are you looking for something?” she asked, and the ice in her voice made him feel even more wretched.

What could he possibly say to excuse the inexcusable?

All he managed was, “I didn’t expect you to come up so soon.”

Her glare was glacial. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. I came to fetch some scissors—the stems of the wallflowers are rather tough. Perhaps you would favor me with an explanation of why you are here.”

“Forgive me, Charlotte. I was just…” He thought frantically. “I was just looking for a token to remember you by, as our paths may not cross again for a long time.”

She actually snorted. “Flim flam! You’re too unromantic for keepsakes—a pragmatic man who does nothing without practical motive. Besides, if you really wanted a keepsake, you’re more than capable of asking for one.” She shook her head. “No. You were after something else. Please don’t insult my intelligence any further, Rafe. Tell me what it is.”

She was right, of course.

He’d been in the spy business too long, and clearly had forgotten how to have faith in people. If he asked her outright about the letter, he’d just have to trust the veracity of her answer. She had not, in any of their dealings to date, given him reason to doubt her. Well, other than concealing the truth of her parentage, which he’d yet to find hard evidence for.

“I was looking for the letter,” he confessed. “The one you received yesterday that so overset you.”

She blinked rapidly, then drew herself up. “Because you’re concerned for my welfare? Or because you think it’s some secret correspondence that proves me a traitor to my country?”

He held out his hands in supplication. “God, no. Please, it was foolish of me. I should have just asked you what it was about.”

He’d rather face a line of French riflemen than Charlotte’s accusing glare.

“I don’t see that my private letters are any of your business. Nor are they the business of the kingdom, the army, the navy, the militia, or anybody else. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Lord Beckport.”

Ashamed barely covered it. If the floorboards could have given way beneath him, he’d gladly have fallen through the hole.

But a small part of his mind still nagged at him…