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?
The answer was…nothing.
Unless she could send word to Dovehouse Farm…
Jenny interrupted her thoughts. “It’s clouding over, miss. We’d better hurry up and deliver these pies before it starts to rain.”
Charlotte thought quickly. “You take them, Jenny. I need to go to the other side of the village for something.”
The servant looked uneasy. “Apologies, miss, but Mrs. Allston insisted I remain with you.”
Damn her overprotective mother! “Very well,” she said. “We’ll finish our errand quickly, then. No stopping for chit-chat.”
The skies had darkened ominously by the time they were done with Mrs. Carboys, and they headed back toward home. The coach still stood outside the inn as they passed it, thank goodness. She needed to find Thomas the Carrier to send Rafe a message.
No sooner had she turned in the direction of Harris’s stable, than a fat drop of water splattered on her nose. Soon, the rain was rattling all around them, bending the leaves and twigs that overhung the road, creating little runnels in the dirt and gurgling in the gutter.
She threw her shawl over her head, and Jenny held the empty basket over hers, and they broke into a run, darting under the trees for protection. They’d barely gone a hundred yards when, above the roar of the rain, Charlotte heard the clip-clop of several hooves and the creaking wheels of a vehicle coming up at speed behind them.
Out of breath, with her blood pounding in her ears, she was relieved to hear the driver call, “Whoa!” to his team.
A coach drew to a halt just ahead of them. With an all-too familiar coat-of-arms.
She tugged her dripping bonnet down over her face and prepared to hurry past.
But the window lowered, and a refined male voice called, “Ladies, please permit me to take you up.”
She laid a restraining hand on Jenny’s arm as the maid surged eagerly forward. Charlotte’s mind was in a tumble. To refuse a lift in the pouring rain would be considered odd, and she didn’t want to arouse Culverdale’s suspicions. Nor did she want to climb into a coach containing a coldblooded traitor.
The fact she had Jenny with her was scant comfort—the young maid wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
For good or for ill, the choice was taken from her. The coachman had already climbed down to install the steps, and Culverdale was gesturing to them impatiently to get in.
Schooling her expression to one of innocent gratitude, Charlotte preceded her maid into the ornate interior. Jenny wedged herself into a corner and sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast dutifully down. Charlotte sat opposite Culverdale, giving him a genteel greeting and summoning a grateful nod of thanks.
He raised a quizzing glass to his eye and observed her coolly, then gave her a thin smile. “Not quite a drowned rat yet, Miss— Excuse me, I don’t know your name. I’m Culverdale.”
She kicked Jenny as she held the earl’s gaze and said—very convincingly she thought—“I’m Elizabeth Bettany, my lord. This is my maid…Emma. Thank his lordship for his considerate gesture, Emma.”
Jenny’s eyes were popping as she winced in pain, but she dutifully nodded, and stammered, “I’m s-sure I’m very g-grateful to you, your lordship. Very grateful, indeed.”
“Miss Bettany, eh?” He smoothed long fingers over a pair of white kid gloves on his knee, then pulled a repeater watch from his gold-embroidered waistcoat and snapped open the cover. “Where am I to set you down?”
While his attention was on the watch, Charlotte shot Jenny a sharp warning look. Hopefully she was getting the message. “We are just on an errand to see the carrier, Tom Harris,” she said.
“He lives beyond the village, does he not?”
She nodded. “Aye.”
“I’m not much acquainted with Fortuneswell. Have you dwelled here long?”
“All my life,” she lied. The less accurate information she gave to such a cunning and dangerous man, the better.
Hard spatters of rain struck the roof of the coach as the road took them under a stand of trees. A loud thump from above, followed by a dramatic lurch, had her grabbing for the straps in fear the vehicle was about to overturn.
“What the devil?” Culverdale reached down to a compartment at his feet and withdrew a gleaming pistol, which he rested against his lips to exhort her and Jenny to silence. There was another thump from the coachman’s box, followed by a hoarse shout.
The carriage came to a juddering halt, nearly throwing Charlotte into Culverdale’s lap. As she righted herself, she heard a command from outside that froze her blood.
“Stand and deliver!”