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.
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…
She still hadn’t told him what the letter contained. What was she hiding?
“I’m sorry. My mission is foremost in my mind and I feel I’ve lost valuable time. If you would only tell me what the letter is about, I can be easy.”
Her glare grew even more Arctic. “By what authority do you ask for the contents of my letters? Seriously, Rafe, we’ve taken you in, patched you up, and risked our own safety for you. I’ve even lied to my family to cover for you. And you repay me with suspicion? I’m not impressed, not impressed, at all. I thought we were friends, but I see that’s impossible, for how can there be friendship where there’s no trust?”
Agony sliced through his heart at her frosty condemnation. “Charlotte, please believe me, I am your friend. I do care for your welfare, and I hate to see you upset. If there’s anything I can do to alleviate the problem that letter has presented you with, you have only to ask.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself on my account,” was the harsh response. “I think it best you leave my room before Mama discovers you here. She’s torn a strip off you once and won’t fail to do so again, no matter how important you are, or how heroic you’ve been. And this time, she’ll be more than justified.”
She swept past him to the tallboy and slammed the drawer shut, then angrily rattled things around on the dressing table before swiping up a pair of scissors, which she waved menacingly in the air.
As she was now firmly stationed between him and the tallboy, he had no alternative but to retreat. Her disapproval felt like a knife between the shoulder blades as he approached the door.
He hated that he’d upset her. It felt as if he’d just kicked a loyal puppy.
As he let himself out onto the landing, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So much for that relationship.
Perhaps it was just as well they should part enemies rather than friends. He was grateful for all she’d done, but the delicious Miss Charlotte Allston had proved too a great distraction to him. He was making mistakes.
And mistakes cost lives.
But his heart couldn’t let her go like this. The enmity that had sprung up between them felt like a sword through his insides. The pain, coupled with his guilt, made him feel more wretched than he’d ever felt before in his life.
Was there anything he could do to make it up to her? To assuage the guilt?
Or to make him feel less miserable about letting her go?
Suddenly, it came to him. He could investigate Corporal Triggs’s allegation against her family. If he proved her innocent of wrongdoing, he could quell the rumors being whispered about her. But if he proved beyond doubt she was Abraham Cutler’s daughter, and involved in his criminal activities, Rafe would be absolved. He’d know he was right not to trust her.
Either way, his heart, given time, would surely mend.