Chapter Twenty-Six
Rafe stared gloomily out of his study window at the bright October sunshine. The riot of overgrown greenery in the garden was starting to fade, dappled with yellowing leaves or the dark swell of berries. The days were getting shorter, the risk of a French invasion lessening—at least, he hoped it was. Though, he still hadn’t completed his task and caught the traitor in the act of treason.
However, the blackness of his mood had been lifted slightly by a small breakthrough in his assignment. A patrol on the heath had uncovered a large pile of kindling.
It might be nothing—or it might be the beginning of another of the beacons intended to signal Napoleon as to the best moment to attack the English coast. He’d already found one completed beacon a few weeks earlier. If this kindling was the beginnings of another, he was close to being able to extrapolate a pattern, which would help him find the rest. He just needed to watch carefully, to see if the beacon would be completed, and, if so, who was directing the work. Hopefully, it would be the traitor, Lord Culverdale.
They’d left the pile undisturbed, but he’d mapped it carefully and informed his superiors in London. The letter he’d received in response had granted him more time to uncover the rest of the beacons, thank Moses.
An additional letter had arrived in the same packet, written in response to his inquiry to the Customs and Excise Office. Unlike the first, this letter contained nothing that pleased him. In fact, it had devastated him.
Corporal Triggs’s assertions concerning Charlotte were true.
The letter gave him the whole story of Abraham Cutler’s life, his deeds, and his death. There was also mention of his family, which described Mrs. Allston and Charlotte so accurately, there could be no doubt in his mind.
Cutler was the youngest son of a noble family, was educated well, and trained to become a lawyer’s clerk. Having performed a special service for a wealthy client, he’d been rewarded with a legacy. The advent of so large a sum of money apparently turned his thoughts away from his respectable but low-paying profession in favor of purchasing a thriving tavern. He’d become an innkeeper.
So successful had Abraham Cutler been at this, he was soon able to employ others to run the inn, and rose to the status of a country gentleman. He was thus able to garner a wife from the lower echelons of the gentry. The only surviving child from this union was a daughter, sent away to be educated as a lady.
This fact, at least, eased Rafe’s mind. If Charlotte was away at school while Cutler was committing his crimes, she was only guilty by association, and not by actual involvement.
But she should still have told him.
As her father’s business prospered, he opened several taverns across Essex, along the route between London and the coast, as far as the Blackwater estuary. Suspicion increased over how he’d managed to make so much money so quickly in the brewing trade. Either he was a magician when it came to producing good quality liquor, or he had a superlative—and cheap—supplier.
Such as France.
Cutler’s inns were ideally placed to both store and disperse contraband cargoes that landed on the East Coast. The local revenue men had tried—and failed—to catch this mastermind red-handed. Rumors abounded about how he’d avoided capture, some of which even credited him with demonic powers of disguise and illusion.
On one occasion, he supposedly hid up a chimney during a raid, even though a fierce blaze burned in the hearth below. On another raid, the investigators arrived only to discover Cutler had died. They were shown his cold body, stiff and pale, in a coffin on the kitchen table of one of his inns. How he managed to fake his death convincingly enough to deter the king’s own customs men was a mystery that had followed him to his premature grave several years later.
Rafe’s correspondent confirmed that, after falling prey to a bout of lung fever, Cutler had sought out the king’s authorities and offered to give up the names of all his contacts in the world of smuggling, in exchange for a Royal Pardon.
It wasn’t known what had occasioned this change of heart. Perhaps he’d turned patriotic, in light of how seriously the situation was developing with France. Or the specter of imminent death whilst lying critically ill had made him reconsider his options with regard to the afterlife.
Cutler had divulged the names of some—but not all—of his contacts before his death but had not yet received the official pardon. They had hoped to get further information from his wife, but she and her daughter had literally vanished overnight.
With the blockade being put in place against France, no resources could be spared to track them down. It was no concern to the customs men that mother and daughter might be pursued by the betrayed smugglers with deadly intent, to ensure their silence.
Their continued survival was evidence they’d hidden their trail well.
Rafe watched a song thrush capture a snail and bang it gleefully on top of an old staddle stone to get at the tender flesh within. He felt as battered and bruised as the snail, as if his soul had been beaten between hammer and anvil.
So it was all true. The sister of Cutler’s wife must be Charlotte’s Aunt Flora. Her surname was Hartington, and the church register in Thaxted showed that Abe Cutler’s bride had also been born a Hartington.
Had Charlotte inherited her rebellious spirit from her papa? She certainly viewed free trading in an entirely different light from himself—as a way for poor folk to feed themselves and their families. He could see her point, but the law was the law, was it not? If he turned a blind eye to any crime, it was the thin end of the wedge.
If the authorities showed any weakness at all, in a heartbeat, both rural and urban poor could be rioting, bringing the threat of a revolution like that in France even closer.
Charlotte Allston stood for everything his own class detested. Except, of course, when they were being hypocritical and buying the cheap brandy, tobacco, and lace the free traders had to offer…
Rafe turned the letter over and over, then crumpled it up in his fist and threw it into the fireplace.
Damnation! He should have just left well alone and ignored his suspicions. But now that he had concrete proof of her smuggling connections, he felt duty bound to investigate her and her family further.
It was a cruel twist of Fate, considering how much they’d already done to help him.
As if to shame him, his thigh cramped painfully. He grasped the windowsill until his knuckles whitened, and the pain abated. Limping back to his desk, he shuffled his maps around pointlessly, then let out a string of curses.
If he were to investigate Charlotte, it would mean betraying her trust yet again. And if he found any direct evidence she was in league with the smugglers—such as that letter she’d been so keen to hide—he’d be forced to give her up to the authorities.
Which would break his heart in a million pieces.
Did he really have the stomach to betray the only woman he’d ever truly loved?