Chapter Seven
The morning after Rafe’s ill-advised clandestine visit to Miss Allston’s bedchamber, he decided to pay her another unofficial call. Had she taken his warnings to heart or not?
He didn’t like loose ends.
In the hour before noon, he stationed himself beneath the parlor window of her aunt’s ancient cottage, shrouded in shrubbery and decidedly damp. The weather had broken and rain trickled down the back of his neck, but he daren’t move. Miss Allston was sitting with two other young ladies just the other side of the diamond-paned window, their morning gowns bright blurs of color beyond the glass. The lead flashing had crumbled around some of the mullions, creating chinks through which he could hear their conversation.
It was proving an interesting one.
Which was just as well, otherwise he’d be consumed with guilt. How low had he fallen that he was reduced to eavesdropping on a chattering group of chits barely out of the schoolroom?
“Hester, you were going to tell me about Lady Butler-Davis’s new gown,” one of the other ladies had said a moment ago.
Miss Allston’s voice had then chimed in, “Did you say it had a two-inch flounce of lace?”
At which point Rafe’s ears had perked up.
Lace. She was asking about lace.
“Oh yes, indeed,” answered the young woman they’d called Hester. He wished they’d said her last name, as well. “At least two inches deep at the hem and maybe even three at the neckline. It puts the sorry bit of lace on my bonnet quite into the shade.”
“What sort of lace was it?” Miss Allston asked. “From the Midlands, perhaps? Or closer to home, Downton maybe?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Or could it have been from Brussels?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. She’d make a terrible spy if she couldn’t be more subtle than that.
“Oh dear,” said Hester. “I didn’t look that closely. It had motifs and was more like the Buckinghamshire sort, I suppose. Why are you so interested?” She giggled. “Have you taken up lace-making?”
“Heavens, no. One just likes to keep abreast of fashion, you know.”
Does one, indeed? thought Rafe, his lips quivering.
The third young lady said, “Well, I don’t think any of us can quite aspire to the grandeur of Lady Butler-Davis. Her husband keeps her in the height of fashion, lucky old thing. My papa is against lace altogether. Why, he even mentioned it in one of his sermons the other week, as a sign of sinful vanity.”
So, she must be the vicar’s daughter. Dorothea Daniell, he believed her name was.
Rafe grimaced, recalling the usual tenor of her father’s sermons. It was enough to put a man off church altogether.
“I wonder what they paid for the lace,” mused Hester.
“Probably less than they should, considering the amount of smuggling that goes on round here,” offered Miss Daniell.
He leaned in closer. Perfect! Now if they would only mention a few names…
“Good heavens, there are free traders around here?” Miss Allston asked, sounding shocked. As if she didn’t already know. “Are they local men, do you think?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Miss Daniell said. “But Papa often writes sermons condemning them.”
“Is it so very wrong do you think?” Miss Allston asked innocently.
There she was again, actually supporting the illegal trade. Thank Moses he’d not hinted at his mission to her. Then again, it was hard to picture her dashing off in search of one of the villains to warn them a government spy was on their tail.
“Anything that’s illegal is wrong. You know that,” countered Miss Daniell.
“But not everything that’s wrong is illegal,” said Miss Allston. “I think it very wrong that men should struggle to feed their families while customs monies go into the pockets of corrupt officials. And a profligate prince.”
“Good lord. Are you a revolutionary, Charlotte?” asked Hester.
Rafe was asking himself the same question.
But no. That was a ridiculous notion. She was too young and too inexperienced to hold such radical beliefs.
“Of course not,” Miss Allston snapped. “But I’m still curious. Are all the smugglers from hereabouts? You’ve not heard of any links with Essex or East Anglia?”
“I would not assume,” said Hester, rising to stroll farther back into the room, making Rafe duck down below the sill, “that every criminal knows every other criminal in the land.”
Damn! He could barely hear her now. Miss Allston replied at some length, but she must have followed her friend.
Why had she asked about East Anglian smugglers? He needed to know.
He edged as close to the window as he dared, just in time to catch Hester saying something about lace attracting a man’s attention. Excellent—she was walking back toward him again.
“I do wish there were more eligible young men close by. The Bentincks and the Pierpoints spend more time up in Nottingham than they do here, or they might be worth considering. There’s always Mr. Williams of Herrington, I suppose, but he has appallingly bad teeth.”
“Oh, but so very tall, with such an aristocratic nose!” said Miss Daniell.
Hester replied, “Well, his height would be an advantage, in that it conveys his bad breath over the top of one’s head.”
“How cynical you are!” said Miss Daniell. “What about Mr. Goodden the High Sheriff’s son, or Mr. Darmer, or Mr. Strode?”
He began to ease himself away from the window. There was nothing more he could learn if they were just going to catalog all the local gentlemen.
But stopped dead when Miss Daniell said, “I know he lives a bit further away and doesn’t mingle with the ton in this part of Dorset, but what about Lord Beckport?”
His head jerked up so violently he almost knocked himself unconscious on the windowsill. Good God. This he had to hear.
“Charlotte, do be careful,” warned Hester. “You don’t wish to spill tea all down your front. It leaves the devil of a stain.”
Warmth stole through him. He had affected her, then. Even though she’d appeared so calm and poised when he’d invaded her chamber last night. He smiled in satisfaction.
“Hester! Such language!” The parson’s daughter. Obviously.
“Well, it does. Worse even than red wine.”
“Lord Beckport?” Miss Allston queried in a strained voice. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of him.” Liar. “He’s a bachelor?”
“And an earl,” said Miss Daniell.
The relentless downpour had started to invade his oilskin coat, but Rafe ignored it. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away now. Not even a whole herd shedding hairs on him.
“Indeed. But I disagree that he’s eligible,” Hester replied.
Really? Why not? Had his meddling mother announced an engagement he wasn’t aware of?
“To marry him,” Hester explained, “a lady must be prepared to be a laughingstock.”
Fury swept through him at the insult.
“He was drummed out of the army because he couldn’t ride a horse,” said Miss Daniell.
He knuckled his forehead in frustration. Why did gossips always blow everything out of proportion?
“I heard,” said Hester, “that he couldn’t even go near one. It sends him into some sort of fit.”
If one considered a sneeze or two a fit…
“No good officer can operate without a horse,” said Miss Daniell.
He would dispute that. He’d done quite nicely without one, walking alongside his men. He’d gained their loyalty and respect, not disdain, by being one of them, down in the mud and gore, and not keeping himself apart, mounted sixteen hands above them in the heat of battle.
Until that blasted sergeant had forgotten to tie his horse up properly.
“Beckport left the army in humiliation. He’s been a recluse ever since.”
“Ashamed to hold his head up in public, no doubt,” Miss Daniell said. “I heard his family disowned him and his fiancée deserted him. He’s invited to none of the routs and parties in town. Most people don’t even remember what he looks like.”
Well, he hoped that last part was accurate. The rest was pure—and vicious—fiction. He saw his mother and sister regularly, and he’d never even had a fiancée.
“Charlotte, are you feeling quite well? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine. Just a bit warm.”
“Nonsense—it’s cold and miserable. Whatever ails you? You’re trembling!” said Miss Daniell.
“It must be the mention of Lord Beckport,” scoffed Hester. “Dear Charlotte is horrified at the idea of such a cowardly gentleman.”
He should stop listening now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear Charlotte’s response to that. Not that there was any reason her opinion should matter in the least. He hadn’t come to Fortuneswell to try to impress the ladies.
Focus on the mission. No distractions.
“I’m perfectly well,” Charlotte returned. “Please put the smelling salts away.” After a moment, she said, “Well, regardless of all that, Beckport is still an earl. That must count for something in Society. Is he considered handsome, at least?”
He made a face. That was what she wanted to know?
“Oh yes,” Miss Daniell said. “Like an Adonis.”
He flushed. Thank you.
Hester said, “What is it men say about other men when they admire them and think they would be good wrestlers or boxers?”
Miss Daniell giggled. “That they would strip to advantage.”
Miss Allston gasped. “Thea!”
All three women tittered.
“I once overheard some gentlemen say that of Beckport,” Hester supplied. “They didn’t know I was listening, of course.”
He rather wished gentlemen would keep such opinions to themselves. Perhaps he would decide never to rejoin Society after the war was over.
Miss Allston continued to query, and Hester continued to share her knowledge of him. Clearly also an avid reader and memorizer of the gossip columns.
“He’s wealthy, mind you, very comfortable, indeed,” she stated. “He doesn’t go out much, as I mentioned, but uses an agent to pick out his furnishings and art.”
Miss Allston said, “You say he can’t ride a horse, but has anyone ever suggested he ride a mule or a donkey instead? That might suit him better.”
Her friends erupted into gurgles of laughter. Eventually, Hester gasped, “An aristocrat on a donkey! Oh, what a corker! You do say the most remarkable things at times. I’m so glad you came to live in Fortuneswell.”
Rafe couldn’t decide if he echoed that sentiment, or wished she’d been sent to the Colonies as a babe.
The rain had eased. He could probably get back to Dovehouse Farm without drowning. He should leave. He was no longer learning anything useful. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He eased back from the window, crouching low, and slipped around the side of the house, grateful for the overgrown laurels that gave him cover. He’d just vaulted the gate and landed softly in the lane when he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening behind him.
Blast it! He mustn’t be caught spying, especially if it was Miss Allston’s mother at the door. Quickening his pace, he turned up his collar and prayed to go unnoticed.
Because if he needed to apply any further pressure on Miss Allston’s family, it was highly likely she would be hurt by his actions.
Which was something he really didn’t want to happen.