Too Sinful to Deny (14 page)

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Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny
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“In the sand behind the buildings, for one.” Susan wracked her brain and had another flash of insight. Of course. There were no missing children—only a missing box. “The grave garden! I mean, the gravesite. In the rock garden. At Moonseed Manor. Someone has definitely been digging there, too. Which means the box could be anywhere.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick rose a few inches off the ground in excitement. “You said you know where to get hold of a shovel?”
“Er, actually what I said was, they’d searched themselves and couldn’t find whatever it is they’re looking for.”
“No, no, no.” Dead Mr. Bothwick’s features blurred with each shake of his head. “They don’t want to
find
anything. They want to keep everything
hidden
. I’m running out of time. Without that box . . .” He snapped into focus. “We’ll have to dig it up. Tonight.”
“We’ll what?”
“
You’ll
have to, that is.” He nodded slowly. “You were right. I can’t do this without you. Someone human will need to open it once we’ve dug it up.”
A ball of ice formed in the center of her stomach. “W-where am I digging?”
“The rock garden, of course. At Moonseed Manor.”
Dig amongst the graves? Was he barmy? She wasn’t stepping foot anywhere near that garden of forgotten bones, tonight or any night. One ghost at a time was bad enough.
“Er, I’m afraid that one’s going to be a ‘No, thank you.’” She tried for a smile and failed. “But I’m sure there’s something else—”
He was already shaking his head. “It’s the only way.”
“There are
dead people
there! What if I dig up a corpse? An
unhappy
one?”
Dead Mr. Bothwick did not seem to care. After all, he was dead, too. And not particularly happy. What was one more ghost to him? Susan tipped her face to the murky sky and considered screaming. Or tearing her hair out. Or both.
“Without your help,” he said softly, “I will never be able to fulfill my mission. I need you.”
Argh. That’s what she was afraid of. She’d have to find a shovel . . . and pray she didn’t get caught digging.
Evan hauled the old rowboat ashore and hid it upsidedown in its usual place—right out in the open. Nobody else was fool enough to take a tiny speck of a watercraft like that out on waves as vicious as these. But he’d needed to think, needed to release pent-up energy in some way other than chasing down Miss Stanton and pinning her to a wall. Much as he’d have preferred the latter.
He trudged back toward town with his hands in his pockets. His arms were a pleasant sort of heavy from all the exercise, his back and shoulders just as tired as he was. Perhaps he’d stop by Sully’s before heading up the sheer cliff leading to home. Have some laughs, and a pint of whatever swill was on tap this week.
Wait. What was happening up ahead? Evan paused at the edge of town, far enough away he doubted he’d be noticed, yet close enough to have a reasonably good lay of the land. Gordon Forrester, by all appearances, was angling for a lay of his own.
The holier-than-thou magistrate had one foot in the sand and the other on the second step of the dress shop porch. He had his arms crossed over his bent knee as he leaned forward in conversation with Miss Dinah Devonshire. Whom the magistrate no doubt imagined as pure and self-righteous as himself. They made a pair, all right. Evan hoped Forrester did succeed in winning Miss Devonshire’s obsessive attentions.
Invite her to the damn assembly,
Evan channeled in Forrester’s direction.
For all that’s holy, get her out of my hair.
There was no chance in hell that Evan would be caught dead at that stupid assembly. Bath was just far enough away that they’d be forced to stay the whole weekend. He could barely endure a quarter-hour of such insipid company. Besides, he held no interest in restorative waters that couldn’t be distilled into something with a little more punch.
Miss Devonshire’s high-pitched jabber assaulted Evan’s eardrums, even at this distance. Forrester, apparently deaf to chipmunk frequency, merely inclined his head toward her and smiled.
Perhaps Evan would be better off not walking any farther into view. He could wait to have lukewarm ale another day, if it meant he might finally be wriggling free from Miss Devonshire’s talons. The last thing he wished to do was inadvertently catch her eye and ruin everything Forrester was working toward. Although why anyone would want to court a woman—any woman—remained beyond Evan’s comprehension.
He dropped to the sand and leaned back on his elbows to wait. And watch. Hopefully Forrester would try to steal a kiss, because then Evan would run forward screaming, “Saw you! Saw you!” and compromise Bournemouth’s two most upstanding citizens right then and there.
A figure appeared on the horizon.
What started out as a small dot in the distance was looking more and more like the delectable Miss Stanton. Gesticulating anxiously and deep in discussion with herself, as was her wont. Evan wished he found her quirks alarming instead of intriguing. Perhaps if she’d just froth at the mouth a bit he could finally get her out of his head.
He wasn’t the only one to notice her steady, hip-swaying approach. Forrester nearly broke his neck turning to watch her. As it was, the magistrate lost his balance and half-fell, half-leapt from the porch.
Based on the scowl contorting her typically wrinkle-free face, Dinah Devonshire was not amused by this turn of events. Neither was Evan.
Forrester didn’t notice, because he was already walking toward Miss Stanton, leaving Miss Devonshire bereft in the open doorway, the last dregs of their conversation still clinging to her tongue. She ran after him, but Forrester apparently hadn’t been interested in Miss Devonshire after all. He’d just been biding his time until the real sweetmeat of Bournemouth walked right into his hands.
Evan hauled himself to his feet. He was going to have to make an appearance after all. Just to keep Miss Stanton safe. Not because he was jealous. He could scarce consider that toady Forrester a romantic threat, for Christ’s sake. Not that Evan was interested in romance.
As he cut across the sand, the disturbing question he
should
have been asking himself prodded at the back of his mind. What was Mr. Drinking-Is-a-Disgusting-Habit still doing here? Evan hadn’t expected the magistrate’s high insteps to touch town until it was time for the precious assembly.
Granted, Miss Stanton was certainly alluring enough to turn any red-blooded man’s bimonthly visits into biweekly ones. But it wasn’t as if the magistrate had known she’d be moving to town. Was it as simple as an upwardly mobile man seeking to make an advantageous match? Or was there an ulterior motive for the unexpected visit?
A motive like . . . investigating the Bothwick brothers?
Evan paused, then shook his head, laughed at himself, and continued forward. Forrester couldn’t detect a raindrop in a thunderstorm. The man was too much of a stick to ever actually nab anyone for anything. The day that idiot put two and two together and got an even number would be the day jellyfish fell from the sky.
As further proof, the blank look of confusion that Forrester blinked from his eyes at Evan’s approach was all Evan needed to see—his name couldn’t have been further from Forrester’s flirtatious little brain. Now to get the slug’s sights off of Miss Stanton.
Who, upon catching wind of the dashing magistrate in his dry costume and sand-free hair, set off toward him at a dead run.
It was enough to make a man stop in his tracks. And load his pistols.
From the clenched fists on her hips and the upward tilt of her chin, if Miss Dinah Devonshire had artillery of her own, Miss Stanton would already be dead.
“Mr. Forrester! Mr. Forrester!” the latter shouted as she ran. “I am
so pleased
to see you!”
Evan scowled. She had never greeted
him
such.
The dress shop door swung open. Miss Harriet Grey stalked down the steps and to the side of the building. Presumably to watch the proceedings from the open air, instead of the grimy window from whence she usually spied upon the outside world.
Her attention seemed focused on the back of Miss Devonshire’s head. Miss Devonshire’s attention seemed focused on the back of the magistrate’s head. Forrester was facing the sea—or rather, the undulating bounce of Miss Stanton’s incoming bosom.
Evan’s trigger finger itched.
Miss Devonshire made her move. She sashayed forward, swinging her hips in an almost comical arc until she reached Forrester’s elbow. The magistrate didn’t appear to notice. His gaze remained on Miss Stanton.
Forrester had never looked so focused. Miss Devonshire had never looked so homicidal.
Evan knew the feeling. From the current angle, he’d have to shoot straight through Miss Devonshire in order to hit any of Forrester’s vital organs. While such a trick shot might be eminently satisfying for multiple reasons, Miss Stanton was now within curtsying distance. In a gown far too lovely to splatter with blood.
He stalked closer.
By the looks of the situation, Forrester had completely forgotten Evan watching them from the shadows. The man wasn’t qualified to be magistrate of a weevil in a peapod. Miss Devonshire also had yet to notice Evan’s approach, largely because she was clutching Forrester’s arm and cooing something into his ear so spellbinding that the poor sap’s entire face had turned to stone. Miss Grey kept up her role as flying buttress to the dress shop, one stick-straight arm glued to the wall by five splayed, spindly fingers.
Miss Stanton, on the other hand, had no reason not to notice him. She was the only one facing his direction. He wasn’t more than ten yards away. Nine. Eight. But she’d apparently gone blind to everything but the angelic magistrate, for she reached forward, clutched the hand opposite Miss Devonshire, and reprised her earlier monologue.
“Oh, Mr. Forrester. How very, very good it is to see you! Can we speak privately? Please?”
Forrester seemed even more entranced by Miss Stanton. Miss Devonshire looked ready to poke her eyes out with sewing needles. Then she registered his approach.
“Evan!” she screeched, in that lovely banshee-at-midnight voice of hers. She started to release Forrester’s arm—no doubt to latch herself to Evan’s—but then thought better of it, a crafty smile spreading beneath her apple cheeks.
Was she trying to make him jealous? Evan kept walking. Good luck. He’d never suffered a jealous moment before in his life. He almost laughed at the preposterousness of the idea. Then his eyes narrowed. Perhaps he
should
laugh. Loudly. Miss Stanton somehow still hadn’t noticed him, although he was now inches from her side.
“Can we go somewhere?” she whispered to the magistrate, his free hand still in her grasp. “Alone?
Now?
”
Everyone present gasped at this over-the-top outrageousness. Except Forrester. Whose eyes lit like Christmas candles as he smiled and said, “Why, I think—”
“—that would be a terrible idea,” Evan concluded, his voice booming overloud in the otherwise calm beach.
But at least it earned him a glance from Miss Stanton. A quick, dismissive one. Then a longer, puzzled stare. Then a startled look of recognition. And then she returned her gaze to Forrester.
Evan’s jaw set. He could swear that for a moment there, Miss Stanton hadn’t recognized him. Two inches from her face. Who the devil had she
thought
he’d been? St. Nicholas? Perhaps it was time for new spectacles. Particularly since she’d failed to notice the bunched fury in his muscles or the cannon blasts firing from his eyes.
“It’s something of an emergency,” she continued, her voice urgent. At last she turned her gaze to Evan’s. “I
must
speak to Mr. Forrester. Alone.”
“Without a chaperone?” Evan forced a laugh. Ha, ha, ha. “Out of the question.”
“Not a hundred souls live here,” Miss Grey put in dryly from her vantage point against the wall. “None of us have chaperones.”
“Well, there you go.” He tried to look as though she’d somehow helped his cause. “None of you should be alone with him.”
Miss Stanton fixed him with an exasperated look. “He’s the
magistrate
.”
“He’s a man,” Evan corrected firmly.
A man with an attractive woman clinging to each arm.
Upon reflection, Evan supposed that as long as Miss Devonshire was one of the barnacles, there was no chance in hell of Forrester shaking free long enough to have the smallest second alone with Miss Stanton. But he still didn’t like it.
“We were just discussing the assembly.” Miss Devonshire’s hallmark chipmunk giggle accompanied this announcement. As did a sly look from beneath her pale lashes.
Definitely trying to make him jealous. Ha.
Her statement caused Miss Stanton to break eye contact with the magistrate long enough to glance about doubtfully. “Here?”
“Of course not
here.
” More excited-squirrel noises. “
Bath.
It will be a weekend to remember.”

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