Too Sinful to Deny (27 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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Nothing but dirt, mud, and fallen leaves. Most of which clung to the remaining glove and her now-ruined gown. Perhaps she hadn’t retraced her steps correctly. Perhaps she’d wandered down a
different
footpath. Typical. Susan gave up on the missing glove—it had to be buried under a foot of mud anyway—and headed back down the trail. At least, she hoped she did. She would go mad if she broke through the trees only to discover herself once again at Mr. Bothwick’s door.
A bloody pirate!
No wonder he had that aura of danger and arrogance, that unapologetic delight in doing whatever he wished. Such as threaten another pirate with pistols. What if he’d done more than threaten? Hadn’t she already wondered at the connection between Mr. Bothwick and the death of his brother? He’d apparently accepted the fact of Red’s death without any physical proof. Perhaps there was a reason for that, as well. And the Runner—oh, Lord, the Runner—mightn’t the poor man have gone to his informant’s brother for information and help? Hadn’t she found his corpse a mere shell’s toss from Mr. Bothwick’s rowboat?
She stumbled, gripped the slippery bark of the closest tree, and dry heaved. She’d thought herself a better judge of character. She’d fancied the man lowbred but well-meaning, rakish but misunderstood, hot-tempered but overall harmless. How wrong she had been.
The rain let up a little, and she forged forward along the trail. The path was beginning to widen, the trees to disperse, the leaves more scarce. She stepped free at last—and there, up ahead, like a beacon of light, like a mirage on the desert, like the Holy Grail itself, were:
Stables.
Half-laughing, half-crying, she ran toward them. She slipped and fell in the mud, but picked herself up without stopping and flew to the structure as if her life depended on reaching the horses inside. It very likely did.
A gaggle of unsavory-looking liverymen loitered by the open door. No matter. She would win them (and use of a horse, please, God) with charm and aplomb in a matter of seconds. She slowed to a walk, soaking wet and out of breath, but filled with hope for the first time in ages.
“Good afternoon,” she called out.
As one, their fingertips went to pistols strapped to their hips, then fell casually to their sides as they judged her no threat. Susan stumbled. The liverymen were
armed?
She started to have a very bad feeling about the grounds on which she trespassed.
“Er . . . Whose stables are these?” she called out, deciding to stop where she was, rather than close the last couple yards between them.
One of the men spat a bit of leaf onto the ground before replying, “Mr. Bothwick’s.”
Spectacular. Susan briefly considered stabbing herself with the ivory-handled blade right then and there, thereby saving everyone else the hassle of killing her.
“Timothy Bothwick’s?” she asked anyway, despite the sick feeling in her stomach indicating she already knew that not to be the case.
The liveryman shook his head. “His brother.”
Of course. She’d finally found the only stables in a twenty-mile radius and they belonged to Mr. Bothwick. The
pirate.
To whom she’d mistakenly given her virginity and her trust. She’d never again possess the former, but at least now she had the faculty to be more judicious in the latter. The man did not deserve trust. And, most likely, neither did his liverymen.
“M-may I see the horses?” she asked, despite her better judgment.
Once again, they all touched their fingertips to their hips. But this time, they kept their hands at the ready.
“No,” came the flat reply.
There was no room for argument.
Bloody, bloody hell. Damn and triple damn. Susan cast her gaze up to the still-rumbling sky and blinked when a raindrop splattered against the lens of her spectacles. She simply did not know enough swear words to properly convey the level of frustration burning through her blood.
The liverymen waited, silent, watching her.
She wanted to cry. She stood before them, miserable, pathetic. A woman with matted hair clinging to her frozen face. Clad in a mud-splattered dress with torn sleeves and a battered hem. One bare hand clenched her soiled skirts for warmth, the other encased in ruined silk stained brown with a dead man’s blood. Not an inch of her body had escaped the onslaught of the rain. And, to top it all off, she was lost.
“Could one of you please tell me how to get to Moonseed Manor?”’
She hated how much her voice shook. She wasn’t sure whether her body trembled because of the cold, because she was afraid the liverymen would just as soon shoot her as help her, or because she was even more afraid they wouldn’t know how to get there either and she’d wander around this wet hellhole until she died of cold and starvation.
But one of the liverymen began to gesture. Not the one who’d spit—a different one. A nicer one. Still armed, of course, but at least willing to tell her how to get out of there.
“Not too far up that way,” he was saying, “you’ll see what’s another trail. Can’t miss it. Just keep straight on. There’s no forks and the like. You’ll come out by the gate with all the roses.”
“You mean the rock garden?” she asked hopefully. “Just behind Moonseed Manor?”
He nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Thank you so much.”
She gave him a smile—no need to make more enemies—and headed in the direction he’d pointed. Eventually, she did come across another footpath. A wider one. With fewer branches. She made her way down the very center, so as to ensure she didn’t accidentally wander to the left or to the right. After what seemed like weeks to her exhausted legs and blistered feet, she clapped eyes on the gate behind Moonseed Manor.
Who knew the day would come when she’d be relieved to step foot in the grave garden?
She wasn’t thrilled to be anywhere near the giant and his henchman, but at least she was reasonably assured of survival until Mr. Forrester came to spirit her away to the assembly. So long as she kept her big mouth shut and did her best to stay out of sight. Perhaps the best plan was to lock her chamber door until the magistrate arrived.
She went straight upstairs, where she immediately rang for a bath. If only she’d been able to leave Mr. Bothwick’s house with the same warm glow of happiness and optimism she’d had while in his arms. But she could no longer suppress the horror she’d been trying to deny. Although the Runner’s blood was gone from her fingertips, the sensation of bone-deep uncleanliness had returned. She shoved the knife into a drawer before throwing her clothes and soiled glove into the fire.
While waiting for the hot water to arrive, she collapsed onto the antique chair before the escritoire. She had been doubtful when Janey had admitted she could frank mail without her master’s knowledge, and ensure clandestine missives would be taken by foot to the nearest town with capabilities of posting mail. Susan had certainly hoped such a feat were possible, but hadn’t allowed herself to believe it true until she’d laid eyes on the corpse at the beach. But Janey was a godsend. Fully convinced of the maid’s resourcefulness and secrecy, Susan penned a new letter. This time, to the headquarters of the Bow Street Runners.
She said there were pirates in town, one of whom was master of Moonseed Manor. She said they had started to turn on each other, leaving at least two dead. She informed them the emissary they’d sent had suffered a fatal knife wound for his troubles. She begged them to send an army.
At last the bath arrived, and Susan was able to sink into a tub of scented soap and hot water. A few moments later, a faint but recognizable sound came from outside. Horses! She jerked up so quickly froth and bathwater splashed over the sides of the tub, and then she realized to whom the horses must belong.
Mr. Bothwick.
Here to share the details of a shocking turn of events with his best mate and fellow pirate. And to forbid her from ever stepping foot near his stables again. No doubt that was why he arrived on horseback instead of on foot.
She sank back into the tub, but the warm water had ceased to relax her tense muscles. Nonetheless, she stayed buried in jasmine-scented bubbles until the horses outside whinnied their impatience. Ten minutes. Fifteen, at most, had passed. Well, she supposed it didn’t take that long to say, “Miss Stanton knows we’re pirates,” and “Are you certain her parents will notice if we kill her?”
After the last of the bubbles died, she called for the lady’s maid.
Janey eased into the room with a wooden box clutched in her too-thin fingers. She set the small object atop a dresser as if it were a miracle straight from God.
“What is that?” Susan stammered, barely resisting the urge to leap from the lukewarm tub and fetch the box dripping wet.
“For you. From your parents.”
“My what?” She grabbed at the closest towel.
The maid helped Susan to dry, then took what felt like an impossible amount of time layering her in shift and stays and a fresh gown. When Janey went to fetch dry boots, Susan half-ran, half-slid across the slick wooden floor in her bare stockings and grabbed up the box, which bore a very familiar crest. She opened the lid and blinked. Money. Heaps of it. Coins, bills, signed bank notes. And a small scrap of parchment reading only,
You’ll feel better after shopping.
“M-my parents sent this?” she asked stupidly. “In a . . . in a mail coach?”
Janey shook her head. “In their carriage.”
Susan’s heart stopped for a second too long, then exploded into double time. “My parents came for me!”
Again, the maid shook her head. “Servants. I got this from a groomsman while my master was talking to the driver. Don’t suppose he’d be too happy to know you had it.”
Susan returned her gaze to the pile of coin and nodded slowly. No, she didn’t suppose they’d be too happy to know she’d just been handed the very means to escape from Bath in a legally hired hack. But with the carriage here—she wouldn’t
have
to. She could simply travel right back to Town with the servants! She forced a small handful of coin into Janey’s spidery hands for all her efforts.
Still in her stocking feet, Susan shoved the box into the drawer with the knife and dashed for the bedchamber door. It was the height of impropriety to appear in public without proper footwear, but the most important objective at this moment was ensuring the servants waited for her before departing. She jerked open the bedchamber door and bit back a scream.
The scarecrow stood on the other side. Grinning his terrible grin.
“There you are,” he rasped, his tiny black eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Your family sent round a carriage.”
“Thank you.” She shouldered past him. “I’m going to speak with the driver immediately.”
“Are you, now? Well, that’s going to be a mite tricky.” His scratchy voice clawed at her through the oppressive air. “Since they’re gone.”
No.
Muscles twitching in fury, she turned on him. “Why didn’t you send for me?”
His face split into his awful smile and he gestured at her stockinged feet with a jaundiced hand. “You were busy.”
Chapter 21
Punching the wall—twice—did not improve Evan’s disposition. The strong surface remained as stubbornly unyielding as his dead brother’s thick head. He’d known from the first Timothy would make a terrible smuggler. The ridiculous lists. The cleaning schedules. The pathological aversion to breaking laws. But Timothy had said
yes,
damn it. Yes meant
yes.
“Yes” did not mean “I will feign complicity temporarily whilst plotting to bring about my brother’s imprisonment and subsequent public hanging.”
Evan punched the wall again, this time with the other hand, and swore. Now he had two sets of bruised knuckles, a perfectly solid wall, and the same maddening lot of problems as before.
Damn
it.
He had to compose himself. To think. To plan. He crossed his arms against the temptation to keep throwing punches, and propped his bare shoulders against the irritatingly immobile wall.
Calm down. Think of something pleasant. Think of . . .
Susan.
No matter how gobsmacked he felt about his brother, Evan shouldn’t have let her run off. She’d come to him out of fear and worry and he’d likely only added to both, rather than bring her the comfort she’d needed. He couldn’t blame her for being upset over Lady Emeline. His own muscles had jumped with fury when he’d seen the tiny woman treated like an animal. There had to be something he could do, short of killing Ollie. Although that didn’t seem a half-bad plan.
If Timothy had his way, Ollie would swing soon enough. They all would.
Stop thinking like that.
Evan couldn’t believe that his little brother was still managing to complicate life from the grave. Or that he was able to talk to Susan about it. And that she hadn’t breathed a word. No, that wasn’t fair. If Evan saw spirits, he doubted he’d write a column about it for the
Tatler.
It must be lonely to have an ability like that and be unable to mention it. He supposed he could have schooled his own reaction a bit better.
He pushed away from the wall, crossed to a small drawer, and pulled out the pearl-encrusted hair comb that had tumbled from her hair before she’d fled from his arms in Moonseed Manor. Sometimes it seemed as if she was always running from him. Or perhaps it was he who kept chasing her away.
He pocketed the comb and gazed unblinking at his rumpled bed. Today marked the first time he’d made love in it. Amazing. During the four years he’d lived at Bournemouth most of his interaction with women had taken place in other locales. Happenstance. Convenience. He’d cherished the ability to ride or sail back home with the knowledge no complications would ensue from the liaison because he’d never lay eyes on the woman again.
And now look at him. Standing alone in his room, a stolen memento in his pocket, the smell of lovemaking still rich in the air. Thinking of Susan.
Longing to see her again.
He gritted his teeth at the irony. The one time in his life he found himself interested in a woman as more than a means to pleasure, and he could do nothing about it, thanks to his Janus-faced brother. Or could he?
Evan paused halfway to the bed, beside which his shirt and waistcoat still lay crumpled on the floor. What, precisely, had Susan said? Timothy had been investigating pirates, yes. But for whom? Perhaps he’d been doing so on his own, for whatever incomprehensible reason. Perhaps he fancied himself a novelist. Timothy had always preferred the company of his mind to that of living people.
She’d said she imagined they would all hang. Yet she hadn’t given any reason for this eventuality to transpire. If Timothy had died before setting his plans into motion—whatever those plans might be—perhaps there
was
no imminent threat.
Not that Evan shouldn’t continue to be cautious. He often took risks, but always weighed the odds first.
He slid his hand into his pocket. The pads of his fingertips traced the teeth of the small comb. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left town more or less overnight. But it would be the first time he’d regretted it.
He wouldn’t consign himself to the captain’s new adventures. But that wouldn’t be enough. He also had to make sure there was no evidence tying him to the crew’s previous activities. Otherwise, the only option would be to leave Bournemouth. Now. Before undesirable outcomes like
prison
or
death
came to pass.
He lifted his waistcoat from atop the crumpled cravat and shirt, then dropped it back onto the pile. Better to ring for new clothes. He’d never learn to tie a cravat as fine as his valet anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, Evan emerged from his bedchamber freshly dressed. He strode downstairs and came to a surprised stop when he discovered one of his liverymen pacing just inside the front door. The servant looked . . . not nervous, precisely, but undeniably . . . unsettled. Unsettled might not be as alarming a state as nervous, but in Evan’s current frame of mind, anything out of the ordinary was cause for concern.
“Yes?” he asked cautiously.
“It might be nothing,” the liveryman began, instantly snapping Evan to high alert, “but there was someone come nosing about the stables, just a moment ago, and as ye said to inform ye immediately if we seen any strangers poking their heads where they oughtn’t . . . well, sir, that’s why I’m meant to interrupt yer day.”
The humidity in the room increased tenfold. For a moment Evan couldn’t breathe. Escaping in the dead of night was going to be a problem if they were already here for him
now
. But who were “they”? The constabulary? And why start with the stables without sending a man to subdue him at the same time?
Stay calm. Concentrate.
“Did you get a good look at him?” he asked. “What exactly was he doing?”
The liveryman shook his head. “He’d be a she, sir. Wanted to see the horses, she did.”
Evan blinked. “A . . . she?”
“Little blond thing, about so high, as I recall.” The liveryman gestured just above his shoulder. “Pair of spectacles, now that I think about it. Didn’t say her name, but she came out of the path leading from the house. Maybe ye saw her hereabout?”
Yes, yes, he undoubtedly had. Evan ran a hand through his hair and tried to think. Susan had been nosing around his horses? But why do so clandestinely rather than just ask to see them? Hell, he hadn’t realized she’d known he
had
horses. He kept his stables well hidden.
Belatedly, he recalled her odd reaction to news of the assembly in Bath. She hadn’t asked about the food or the fashion or the guests or the entertainment. Her first priority had been to ascertain the presence of posting-houses. Doubt wriggled beneath his skin. She couldn’t possibly have intended to steal one of his mounts and ride to Bath . . . could she? If she no longer wished to stay in Moonseed Manor—and, truly, who could blame her?—why hadn’t she trusted him enough to ask for his help? She could’ve stayed here. Or left
with
him. She didn’t realize it, but she wasn’t the only one interested in leaving town. Lingering overlong in Bournemouth could be hazardous to Evan’s neck.
He had better set his servants to packing. Just in case. He lurched over to the closest bell pulls, his feet leaden. A few words from him, and a timely departure would be set into motion. A matter of days, if he took everything. Tomorrow night, if he left all but the essentials behind.
What few servants Evan employed had been with him for over a decade. The instruction to begin packing was dispatched quickly, and incurred neither questions nor raised brows. They were, for better or worse, loyal to a fault.
His manservant, however, lingered behind.
“Yes, Croxley?”
The man hesitated before stepping forward. That alone was all Evan required to make his heart start pounding anew. Croxley never hesitated.
“I found a glove beneath your soiled linen,” the manservant said at last. “I would have thrown it in the fire, but since you hadn’t done so yourself . . . I wondered if you knew it was there.”
“A glove,” Evan repeated stupidly. “Why would I throw a glove into the fire?”
Rather than respond with words, the manservant held out his hand. His fingers uncurled to reveal a lady’s silk glove. The crusted-brown cloth stuck to itself in clumps, dampened with what could only be blood.
Silently—more because words failed him than out of any desire to hold his tongue—Evan took the soiled object from his manservant. The hair comb in his pocket now seemed a ridiculous keepsake. He could scarce believe he of all people had suffered a romantic moment over the duplicitous woman who’d left behind this mass of ruined silk.
He brought the glove to his nose and sniffed. Definitely blood. The scent brought too many memories. The glove held far too much blood for a mere scratch. And Susan had been uninjured.
The cloth was still damp in some areas. Evan transferred it to his other hand and stared in disbelief at his rust-stained palm.
Someone nearby was severely wounded. And Susan had said nothing.
He made a fist to hide the blood from view, but he could still smell its coppery odor, feel the tackiness stick to his fingers and palm.
Why
had
she come here? He now doubted her panic had anything to do with the caged Lady Emeline. Upon whose bleeding body had she attempted to staunch the flow of blood? Or had she been the one to cause the injury? And why had she not confided in him?
Once again, he would have to hunt for clues. But this time, he didn’t know the identity of the victim. Or if said person was alive or dead. Whatever was going on, Miss Susan Stanton was involved up to her eyeballs. Evan had no way to know whose side she was on.
But he doubted it was his.
Susan forced her shaky limbs back to the escritoire and sat down to compose a response to her parents. She endeavored to keep the missive free from swear words, but doubted her darling progenitors would fail to perceive her ire.
Send the carriage back,
she wrote, then underlined the final word a half dozen times.
My life is in danger. Others have died. I must return home.
After Janey left with the newest letter, Susan locked the door behind her and planned to stay put until one of her missives actually summoned help. But after a lonely tray of tea, an equally lonely supper, and a long, sleepless night, she could scarce stand to remain cooped up in the bedchamber any longer.
A full day might have been enough time for her pleas to reach London, and for a rider to return—if a rider had been going to do so. The fact that breakfast came and went on its little tray and brought no word from Stanton House or Bow Street Runner headquarters . . . well, Susan didn’t want to think overmuch about that.
If they’d taken her seriously, they would have arrived by now. And if they dismissed her words as the ravings of a madwoman, then she was simply back where she started. She’d have to save herself.
The promise of Bath loomed larger and larger until she could think of nothing else but escape. The presence of the money box only served to underscore her cursed powerlessness that much more. The necessity of waiting until the assembly was more untenable than ever, now that she had enough coin to rent a coach yet still no immediate course of doing so.
After the breakfast tray had been fetched, Susan rose to her feet. She couldn’t remain in this house. Not with the scarecrow belowstairs, grinning his slash-faced smile because he’d managed to deflect her first (and, thus far,
only
) opportunity for escape whilst she’d been upstairs in a tub of tepid water.
For now, perhaps she could pay her debts. She stuffed her pocket full of coin, then frowned. The heavy pouch no longer had room for the little blade. Her debts weren’t overmuch. Given a Bow Street Runner had been brutally murdered—with a letter bearing
her
signature in his pocket—perhaps she ought to keep the weapon with her at all times. Thus resolved, she dumped a portion of the coin back into the money box.
Toying with the knife, she crossed toward the door. As she passed the fireplace where Lady Beaune’s ghost always disappeared, a cold breeze slithered down Susan’s neck, causing the slim ivory handle to slip from her fingers. The knife thunked hollowly to the wooden floor.
Susan jumped backward (thankfully with her toes intact) and looked about the room for the ghost. No Lady Beaune. Had she accidentally walked into the poor woman, just as she was beginning to materialize? Bloody hell. If it weren’t for bad luck . . . Susan knelt to pick up the fallen knife, frustrated at having missed an opportunity to attempt communication. At this rate, she’d never decipher the dead woman’s mission, much less complete it.
No sooner had Susan’s fingers lifted the knife mere inches from the wooden floor, the ghostly breeze returned. Gooseflesh rippled down her arms. This time, the current was strong enough to ruffle Susan’s hair. The handle once again clunked hollowly against the floor.
Wait . . . hollowly?
Susan rapped at the wooden panel against which the knife had fallen. Definitely hollow. She rapped against the adjacent panels. Markedly solid. She sat back on her heels, frowning, then eased the blade from the ivory handle. She slipped the tip into the crack between the first floorboard and its neighbors, and levered gentle pressure on the handle until the stubborn board began to creak open. As soon as the corner rose high enough for a fingertip to slip beneath, Susan did so, wrenching it all the way open.

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