Too Sinful to Deny (32 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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“He says, ‘Just checking.’ ” She paused, then added softly, “and that he believes you.”
“Timothy doubted me? Even for a second?” The realization his own brother thought him capable of such a heinous act sliced through Evan’s heart, rendering him unable to keep the hurt from his voice. Both the people he loved had believed him completely heartless.
Susan shook her head. “He says, ‘Not anymore.’”
“What about him?” he demanded, then remembered he could address his brother directly. “What about you, Timothy? You see no wrong in turning traitor on your fellow jacks, on your family, on
me.
You were perfectly willing for your own brother to ride backward up Holborn Hill. You know good and well I’d be unlikely to slip-gibbet once you ratted over the crew.”
Susan blinked, then shook her head as if to clear it. “He says he never once intended you to climb the . . . Deadly Nevergreen?” She cast an exasperated gaze over Evan’s shoulder. “Would you two please speak English?”
“Ha. If that were true, he wouldn’t be so keen to get the contents of that box into the hands of the law.” Oh how he wished he could see his brother’s expression, to look into Timothy’s eyes and see what he was truly thinking. “If whatever’s in that box is enough evidence to bring down a smuggling crew, how could I possibly not go down with the ship?”
“He says—” She broke off, eyes wide.
Evan froze.
Horses.
If a carriage was close enough to hear, it couldn’t be more than half a mile away. With no other town for miles, it wasn’t hard to guess where the visitors must be heading. Why now, why already? Had that insufferable toady Forrester actually gotten someone of import to listen to his talk of smugglers in Bournemouth?
Susan ran to the open door, poking her head outside to listen.
“The Runners are back.” She clapped her hands to her chest. “It must be!”
“The Runners,” Evan choked out, “are
back?
”
She turned slowly, guiltily, but kept her shoulders squared and her nose high. She removed a folded piece of parchment from a pocket hidden in her skirts and handed him the small square.
He read it silently, then tossed it to the floor.
“Bow Street Runners come on your summons?” he asked incredulously. “Then how did you get this letter back?”
“I found it,” she admitted, not meeting his eyes. “On the first one’s dead body.”
The bloody glove.
He struggled for calm. “Who killed him?”
She bent to retrieve the parchment. “One of your mates, I’m sure.”
“So you sent . . . another missive?” he asked.
After we made love and knowing you were consigning me to death?
She flinched as if she’d heard every word of the unspoken accusation. Then she nodded. “I believe I said, ‘Bring an army.’ It’s not about you,” she added hurriedly, as if any justification could possibly mitigate his connection. “It’s for cousin Emeline, and her mother, and your brother, and—”
“Oh, it’s about me, all right,” he muttered, staring at the open door. How much time did he have, if they were coming straight here? Ten minutes? Five? His carriages were ready, but there was only one road leading on and off the cliff. He was well and truly stuck. And the cause of his current predicament had just moments prior been holding his hand, earnestly supporting him through what might well be the last conversation he would ever have with his younger brother.
Apparently oblivious to the conflict she incited in his soul, Susan stepped out onto his front walkway and turned into the wind.
The hoofbeats kept coming closer, each striking the ground with enough force to rattle the foundation. Or perhaps that was the pounding of his heart, thumping against his ribs. Evan’s fists clenched.
“Never mind the bit about running away with me,” he said beneath his breath. “Doubt you much want to go where I’ll be headed.”
But she was already gone. Most likely to help his brother find more nails to drive into his coffin.
Chapter 25
Susan ran all the way to Moonseed Manor.
She hadn’t been certain that’s where she was headed, of course—she’d just been doing her best to follow Dead Mr. Bothwick, who could be devilish tricky to keep in sight. He was as eager to see the Runners as she was. Perhaps more so. Despite her excitement at finally being able to rescue Lady Emeline from her prison, sending Evan to an even deadlier one held no attraction.
She hated that there was no compromise.
Either she directed the Runners to the proof hidden in the strongbox, thereby freeing cousin Emeline and condemning both Evan and her captors . . . or she allowed the evidence to remain “lost,” thus saving Evan—and all the pirates—from the gallows, as well as dooming Lady Emeline to suffer the rest of her undoubtedly short life at the hands of her husband.
Susan held no wish to see Evan captured, much less tried, convicted, and hanged. She loved him, despite all valiant efforts to deny the truth.
However, she was forced to admit, he was guilty of his crimes. Cousin Emeline was not. If the only way to free her cousin was to bring the pirates to justice—
all
the pirates—Susan’s loyalty to the innocent woman who had been tortured for so long had to take precedence over the desolation ripping apart her heart.
She slowed as the bone-white Manor loomed into view. People walked the grounds, all of them looking about as if searching for something.
Ollie Hamilton. His butler. Some two dozen townspeople. Even Miss Devonshire and Miss Grey, for heaven’s sake. What the dickens was going on? The giant caught sight of her at the same time as Sully, the barman from the Shark’s Tooth. Only the latter, however, jogged up to greet her.
“Miss Stanton!” he shouted. A few heads turned to stare. “We thought you’d been abducted!”
Why the bloody hell would she have been—ah. Yes. Her gaze met the giant’s, and she allowed her eyes to smile. Thought he’d locked her in her bedchamber, didn’t he. What a surprise he must’ve gotten this morning, to find her not inside. She would’ve feared his retribution, were it not for the arrival of the Bow Street Runners and her impending escape from Bournemouth altogether.
Right on cue, the first of the carriages rattled around the corner and into view. Make that the only carriage. Nor did it belong to the Runners. Susan gaped. The crest on the side belonged to . . .
Her parents.
After a moment’s shock, she sprinted past the still-babbling-incoherently barman and cut off the incoming carriage at the pass. What incredibly terrible timing. If she managed to talk them into letting her return, she’d save her own skin—but no one would be here to champion Lady Emeline. Her cousin’s evil husband and the worthless magistrate would escape scot-free, along with the rest of the pirates.
She let out a mirthless laugh at the irony. Last week, she’d have sold her soul to the devil for an opportunity to convince her parents to allow her back home. Now that they’d arrived—and she was able to speak to them directly—it was no longer what she wished.
Well, not
yet.
She had a few other things to take care of first.
The driver leaped from the carriage. He was not one she recognized, but this was scarce surprising. Despite the money paid to their servants, her parents’ personalities were not conducive to instilling long-term commitment in their employees.
She waited for him to open the carriage door and hand her mother down.
He did not.
“Aren’t you going to hand them out?” she asked, once it became clear he was not going to do so without a nudge.
“Hand who out?” he asked in confusion, then had the effrontery to wrinkle his nose at her as if she were the veriest peasant and he a member of Parliament.
She’d forgotten she wasn’t exactly looking her finest.
“Lord and Lady Stanton,” she bit out icily, gesturing at the closed door. “They’re in there, are they not?”
The driver looked down at her. “Indeed, they are not. But they have sent for their daughter. She is to return to Stanton House immediately. Would you be so kind as to relay the message to Miss Stanton?”
Susan stared in disbelief.
Not only did the new driver not recognize her for who she was (although, truth be told, she doubted she’d recognize herself if she caught sight of her reflection in a looking glass) but her parents had obviously received her last missive and
still
didn’t feel compelled to check on their daughter firsthand. How utterly like them.
“Well?” the driver prompted.
“Just a moment,” she muttered.
She had some thinking to do, and she obviously had to do it quickly. If she sent him away empty-handed, she well knew her parents would never again pay heed to a request to return. Or welcome her home if she arrived on her own. Susan certainly had no wish to be exiled in Bournemouth for the rest of her life. Yet her conscience wouldn’t let her abandon her cousin, just to appease her own comfort.
The driver coughed. “Miss?”
“Just a
moment.
”
Think, think, think. She’d sent her plea to her parents a few hours after she’d sent her emergency missive to the Bow Street Runners’ headquarters. The Runners had taken her—and Dead Mr. Bothwick—seriously enough to send one investigator, who had never returned or reported back. Which meant they would take her follow-up letter doubly serious. And would be arriving at any moment.
“If you don’t know who she is,” the driver began, “allow me to find someone who—”
“I know her personally,” Susan interrupted, a plan taking form at last. “But she won’t be ready until at least nightfall. Do you give your word to remain until then?”
He gazed at her haughtily. “I gave my master my word that I wouldn’t wait a moment past twilight. He gave me leave to tell her so.”
Susan forced a brittle smile and glanced up at the cloud-covered sky. Noon, at the earliest. She had a maximum of eight hours to find the strongbox and pray the Runners arrived. If not, her choices would be severely limited. Leaving with the driver risked her cousin’s life (and ensured the freedom of the pirates) even if Susan’s first stop in Town was to the Runners’ front door. Letting the driver go home without her, on the other glove, risked no one coming back for her at all.
Ever.
“She’ll be here,” Susan promised. “No matter what.”
When the horses continued past without stopping, Evan realized they must not belong to the Runners after all. Relief coursed through his veins. Briefly. Then a sense of foreboding returned. Just because carriage wheels hadn’t rolled onto his property this time didn’t mean they would not do so soon.
He strode out to his carriages. Having both a phaeton and a coach might seem a bit excessive in a town where bare feet often passed as an acceptable mode of transportation, but the phaeton was an oversize frippery left over from his Town days, and the coach was stuffed to the gills with his most cherished worldly belongings.
But now . . . The truth was, for perhaps the first time in Evan’s life, he didn’t long for escape, whether literal or figurative. He didn’t want to adventure-seek as a ruthless pirate sailing the high seas in search of treasure and pleasure. He just wanted to be Evan Bothwick.
So long as he had Susan Stanton.
Which was why he was standing uncertainly outside of his empty house, staring at his still-waiting horses, and trying to decide what the devil he was going to do.
He’d asked her to go with him. She’d said no. And he couldn’t blame her. Asking her to give up the life she wanted just because he’d made a muck of his was hardly fair.
What if he stayed here? Bah, nonsensical. Neither of them held any love for this town. The constant trepidation would cast a dark cloud over their potential happiness. Could he return to London? His fingers twitched. The very thought of that falsely gay town gave Evan hives. Besides, rumors of having a former smuggler for a husband would not be conducive to regaining the life Susan wished to live.
Husband.
That was the real point, wasn’t it? One of the words he wouldn’t let himself think in the privacy and secrecy of his own mind, much less escape his lips when he’d asked her to give up everything to be with him. But those were the stakes.
Marriage. Commitment. Forever. The biggest risk of all.
He glared at his pawing horses. The groomsman he most often employed as a driver cast inquisitive glances toward his master but asked no questions, despite having had both carriages and horses at the ready for several hours.
Evan swore under his breath. He couldn’t stay. And he couldn’t go. Rather than his usual circumstance of being overwhelmed by possibilities for adventure, he found himself mired in a horrible limbo between two undesirable choices. Stay, and face the law. Leave, and lose Susan.
Branches cracked from the footpath up ahead. The woman of his dreams burst from the trees and blinked in shocked pleasure at his stables as if she hadn’t expected them to still be there. She turned a little more, caught sight of him watching her, and starting running toward him. She looked deadly focused.
He didn’t
see
a knife in her hands. Although one never knew.
What he preferred to see on her hand was a wedding band, marking her as his. But he couldn’t ask her yet. Not so close on the heels of his previous failed proposition. She wouldn’t see that anything of significance had changed. And really, had it?
He
felt different, inside. As though he’d reached a turning point in his life—or was, at least, attempting to. But he would have to prove himself before she would believe such a thing.
“I need the box,” she panted by way of greeting. “I’m out of time.”
If she was out of time, so was he.
“The carriage?” he asked.
“My parents. Well, not my
parents.
” A self-deprecating smile flashed at her lips. “Father would never do anything so vulgar as step outside London with the Season under way, and Mother swore off travel altogether after our last misadventure. I had hoped—ah, but that doesn’t signify. The point is, the arrival of their carriage means the help I requested cannot be far behind. If my parents heeded my words enough to send for me, they undoubtedly also put their not insignificant influence toward an exhaustive investigation.” She nudged up her spectacles with a dirt-stained knuckle. “I expect nothing short of Town judiciaries and full militia. Very soon.”
She glanced over her shoulder, as if by
soon
what she really meant was
now.
“The smuggling crew isn’t likely to still be here,” Evan said. “This weekend’s mission has been canceled, and I have no idea where any of them go when they’re not aboard ship.”
“To be honest, I’m not overly concerned about your pirate friends, largely because I enjoy French fashion as much as any young lady.” She paused to reflect, then added, “And apparently French brandy.” Her shoulders straightened. “But there are bigger crimes being committed than those against the Sovereign, and I cannot stand back and let the perpetrators of true evil live free.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand. “Lady Emeline?”
She nodded. “There are three men who have conspired against her and her whole family. To an inhuman level. They deserve nothing less than their heads on a gibbet. If I must risk myself for the chance to save an innocent like her, then so be it. If you would not do the same . . .” The breath she drew in was shaky, but her blue gaze never wavered from his. “Then you are not the man I hoped—
believed
—you to be.”
Evan looked into her eyes for a long moment without responding.
An excellent point. What kind of man
was
he? A bacchanal adventure-seeker and wastrel, who cared naught for others, who took idle entertainment wherever it could be found, and left for greener pastures at the first sign of clouds?
No. That was the man he
had
been. That was why she had refused him. The old Evan was not worthy of anyone’s love. His only thought had been for himself. If the new Evan, the man he
could
be, the man he believed he’d become, was no longer the self-centered bastard of before—this was the time to prove it.
“I need the evidence,” she said softly.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “There’s no getting that box open.”
“Nothing is indestructible.” She arched a brow as she tossed his words back to him.
Evan snorted. He’d better be right about that.
He turned toward the stables. He needed to see—and, perhaps, filter—whatever proof the strongbox contained before he found himself up Newman’s lift alongside Ollie and the rest. But he would do his part to help Lady Emeline. He had to. Because Susan was right—some men deserved to die for their crimes.
With her at his heels, he plucked a shovel from the stable wall and cut straight to the strongbox. Well, almost straight. It was a damn good hiding spot. Even knowing the location, it still took a couple tries before he finally cleared the dirt from atop the locking mechanism.

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