Too Sinful to Deny (15 page)

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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“Bath?” Miss Stanton repeated, as if dazed. “They have posting-houses in Bath.”

“Er, yes.” This observation stole the wind from Miss Devonshire’s sails. But only for a moment. “Quite a few stables and beasts, I’m afraid. But we shan’t have to see them. For there’s to be dancing and champagne and the most cunning little cakes, as well as restorative waters and—”

“When?” Miss Stanton demanded, her grip on the magistrate’s hand hard enough to turn a man’s fingers blue. “How will we get there?”

This time, Miss Devonshire’s smile was pure malice.

“I don’t know how
we
will get there,” she said acidly. “But those who are invited will go in the carriages of those who invite them.”

“Right.” Miss Stanton’s face fell, and she dropped the magistrate’s arm at last. “That is how it tends to work.”

Although he hadn’t pegged her for the flighty, let’s-drink-weak-punch sort, Evan hated to see Miss Stanton so disappointed at her obvious lack of an invitation. If he weren’t already engaged to be smuggling cargo that weekend, he’d have taken her himself just to make her smile again.

“Have
you
an invitation, then, Dinah?” Miss Grey called from behind them. Although the question seemed innocent, the edge underlying her tone indicated it was anything but.

Evan could swear Miss Devonshire’s teeth were clenched behind the practiced smile. She turned his way.

“Mr. Bothwick—” she began.

“Ah, so you two have plans already?” Forrester interrupted, neatly extricating himself from Miss Devonshire’s physical clutches and preempting the
Mr. Bothwick can’t take me, so I just know kind Mr. Forrester will
that had been about to spring from her lips. Perhaps the magistrate wasn’t as slow on the uptake as Evan had always thought. “In that case . . . Miss Stanton, may I? If you’re not promised elsewhere, of course?”

Evan wasn’t sure whose jaw fell open farther—Miss Devonshire’s or his.

Date with high treason be damned. He was going to that stupid assembly with Miss Stanton on his arm. Even if it killed him.

He reached for her. “I—”

“I would love to.” The right words rushed from her lips. But she beamed at Forrester.

Evan’s head exploded.

Forrester, of course, looked thrilled. Charmed, in fact. Why wouldn’t he be? Any man could count himself lucky to have Miss Stanton dancing in his arms.
Waltzing.
Evan’s throat tightened. Forrester and Miss Stanton, hand in hand, hip to hip. No, no, no. Evan wouldn’t stand for it.

Miss Devonshire looked about to have an apoplexy on the spot.

She rounded on Evan. “You’re taking me.”

“Still busy,” he said quickly. Thank God.

Although the idea of dropping in later, alone, just in time to rip Miss Stanton from Forrester’s weak clutches and escape with her into the darkness—now, that would be something to come home a little early for.

“Can we
please
speak alone?”

Miss Stanton’s murmured plea burned in Evan’s blood. Too bad the question had been asked of Forrester, not him.

The magistrate nodded, placing her hand on his elbow.

Evan blocked his path within seconds. “Where the devil are you taking her?”

“To walk along the beach.” Forrester’s slow smile over the top of Miss Stanton’s head indicated he realized the full extent of how he’d just trounced Evan Bothwick. Little slug had a brain between his ears after all. “You may watch us from here, if you would like to play at chaperone, Mother.”

Damn
it.

The sodding rotter had dismissed him
and
made it unmanly to keep watch, all in the same breath. Miss Devonshire harrumphed. Evan shook with repressed rage. He should’ve shot through them both when he’d had the chance. If he backed up a few paces, perhaps he still could.

Miss Stanton leaned into the magistrate and strolled with him toward the water’s edge without so much as a fare-thee-well. She would no doubt fall head over feet in love with the goody choirboy right before Evan’s eyes.

And all he could do was watch.

Chapter 11

He was a dream come true.

A man of the law, possessed of both his faculties and a carriage, offering to get her the hell out of this no-horse town. Susan nearly pranced at this sudden turn of fortune.

“When do we leave?” She bounced on her toes. “It’d be impossible to repack all my valises, so I guess I won’t take—well, I won’t take anything at all, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll buy a completely new trousseau in London. Father
owes
me. But none of that matters when you still haven’t said at what time you prefer to set out. I can be ready in an hour. I can actually be ready, well,
already,
if you care to direct me to the horses right now. Is the carriage close by? Are the chaperones awaiting us?”

She smiled up at him expectantly.

He did the confused, blinking-frowning face typically reserved for octogenarians.

“I’m afraid the assembly isn’t until
next
weekend, my dear. And yes, of course we will be properly chaperoned. I’ve a lovely aunt who’s just dying to return to Bath.”

Next
weekend! Bloody, bloody hell. Who’s to say she—and cousin Emeline—would survive that long?

She glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Bothwick, Miss Grey, and Miss Devonshire hadn’t moved. Unless one counted the smirk on the latter’s china-perfect face, which indicated Susan had not quite walked out of earshot yet.

To quote the recently departed Mr. Timothy Bothwick, damn and triple damn. (It really was an excellent expression, which she would henceforth strive to utilize as much as possible.)

Just as important as her disappointingly postponed escape was the need to rescue Lady Emeline while she was still breathing. Presuming she was still breathing. To her shame, Susan hadn’t dared to venture back into the cellar to check on her cousin.

If even half the story about the original Lady Beaune were true, the local residents were the last people she could count upon to see the inhumanity of the situation. If Miss Grey and Miss Devonshire overheard Susan plotting to rid the giant of his captive bride, they’d no doubt run off to tell the “poor man” everything before she or the magistrate could act.

Then Susan would have nothing to show for her efforts except a magistrate who no longer believed her stories (as if anyone could believe such a tale without seeing the horror firsthand) and the knowledge that she’d have to return to Moonseed Manor to face the giant’s wrath at her attempted perfidy.

She’d never make it to Bath if the magistrate rescinded his invitation. Or if she were chained to the cellar.

Were they far enough away to speak without being overheard? She cast another glance over the magistrate’s shoulder. The two women hadn’t moved. But Mr. Bothwick had. He seemed to be strolling after them, keeping an even distance, careful to stay just within earshot. Shameless busybody. She tried to catch his eye, but he tipped his face into the sun and began to whistle a tuneless melody, as if it were just coincidence that he happened to be invading her personal space on an otherwise empty strip of beach stretching along forty miles of shore.

At this rate, her poor cousin would be stuck where she was until after the assembly, when Susan made her break for home. Plenty of people knew the Stanton name in Bath. Getting a carriage on credit would be easy. And then she’d bring the full force of London law down on Moonseed Manor. She hated having to wait another week, but as long as she rescued cousin Emeline in the end, all would be worth it.

“Do you like dancing so very much, then?”

“What?” It was Susan’s turn to stare uncomprehendingly.

The magistrate gave a self-conscious smile. “You just seemed so disappointed, is all. I, too, wish the dancing were sooner. In fact, I would like to call on you beforehand, if I may. One week seems terribly long to wait to enjoy the company of a delightful young lady like yourself.”

Oh, good Lord. He thought she was pining to be whirled about in his arms? She’d never pined for a man, much less a boring waltz. All the most interesting activities took place
off
the dance floor.

Over the magistrate’s shoulder, she spied Mr. Bothwick again. Still watching them.
There
was a man who no doubt knew plenty of interesting activities for which one did not require moving to music. And possibly even more interesting ones that did. Susan tried to tamp down the sudden flash of heat simmering just beneath her flesh.

She needed to get back to Mayfair. Now. Before she did something stupid. But how? Perhaps Mr. Forrester could be of service prior to the assembly.

“When are you leaving?” she asked suddenly. “Where are you going next?”

His brows lifted in feigned (or possibly unfeigned) hurt. “So eager to be rid of me?”

“Not at all,” she assured him. Rot. She needed to sound innocently flirtatious, not like she was fishing for escape routes. She hugged his arm a little closer and tried not to feel Mr. Bothwick’s gaze carving a hole in the back of her head. “I was just curious about you.”

And how she might stow a ride in the magistrate’s carriage. Wherever the damn thing was. Assuming he hadn’t arrived in a mail coach. Not that she’d seen a single mail coach in the entire time she’d been in Bournemouth. Bloody hell, what if he’d
walked?
No matter. He’d need a proper carriage to take her and his aunt to the assembly. Escape was still on the horizon.

The magistrate smiled uncertainly. “I’m afraid I’m not going home for a while. I’ve business in the area and various loose ends to tie up. If you’d like, though . . .” He paused, studied her intently, flushed. “I might be able to stop by Bournemouth midweek, before the assembly. May I call on you?”

“Yes,” she blurted, then mentally kicked herself when both Mr. Forrester and Mr. Bothwick interpreted her immediate enthusiasm in exactly the wrong way. One beamed. The other glowered.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t correct the assumption that she was romantically inclined toward the well-tailored magistrate without offering an alternate explanation. She only hoped that when Mr. Forrester did return midweek, Mr. Bothwick would leave them alone long enough for her to take the magistrate into her confidence.

Or run away, whichever was easier.

They strolled in silence for several long moments. She glanced over the magistrate’s shoulder again and started when she realized Mr. Bothwick had disappeared. She scanned the shore until she saw him. Close, but not too close. Skipping rocks into the sea. This was her chance.

“Mr. Forrester, there’s something I—”

“Out of earshot, is he?”

She blinked in surprise, then nodded. No sense pretending confusion as to whom he meant.

“Good.” The magistrate’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I need your help.”

“You need my—” She stared at him uncomprehendingly. That had been
her
line. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to keep an eye on Evan Bothwick.”

“You need me to what?”

“Oh, dear. I should have asked first if you find a bit of spying upon others morally reprehensible.” He tugged at his cravat worriedly. “And if so, would it change your mind if I assured you all actions were in the name of upholding the law for Mother England?”

Susan shot a suspicious glance at the dress shop but saw no more unfriendly faces. If Miss Grey and Miss Devonshire were watching, they were doing so from inside. Had they told the magistrate their Peeping Tom rumor after all? Was this all a grand joke being played on silly Susan Stanton? Perhaps there was no assembly at all. Just a farce to make a fool of her.

“Will you do it?” Mr. Forrester pressed.

“Why?” she returned with equanimity.

“Because”—for a split second, Susan almost thought he was making up his answer on the spot—“I’m investigating the ladies’ dressmaking business.”

Susan stared. Well, at least she knew this was no elaborate ploy to humiliate her, orchestrated by the two dressmakers. Her enemies were far too intelligent to come up with something this stupid.

“Investigating them for what? Uneven hems?”

“I’ve been told,” he said, his voice returning to a hushed whisper, “that they’ve been selling French silk. You are perhaps too genteel to pay attention to such minutiae, but trade with the French is illegal. If they are indeed doing so, I must discover where this silk is coming from. For that, I require your help.”

Well, the source was easy enough. French silk came from
France.
There, mystery solved.

“What does Mr. Bothwick have to do with anything? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep an eye on the dress shop?”

Mr. Forrester shook his head. “Too risky. The girls might catch on. How much business can one woman conceivably have in a dress shop?”

Clearly this man had never been to London. Or past primary school.

Susan had never heard such a ridiculous strategy in her life. To top it all off, his mystery wasn’t even a
mystery.
She was dealing with pirates, ghosts, murder, a mysterious jewelry box, and a helpless woman chained in the cellar, and he wanted to know where French silk came from?

“So,” she said, trying to rein in his imagination before it ran away with him, “following Mr. Bothwick makes sense because . . .”

“Because he might let something slip. Didn’t you hear them back there? He’s taking Miss Devonshire to the assembly. From what I’ve heard, a proposal will be forthcoming at any moment. I’m sure he knows every facet of her life. They’re quite serious.”

“They’re quite—” This time, anger, not lust, boiled Susan’s blood. She’d known Mr. Bothwick was a shameless rakehell flitting from flower to flower like an insatiable bee. He’d never pretended to be anything else. But to have kissed her—repeatedly!—when he was the next thing to married . . . No wonder he’d fled through the window when they’d almost been caught. And no wonder Miss Devonshire hated Susan so much!

She glared down the coast at Mr. Bothwick so hard it must’ve burned his flesh. He dropped the rock he’d been about to throw and turned toward her, puzzled. She maintained eye contact for just a second longer before jerking her gaze back to the magistrate.

Who, as it turned out, was a complete idiot scarcely capable of reasoning his way out of bed in the morning, if he thought such a stupid plan could possibly do any good. He would not be an ally against the giant after all. She’d have to try anyway, of course, but at this rate, she’d be lucky if Mr. Forrester and his questionable brainpower weren’t a liability. He couldn’t be counted on to help her or her cousin in any capacity more intricate than that of a hired hack.

Besides, who cared about French silk? It was illegal, but so was French brandy, and everyone in town drank the stuff by the bucketful. No wonder they were so open about it. Their local man of the law was a clueless ninnyhammer. Susan kicked at the sand in disgust.

Movement in the distance caught her eye. Mr. Bothwick was approaching. She had little time to finish the conversation in relative privacy.

“Mr. Forrester,” she said, “are you aware of the graves in the rock garden behind Moonseed Manor?”

He nodded. “Everyone is. One belongs to Lord Jean-Louis Beaune. And one belongs to his wife.”

So he did know. “Why is her gravestone unmarked?”

“Because the priest wouldn’t bless the burial. She’d committed suicide, as I recall.”

Susan wasn’t convinced that being locked up for thirty years and escaping your prison the only way you could, only to be shot dead by your husband as you lay there bleeding, exactly counted as suicide. Or that the gardens of Moonseed Manor constituted anything resembling hallowed ground. But she didn’t press the point. Mr. Bothwick was almost upon them. It was time to end the conversation.

After they turned back toward town, however, she realized Mr. Forrester’s explanation had been noticeably lacking.

“But what about the third one?”

The magistrate fell into step beside her, with Mr. Bothwick almost on his heels. “The third one what?”

She shivered at the memory of those blank marble slabs. “The third
grave.
”

Both men stopped in their tracks and stared at her.

“There’s a third one?”