Too Sinful to Deny (25 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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“Please pay attention.” His ghostly form rippled. “It is of utmost urgency that you hide that box somewhere neither Ollie nor his servants will ever find it.”
“Why? What’s in it?”
He flashed her a look of pure exasperation. “It doesn’t matter what’s in it!”
“Why should I risk my life for something that doesn’t matter?” she asked in her most reasonable tone, knowing the twisted logic would drive him mad. He deserved some consternation. His half-truths and dangerous missions were more than she could handle right now. She stormed forward.
All Red had wanted was for her to pass a simple message, and look where that had gotten her. That business in the rock garden? She was lucky the still-living Mr. Bothwick had intercepted her. If the giant and the scarecrow had found her trespassing . . .
Susan shivered. She didn’t want to imagine the lengths to which they might have retaliated. She didn’t want to go back to Moonseed Manor at all.
Ignoring Dead Mr. Bothwick, she stood at the base of the path and glanced around the town. Nobody had come out to stone her today. Nor were there balloons and a parade. Instead, she was studiously ignored, as she had been the last time she dared show her face. A stupid woman, for not accepting Mr. Bothwick’s supposed proposal. A fallen woman, for having kissed him passionately.
A madwoman, for talking to ghosts. But at least she’d kept that much to herself.
“What do you think?” Dead Mr. Bothwick had apparently concluded his monologue. “Will you do it?”
“No,” she replied without bothering to ask for a summary of the speech she’d blessedly fallen deaf to. “I won’t. What I need to do is find a friend. Preferably a living one. Someone I could ‘visit’ until next weekend, when the magistrate comes to take me to Bath.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick stared at her doubtfully. “A friend? Nobody in town likes you.”
“Thank you,” she said icily. “I hadn’t noticed.”
They stared at the dilapidated buildings in awkward silence.
“Your brother likes me well enough.” Susan bit her tongue as soon as the words were out. She’d meant to trivialize that fact, not draw further attention to their relationship. Whatever their relationship was.
Suspicion returned to Dead Mr. Bothwick’s face. “Don’t trust him.”
She rolled her eyes and stomped away from him, away from town. He didn’t immediately follow, but kept watch from a distance. She ignored him, choosing to focus on the sea stretching before her. She continued down the beach, as wary of its savage beauty as of the black clouds threatening the horizon.
The dark water looked like she felt. Restless. Turbulent. Uncertain. The incoming waves crashed ashore, then retreated just as quickly, as if ashamed of crossing an invisible line in the sand. But seconds later, the pressure would build, and the dark froth would tumble inland before scrambling once again to the sea. Susan glanced down. The tips of her boots were wet. Had the indecisive ocean sneaked too far ashore, or had she been the one to throw caution to the wind? Either way, she ought to start minding her steps.
Of course she didn’t trust Mr. Bothwick. Worse, she couldn’t trust herself when she was around him. Asking him to shelter her for the night would be tantamount to agreeing to let him deflower her. That’s what the already-disapproving townsfolk would think, anyway. She did
not
need anyone carrying rumors to Bath. Not when her familial connections still seemed a strong enough motivator for the giant to keep her alive. If barely.
What she did need was a female friend. Someone respectable. With a clean guest room.
Susan couldn’t think of a single soul matching that description. She cast a despairing glance over her shoulder at the distant town and then returned her gaze to the sea. She’d gladly lower her standards to a common inn, if only there were one to be had. Well, and if she had money. The arrival of which was looking less and less likely by the hour.
Almost time for the assembly,
she reminded herself. Once she made it to Bath, the Stanton name would get her back home. Five days of purgatory, then freedom for her and a rescue for cousin Emeline. Susan could survive five more days. She had no other choice.
She backed up until she reached the line where wet sand met dry. She turned and headed in the direction of Mr. Bothwick’s boat. Not because she was going to touch the thing, of course. Once was enough. But she could feel the weight of the villagers’ stares burning into her back. She had to get out of the townsfolk’s collective eye before their judging glances and general air of virtuous superiority made her nauseous.
Perhaps Dead Mr. Bothwick still floated somewhere around her and perhaps he didn’t. She didn’t know and didn’t care. Because she saw a familiar face up ahead. The open, honest face of the charming Bow Street Runner from Lady Wipplegate’s dinner party. Yet Susan’s leaden feet were anchored to the sand.
The good news: Janey was somehow secretly posting Susan’s letters to Town after all. Otherwise, the handsome Runner would not have come to rescue her before more disaster struck.
The bad news: He was dead.
Chapter 18
Despite being encased in long gloves, Susan’s fingers were ice-cold.
She edged closer. He lay in the sand, one arm flung out toward the sea, the other crossed over his chest as if he’d died attempting to staunch the still-seeping flow of blood from the knife protruding from his chest.
She forced her feet to approach the dead man. Prepared herself for the sight of the Bow Street Runner rising from his body in spirit form to castigate her for sending him on this death mission.
No such ghost appeared.
Wait . . . he was still bleeding? Perhaps he was alive! Filled with a mixture of hope and horror, she dropped to her knees beside him. She laid her gloved hand over his pale, ungloved one and pressed her ear to his parted lips. No. He was irrevocably dead.
He had come to save her, and she was too late to save
him.
She sat back on her heels and tried to think what to do. The magistrate wouldn’t be back until midweek sometime. And the killer . . . Susan leapt to her feet, breath hitching. The killer was still here. Somewhere.
“Murder,” came a faint male voice at her shoulder.
She bit back a shriek and spun around. Dead Mr. Bothwick. Just what she needed to make a bad situation worse.
“Go away.” She swiped at him and missed.
He floated above the body to peer into the Runner’s face. “I don’t recognize him.”
“I should think not. He’s from Town.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick cast her a withering glance. “You aren’t the only one who’s ever been to London. Who is this chap, then, Miss Society? An ex-paramour?”
Susan’s teeth clenched. “If you must know, he’s a Bow Street Runner.”
“Was,” Dead Mr. Bothwick corrected drolly. “Whoever he was.”
“Insufferable plebian,” she muttered, irritated at herself for allowing him to goad her. “Have some respect. Can’t you see he’s dead?” She dropped back to her knees. “I never dreamed . . .”
Dead Mr. Bothwick dropped to face level, frowning at her curiously. “You mean . . . he truly is a Runner?”
She glared at him. “That’s what I said.”
“Quick! Search his pockets!”
“Why?”
“To see why he’s here, of course. We need clues.”
“I know why he’s here.” Shame clawed at her stomach. “I summoned him.”
“You
summoned
him?”
She stared guiltily at the lifeless form and nodded. “For all the good it did either of us.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick hovered over the corpse. “Search his pockets anyway.”
“There aren’t any clues to find,” she burst out in frustration. “My letter was purposefully vague. I meant to explain everything once he arrived.”
“Explain everything about what?”
“A family matter.”
“Now you
have
to search his pockets.”
She tried to ignore him, but her cursed curiosity won out. “Why?”
Dead Mr. Bothwick stared at her. “I can’t speak to how special you are back in London, Miss Stanton, but do you really think a Runner would come all the way to Bournemouth after receiving a ‘vague’ note from a young girl with ‘family matters’?”
Susan matched his stare. Put that way . . . No. It didn’t seem likely. In fact, after the experiences of the past week, the Runner would’ve been of little help with regard to the imprisoned Lady Emeline even if he had witnessed the wretchedness of the situation firsthand.
Then why
was
he here?
She cast a considering glance at the ghost fluttering on the other side of the body. How many people knew that Dead Mr. Bothwick was no longer among the living? His brother, for one. And her. But she’d heard no other mention. Was the Runner investigating the ghost’s murder? Or Red’s? Perhaps the Runner’s visit had nothing to do with murder at all. (Until his own, of course.) Perhaps he wasn’t investigating some
one,
but some
ones.
Her mind flashed back to the coin she’d found in Dead Mr. Bothwick’s living room.
Pirates.
She returned her gaze to the prone lawman without speaking her thoughts aloud. She didn’t know how involved Dead Mr. Bothwick might be with whatever schemes were afoot. But he was right about one thing: She needed to know more. She touched the blood-soaked waistcoat, then yanked her gloved hand back as if his chest were made of hot coals.
“What happened?” Dead Mr. Bothwick jerked backward. “What is it?”
“I . . .” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“He’s
dead.
”
“That’s right,” the ghost agreed, his tone harsh. “Because someone killed him. Possibly in a fit of rage. People in the midst of a rage are not in their best form. They forget things, like removing evidence from dead bodies. But when they calm down, they remember, and they come back. Often to remove the body itself. Do you want to be here when that happens?”
Susan started. Dead Mr. Bothwick was no doubt an expert on that particular situation. “I don’t want to be here at all, if you’re saying the madman could return at any moment and kill me, too.”
He shimmered in repressed fury. “For God’s sake, woman, just—”
“Fine!”
Susan held her breath and plunged her shaking hand into the Runner’s wet pockets. A ruined handkerchief, assorted candies, a few coins. She hesitated. Could she steal from a dead man? A sovereign or two meant nothing to him now. She wavered, then shoved the coins back into his pocket. No. She hadn’t sunk that low. She was five days from Bath anyway, and it wasn’t as if she could hire a hack to get her there any faster.
At last, her trembling fingers brushed against a damp scrap of folded parchment. She tugged it slowly forth, half expecting to find a treasure map or a pirate’s likeness sketched in ink.
Instead, she unwrapped her own missive.
“What is it?” Dead Mr. Bothwick demanded. “What does it say?”
“It says,” she replied, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice, “‘Dear Sir. I’m dreadfully sorry to address you thusly, but although I have misremembered your name, I have not forgotten your Intelligence and your Kindness, and I therefore must make a desperate plea for your immediate assistance regarding Important Matters of Extreme Urgency—’”
“Your letter.” Bizarrely, Dead Mr. Bothwick’s disappointment seemed to eclipse her own.
She nodded and began to refold the bloodstained missive. “We have now proved he did come to Bournemouth on my behalf. I told you I was important back in . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought.
The ghost hovered closer. “What? What is it?”
She stared. There, half-hidden in a crease on the reverse side of the paper, was a hurried note jotted by a male hand. (Women, and Susan specifically, had far superior penmanship.)
“There’s something written on the back,” she admitted. Dead Mr. Bothwick exploded—literally—in excitement, then rematerialized at her side. She pointed at a faint smudge. “See? Right there. It says, ‘T.B. has proof.’”
“They came for me,” he breathed.
She could swear the ghostly whisper slid across her cheek. “You’re ‘T.B.’?”
He nodded slowly, his form rippling. “You’re not the only one who summoned Runners. Perhaps it’s not too late after all.”
“For whom, exactly?” She gestured with the folded missive. “You’re dead. He’s dead. Both villains have escaped.”
“I’m not sure there are two villains.” He stared at the corpse lying in the sand. “And yes, this state of reduced animation is highly limiting, but that note proves I’m being taken seriously. The Runner came to check my facts. Someone will become suspicious of his continued absence. We need to be ready. We need that jewelry box.”
Enough with the impossible mission. “Why do we need the stupid jewelry box?”
Dead Mr. Bothwick’s pointed a translucent finger. “Read the paper again, Miss Stanton. ‘T.B. has
proof.
’”
“Proof of what?” The answer flashed and she blurted the word without thinking. “Pirates?”
The ghost stared at her for a long moment before he responded quietly. “You’d be wise not to speak that word aloud.”
She gulped. “Then it’s true?”
He inclined his head.
In that case, they did need all the evidence they could get. She tried to think of a way to steal the box without the giant noticing its absence or suspecting the theft. She failed. “Why put the proof in a jewelry box, of all things? Was it a hide-in-plain-sight trick?”
He sighed. “As you might suspect, my contingency plan went grossly awry. I never intended the jewelry box to be buried in the rock garden, but at least its contents were safe. For a while. Now they’re not. You
must
get that box away from Ollie before he finds a way to open it.”
Susan blinked as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “Because he’s a. . .”
This time she didn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes.” A flicker of worry crossed the ghost’s face. “And you can’t trust anyone.”
Her brain roared louder than the sea.
What chance did she have against
pirates?
Outwitting the giant had already proven impossible. Now that she knew the extent of his crimes, finding herself chained to the cellar might well be the least of her concerns. She’d be just as likely to walk the plank. Or wind up on the beach with a knife sticking out of her chest. Or—
She glanced up. “How did you die?”
“Shot between the eyes.”
Spectacular. Her lenses weren’t thick enough to deflect bullets, that much was certain. She could scarce help the ghost shimmering beside her. She couldn’t even manage to help herself.
No matter what Dead Mr. Bothwick thought, that had been
her
letter in the Runner’s inside pocket. Perhaps they’d also been looking into claims of piracy. Hard to say. But this Runner, this man lying dead in the sand, was murdered because of a letter she had written requesting his aid. Susan shuddered. She now had blood on her hands.
She glanced down in her lap and choked back a sob when she saw the state of her gloves. She
did
have blood on her hands. The white silk was soaked with crimson. Susan struggled to her feet. She, in a fit of self-importance, had summoned an innocent Runner to his death. Compounding matters, she’d rifled through his corpse. And was now loitering about covered in blood, as if just waiting for the villain to return, when it was obvious she was no match for the situation at all—
She ran.
“Wait!” Dead Mr. Bothwick stayed glued to her side. “Where are you going now?”
She swiped at him with a scarlet hand.
Direct hit. He disappeared from sight.
She pulled off the wet gloves. Should she throw them into the ocean? No. They’d only wash ashore and she had no wish to explain their appearance. She’d burn them to ash in her bedchamber. Susan shoved the sticky gloves into her inner pocket, next to the ivory-handled knife. Now she knew she could never use the blade. She couldn’t stand to touch blood. Get it off. Get it off
now.
She ran to the water’s edge and washed the crimson from her fingers in the frigid ocean. As she rose to her feet at last, she dried her trembling fingers on her skirts. No more blood. But she didn’t feel clean. The Runner . . . Susan started to run again, then slowed.
Where was she going?
She needed a friend. She needed a living, breathing person, someone to hold her and comfort her and make her forget, if only for a moment, what a complete and utter mess she’d made of her life—and the lives of others. Someone who might be able to help. She needed . . . Mr. Bothwick.
It was a sign from the heavens that she managed to find his house without becoming hopelessly lost on the way there. In a further stroke of luck, Mr. Bothwick wasn’t merely at home. He answered the door himself.
And pulled her inside.

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