Too Sinful to Deny (28 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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Dust. Spiderwebs. And Lady Beaune’s antique crucifix.
Susan lifted the latter by its thin golden chain. The necklace was in want of polish, but overall unbroken and in decent condition. The crucifix itself was as bejeweled and ornate as she remembered, if much heavier than expected. No wonder the ghost was always dropping it. Susan cleaned both cross and chain with the underside of her skirts and fastened the clasp around her neck. She fingered the intricate loops and whirls of the crucifix for a long moment before tucking it out of sight in her bodice.
“I will keep it with me always,” she whispered aloud, just in case cousin Emeline’s much-wronged mother could hear her. “It will be a symbol of my commitment to do whatever it takes to rescue your daughter.”
She stood. Perhaps she couldn’t legally take Lady Emeline from her husband . . . but she
could
do her damnedest to take the husband from cousin Emeline. The giant would torture his wife no more, once he swung from a noose for treason against the Crown. Susan just had to ensure that took place.
As she twisted open the handle to her bedchamber door, the magistrate’s cherubic face flashed into her mind. Perhaps Mr. Forrester would be of use after all. He’d single-handedly botched her prior escape attempt but, although Susan still felt him a cad for not having at least
tried
to intervene on Lady Emeline’s behalf, he was right when he said the law had not been on their side. In the case of piracy, however, it certainly was.
For the first time, Susan looked forward to the magistrate’s upcoming visit. In fact, she began to wonder if her suspicion that Mr. Forrester had never been interested in the origin of French silk had been correct all along. What if he suspected piracy afoot but had no means by which to prove it? Confirming a connection to smuggled silk could provide that link.
She, with her much-honed gossip skills, was the perfect person to undertake such a mission. In giving the magistrate firm evidence of smuggling, she would not only save her cousin (and herself), but also simultaneously set both Lady Beaune’s and Dead Mr. Bothwick’s minds—and spirits—to rest.
Within an hour, Susan had found her way out the door and into town. She stepped inside one establishment after another to settle her debts, hyper-aware she was showing her face for the first time since Evan had finally divested her of her virginity. She was now the common slut they believed her to be.
Mr. Bothwick, not Evan,
she corrected herself. They were not friends, had never been friends. And they would never again be lovers.
She ignored the pang in her heart and the acid twist in her stomach. Instead, she focused on charming the townsfolk, who seemed equally determined to remain uncharmed. Their antipathy reversed the moment she began spending her coins. Ah, the power of money. Until she began seeing ghosts, Susan had believed gold the last true magic remaining in the world.
She saved the tavern for last (and skipped the dress shop altogether—there were some cold hearts even gold could not warm) and over-tipped Sully. She bought the occupants a round for old times’ sake. Everyone but herself, rather. Now more than ever, she needed to keep a clear head.
As she’d done in the other establishments, she felt out the crowd for gossip pertaining to the dead Runner. And as before: nothing. No mention of blood or knife fights or strange corpses lying on the beach. Perhaps the Runner had yet to be discovered. Or perhaps, as Timothy had intimated, the killer had already collected the body.
She propped an elbow against the bar and considered her options. If the killer hadn’t returned and the Runner was still lying in the sand, perhaps she ought to “accidentally” stumble across him. She could start screaming.
Somebody
was bound to come running. Then the poor man could have a proper burial. She’d pay for it herself, if necessary.
The Runner wasn’t the only one who deserved to be properly recognized. Susan touched her palm to the heavy crucifix lying between her breasts. Lady Beaune deserved much more than a blank gravestone. Susan waved over the barman.
“Who carves headstones in town?”
If Sully found this question odd, he made no mention.
“Nobody,” he answered distractedly, more intent on inventorying his brandy than on focusing on Susan. “Got to order special for that. Bath, maybe. London if you fancy a nice one.”
London. Ever the crock of gold.
She thanked the barman and headed back outside in the direction of the Bow Street Runner. She’d order the finest gravestones London had to offer, the moment she arrived back in Town. She’d commission the calligraphy to read—
Gone. Good Lord.
Gone.
She turned in a slow circle, peering down both sides of the empty beach. No blood. No body. Had she walked too far or, perhaps, not far enough? No, impossible. There was the rowboat, still covered in dried seaweed. The waves had washed any tracks away and erased the last of the spilled blood.
Now what? Susan stared at the ocean, then the rowboat, then the wet sand where the Runner had lain the day before. Was this how Mr. Bothwick had felt when he couldn’t find his brother’s body? Helpless and frustrated and angry? He’d felt much worse, she imagined. He’d lost family. She bit her lip. Perhaps he’d had nothing to do with his brother’s death after all.
She squeezed her eyes shut and recognized this train of thought for what it was. An attempt to justify the unjustifiable. He was a pirate. Innocence of his brother’s murder, if that were indeed the case, did not make Mr. Bothwick an innocent man. He was not to be trusted. The fact that she
had
trusted him . . . Well, all that proved was that love made one stupid.
No. She’d only thought she was in love. A
tendre.
A passing fancy. That was the only explanation for seeking him out time and again, for throwing herself in his arms at the first sign of trouble, for willfully relinquishing her virginity. But it wasn’t real love. It couldn’t be. He was a pirate.
Besides, even if she was ninnyhammered enough to fall in love with an adventure-seeking criminal, it hardly signified. She’d been taught since birth that something so fleeting as a mere emotion should never become a decision-making factor in one’s life. One set goals for oneself, and one reached those goals through logic, determination, and a fair bit of planning.
Returning safely to London was her number-one goal, now more than ever. The fantasy of marrying an inattentive old title for his pocketbook and laissez-faire had paled significantly, now that she had a better idea of what she would have to endure to produce his heirs. No wonder Mother had always stood by the trope of closing one’s eyes and thinking of Mother England. Without passion, the act would lose all of its magic.
Not that she wished to worsen matters by indulging a stupid girlish fancy like being in
love
. Besides, it wasn’t as if the feeling was returned. Whether or not Mr. Bothwick had any plans to fulfill Miss Devonshire’s suspect matrimonial predictions, he had been clear from the start that any interest he showed in Susan—or any woman—was that of the carnal variety. She had known that. She had willfully exploited that fact to alleviate her own anxiety. And now she would have to live with the repercussions. Somewhere far, far away.
She inhaled deeply. The scent of the ocean and salty taste of the breeze reminded her it was perhaps best not to wander alone too far past town borders whilst a murderer still roamed free. She opened her eyes.
Mr. Bothwick was striding toward her. No one else was in sight.
Susan’s traitorous heart gave up on calming down. She told herself it was fear, not misplaced lovesickness. Luckily, he did not yet realize she knew the truth of his involvement with treason. She would have to act as if nothing had changed. She would have to act as if she . . . cared.
A distressingly easy charade.
“You ran from me.” A brief wince indicated this was not the statement he’d meant to open with.
“Good afternoon,” she answered inanely, her twisting hands incapable of portraying casual indifference.
Silence stretched between them.
He had changed clothes. He looked a perfect gentleman about to pay a call to a
ton
soiree, not a conscienceless rogue equally at home aboard a pirate ship. He brushed idly at his waistcoat. Probably to keep his hands close to his pistols.
If the situation were different, she might never have guessed the truth. Part of her longed for her previous innocence.
“Have you spoken to Timothy today?” he asked at last.
She hesitated before answering. Eventually, she decided to take the question at face value. It might be a non sequitur, but at least they weren’t discussing piracy or her wanton behavior in his bedroom. Speaking to spirits was reasonably safe ground. Susan wished his acceptance of her dubious talent didn’t bring such a strong sense of relief. She didn’t need his approval or his understanding. She didn’t need him at all.
“No,” she said aloud, and shook her head slightly. Where
was
Dead Mr. Bothwick? Had he borne witness to whomever had removed the Runner?
The still-living, still heart-stoppingly handsome Mr. Bothwick shifted his weight as if uncomfortable in his boots. He remained just outside of touching distance and turned his gaze to the sea.
“I wish he would’ve come to me.”
Harrumph. Of course he did. What pirate wouldn’t have wanted advance notice that his non-pirate brother was about to turn him over to the Crown for a hanging? But since she didn’t dare ask such a question, Susan hoped the cynicism didn’t show on her face.
She forced a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t ask for this ability, remember? The accident—”
“I mean before,” Mr. Bothwick interrupted, shifting his gaze from the sea to her face. “I wish Timothy would’ve come to me while he was still alive. I wish . . . I wish we could’ve
talked.
”
“Yes, well . . .” Susan faltered uncertainly. What could she possibly say in response to that? “Perhaps he had reason to keep his thoughts to himself.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bothwick’s brows lifted, his expression overly bland. “And is it your opinion that it’s fine to keep something like ‘investigating pirates’ a secret?”
“Yes,” she answered honestly. She certainly wouldn’t have told him, if she’d been Timothy. The man had still ended up dead. She imagined he would’ve been murdered all the quicker if he hadn’t kept his mouth shut.
“Would
you
keep secrets from me?” Mr. Bothwick asked, entirely too casually. “
Are
you, even now?”
She stepped back a half-step, caught herself, and forced her feet to stand ground. He knew nothing about the missing body. Nothing about her complicity in the Runner’s arrival or her further missives to their headquarters. He also had no reason to believe she knew a single thing about his involvement with pirates. She had to keep it that way. Stay calm. Look innocent and trusting.
“I—”
“What are you doing out here?” he interrupted. Something in his tone made her believe he’d waited for her delayed response just so he
could
interrupt. His fist rose slowly, face up, something small clutched inside. “Have you . . . lost something?”
Susan froze.
The glove. He must have found the glove. His questions had nothing to do with piracy and everything to do with the man who’d bled to death on the sand beneath her feet. Perhaps by Mr. Bothwick’s own hand.
He didn’t take his gaze from her face. She couldn’t tear hers from his closed fingers.
“I believe,” he drawled, “you may have dropped this.”
She couldn’t force her lungs to breathe.
He smiled and opened his hand.
Chapter 22
Susan stared at the object in Mr. Bothwick’s palm for far too long before it finally swam into focus.
“My hair comb.” Her voice was weak, a mere whisper. Her heart thundered.
He raised a brow. “Have you lost something else?”
She lifted her gaze to his too-innocent face.
So he
did
have the glove. He wanted her to know, but he wasn’t yet willing to show his cards. But why play mum? Because he was guilty of the crime? Or for some other heinous reason? Unfortunately, she could scarce ask questions without being required to answer some of her own. And he knew it.
“Thank you,” she said crisply.
She plucked the comb from his hand with still-trembling fingers and deposited it in her pocket, where it clinked against the knife and coins. After having paid out a considerable sum in the sundry shops, there was just enough room for the comb. She’d have to take care it didn’t fall from her pocket. As she was now convinced her cursed glove had done.
“My pleasure,” he responded, looking self-satisfied.
Insufferable blackguard. She’d let him feel like he had the upper hand for now. He wouldn’t be wearing his Cheshire grin when he and the rest of his pirate friends were led to the gallows.
As before, this thought brought a devilish cramp to her insides. And as before, she staunchly ignored said cramp. She hadn’t forced him to go about pillaging and plundering and whatever else pirates got up to. So she certainly wouldn’t feel guilty about him being caught. Particularly if he’d been personally involved in murder.
“How did you find me out here?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound suspicious. Or disillusioned.
He nodded at the overturned rowboat. “Find you? I was just about to take a turn about the ocean. Care to join me?”
Not on her life. “Perhaps another time.”
Possibly the day after hell froze over.
The dark sky was turning blacker by the minute. Apparently the recent rain had just been the beginning. Inclement weather aside, she’d have to be the veriest fool to go anywhere alone with him. Especially somewhere so prone to easily explainable “accidents” as the sea.
He inclined his head, but made no move toward the boat. Probably because he well knew to row in such conditions would be tantamount to asking the gods to strike him down. Then why bother with the bluff?
Deciding that trying to understand him would be the quickest path to madness, she turned her back without saying farewell. She headed toward Bournemouth proper with one hand pressed against her overstuffed pocket and the other cupped above her spectacles. The falling rain found her lenses anyway.
She made it almost to the town border before glancing back over her shoulder. Despite her blurred lenses, the overturned rowboat was just visible in the distance.
Mr. Bothwick was not. It was as if he’d been smudged from sight.
Discomfited, she turned back toward town and focused on returning to the dry warmth of her bedchamber before catching her death of cold.
After a change of clothes and a hot meal, the last of Susan’s energy drained from her exhausted body and she longed for nothing more than to go to bed. Unfortunately, someone was already in it. Hovering a few inches above the covers, rather.
Dead Mr. Bothwick.
“Good evening,” he said cautiously. Apparently her disposition showed on her face.
She declined to answer. The only thing good about the evening thus far was that it meant the day was finally over. Well, almost over. First she had to get rid of a ghost.
“The Runner is gone,” she informed him.
“I know.”
She
knew
he’d been watching!
“Who took the body?” she asked eagerly.
His face contorted in frustration. “I don’t know.”
“How don’t you know?” She stared at him with incredulity. “Weren’t you there?”
He shook his head. “I was watching over something more important.”
“What could be more important than a murdered Runner?”
“The box he came here to find.”
That cursed box. Susan’s tired hands fisted briefly at her sides. Hadn’t she risked her life enough for one day?
“You must take it tonight. We’re running out of time.
They’re
running out of time.” He floated away from the bed, toward the door. “And they know it.”
“How would—Oh. Right.”
Somebody
had recognized the Runner for what he was, and eliminated the immediate threat with a sharp blade to the ribs. The Runner’s presence at all, however, indicated that there were others who suspected, who knew of his visit, and would be coming to investigate and take permanent legal action against the pirates. They would not be content to sit and wait.
“No doubt the scarecrow did it,” she muttered angrily. She wouldn’t have been half surprised to see a shovel rising from the Runner’s chest instead of a mere knife.
“Who?” Dead Mr. Bothwick blinked, then laughed. “You think the butler did it? Unlikely. Murder is one of Ollie’s favorite treats. He would never delegate such a task to an underling.”
“Perhaps you don’t know him as well as I do,” Susan began, then paused. His statement had been off-the-cuff and perfectly matter-of-fact. Perhaps Dead Mr. Bothwick
did
know the giant’s mind much better than she. Which could only mean . . .
“You’re a pirate?” Incredulity was quickly replaced by a sense of betrayal. No wonder he’d been able to “investigate” the others. “You
are
a pirate!”
“Was,” he corrected reluctantly. “And I never enjoyed it.”
“Oh, as long as you didn’t enjoy it. That makes it all right.” She swiped at him angrily.
He flashed backward, out of arm’s reach. “I tried to do the right thing at the end, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms and added uncharitably, “I don’t see that you did much of anything.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick swirled above her head. “I gathered evidence, which I need for you to
please go retrieve.
Now, before they take the box somewhere inaccessible.”
She glared up at him. “Like where?”
“Like the ship! Like the bottom of the ocean! It doesn’t matter where, so long as we get it first.”
“Why wouldn’t they just destroy the evidence?”
“They can’t. It’s locked inside the jewelry box.”
“Why wouldn’t they just destroy the box?”
“They
can’t.
It’s forged from iron.” He floated through the door, then poked his head back in through the wood frame. “Listen to me. The strongbox is indestructible, not unsinkable, so if we could please move this conversation from your bedchamber to the dining room—”
“Why the dining room?”
He sighed dramatically. “If you would take your meals somewhere other than your room once in a while, perhaps you would have noticed the box in plain sight on the mantle.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “If you would take your head out of your arse once in a while, perhaps you would notice nobody in this house has offered to dine with me.”
“Miss Stanton, could we please—”
“I can’t believe you lied about being one of the pirates!” she burst out, equally angry at herself for not having guessed.
“If we must hash over the details, I was actually a smuggler, not a pirate.”
“What’s the difference?”
“We
paid
for the goods we took from France.”
“Paid, as in ‘giving aid or comfort to an enemy of the Sovereign,’ thereby committing high treason punishable by death?”
He paused. “Yes.”
“You thought your involvement wasn’t an important detail?”
“I
thought
you would go get the damn box instead of sitting around asking questions about it all day. They can hardly hang me, since I’m already dead. If you’re so concerned about crimes against the Sovereign, here’s your chance to make a difference to the living.”
“Fine. Lead the way.” Susan wrenched open the door and stalked into the corridor behind the ghost. At least the jewelry box was in a common area. If she got caught inside the dining room, she could say she was looking for biscuits and tea. If the giant didn’t kill her on sight.
She glared through the back of the ghost’s semitransparent head as they made their way down the darkened hallways. He hadn’t been honest with her. But then, would she have helped him if he’d introduced himself as a smuggler? She had to admit, he was nothing if not eager to correct his wrongs. Which meant not all pirates were irredeemable. This one, at least, had turned rogue and gone
good.
If only his brother had made a similar transformation.
“Evan would like to speak with you,” she blurted.
Dead Mr. Bothwick halted, then rematerialized facing her direction. “Regarding?”
“I know you said not to let him know we’d been speaking, but he deduced the truth on his own,” she said quickly, then hesitated. “He said he wished you had come to him . . . before. And that he wished you could come to him now.”
“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” He gave a casual shrug, but something in the ghost’s eyes hinted he was not as indifferent as he strove to appear.
“We could, you know,” she said slowly. “All three of us. It would be awkward, but possible. If you wanted to try.”
Well, presuming she got both men together in the same room fairly soon. Once she helped the ghost complete his mission, he’d disappear forever and the chance would be lost.
Dead Mr. Bothwick turned and continued through the maze of corridors without responding.
At least he hadn’t said no.
She hurried to catch up. “How did your proof get into the strongbox if you’re not the one who put it there?”
Dead Mr. Bothwick closed his semitransparent eyelids. “I was getting ready to secretly set sail. I knew if I were caught, I would be killed, and every inch of my property searched. I needed to entrust the evidence to someone who knew what was going on, yet could be depended upon not to breathe a word.”
She cast him a doubtful glance. “It could just be me, but a fellow pirate doesn’t seem—”
“Not
Ollie.
His wife.”
Susan stumbled. Lady Emeline had been helping?
“I knew about the jewelry box,” the ghost continued as he floated from one corridor to the next. “Everyone who’d ever been in the dining room had seen it on the mantle, open and empty. But since there was no key, it served no higher purpose than decoration. To me, it was my contingency plan. If I didn’t return by midnight, she was to shut the papers inside and hide the box until someone trustworthy came looking for answers.”
“And she did,” Susan marveled. “Cousin Emeline escaped the cellar, and—”
“No. To my shame, her assistance is why she’s now trapped
in
the cellar. She was the only one who could’ve taken the box and the cellar is her punishment for having done so. Ollie was furious.”
“He knows what’s inside?”
“He has a fair idea. Compounded by the fact that Lady Emeline isn’t stupid. She would never have crossed him without strong motivation.”
Such as seeing her evil husband drawn and quartered. Susan couldn’t blame her. She, too, would have done whatever it took to protect the proof from the pirates. Lady Emeline, like her mother, was willing to risk both life and freedom. Susan could not remain passive.
“Let’s get that box.” Squaring her shoulders, she marched past the ghost.
“Wait,” he murmured, hovering so close to an unassuming door that one of his arms was no longer visible. “I hear Ollie talking.”
“Good. That means he’s not in the dining room.” She waved him to follow. “This is our chance.”
“Shhh. I want to listen.” With that, he disappeared inside.
Spectacular. What was she to do now? Wait for him? Or fetch the box alone?
Sighing, Susan pressed her ear to the wall and decided to give the ghost thirty seconds before she left in search of the dining room.
“You shouldn’t be here,” sounded a deep voice. Dead Mr. Bothwick was right. That was definitely the giant.
“Don’t be so skittish,” came the calm rejoinder, the voice gentlemanly with a touch of country. Mr. Forrester?! “After that near-debacle with your houseguest, at least I have a story to spin. If she asks, I can always say I’ve called to check on your wife. I assume you’ve purchased thicker chains?”
Susan gasped, then belatedly clapped both hands over her gaping mouth.
“Watch what you say,” the giant growled. “The walls have ears.”
Trembling, she pushed away. She had heard enough. Whatever was going on between the giant and the magistrate, Mr. Forrester knew about Lady Emeline—had known the truth all along—and deliberately chose to do nothing. He was a hypocritical cad, at best. Another man not to be trusted. What else might he be turning a blind eye to?

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