Too Sinful to Deny (30 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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Besides, this might be her only chance. Susan’s cold fingers closed around the gold chain hanging about her neck and tugged the antique crucifix from beneath her bodice. She held the cross tight in her hands, pressed it to her chest. She
would
get that strongbox. The smugglers would be captured, Lady Emeline would be freed, and the spirits of both Lady Beaune and Dead Mr. Bothwick would finally be at peace. It was all up to her. She had to succeed.
Her already-slow steps slowed even further when she heard distant noises up ahead. Footsteps cracked across fallen twigs. Mr. Bothwick? Perhaps she’d found her way to the stables after all!
She crept as close as she dared before peering through the trees, then recoiled in shock.
Chapter 23
Not the stables. The chicken shed. Not Mr. Bothwick, but Mr. Forrester. With a lantern half-hidden beneath his greatcoat. By all appearances, the magistrate had only just emerged from the selfsame path on which she still stood. Good Lord. Susan gripped the closest tree for support and tried to remain dead silent.
She almost failed to breathe when she saw the person he’d come to meet.
Dinah Devonshire.
Surely they didn’t intend to rendezvous in the chicken shed! Susan had been so certain Miss Devonshire would die before stepping foot inside the dirty little hut. Then again, Susan would’ve thought the same about Mr. Forrester just a few hours prior. But the man she’d considered good-intentioned but naive had turned out to be the opposite on both counts. Perhaps Miss Devonshire, too, was not the hollow-headed doll she appeared to be.
“Go.” Miss Devonshire waved him back, casting furtive glances over her small, round shoulders. “We’ll meet another night.”
The magistrate did not halt his approach. “No. I need to speak with you.”
“It’s unsafe,” she insisted, but preened as if delighted to discover her charming company held more sway than whatever danger lurked outside the little shed.
“Unsafe how?” Mr. Forrester gestured at the lone cow, asleep where it stood. “The animals are the only ones listening.”
Miss Devonshire touched his arm, blinked up at him with huge eyes. “But Miss Stanton saw us here last time. What if she comes back?”
“She cannot. I had Ollie Hamilton’s manservant lock her chamber door.”
Susan resisted the urge to bash her head against the closest tree. Not only had she gotten utterly lost en route to Mr. Bothwick’s stables, she wouldn’t be able to reenter her own bedchamber when she returned to Moonseed Manor. Assuming she could retrace her steps at all.
“You . . .” Miss Devonshire’s voice wobbled. Dark lines creased her beautiful forehead, as if she just realized her tattle might’ve engendered consequences more serious than she’d anticipated. Her fingers no longer grazed the magistrate’s arm, nor were her wide eyes focused flirtatiously on his face. Her hands were now twisting together beneath her bosom. “I don’t think she means ill. She’s simply too . . .
curious.
”
“Don’t worry.” The magistrate gave a kick to the hind leg of the sleeping cow. The animal jerked awake and lumbered away. Susan clutched the tree and fumed.
Miss Devonshire’s shocked gasp did not earn the slightest flicker of acknowledgment from the magistrate.
“I’ll take care of Miss Stanton’s curiosity.” Mr. Forrester’s cherubic smile looked more demonic than angelic.
Susan hoped she was overestimating the level of finality in his tone.
Miss Devonshire recoiled from the magistrate. However, the scant inches between her shoulders and the shed did not allow for much distance, and her shoulders banged against the closed door. She cast about nervous glances again at the unexpected noise, but this time her eyes hinted she more than half-hoped someone
would
overhear.
“I need the money you owe me.” Mr. Forrester’s bald statement neatly changed topic without affording Miss Devonshire the opportunity to ask further questions about Susan’s fate.
Miss Devonshire frowned, her nervous fingers clenching together. “How much?”
His expression was ruthless. “All of it.”
Her jaw dropped. “But I haven’t sold even a third! I’d been hoping Miss Stanton would spend some of her city money. She flashed coin today in every shop but mine. Perhaps when the next shipment comes in, things will be different. Didn’t you say you might procure new fashion plates for me? With the right look as incentive, the local ladies will—”
“There will be no more shipments.”
“What?” Miss Devonshire’s voice rose a few notches higher. “But the French imports are the only reason
anybody
comes to the shop. If you stop providing them, Harriet and I will be destitute in a matter of weeks!”
“I hardly care,” the magistrate replied coldly, “about you or Miss Grey. I expect you to pay your debts by midnight tomorrow.”
“That would take every penny we own! Most of which we’ve been saving for months, and some of which wasn’t even earned on silks.” She sagged against the wall of the shed, then gazed up at him with desperate eyes. “I could return the fabric. . . .”
“I don’t want
fabric,
” Mr. Forrester spat, “or pathetic excuses. I want money.”
“But—”
“Midnight, Miss Devonshire. And not a moment later.”
Head spinning, Susan tightened her grip around the tree she used as cover. She’d suspected the magistrate’s French silk mystery was a sham, but she’d never have guessed he acted as intermediary between the pirates and the purchasers. What a perfect scheme the lot had devised! She touched the crucifix hanging from her throat and swore Mr. Forrester’s little blond ringlets would be the first to flutter in the wind.
Miss Devonshire’s porcelain face looked ready to crack. “Where will—”
“Don’t worry about me.” His malicious smile didn’t mask the underlying threat. “No matter where you are, I’ll find you.”
He turned and cut around the shed toward a (blessedly) different path leading God-knew-where. At least he wasn’t returning to Moonseed Manor tonight.
“Wait,” Miss Devonshire called out.
Mr. Forrester glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in cold condescension.
She swallowed visibly. “W-what are your plans for Miss Stanton?”
“Why, Miss Devonshire. You know my plans. I’m taking her to the assembly.” He widened his eyes in a parody of his hapless-magistrate act. “Assuming she survives the long journey, that is. Country roads can be so treacherous. Especially with these cliffs. If one doesn’t have the door latched just so, it would be easy to tumble right out of the carriage and fall to one’s death on the rocks below. I shudder to think how I would ever get over such a loss.” His cherubic smile returned, be-dimpled and perfidious.
Susan’s stomach dropped. There went the last of her hopes for escape.
“What the deuce do you think you’re doing?”
Susan jerked upright as the masculine voice invaded her restless dreams. She squinted in confusion as light streamed through the face of her visitor. She shook the bits of dried leaves and tree bark from her hair and fumbled for her spectacles.
Dead Mr. Bothwick hovered between her sleep-creased face and the morning sun. He made a poor parasol, but was overall a welcome sight.
“I fell asleep.”
He stared at her dubiously. “Against a tree?”
“So it would seem.” She pulled herself to her feet and wondered if it were safe to step outside the path.
“I’ve been looking for you all night. You took the strongbox, I assume. Did you hide it already? Why didn’t you come back?”
She shook her head. No box. And she didn’t want to admit that in her attempt to find her way back to Moonseed Manor, she’d somehow ended up outside the still-living Mr. Bothwick’s stables completely by accident. Mr. Bothwick’s extremely busy, bustling, overcrowded stables. There had been no chance of approaching unnoticed. She’d stayed hidden in the surrounding woods and sat with her back to a tree to wait.
She might’ve overdone the waiting.
“Your brother has the jewelry box,” she explained. She shook out her skirts, averting her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Dead Mr. Bothwick’s reaction to that bit of news. “I tried to detain him, but he had a pistol.”
“My brother pointed a weapon at a woman?” the ghost asked doubtfully.
“To be fair,” she admitted, “I threatened him with a knife.”
She’d even been prepared to use it. Until he’d flashed a pistol. That’s when she’d realized some things could hurt worse than bullets. Like discovering the man she loved would rather end her life than help her to fix it. Susan forced the memory to the back of her mind.
When she lifted her head, Dead Mr. Bothwick was staring at her as if she’d grown an extra eye.
“I meant to steal the jewelry box back, but when I finally arrived at the stables, servants were everywhere. Loading carriages. Why does a country man need multiple carriages?” She tried to clean the lenses of her spectacles but only succeeded in smearing them further. “I think he’s going to leave. For good.”
“Not with my evidence, he isn’t. Did you see what happened to the box?”
“No. But I did see the magistrate discussing smuggled goods with Miss Devonshire as if extorting payment for illegally obtained fabric was an everyday occurrence.” She started walking in what she hoped was the direction of Mr. Bothwick’s house, then paused to glance at the ghost. “Er . . . is it this way?”
He nodded absently and flashed ahead of her.
She quashed her joy at having actually chosen the correct trail and hurried after him. “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Forrester was involved?”
“Because I didn’t know,” Dead Mr. Bothwick answered grimly. “Until last night when I heard him talking to Ollie. That’s why I had to watch and listen. Forrester wanted to see what Ollie had dug up from the gravesite. Ollie claimed it was nothing, a box of fripperies Lady Emeline had hidden. But Forrester didn’t believe him. He suspects the end of his game is nigh. He’s frightened, and there’s nothing deadlier than a man backed into a corner.”
Susan shuddered. She’d overheard more than enough about the magistrate’s penchant for convenient “accidents.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick floated down a fork in the path. “They went to the dining room to fetch the strongbox, but it was gone.” Dead Mr. Bothwick bobbed in place. “I’ve been looking for you ever since.”
“How did the magistrate get involved in piracy?”
“How would I know?” The ghost darted forward amongst the trees. “I can’t ask many questions these days. But since Ollie’s been with the captain longer than he’s been with Lady Emeline, I’d have to assume the smuggling crew has been together since long before Forrester weaseled his way into the plot. He’s always been one to manipulate others for his own profit. The sort who scored good marks at university by any means other than academic effort. Some people mistook him as stupid. I never made that mistake.”
Susan hurried to catch up. “You knew him before he became magistrate?”
“I’ve known him since Eton. My brother had already completed his levels but Forrester and I were of an age.”
“You went to
Eton?
”
“Head boy every year, I might add.”
Susan narrowed her eyes at him. “Where exactly did you say you were from before you moved to Bournemouth?”
“I didn’t.” He floated ahead. “But if you’re curious, London. Although I suspect Evan has always preferred his cottage in Bath.”
“He has a cottage in—did you just say
London?
”
“His cottage is in Bath, the town house is in London. He always kept a room for my use whenever I was in Town because I spent most of my time on Father’s estate in Surrey.”
Mr. Bothwick’s current lodgings were finally in sight, but Susan couldn’t take another step. She stumbled against the closest tree.
Vertigo assailed her from each of the ghost’s carelessly thrown words. No wonder Dead Mr. Bothwick had seemed offended and disdainful when she’d presumed superiority for being a member of Society. He had moved in those same circles.
And no wonder the still-living Mr. Bothwick had so many times evoked the image of a Society gentleman as easily at home in Almack’s or Jackson’s as racing along Hyde Park or playing whist at a dinner soiree. He
was
such a gentleman, had likely done all those things and more when not taking holiday elsewhere. A cottage in Bath. An estate in Surrey. And she’d had no idea.
She had gone to him, made love to him, because she’d believed that despite his many and varied flaws, she had fallen hard for the goodness he possessed deep inside. And now, to her utter humiliation, she discovered she’d as much as given herself to a ghost, for all the substance between them.
“Enough tittle-tattle.” Dead Mr. Bothwick bobbed across the sandy soil, floating away from the footpath in the direction of his brother’s house. “Let’s fetch that strongbox.”
Susan trudged along behind him. At least Mr. Bothwick had not patronized her with romantic lies. Had he spoken words of love, and had she foolishly permitted herself to believe such fancies . . . Susan doubted her broken heart would ever have healed. Particularly when she’d discovered he planned on leaving and hadn’t bothered with so much as a good-bye. Unless she counted the pistol he’d pointed at her chest.
Dead Mr. Bothwick glanced back at her over his semitransparent shoulder, his ghostly face lined with impatience. This was a man who had died for his strong faith in right and wrong. She had been less than exemplary. This was her chance to prove her character and set things to rights.
“Ready?” He motioned her forward. “If his carriages are full, we haven’t much time.”

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