Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  He turned his head just enough to place his lips against the soft curve of Miss Stanton’s forehead. Her skin was cold. Darkness had fallen, and the ocean breeze whipped the air into a wintry frenzy.

  “Time to get you home.”

  “It is not my home,” she responded, but the words were without their usual bite. It was as if they left her lips automatically, as if she thought them so often they ached to burst free. “It will never be my home.”

  Evan told himself he was grateful for the reminder, despite the unwelcome clench to his stomach upon hearing those repeated words. Keeping her hand in his, Evan guided her toward the path leading back toward Moonseed Manor. She was right. Bournemouth was not her home. Would never be her home.

  In the future, he would be wise to keep his head from the clouds.

  Chapter 24

  Evan waited until half past midnight before selecting a pick and a shovel and slipping through the night into the shadows behind Moonseed Manor. Under normal circumstances, he might be of the mind that he had no business—or interest—in discovering the identity of whatever corpses might lay in his friend’s garden. But these were not normal circumstances.

  Evan’s brother was dead. And missing. He had to find him.

  He also had someone on his tail. No. Not on his tail. He hadn’t been detected. But someone else crept through the shadows in a slow, sure crawl, intent on their final destination. No doubt the same destination. The footfalls grew closer. Louder.

  Louder? Evan paused, frowned. These footfalls were doing anything but creeping. They were stomping about noisily, as if the owner thought he had every right to be digging up corpses in the moonless night.

  Or she. A hint of yellow flashed in the distance.

  His eyes narrowed. He resumed his approach with the same amount of caution, but a significantly higher amount of ire. If that incomprehensible woman had tried to cover up the truth simply because it seemed a lark to sneak about desecrating graves while on holiday, he had a few choice words to say about the matter.

  He burst through the trees—and froze.

  Not Miss Stanton. Not a lady at all. Two men, far too intent on their murmured conversation to have registered the leaves rustling angrily at Evan’s approach. The flash of yellow belonged to the strawlike shock of hair atop the head of Ollie’s rat-eyed butler. The hulking form at the butler’s side belonged to none other than Ollie himself.

  Both carried shovels. But why? Evan tried and failed to piece together the mismatched evidence before his eyes. These were the only two people who hadn’t witnessed the earlier misadventure along the shore, much less been close enough to overhear the conversation’s content.

  Miss Stanton had clearly been less than eager to make her discovery known, once she’d discovered it was a discovery. Forrester had left for Wherevershire moments later, so it wasn’t as if the brainless magistrate might have gabbed the third grave’s existence to Ollie or his lapdog. So how had they known?

  A disturbance in the nearby bushes caused Evan to flatten against the side of the Manor. Another flash of blonde. Also manly.

  So much for the theory that Forrester had left town.

  And, by the way he was creeping forward, careful not to step on twigs or dislodge rocks that might advertise his approach—Forrester was about to be just as surprised as Evan had been that they weren’t the first to arrive for tea in the graveyard.

  The magistrate’s sudden stop and muttered curse brought a smile to Evan’s face. Ha. Thought so. But Evan remained flattened against Moonseed Manor all the same. This was definitely a night where watching from the shadows might be the better part of valor.

  Forrester, it seemed, had the same plan. He neither slunk back into the night nor rushed forward to make some numbskulled arrest citing illegal gardening on one’s own property. He stood stock-still, shovel in hand, eyes on the gravesite.

  “I told you.” The butler’s scratchy voice was as low and sinister as wind through autumn leaves. “If it were out here, I would’ve found it. I’ve dug up every square inch that wasn’t covered by rock. See for yourself.”

  A wet sputter, as his hand moved away from the single candle far enough for the cold breeze to lick at the flame.

  Ollie turned away, ignoring the proffered candle, and lumbered through the garden. The butler followed with the flickering candle, spreading more shadow than light. But Evan saw more than enough.

  Every inch of the garden had been overturned. Recently. But why? There couldn’t be that many wayward bodies beneath its surface. The soil was too sandy for Ollie to have decided to try his hand at potato farming in a fit of domestic madness. Unless he’d been drunk. Overgrown oaf was well known for making bad decisions after too much whiskey.

  Suddenly Ollie stopped. Pointed.

  “I said I dug everywhere not covered by rock, didn’t I?” The servant’s voice managed to sound peevish despite his feral rasp. “What was I to do, dig up graves?”

  Hmm. Further proof that, coincidental as it might seem, they weren’t all skulking about the grounds for the same reason after all. Evan bit back a frustrated sigh. The thought had reminded him of his brother. Timothy had never believed in coincidences.

  “Yes... if they’re not really graves,” Ollie answered cryptically, motioning his butler forward. “What do you see there?”

  His lapdog paused, shuffled closer, shrugged. “Graves?”

  “Gravestones,” Ollie corrected softly. “Which are not at all the same things.”

  “This is a gravesite,” the butler muttered. “Of course there are gravestones.”

  “And there should be two graves.” Ollie jerked the shovel from his lapdog’s limp grip. “Not three.”

  They hadn’t known!

  Evan looked over at Forrester to see if he was as surprised at this revelation as Evan was, and was startled to discover the magistrate had disappeared. Evan glanced around uneasily. Had he gone for good? Or had he hidden himself better this time, and was even now watching Evan from the shadows? Evan held his breath and waited.

  Crunch.

  Silence.

  Then, “Was that a bone?”

  “All the bones in this cemetery are inside caskets, you nancy.” Ollie dropped to his knees. “I think I found it. Help me dig.”

  Metal into dirt. Wet soil splattering against rock. Miniature avalanches of tiny pebbles.

  The butler’s shocked gasp. “You were right!”

  “Help me get it out of here.” The shovels dropped to the earth. “We’ve got to hide it from her.”

  They had to hide it? What the hell was their prize doing buried in the rock garden beneath an unmarked gravestone, if not being well hidden? And from whom? Miss Stanton?

  Evan struggled to peer through the darkness at what looked like an ornate gilded box not much bigger than the plain wooden one the captain used to keep his snuff dry while out at sea. A similar-looking bejeweled box graced Ollie’s dining room mantle. Or was it the same one?

  A crackle off in the darkness reminded Evan of Forrester. And his own presence. Evan was obviously not meant to know about the events transpiring before his eyes. But why?

  True, the gold-filigreed box hadn’t been about to remain hidden for much longer. But Ollie obviously hadn’t known that. So what had tipped him off? Why would anyone want to bury a jewelry box in the first place? And for God’s sake, where the hell was Timothy’s body? Evan’s muscles bunched in frustration. Then his nostrils flared.

  He smelled her, in the wind. Jasmine. Coming closer.

  Leaving his tools on the ground where they were, he slipped from his position against the wall and followed the scent, hoping to intercept her before she made a telltale sound. Or worse, stumbled into direct view.

  She gasped when his hand clamped over her mouth. He pulled her backward, into his arms, into the shadows. Now was not the time to explain his presence. Nor was it the time to demand what she was doing there. In her nightgown. With Timothy’s shovel.

/>   Those questions would come later.

  “It’s not safe,” he murmured into her ear, his mouth brushing against the softness of her hair, the smoothness of her cheek. He plucked the shovel from her hands and rested the scarred wooden handle against the gate. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

  She sagged against his chest. Nodded.

  He knew better than to trust that nod, but what choice did he have? He lifted his hand from her lips.

  Her mouth opened. But before she could speak whatever ill-advised argument she’d been about to make, her teeth clicked shut. She’d heard it, too.

  Footsteps. Coming their way. There was nowhere to hide.

  “When I let go,” he whispered, gripping her by the shoulders, “I want you to run back to your room as fast as you can. Lock your door. And stay there until morning.”

  “W-what are you going to do?” she whispered back, eyes wide with terror.

  He grimaced. “Provide a distraction.”

  If anything, her eyes got wider. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  No, no, he didn’t. But if he slipped away while he could and let them catch her spying, she’d undoubtedly learn one hell of a lesson. Evan let go of her arms and pushed her toward the open gate. He couldn’t put her in danger.

  “Go. Now.”

  “They’ll kill you,” she whispered in horror.

  Evan shouldered the shovel. “I won’t let them hurt you, too.”

  With a distressed little cry, she ran.

  Chapter 25

  The inexorable rising of the sun didn’t calm the anxiety itching beneath Susan’s skin. She sat at her escritoire, scratching a fingernail against the scarred wood. Was Mr. Bothwick all right? He had protected her. Kept her from being discovered. Should she have stayed with him?

  Although dressed, coiffed, and breakfasted, she couldn’t quite work up the nerve to exit her bedchamber to find out. Particularly if this time she really would run into Mr. Bothwick’s ghost. She shivered.

  Had the still-living Mr. Bothwick been hurt? Had he been caught? Had he—Susan’s spine snapped up straight—had he been in league with whoever belonged to those footsteps, and simply took advantage of an opportunity to send a frightened young lady back up to her room? She frowned. What had he been doing there, anyway?

  Her forehead thunked forward onto the hard surface of the escritoire. Of course.

  She was so slow sometimes. Hadn’t she just decided (all right, re-decided) that he wasn’t to be trusted? Just because he’d saved her life didn’t mean he hadn’t taken someone else’s.

  Hadn’t she just wondered if he were not in fact responsible for his dead brother’s... deadness? Mr. Bothwick had just happened to show up in the rock garden, alone, in the middle of the night, directly following her mention of a third grave. Which meant—whether he was in collusion with the others or not—he had definitely not been colluding with her.

  Next weekend could not come soon enough. She had to get out of this town while she still could.

  Susan snatched a sheet of parchment from a yellowed pile and dipped a pen in a clotted inkwell. Although they still hadn’t deigned to reply to her previous missive, her first letter was going straight to her parents.

  * * *

  Dear Mother,

  I am desperately unhappy and wholeheartedly repent for all my sins. Please let me come home. I promise to behave.

  Yours etc,

  Susan

  P.S. If you won’t send a carriage, do send money.

  P.P.S. Actually... please send both.

  * * *

  Her second letter... Susan stopped to think. Who else could she send a letter to? Despite her parents forbidding her from doing so, she longed to write to Evangeline. Right now, Susan could certainly use a friend.

  But her focus was no longer on her personal loneliness, but rather rescuing the cousin trapped in the cellar. She needed someone with the power to help. But none of her ton acquaintances were still speaking to her, and her parents would be furious to know Susan had—Oh! Wait!

  At a dinner party she’d been to last Season, one of Lady Wipplegate’s guests had been a Bow Street Runner. Susan couldn’t remember his name off the top of her head, but if she sent a note to him inside a letter for Lady W., it should eventually find its mark. If she were lucky, he’d arrive even before her allowance did!

  She scribbled off a few lines of twaddle for Lady Wipplegate, and an even more cryptic message regarding Important Matters of Extreme Urgency for the Runner (for Lady W. would no doubt read it aloud at tea before passing it along) and folded both into a neat pile for Janey. Who had hopefully spoken the truth about having some means to secretly post mail and wasn’t just tossing all Susan’s missives directly into the closest fire.

  A Runner would fix everything. He’d solve Dead Mr. Bothwick’s murder, rescue cousin Emeline (ideally both master and servant would become unfortunate casualties in the ensuing scuffle), and whisk Susan back to London where she belonged. Perfect.

  Correspondence thus completed, Susan leaped to her feet—and almost collided with Lady Beaune’s ghostly form.

  By hopping on one foot and windmilling a bit, Susan somehow managed to steady herself without accidentally brushing against the wraithlike woman with palsied fingers and long white braids.

  The ghost fluttered to her fireside vigil, morose, head bowed. She worried at the ornate crucifix about her neck with spotted, trembling hands. And, as before, said nothing. Of course, she was a deaf-mute. Which made meaningful conversation difficult—but not impossible. Susan tiptoed to her side, hesitant to startle the ghost, but eager to attempt interaction.

  She pointed at her chest. “I’m—”

  The ghost was already nodding, although still not meeting Susan’s eyes.

  “Er... you know who I am?”

  Another quick, shy nod.

  Susan’s hand flattened against her chest in shock. Lady Beaune’s ghost had just responded (if nonverbally) to spoken communication. Twice. Which made her sense of hearing suspiciously acute for an alleged deaf-mute.

  “Can you speak?” she asked softly.

  The ghost shook her pale head.

  So. At least part of the tale was true.

  A horrific gasp sucked from the ghost’s lungs and she began to spin, round and round, faster and faster. Susan scrambled out of the way.

  Agitated, the ghost ripped the crucifix from her neck, held it aloft. Little by little, her crooked body unraveled as she spun. Ribbons of clothing, of flesh, of essence, trailed out from her disintegrating form and disappeared into the suddenly Arctic air.

  Then she was gone.

  The crucifix clattered to the floor and winked from sight.

  Susan swallowed, allowing her shoulders to slump against the wall. On a scale of one to ten, her communication attempt was perhaps a two. Possibly a negative two. How was she going to grant the ghost’s wish if the ghost was incapable of asking for whatever it was she desired?

  Then again, if she were Lady Beaune—or her barely alive daughter—what she would ask for would be for someone to pull the still-beating heart from the giant’s overlarge chest and feed it to the grinning scarecrow before tearing them both to pieces with a pickax. Or something of that nature.

  Perhaps she was better off incapable of comprehending the ghost’s mission.

  Since there was no point hanging about Moonseed Manor if she wasn’t going to kill her host in his sleep (and who’s to say giants ever slept?), Susan tied her pelisse about her shoulders and headed into town.

  Before she’d set foot among the half-ring of tumbledown buildings, it was already clear that Something Was Different.

  A motley crowd of locals were milling about the sand, instead of creeping out of sight among the shadows as they normally did during the day. If the fair had come to town, such a turnout might make sense. But Susan saw no signs of revelry.

  They all had their faces pointed in the direction of Moonseed Manor, not-so-su
rreptitiously observing her careful approach. If this had been a matter of a quick glance instead of watching an hourlong tramp down the windy path, such casual attention might make sense. But these were no quick glances.

  They backed away as she neared, bending their heads together in excited conversation, letting loose with the occasional titter. If they had just heard a rumor that Miss Susan Stanton got a thrill from spying on trysting couples through dirty windows, such rude behavior might make sense.

  Bloody hell. This was not remotely conducive to her plans. But she imagined it was plenty conducive to the evil porcelain doll’s. Far be it for anyone to say Miss Devonshire didn’t stick to her open threats.

  Spread rumors about Susan Stanton, would she? Very well. In return, Susan would investigate Miss Devonshire’s treasonous French silk and report her findings to the magistrate the moment he arrived back in town. That’d teach Miss Devonshire a lesson for her crimes against the sovereign.

  Or not. What dress shop was without French silk?

  Her steps slowed to what one could only describe as a dismal trudge. It wasn’t that she was depressed (which, of course, she was) or that she was actively trying to suppress the urge to unleash her inner harpy on Miss Devonshire in a rabid fury (which, of course, she was) but that it was going to be damn near impossible to secretly keep watch on anybody, what with ninety pairs of eyes following her every move. No doubt waiting to see if the Peeping Tom of Mayfair had come to town to spy on someone. Which, as it happened, she had.

  Argh.

  Susan smiled at the townsfolk as if she were the Queen and they the peasants—er, constituents—who’d come to greet their mistress. She added a little wave of her gloved fingers. Perhaps if she acted normal, if she acted like one of them, they would get bored. They’d return to their usual pastimes and all this would blow over.