She’d said she imagined they would all hang. Yet she hadn’t given any reason for this eventuality to transpire. If Timothy had died before setting his plans into motion—whatever those plans might be—perhaps there was no imminent threat.
Not that Evan shouldn’t continue to be cautious. He often took risks, but always weighed the odds first.
He slid his hand into his pocket. The pads of his fingertips traced the teeth of the small comb. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left town more or less overnight. But it would be the first time he’d regretted it.
He wouldn’t consign himself to the captain’s new adventures. But that wouldn’t be enough. He also had to make sure there was no evidence tying him to the crew’s previous activities. Otherwise, the only option would be to leave Bournemouth. Now. Before undesirable outcomes like prison or death came to pass.
He lifted his waistcoat from atop the crumpled cravat and shirt, then dropped it back onto the pile. Better to ring for new clothes. He’d never learn to tie a cravat as fine as his valet anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, Evan emerged from his bedchamber freshly dressed. He strode downstairs and came to a surprised stop when he discovered one of his liverymen pacing just inside the front door. The servant looked... not nervous, precisely, but undeniably... unsettled. Unsettled might not be as alarming a state as nervous, but in Evan’s current frame of mind, anything out of the ordinary was cause for concern.
“Yes?” he asked cautiously.
“It might be nothing,” the liveryman began, instantly snapping Evan to high alert, “but there was someone come nosing about the stables, just a moment ago, and as ye said to inform ye immediately if we seen any strangers poking their heads where they oughtn’t... well, sir, that’s why I’m meant to interrupt yer day.”
The humidity in the room increased tenfold. For a moment Evan couldn’t breathe. Escaping in the dead of night was going to be a problem if they were already here for him now. But who were “they”? The constabulary? And why start with the stables without sending a man to subdue him at the same time? Stay calm. Concentrate.
“Did you get a good look at him?” he asked. “What exactly was he doing?”
The liveryman shook his head. “He’d be a she, sir. Wanted to see the horses, she did.”
Evan blinked. “A... she?”
“Little blonde thing, about so high, as I recall.” The liveryman gestured just above his shoulder. “Pair of spectacles, now that I think about it. Didn’t say her name, but she came out of the path leading from the house. Maybe ye saw her hereabout?”
Yes, yes, he undoubtedly had. Evan ran a hand through his hair and tried to think. Susan had been nosing around his horses? But why do so clandestinely rather than just ask to see them? Hell, he hadn’t realized she’d known he had horses. He kept his stables well hidden.
Belatedly, he recalled her odd reaction to news of the assembly in Bath. She hadn’t asked about the food or the fashion or the guests or the entertainment. Her first priority had been to ascertain the presence of posting-houses. Doubt wriggled beneath his skin. She couldn’t possibly have intended to steal one of his mounts and ride to Bath... could she? If she no longer wished to stay in Moonseed Manor—and, truly, who could blame her?—why hadn’t she trusted him enough to ask for his help? She could’ve stayed here. Or left with him. She didn’t realize it, but she wasn’t the only one interested in leaving town. Lingering overlong in Bournemouth could be hazardous to Evan’s neck.
He had better set his servants to packing. Just in case. He lurched over to the closest bell pulls, his feet leaden. A few words from him, and a timely departure would be set into motion. A matter of days, if he took everything. Tomorrow night, if he left all but the essentials behind.
What few servants Evan employed had been with him for over a decade. The instruction to begin packing was dispatched quickly, and incurred neither questions nor raised brows. They were, for better or worse, loyal to a fault.
His manservant, however, lingered behind.
“Yes, Croxley?”
The man hesitated before stepping forward. That alone was all Evan required to make his heart start pounding anew. Croxley never hesitated.
“I found a glove beneath your soiled linen,” the manservant said at last. “I would have thrown it in the fire, but since you hadn’t done so yourself... I wondered if you knew it was there.”
“A glove,” Evan repeated stupidly. “Why would I throw a glove into the fire?”
Rather than respond with words, the manservant held out his hand. His fingers uncurled to reveal a lady’s silk glove. The crusted-brown cloth stuck to itself in clumps, dampened with what could only be blood.
Silently—more because words failed him than out of any desire to hold his tongue—Evan took the soiled object from his manservant. The hair comb in his pocket now seemed a ridiculous keepsake. He could scarce believe he of all people had suffered a romantic moment over the duplicitous woman who’d left behind this mass of ruined silk.
He brought the glove to his nose and sniffed. Definitely blood. The scent brought too many memories. The glove held far too much blood for a mere scratch. And Susan had been uninjured.
The cloth was still damp in some areas. Evan transferred it to his other hand and stared in disbelief at his rust-stained palm.
Someone nearby was severely wounded. And Susan had said nothing.
He made a fist to hide the blood from view, but he could still smell its coppery odor, feel the tackiness stick to his fingers and palm.
Why had she come here? He now doubted her panic had anything to do with the caged Lady Emeline. Upon whose bleeding body had she attempted to staunch the flow of blood? Or had she been the one to cause the injury? And why had she not confided in him?
Once again, he would have to hunt for clues. But this time, he didn’t know the identity of the victim. Or if said person was alive or dead. Whatever was going on, Miss Susan Stanton was involved up to her eyeballs. Evan had no way to know whose side she was on.
But he doubted it was his.
Chapter 39
Susan forced her shaky limbs back to the escritoire and sat down to compose a response to her parents. She endeavored to keep the missive free from swear words, but doubted her darling progenitors would fail to perceive her ire.
Send the carriage back, she wrote, then underlined the final word a half dozen times. My life is in danger. Others have died. I must return home.
After Janey left with the newest letter, Susan locked the door behind her and planned to stay put until one of her missives actually summoned help. But after a lonely tray of tea, an equally lonely supper, and a long, sleepless night, she could scarce stand to remain cooped up in the bedchamber any longer.
A full day might have been enough time for her pleas to reach London, and for a rider to return—if a rider had been going to do so. The fact that breakfast came and went on its little tray and brought no word from Stanton House or Bow Street Runner headquarters... well, Susan didn’t want to think overmuch about that.
If they’d taken her seriously, they would have arrived by now. And if they dismissed her words as the ravings of a madwoman, then she was simply back where she started. She’d have to save herself.
The promise of Bath loomed larger and larger until she could think of nothing else but escape. The presence of the money box only served to underscore her cursed powerlessness that much more. The necessity of waiting until the assembly was more untenable than ever, now that she had enough coin to rent a coach yet still no immediate course of doing so.
After the breakfast tray had been fetched, Susan rose to her feet. She couldn’t remain in this house. Not with the scarecrow belowstairs, grinning his slash-faced smile because he’d managed to deflect her first viable conveyance for escape whilst she’d been upstairs in a tub of tepid water.
For now, perhaps she could pay her debts. She stuffed her pocket full of coin, then frowned. The heavy pouch no longer
had room for the little blade. Her debts weren’t overmuch. Given a Bow Street Runner had been brutally murdered—with a letter bearing her signature in his pocket—perhaps she ought to keep the weapon with her at all times. Thus resolved, she dumped a portion of the coin back into the money box.
Toying with the knife, she crossed toward the door. As she passed the fireplace where Lady Beaune’s ghost always disappeared, a cold breeze slithered down Susan’s neck, causing the slim ivory handle to slip from her fingers. The knife thunked hollowly to the wooden floor.
Susan jumped backward (thankfully with her toes intact) and looked about the room for the ghost. No Lady Beaune. Had she accidentally walked into the poor woman, just as she was beginning to materialize? Bloody hell. If it weren’t for bad luck... Susan knelt to pick up the fallen knife, frustrated at having missed an opportunity to attempt communication. At this rate, she’d never decipher the dead woman’s mission, much less complete it.
No sooner had Susan’s fingers lifted the knife mere inches from the wooden floor, the ghostly breeze returned. Gooseflesh rippled down her arms. This time, the current was strong enough to ruffle Susan’s hair. The handle once again clunked hollowly against the floor.
Wait... hollowly?
Susan rapped at the wooden panel against which the knife had fallen. Definitely hollow. She rapped against the adjacent panels. Markedly solid. She sat back on her heels, frowning, then eased the blade from the ivory handle. She slipped the tip into the crack between the first floorboard and its neighbors, and levered gentle pressure on the handle until the stubborn board began to creak open. As soon as the corner rose high enough for a fingertip to slip beneath, Susan did so, wrenching it all the way open.
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.
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.
Of course, it would also send Evan to the gallows… unless she could keep his name out of the scandal.
Mr. Bothwick, not Evan, she corrected herself. They were not friends, had never been friends. And they would never again be lovers.
All that mattered was saving Emeline. No matter how Susan’s heart might ache.
Within an hour, she found her way 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 being divested her of her virginity. She was now the common slut they believed her to be.
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. 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.
Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2 Page 27
