Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  With no time to lose and daylight fading fast, Evan crept into the darkness.

  Damn his brother’s nettlesome sense of honor rearing its ugly head. He had no wish to sneak off in the dead of night because of Timothy. If Evan could obliterate all evidence linking himself to the smuggling, he might not have to run. But he needed every scrap of proof to be in his possession. Now. Tonight.

  He paused before leaving the safety of shadows to approach the ship. He heard no noises, saw no activity, felt no eyes upon him, but there was a hint of... smoke. The faint odor hung in the air. Soft, but bitter and insistent. The scent was old enough that he needn’t fear anyone still bent over open flames, but recent enough that he couldn’t waste another second dallying.

  He boarded the deck.

  The ship, as he’d hoped, was empty of life. Unfortunately, the captain’s quarters not only still lacked the older leather-bound diaries but the current one had also gone missing. Damn it. He was never going to erase all references tying him to the crew if every time he looked for something, somebody else had already stolen it.

  He lifted his chin and gave the air another sniff. Perhaps he wasn’t the only jack-tar on a mission to seek and destroy incriminating evidence. He disembarked and followed the scent of smoke through the cave until he came upon a round pile of ash.

  He knelt and sifted through the fragile cinders. His fingers came across no conveniently unscathed parchment explaining precisely what had been burned and why. If paper had been incinerated, no indication remained. He shifted position and kept sifting gently.

  Then he saw it. A charred scrap of leather no larger than a farthing. The color and thickness matched the spine of the captain’s logbook. Evan rose to his feet, the crusty piece of leather feather-light in his palm. Poseidon’s crew must have been burning the older diaries last week when Evan had invaded their camp. Now he would never have an opportunity to peruse the pages to see what incriminating evidence remained. Then again, no inquisitive magistrate would be able to connect Evan to any of the ship’s journeys, rightly or wrongly. How it would’ve rankled to be found guilty for missions in which he hadn’t participated.

  When he shoved the tiny fragment into his pocket, his fingers brushed against Miss Stanton’s glove. Was it possible he was judging her unfairly? He doubted she’d been out in silk and lace to slaughter chickens, but he’d certainly seen no sign of foul play. Perhaps the panic in her eyes had been because she feared he would leap to conclusions rather than listen to explanations. And wasn’t that precisely what they both had done?

  Contemplative, he strode from the cave. If he had been rash in his judgment, he would have to make amends. Just as soon as he procured that jewelry box and destroyed whatever evidence lurked inside. Only then he would be free. Free of worry, free from under the captain’s thumb, free to pursue Miss Stanton as an eligible gentleman. Not a dead man walking.

  Evan jerked to a stop at the foot of the trail leading to Moonseed Manor. He wanted to pursue Miss Stanton? As in... to love and to cherish, now and forevermore? He shook the not unpleasant image from his head and forced his ash-smudged boots up the steep cliff. Now was not the time to entertain such thoughts. Without the contents of that strongbox in his possession, he wouldn’t be able to risk spending another day in Bournemouth, much less spend his remaining hours courting a woman.

  First things first: destroy the last of the evidence.

  Moonseed Manor was silent when Evan let himself in through the servant’s entrance. Too silent. It was just past suppertime and he’d yet to catch sight of a footman or a maid, much less the master of the house and his lapdog. Which meant the latter two had to be up to no good in some dark corner of the Manor—if they were home at all. As to the servants, Evan had no idea where they might be. Unless they’d been given the same instructions he’d given his: Pack. We leave soon.

  With any luck, however, he wouldn’t have to quit Bournemouth. At least, outside of his own free will. With the logbooks gone, all he needed was the contents of Ollie’s deceptively decorative strongbox and Evan’s life would once again be fully his.

  He headed straight for the dining room. Dark. Empty. Perfect. He crossed to the still-warm fireplace and lifted the heavy jewelry box from the mantle. He could scarce believe his good fortune.

  A creaking footfall in the open doorway demolished the premature sense of relief.

  Cradling the box to his chest as a father might hold his firstborn son, Evan turned slowly, willing to use the iron box to bash in Ollie’s head if necessary. He hadn’t come this far, gotten this close, to risk the gallows now.

  Ollie, however, was not in the doorway. Miss Stanton was.

  She looked at the jewelry box clutched in his arms, then looked him dead in the eyes. The expression in hers could only be described as... disappointment. As if she’d finally begun to think better of him, and he’d gone and proven her worst suspicions correct.

  Pain slashed against his ribs. He could see the truth in her gaze: Even with the evidence duly destroyed, he could never be good enough in her estimation, never redeem himself from the lows to which he’d sunk. But he couldn’t back down now. Not with the last link tying his neck to the noose finally in his hands.

  “I know what’s in the box,” she said, and took a small step into the darkened room. “And I know why you want it.”

  Evan blinked and gripped his prize tighter. If she knew what was in the box, she was several steps ahead of him. Although by now he had a reasonable guess. If she knew why he needed the box’s contents... well, then that meant she knew just about everything. And his dreams of someday playing the eligible gentleman in complement to her role as marriageable young lady were just that: dreams.

  “You may be used to taking whatever you want, whenever you want,” she continued softly, inexorably. “But it stops now.” She paused, touched a chain at her throat. “I had hoped...”

  She trailed off, her expression both rueful and sad.

  He didn’t speak, was incapable of formulating a believable explanation to justify any of his actions. She was a lady. He was a water rat. A libertine. A thief. He longed to say, It’s not what you think. He ached to be able to tell her, I’m not who you think I am.

  But he couldn’t. Because she was right.

  He had always been beneath her. Likely would always be beneath her. She had simply never realized just how far. Somehow, she’d imagined him a better man than he was, forgiven him when she should not have done, given him chances he didn’t deserve. And was now realizing the extent of her folly.

  He yearned to toss the box aside and take her into his arms, promising to be the man she’d hoped he was. But he didn’t have that choice. As much as he wanted her, as much as it pained him to see her look at him with such regret and disappointment, saving his neck had to come first. At all costs. Even at the risk of whatever small thread of hope still bonded the two of them together.

  Tucking the box beneath one arm, he strode forward, intending to shoulder past her without attempting to explain or mitigate his actions.

  She widened her stance, hands fisted on her hips. A waif half his size, she did her best to block the doorway. Her attempt was valiant, if laughable in its chances for success.

  As always, he could not help but admire her. Determination stiffened her posture, but a tiny sliver of hope still shone in her face. His heart twisted a little more. She still wanted to believe in him. Hoped he would prove her wrong. And he was going to fail her.

  “Step aside, Susan.” He kept his voice soft, but knew she heard the steel beneath.

  She swallowed, shook her head, appeared to be thinking furiously. Then she took a deep breath and slipped a hand into the folds of her skirts. Her fingers emerged, shaking. And holding a knife. She looked pale, her skin pasty white. But she opened the blade and gripped the handle, so the sharpened tip pointed directly at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said then, her voice wobbly but determined. “But I can’t let you have
it.”

  Evan hated himself in that moment. He couldn’t help but wish he were anywhere else, in anyone’s shoes but his own. He certainly hadn’t wanted what little relationship he still had with Miss Stanton to end like this. But he had no choice. His death by hanging would benefit neither of them.

  “I’m sorry,” he answered truthfully. Achingly. Then used his free hand to retrieve the loaded pistol from his waistband. “But I can’t let you stop me.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes. Her back thumped against the doorjamb. She truly believed he would kill her without another thought or moment’s regret. The last thread of his humanity died at her feet.

  He’d had to bluff with the pistol. He could’ve wrested the knife from her with brute force, but he couldn’t risk hurting her in the process. He wanted to explain himself, to justify his actions, to see trust replace the agonizing expression of terror in her eyes. But despite the war raging in his heart, Evan could not chance loitering in Moonseed Manor a moment longer. He took the opportunity to finally escape with the strongbox in his arms. The thrill of victory no longer raced through his blood.

  Instead, he felt the pain of loss.

  Chapter 42

  No matter what Mr. Bothwick might think, Susan was not going to let him get away with that box. Too many people were counting on her. Some of them still alive.

  She dashed upstairs for her pelisse (having been caught in the rain enough for one week), then swore when she realized the round trip back to the front door had sucked a quarter hour from her evening. She was going to have to seriously consider trailing biscuit crumbs behind her.

  At least she had no doubt as to her destination. Mr. Bothwick must be taking the strongbox back to his lodgings. Nor did she doubt he would prevent her from reclaiming it by any means necessary. Which meant she would have to proceed at her very stealthiest. And hide the jewelry box somewhere so clever, he would never be able to guess the location.

  She headed into the darkness, moving toward the trails connecting his property to Moonseed Manor. She wished she’d brought a lantern, then chided herself for the silly thought. A lantern wasn’t stealthy. A lantern was stupid. If Mr. Bothwick could find his way to and from the two houses in the dead of night, so could she.

  All she had to do was stay on the footpath.

  “Just stay on the footpath,” she repeated under her breath what felt like more than an hour later. “Those noises do not belong to feral animals. Keep moving.”

  It was no longer raining, but the ground was slippery with wet leaves. The sandy soil shifted beneath her boots with every step, keeping her off-balance and her gait uneven. The visibility had gone from poor to nonexistent when a mass of black clouds had swallowed the thin slice of moon. The only reason she knew she was on a path at all was that she had yet to crash face-first into a tree.

  The branches, however, ripped at her pelisse, tugged at her hair, tore her bonnet off completely. She didn’t wish to admit it, but the very narrowness of the trail meant she was no longer on the one she’d taken to Moonseed Manor from the stables. If she ever had been. She briefly considered turning around, but she’d walked for so long that surely there would be a break in the trees at any moment.

  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 43

  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. 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 blonde 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.