“I need the evidence,” she said softly.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “There’s no getting that box open.”
“Nothing is indestructible.” She arched a brow as she tossed his words back to him.
Evan snorted. He’d better be right about that.
He turned toward the stables. He needed to see—and, perhaps, filter—whatever proof the strongbox contained before he found himself up Newman’s lift alongside Ollie and the rest. But he would do his part to help Lady Emeline. He had to. Because Susan was right—some men deserved to die for their crimes.
With her at his heels, he plucked a shovel from the stable wall and cut straight to the strongbox. Well, almost straight. It was a damn good hiding spot. Even knowing the location, it still took a couple tries before he finally cleared the dirt from atop the locking mechanism.
He lifted the heavy jewelry box from the chasm and placed it gently on solid ground. He turned it on its side so that the crease between lid and receptacle faced skyward. He grabbed the shovel like a spear and drove the blade into the box with all his might. Jewels and gold filigree sprayed across the muck-covered dirt.
Evan very nearly took out his shoulder.
“Nothing is indestructible,” Susan called out from behind him, with a bit less conviction than she’d had just a few moments before.
He smiled grimly and let the box have it one more time.
As the shovel blade hit the strongbox, more jewels and tiny gold roses went flying. Evan’s spine jumped as though it were about to do the same. Yet he couldn’t give up. He slammed the blade into the box again and again, destroying its beautiful exterior until only the iron core remained. He went for his pick, his ax, his hammers, and kept trying.
Nothing worked. Perhaps the damn thing was indestructible.
Which would be splendid insofar as the safety of his neck, but a terrible blow for Lady Emeline. Damn it. Even if he handed the box over as-is to the first lawman to appear, that man would be equally incapable of opening it on the spot. Perhaps back in London, there were better tools, savvier locksmiths. But by that time, it would be too late.
He turned to Susan, planning to apologize, to swear he’d tried his best. But she was on all fours on the dirty ground, picking up handfuls of jewels and broken filigree with a shocked expression on her face. Evan frowned. She could not possibly be concerned about the loss of antique craftsmanship at a time like this.
“It appears,” he said tentatively, “I may have damaged Ollie’s box.”
Susan’s head jerked up. Instead of anger or censure, her face was alive with hope and laughter. Between her thumb and forefinger, she held up an intricate whorl of sparkles and gold, no less beautiful for being broken.
“It’s not his jewelry box.” She pulled herself to her feet, one fist closed around the scrap of bejeweled gold and the other hand splayed against her chest. “It belonged to Lady Beaune.”
Evan blinked at her in confusion. “How do you know? And why would the original owner make a difference?”
“Because I now believe,” she said, pulling at a thin chain about her throat, “I’ve had the key all along.”
Chapter 48
Susan tugged Lady Beaune’s crucifix free from her bodice and compared the artistry to the shard from the strongbox. The same fine-spun gold, the same tiny swirls, the same choice in jewels. If only she had found the box before the others! Upon studying its workmanship, she might’ve made the connection between the ornate crucifix at her neck and the erstwhile splendor of the intricate jewelry box. Now all that remained intact was the gold-encrusted cross. It was a shame to ruin such artistic genius, but there was no other choice. She tried to carefully lift the crucifix up over her head, but jerked it free when the chain caught in her hair.
They would finally know the truth.
Thus resolved, she held the talisman out toward Evan. “Destroy it.”
“Destroy a crucifix?” He recoiled, staring at her as if she’d gone mad.
“Feel it yourself, and tell me if it’s an ordinary crucifix.” She forced the heavy charm into his palm, noting his surprise as he registered the unexpected weight. “It’s got an iron core, doesn’t it?”
He answered by placing it atop the now-flat iron lid of the strongbox and picking up the closest hammer. He hesitated again, but only briefly this time, then brought the hammer down onto the center of the crucifix.
As with the strongbox, bits of delicate gold and precious stones splintered everywhere. Also like the strongbox, a dull iron core peeked through. He gazed up at her, eyes shining. Then he set back to work with the hammer until all that remained was an ordinary metal key, once hidden beneath the baroque beauty.
Susan glanced around the otherwise empty clearing behind the stables, unable to believe Timothy was going to miss this crucial moment. Then she remembered she hadn’t seen Lady Beaune since the night she’d found the key. Timothy had probably gone on, too. She and Evan were on their own.
He picked up the key and held it out to her.
She shook her head. “You do it.”
She owed him that much, at least. He had just as much at stake, if not more. Although she did believe him a good man at heart and knew his outrage over cousin Emeline was very real, part of Susan couldn’t deny the knowledge that Evan was making many of his current decisions for her.
He loved her.
She’d stopped him from saying so because she’d thought it a falsehood, a trite line an accomplished rake delivered to manipulate the emotions of his target. But that wasn’t true. He was on his knees in dirt and muck, unlocking a box that would seal the fate of several men who deserved to hang for what they’d done. And quite possibly consigning himself to the same gruesome end.
He did this willingly. For Lady Emeline. For himself. And for Susan.
She dropped to her knees and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, shamed by the fleeting traitorous thought that perhaps she should have run away with him when he’d first asked. But she’d been right—he was a better man than that. And she was a better woman. Had become a better woman, sometime over the course of the past few weeks. Together, they would get through this. Somehow. And then she’d gladly go with him to the very ends of the earth.
Evan twisted the key in the lock. It made several clicks as it triggered a gear mechanism inside, then came to a stop. He removed the key, tossing it onto hay and dirt. He reached for her hand.
She twined her fingers with his. He lifted the lid with his free hand. They both stared at what was inside.
Parchment. How would they convict anyone of anything with parchment?
Spectacular.
“The missing pages.” Evan reached inside and began to unfold one of the sheets. “Looks like all of them.”
Susan flipped through the folded stack. “Missing pages of what?”
“The ship’s logbooks. Cross-referencing these details with any of our schedules is probably enough to find us all guilty.” He sat back on his heels. “The log doesn’t list individual hands by name, of course, but the captain keeps records of each journey, where we dropped anchor and when, weather conditions, as well as who we—”
“What?”
“Not ‘we,’” he said with wonder, snatching up sheet after sheet and scanning the contents. “That’s what Timothy was trying to tell me. He stole the listings that don’t correspond to voyages I went on. These diary pages link everyone to the ship’s itineraries but me.”
“Almost everyone,” Susan said bitterly. “I’d wager there’s nothing in there about Gordon Forrester.”
In her opinion, that man deserved to be hanged twice.
Evan stared at her blankly. “Forrester?”
She arched a disgusted brow. “You know, the evil, lying, manipulative cad who’s been strong-arming innocent people into selling your smuggled goods while he sits back, looks pious, and collects a tidy profit?”
His mouth fell open. “Forrester?”
; She nudged up her spectacles. “You didn’t know?”
He shook his head, still speechless.
“Well, there you go. I told you there’d be nothing in there about him. I hate that he’s going to walk free.”
“Nothing about him by name,” Evan corrected, and placed a sheet of parchment on her lap.
This page was different from the rest. It had clearly come from loose-leaf, as opposed to having been ripped from a bound book. Unlike the barely decipherable scribbles slanting across the captain’s log, this sheet had been outlined with carefully delineated rows and columns in neat boxes.
The top read simply, “Unknown Intermediary.”
The first column was a list of dates the ship had docked in Bournemouth. The second column was a list of the booty they’d brought ashore. The third was the payment extorted by the local contact in exchange for his silence and protection from the law.
“Charts and figures.” The corner of Evan’s mouth quirked as he shook his head. “My brother is a piece of work.”
Susan grinned at him. “I’d wager an examination of these dates against when our friendly magistrate strolled into town would make for a shocking comparison. And perhaps the owners of a certain dress shop would be more than willing to provide corroboration, in exchange for impunity.”
“Here.” Evan pointed at the bottom entry. “Look at the last row. Only the date is filled in. That’s the night Timothy went on his secret mission.”
She stared at the otherwise empty row. Evan was right. “I guess Forrester discovered Timothy’s duplicity before Timothy had a chance to reveal Forrester’s.”
“And the self-righteous cretin murdered my brother on the spot. Red, too.” Evan rose to his feet, his hands going straight to the pair of pistols tucked in his waistband. “Now he’ll pay.”
A distant thunder coalesced into the distinct sound of incoming hoofbeats. More horses. Lots of them. Coming quickly.
This wasn’t a single carriage. This was the army she’d been hoping for.
“Put your pistols away.” She repacked the strongbox and pocketed the key. “We ought to let the law take it from here.”
He was already racing for the trees, weapons in hand.
Chapter 49
Susan tore after him.
Evan had only had a moment’s head start, but keeping up with his breakneck pace was next to impossible whilst clutching a heavy iron box to her chest. Her lungs would explode at any moment. When she flew from the trail to the rock garden, the townsfolk loitering about Moonseed Manor were now crowded amongst the graves with their gazes riveted on the back door.
It was off its hinges. Unsurprising. Given the cockeyed appearance of Timothy’s house after his death, Susan now suspected that the man she loved had a propensity for using any means but a door handle when entering a room in a rage.
Evan had both giant and scarecrow backed up against the wall, just inside the battered doorjamb. He had a pistol aimed at each man’s stomach. Susan approached carefully.
“Where is he?” he demanded. “That toad has to be around here somewhere.”
Both scarecrow and giant glared at him without responding.
The crowd was equally silent, although whether they were afraid any intervention on their part would spur the cornered men into action or cease the spectacle altogether was anyone’s guess.
Susan rested the battered strongbox on her hip and listened for horse hooves. Faint, but increasing. She doubted the townsfolk had registered the significance yet. The Runners were still at least ten minutes away. Which could be good or bad, depending on one’s viewpoint. She shifted the box to the other hip and made her decision.
“Hold them there,” she called out, and marched through the crowded grave garden. People fell aside to let her pass. When she reached Evan, she flashed him a smile to let him know they were in this together, then turned her gaze back toward the slash-faced scarecrow.
“Give me the key.”
He glanced down at the iron box on her hip, but didn’t seem to recognize it for what it was. His tiny black eyes smirked at her.
“Not my box,” he rasped.
“Not that lock,” she returned, wishing she had a pistol to shove in his stick-thin belly, too. “I want the key to release my cousin’s shackles.”
The scarecrow’s black eyes glimmered. “Tell your lover to put his pistols down and I’ll think about it.”
Susan turned to Evan with a sigh. “Shoot him.”
Keys jangled, seeming to appear in the scarecrow’s jaundiced palm from thin air. She plucked them from his fingers and made her way down the cellar steps.
“Follow,” Evan barked at his hostages.
Twin clicks of pistols ratcheting to the ready echoed in the still chamber, and then three pairs of boots slapped against the stone steps behind her. It was going to be a full house.
When she reached the bottom of the stairwell, she set the strongbox in the dirt. She went straight to her cousin and unlocked the iron shackle fettered around her thin ankle.
Emeline’s terrified gaze went from Susan to her former captors to the manacle lying open and harmless at her bare feet. She touched Susan’s cheek with cold, trembling fingers, then put her face in her hands and cried.
“You’re free,” Susan swore, enveloping her shaking cousin in a strong hug. “I promise you. Nobody’s going to hurt you again.” She hugged Lady Emeline tighter, stroking her hair as she sobbed heartwrenchingly silent cries on Susan’s shoulder. “You can live with me, and be safe. I swear on my life.”
It was all Susan could do to keep her own tears from doing more than stinging at the corners of her burning eyes. But she had to be strong, for cousin Emeline’s sake. She couldn’t let her believe for the tiniest second there was any risk of being chained again, all by herself, in the dark.
“You’ll never be alone again,” Susan promised her fiercely. “You have me now. Forever.”
Lady Emeline kissed Susan’s cheek. She leaned back long enough to scrub at her dirt- and tear-streaked face, then linked arms with Susan and stared up at her with an expression Susan had never seen on her cousin’s tormented face.
Hope... and trust.
Susan smiled and squeezed her arm. Cousin Emeline believed in her. This time, she would be worthy of it.
“I’ve got to find Forrester,” Evan said, without averting his gaze from his two captives. “Before the knave gets away clean.”
“Go find him, then,” came the scarecrow’s scratchy taunt. “We’ll wait for ye.”
Evan growled and shoved the barrels of his pistols deeper into their stomachs.
The men began to argue.
Susan lifted the open manacle from the floor and caught cousin Emeline’s eye. Both scarecrow and giant were too focused on the pistols aimed at their midsections to pay attention to two mere women kneeling upon the dirt floor. Susan handed the fetter to Emeline, who nodded in understanding. Susan reached out, caught hold of another manacle, fumbled with the keys. At last, it fell open.
They edged closer to the men’s feet, Susan toward the giant, and Emeline toward the scarecrow. The chains just barely allowed the distance—but it would be enough.
“Now!” Susan cried, and snapped the iron band closed around the giant’s thick ankle.
Emeline did the same to the scarecrow, but her wasted limbs couldn’t move backward fast enough to avoid the scarecrow kicking her directly in the face with his manacled boot. Evan smashed his fist in the scarecrow’s belly, and followed that impact with an elbow to his nose.
Susan scrambled to Emeline’s side, terrified what she’d find when she lifted her cousin’s bowed head.
Despite a rapidly forming bruise across her cheek, Emeline was grinning in victory. She gave Susan a joyous hug.
Horse hooves clomped overhead. Susan’s army had arrived at last.
She helped Emeline to her feet, then tugged at Evan’s sleeve. “Leave them. Let’s tell the Runners about Forrester.”
“Get the strongbox,” he said, swinging Emeline into his arms. “I’ll carry your cousin outside. She’s been down here long enough.”
Susan grabbed the iron box and raced up the stairs after them. The number of people outside had doubled. The Bow Street Runners had in fact sent a militia to Bournemouth. Susan was convinced every inhabitant was also present in the garden.
Including Gordon Forrester.
“What’s that, now?” he was saying with a little laugh. “Pirates? Not in a quiet beach town like this.” The magistrate flashed the newcomers his hallmark dimples.
They were patently unimpressed.
One raised his voice. “For the last time, where is Miss Stanton?”
“Here!” Susan stepped forward, then turned and held out a hand for cousin Emeline. When Evan set her gingerly to the ground, she immediately latched on to Susan’s arm. Susan smiled and squeezed back.
The horror was finally over.
At least, that’s what she thought until the now-familiar click of a pistol sounded from just behind her shoulder. Evan. With the barrel aimed straight at the magistrate’s cherubic face.
“You lying, traitorous, murdering—”
“Why, it’s Evan Bothwick,” Forrester interrupted smoothly, as if this were just another example of Evan’s typical erratic behavior. The magistrate gave a what-can-you-do shrug at the lawmen. “If you want to know about smuggling, I suppose there’s the one to ask.”
When Evan’s pistol didn’t waver, Susan realized he really meant to shoot Forrester right here and now—and didn’t give a damn if he consigned himself to prison in the process.
Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2 Page 32
