by Erica Ridley
“Fresh blood.” A terrible smile formed in the porcelain doll’s perfect face.
They broke their tête-à-tête and advanced toward Susan. The porcelain doll’s steps were as silent and sure as a prima ballerina flying across a London stage. The tip of the witch’s closed parasol scraped across the hardwood floor like a sword hanging free from its scabbard.
The door creaked open behind Susan, sending a gust of salty air swirling through the room. Layers of silk fluttered with the chill. Neither the witch nor the porcelain doll halted their approach. Footsteps sounded in the doorway behind Susan. A shadow fell across the floor.
She turned to face the scarecrow.
He wasn’t there.
Instead, a man of no more than thirty years stood silhouetted in the doorway, his body backlit by the morning sun and his features cast in shadow. He was nearly as tall as Mr. Bothwick, if a bit less muscular. Strands of golden hair danced between the sunlight and the breeze. He stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him.
“Mr. Forrester,” the two women behind Susan breathed simultaneously.
“Ladies.” He bowed. “Good morning.”
Susan blinked. A real gentleman?
His gaze met hers. “I came to see the two prettiest young ladies in Bournemouth, and must say I’m delighted to discover a third in your midst.”
Candlelight lit Mr. Forrester’s face, exposing angel-blue eyes and a boyish smile beneath his head of golden curls. Blues and reds lent his attire the classic air of a Rubens portrait. He reached for Susan’s trembling hand, dipped, and pressed a kiss against the back of her gloved fingers.
An awkward silence wafted amongst the shadows. “M-Miss Susan Stanton,” she stammered when she realized no one else would be able to make the introduction for her. Had she mentioned she hated not being in London?
“Gordon Forrester.” He rose to his feet before releasing her hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He inclined his head, then moved past her to buss the other ladies’ cheeks without another word.
Dismissed so easily?
Susan stared after him in shock. That had to go on record as the shortest conversation she’d ever held with a gentleman. The sharks that swam up to her in London ballrooms smelled Stanton money in the water and scarcely let her have a moment alone to visit the retiring room. The ones who approached her outside the ballroom walls—well, those fancied an intimacy Susan had sworn never to grant any man unworthy of being her husband. But true gentlemen never dismissed her.
And for women such as these!
She stared, arms crossed beneath her bodice, as the porcelain doll performed a perfect pirouette to show off her fashionable gown (and no doubt the ankles beneath). A blush as deep a red as her flyaway hair stole up the witch’s pale cheeks as she curtsied behind her closed parasol. Neither one of them had bothered to introduce themselves.
Susan’s jaw clenched. In London, she knew every face worth knowing and they all knew her. In London, hers were the cheeks being bussed by this viscount or that countess. In London, a thick ring of admirers had once hovered well within her orbit, eager to hear whatever words might fall next from her lips. But then gossip had embroiled her in one scandal, and the Frost Fair had dropped her in another.
While she was stuck here, she would have to make the best of it. Susan straightened her glasses and stepped forward. Mr. Forrester glanced up, but instead of smiling at her as all gentlemen used to do, his cherubic brow furrowed in a frown.
“I keep feeling we’ve met before, Miss Stanton. Have you been in Bournemouth long?”
“I’m afraid I arrived last night.”
The witch leaned forward on her parasol, her pale white fingers gripping the ebony handle. “Do you drink, Miss Stanton?”
She shook her head. “I do not.”
“What a relief,” the porcelain doll cooed with false sweetness. “We were afraid you and an unfortunate blonde girl who collapsed this morning in Sully’s tavern might have been one and the same.”
Susan’s head swam. They’d been gossiping. About her. And it was true! (If not for the reasons they assumed.)
Mr. Forrester’s lips rounded into an O. “That’s where I saw you.”
Her face flamed.
The two ladies tittered. They’d known precisely who she was—most likely from the moment she’d stepped into the shop—and had chosen this method of revealing their knowledge so as to provide maximum humiliation before a handsome gentleman.
Susan knew this trick well. She hated being on the receiving end of it.
No matter. She would rise above. So long as her name was never again linked to gossip-worthy behavior, talk would quickly die down. In the meantime, she would simply need to appear the veriest paragon of respectability and normalcy.
She opened her mouth to reply before she realized they’d moved on without bothering to wait for her response. They stood in a closed circle, heads bowed together. Short bursts of laughter punctuated their murmured conversation.
Susan stood off to the side. Cut.
They hadn’t even bothered to feign interest in getting to know her.
Susan stepped forward again, piqued enough to interrupt their conversation, despite the rudeness of such an act.
Before she could do so, however, a fifth joined their midst. He entered by floating through the far wall.
The bearded ghost.
There was nowhere to run. The scarecrow could still be outside, waiting for her with his shovel poised behind his head. Even if the scarecrow had crept back home, mere walls would not prevent the bearded ghost from pursuing her.
Of course, whiling away the morning with this trio was no more palatable.
What she needed to do was get directions back to Moonseed Manor without letting the presence of a ghost in the room cause her to appear distracted (or insane).
“Ho there!” the bearded ghost exclaimed, catching sight of her. He ran a meaty hand over his bald pate and stared at her expectantly. “Don’t you recognize me?”
She didn’t answer.
He hopped up and down in front of her. Careful not to touch her, he waved his hands in front of her face.
Susan ignored him as best she could and tried to determine the best way to catch the others’ attention without flat-out interrupting.
“When did you see him last?” Mr. Forrester was asking.
The porcelain doll rolled her eyes. “One doesn’t keep tabs on one’s grown brother.”
“Especially a will-o’-the-wisp like Joshua.” The witch picked at the spines of her umbrella. “He’s here. He’s gone. And then you wonder if he was ever here at all.”
“Excuse me,” Susan put in when they lapsed into thoughtful silence. “Could one of you direct me to Moonseed Manor?”
“It’s at the top of the cliff,” the witch said, pointing out the obvious.
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Didn’t you come from there?” asked the porcelain doll with an equally amused expression.
“Yes, but I—”
“The easiest way,” said Mr. Forrester in what he probably thought was a helpful tone, “might be to go back up along the same path you came down.”
“And you know, I considered that,” Susan said through clenched teeth. “But as the entire path slid down the cliff behind me, I suspect an alternate route back to the top might be in order.”
The porcelain doll choked on a giggle. “You didn’t take—”
“She did,” crowed the witch. “She must have.”
“Bothwick’s the only one reckless enough to cut down that way.” The porcelain doll shook her perfect head. “Next time I see him, I’ll—”
“I thought you weren’t seeing him anymore.” The witch’s eyes lit with mischief.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t see him,” the porcelain doll snapped. “It’s not as though there’s an overabundance of crowds to lose oneself in around here.”
“So...” Susan prompted. “The path I should be tak
ing is...”
The women ignored her and continued bickering.
She affixed her desperate gaze on the cherubic Mr. Forrester.
He smiled apologetically. “I’d take you myself if I knew the area.”
The bearded ghost leapt between them and began gesticulating wildly, pointing at himself, then the others, then back to himself.
Susan pushed up her spectacles and tried to focus on Mr. Forrester. “You’re not from around here, then?”
“I am from around here, but not from Bournemouth itself.”
“Mr. Forrester is our local magistrate,” said the porcelain doll, peering up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
“He serves several towns in the area,” added the witch, looking very much as though she’d like to stab her fawning companion with her parasol. “He’s not just ours.”
Mr. Forrester appeared charmingly uncomfortable at the interplay beside him. “I live in Christchurch. I try to visit Bournemouth at least once or twice a month to see if my services are required.”
The ghost was once again doing everything but handstands before her face, but Susan’s mind was busy processing this new information.
One couldn’t ask for a more upstanding citizen than a magistrate. And she couldn’t ask for a better acquaintance than one with a horse. It was now more imperative than ever that Mr. Forrester think only the best of her. Although he didn’t know it yet, he was her ticket to the nearest posting-house the moment her allowance arrived.
“I understand.” Susan gave him her most gracious ton smile. “Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll find my way back home.”
He cocked his head, then turned away from the other ladies and proffered his arm. “Tell you what, Miss Stanton. If two heads are better than one, what do you say we give it a go together? If we can’t find our way to Moonseed Manor, I’m sure I for one will at least have had the pleasure of enjoyable company.”
If the porcelain doll’s expression was any indication of her emotional state, her beautiful face was about to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Oh, bother,” she pouted. “She can find it. It’s not that hard.”
The witch gestured toward the door with the handle of her parasol. “Behind the big pile of driftwood a dozen yards from the shop, there’s a footpath leading up the cliff. It’s flat and winding, so it often takes the better part of an hour, but it’ll get you there.”
Mr. Forrester beamed. “There you have it. Aren’t these ladies too helpful?”
“Indeed,” Susan said.
“Perhaps we will meet again, Miss Stanton?”
“Why, certainly. Next time you’re in town, you’ll know how to find me.”
Next time you’re in town, you can spirit me away from this madhouse.
“Thank you.” He bowed. “I look forward to sharing your company for an hour or two.”
Count on it. I promise to chatter your ear off all the way to the posting-house.
“It’s a bargain.” Susan curtsied to him and wiggled her fingers over her shoulder at the other two ladies. “Lovely to meet you. I’ll come for a fitting another day. Au revoir.”
She grinned to herself as she stepped out the door. Those two would rather fillet her in her sleep than sew her a new trousseau, regardless of the price. But at least now they knew Miss Susan Stanton was not as easily cowed as the limpid country misses they normally crushed beneath their heels. Miss Susan Stanton was never cowed at all.
The rough-hewn ghost materialized before her face.
Susan squeaked in surprise.
His bearded jaw dropped open, revealing half a collection of crooked yellow teeth. “You can see me.”
She shot a nervous glance along the beach. The door to the shop had closed behind her and the scarecrow was long gone. Nonetheless...
“Go away,” she hissed.
“You can hear me?” he sputtered. “Why weren’t you paying any attention to me inside?”
“I was busy.” She stepped around him and made for the landmark pile of driftwood. “Still am. Do leave me alone.”
Please don’t let him follow me. Please don’t let him follow me.
He followed. “I’ll go if you promise to do something for me.”
“No.”
Aha! There was the pathway leading to the top. Susan grabbed the front of her skirt and began the tramp up the footpath.
“I just need you to relay a message,” the ghost insisted, hovering over nothingness at her side. “How hard can that be?”
She sighed. “What’s the message?”
“That I’m dead.”
Susan walked faster. “Out of the question.”
“That’s it, I swear.” He darted forward and floated a consistent two feet before her, flickering beneath the overcast sky. “Give my family news of my death and I’ll leave you alone forever.”
What rot.
“First of all, what gives me any reason to believe I can trust the word of a ghost? Secondly, are you mad? What am I meant to do, walk around town saying, ‘Oh, I ran into this dead chap the other day—’”
“Grey’s my surname, but most call me—”
“All right, ‘When I bumped into Mister Grey this morning, he asked me to let you know that he’s dead...’”
He glared at her. “At least tell my sister.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“It’s the least you can do.”
“It’s not my business at all!” Susan ducked her head and strode faster, keeping her gaze locked on her boots rather than the shimmering ghost before her. “I didn’t ask to start seeing dead people.”
“I didn’t ask to die.”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss.” She wavered for a moment, then sped up. “Did you not see the debacle that took place in that horrid dress shop merely because my encounter with you gave me such a start? Imagine what those two vipers would say if they knew I was speaking to you now.”
“That’s exactly who—”
“Forget it!” Susan swiped an arm through his misty form, expecting her angry gesture to do little more than annoy the persistent spirit.
Instead, he vanished.
She was so startled, she stopped in her tracks. What the dickens had just happened? Had she somehow killed a ghost? Dare she hope he was gone for good?
“What the devil are you about now, woman?” came a familiar voice below her feet.
Susan’s gaze snapped down along the cliff ’s edge.
Mr. Bothwick. Delightful.
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.” His smooth voice came closer. “Looked rather like talking to yourself and throwing punches at the wind.”
Susan ground her teeth. This sort of reaction was precisely why she would not be bringing Bournemouth inhabitants any ghostly messages from the grave. The only thing worse than being ignored was being mocked. Although she supposed fleeing his house at a dead run hadn’t precisely been putting her best foot forward, as far as impressions went. Not that she cared about his opinion. Much.
“Just exercising,” she said, turning around to wait for his inevitable reappearance on the serpentine path. “Latest London craze. You wouldn’t understand.”
Mr. Bothwick rounded another winding corner and appeared on the trail before her. He had bathed and groomed since the last time she saw him, and the change was breathtaking. He could have mingled in any ballroom to devastating effect. Out in the open air, however, with the wild ocean at his back... this was his element.
No tailor could hide the muscular lines of a body used to the out-of-doors (why would one try?) and the snowy whiteness of his perfectly creased cravat only served to accentuate the unfashionable bronze of his skin. A look, Susan admitted privately, that Mr. Bothwick wore very, very well. Particularly with the slight quirk to his lips that she’d come to recognize meant he was on the verge of saying something shocking.
“As it happens,” he said with a slight incline to his head, “th
ere’s nothing I love more than... exercising... with a beautiful woman.”
Susan reminded herself to be offended, not intrigued. Or at least feign as much. And stop ogling the fine fit of his breeches and perfect cut of his cheekbones above the creases of his cravat.
“Do you know how insufferable you are, Mr. Bothwick?”
He smiled. “I cultivate it. Shall I carry you up the cliff?”
“You shall not.” Although, turned out in his present condition, the idea held a sinful allure. He looked so dashing, with the wind ruffling his chestnut hair and every other inch of him so perfectly put together. He was a gentleman on the outside, and on the inside... something darker. A mystery. A mirage. An enemy.
He studied her as if reading her thoughts. “Shall we ‘exercise’ together, then?”
Susan gasped indignantly. Well, somewhat indignantly. The gasping might have detracted a bit from the indignation and made her sound more... tempted. Knowing he was absolutely wrong for her just made him all the more intriguing.
She raised her chin and tried to appear aloof. “We most certainly shall not.”
“More’s the pity.”
He prowled closer. Bits of grass and dirt broke free with each step and tumbled to the ground below. Suddenly they were toe to toe on the sandy path. He didn’t move. Neither did she. She couldn’t. His fresh-shaven cheeks looked sharp, dangerous, yet touchably soft. He wore no perfume. His recently bathed skin smelled of sea salt and citrus. Ambrosial. He was too close. Much too close. He lifted her chin with the curve of a bare knuckle and gazed into her eyes.
“Anybody ever tell you it’s dangerous to be out on the cliffs alone?”
She jerked her chin out of his grasp, ignoring the rippling shiver his touch had caused. Still caused. She should turn around, right now, and walk away. She should definitely not encourage him by responding. Or leaning closer. Or allowing the huskiness in her voice to give hint to her thoughts. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you’re the sort of man who makes it dangerous to be anywhere alone.”
“Ahh. So you do get my meaning.” His smile returned, this time giving his eyes a predatory glint. “Not as innocent as I imagined.”
