by Erica Ridley
“Another what, miss?”
“Another round for everyone, she said!” called out one of the drunks in the back.
“Hear, hear,” said the priest.
The fishermen cheered, and in seconds had crowded her from the counter so they could toss back the round of whiskeys she hadn’t meant to order.
Susan leaned against the closest wall and closed her eyes. This was all that ghost—Red’s—fault. She had to get rid of him.
“If you weren’t dead, I’d kill you,” she muttered.
“Ain’t dead yet,” came a jolly, fishy slur.
A sticky glass pressed into one of her hands, no doubt ruining her silk gloves. Uneven footsteps shuffled back toward the mix of fishermen. With misgivings, Susan opened her eyes.
The barman hadn’t forgotten to include her illegal French brandy in the round of drinks. She tried to cast him a polite smile, but her face rebelled. It was not her plan to buy so many drinks that she’d need a year’s allowance to settle the tab... particularly when her parents had given no sign of sending her so much as a farthing. An insurgence of more fishermen backed her into a far corner of the tavern.
“Well?” Red demanded, hovering above the teeming bodies.
Susan leaned her aching head backward until it settled against the wood-planked corner, and tried to approach the situation logically. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”
“N-no,” he stammered. If it were possible for a ghost to blanch, that was precisely what he was doing. “I can’t be speaking of things such as those. Suicide talk, that is.”
She was about to argue the point—him already being dead—but thought better of it. She was proud to be one of the most successful busybodies in all of England, but if there were something so dangerous to know that even ghosts trembled to speak the words... well, she had enough trouble at the moment. She’d have to make do with gossip about the living.
“You honestly believe if I tell this woman, ‘Your brother isn’t coming home again,’ it won’t cross her mind to ask me a few questions?”
Red scoffed. “Pah, Harriet knows better than to ask questions. Besides, we prepared for this... as much as anyone can. She knows what to do. And Dinah can help.”
“Dinah?” Susan repeated. She couldn’t recall hearing that name before.
“Dinah?” echoed one of the drunks behind her.
“Dinah! Dinah!” chorused the crowd.
“Sully’s a little sweet on Miss Dinah, aren’t you, ye randy bugger?” called out another. “Too bad there’s no chance of that!”
The barman flamed red as a claret. He turned his back to the crowd and busied himself restacking already-stacked glassware.
“Sully and Dinah, Sully and Dinah,” chortled the drunk as he staggered his way up to the counter to harass the barman at close range.
The door opened and yet more men stumbled in. The tavern was now standing-room only. She’d be stuck in this dusty corner for who knew how long, but at least the men weren’t asking to add more drinks to her tab. When the barman discovered she couldn’t pay, he’d have to turn to her host... and then the scarecrow would dig a new hole for her in the grave garden.
Or worse—he wouldn’t. He’d just pull the ring of iron keys from his pocket and chain her to the damp cellar wall alongside Lady Beaune.
Red floated above the fishermen, distracted for the moment. “Heh, those lubbers don’t think Sully has a chance with Dinah.”
Susan’s back straightened despite herself. Gossip! About the living!
“Sully and Dinah...”
“Don’t know about Sully. He’s a harmless sort. But Miss Dinah spent last night in her cousin’s chicken shed with somebody, she did. That chit’s not the angel these folk think she is. My sister, now...” Red gave a fond smile. “Well, Harriet Grey’s no angel, either. Takes after me, she does.”
“Harriet... Grey?” Susan repeated, brain clicking madly. The witch from the dress shop was Red’s sister? And the porcelain doll had had a liaison in a chicken shed?
“Mark my words, she and Dinah are deadly when they get their heads together,” he warned with a chuckle. “And they’ve always got their heads together.”
That settled it. They could be none other than the cackling duo from the dress shop. Susan swallowed the rest of her brandy. She could scarce imagine dropping in to give the girls the good news from the Beyond.
“So, what do you say?” Red floated closer, voice eager. “Will you do it?”
Her teeth clenched in frustration, but she had no choice. If she said no, he would just keep coming back until she agreed.
“All right. Fine.” She tried to look as though she meant it. “Yes.”
“She said yes!” crowed one of the fishermen.
“Another round for everyone!”
“Pour me two!”
“Hear, hear,” slurred the priest.
Susan’s aching head thumped back against the wall. The tavern door swung open again. Who now? Miss Devonshire and Miss Grey?
The giant strode inside.
Chapter 15
If he couldn’t find the missing log sheet, at least he ought to find his brother.
Evan stared sightlessly down the length of the beach, relieved to have escaped Poseidon’s cave alive. If a bit bruised. He’d bathed, changed, stolen an hour or two’s sleep—but none of that gave him the slightest clue where to begin. Timothy’s dead body was just as lost as the missing log sheet. Possibly forever. A pirate’s grave was usually a pirate’s home: the vast nothingness of the sea. Which meant he’d never see his brother again, never have an opportunity to give him a proper good-bye.
Damn it. Evan hated feeling useless. Worse: powerless.
He continued along the rocky coastline anyway. Perhaps he would come across something, anything, to shed some light on this tangle of events.
And Timothy. On a secret mission! It defied all comprehension. Since when did his little brother hide things of that nature? Was this the first midnight venture? The first lie of omission? What else didn’t Evan know? His brother was apparently a much better pirate than he’d ever dreamed. Possibly better than Evan himself, given he’d never thought to arrange a secret outing aboard the boat. But what a brilliant scheme! Wenching and smuggling all the night long, and not the slightest need to turn any spoils over to the captain, because he wouldn’t even know the ship had sailed!
True, you’d be shark bait within seconds if the captain ever found out, but who’d tell him? The other shipmates risked their necks by stealing away in the night, and as long as you weren’t fool enough to scribble down the coordinates of your secret mission right there in the captain’s logbook—
Evan snatched up a rock and gave it a violent skip across the sea. That cursed logbook. Timothy would not have been stupid enough to advertise a folly guaranteed to cost him his life. But then why had Poseidon intimated that the destination might’ve been listed?
Oh, this was pointless. He couldn’t think. Not like this. He turned and headed into town.
What he needed was a distraction. Miss Stanton’s angelic face and devilish tongue flashed in his mind. No. Not that particular distraction.
That is to say, he ought to keep interest in her as the public explanation for why he wouldn’t be himself over the next days, weeks, months until he found Timothy’s killer. But he wouldn’t be able to really distract himself with her. Not in the sweaty way that left him limp and lifeless and brainless for several sweet moments of total relaxation. Delicious as that sounded.
He still couldn’t believe she’d stopped a simple kiss. Well, her loss. She wouldn’t know what it was like to have his mouth cover hers, to have his fingers in her hair, to have his tongue thrust deep inside—Evan’s blood ran a little warmer. Trouble was, he was more than a bit curious to know what it would be like to feel her palm caress his body in passion, not strike him in outrage.
Assuming uppity high-society virgins could feel anything so base as p
assion.
But what if she could? What if with the right moment, the right words, the right touch, she would not only like it, but want it, beg him not to stop? What if beneath her haughty demeanor lurked a woman as wild and wanton as any tavern wench? A woman even better.
He couldn’t prevent a quick glance at the facade of Moonseed Manor rising in stark censure atop the cliff overlooking the town. No. He would not tramp a mile uphill just on the chance he might see her. He wasn’t a boy of fifteen anymore. Women came to him, or they weren’t worth his trouble.
As if on cue, a too-high voice rang out, “Evan! Evan!”
He bit back a sigh. Unfortunately, most of the women who came to him these days were more trouble than they were worth.
“Miss Devonshire,” he answered politely.
She came to a breathless stop before him, all flushed cheeks and bouncing curls and saccharine desperation. “I asked you to call me Dinah.”
And he’d never asked her to call him Evan, but had that done any good?
“Shouldn’t you be sewing clothes, Miss Devonshire?”
“Well, yes, but I saw you from the window—at least, I thought it was you. I couldn’t be sure from such a distance, of course, but the shoulders were about right and the waistcoat looked awful familiar—so I left everything where it was and I ran all the way over here, and here you are, and here I am, and since it is you after all... Why haven’t you been to the shop to see me?” Her eyelashes fluttered at him like hummingbird wings. “I wait by the window every day. I expected you to call, and you didn’t. Or were you on your way to see me just now?”
Evan tried to keep his expression placid, but his balls shriveled a little more with every word tumbling from her lips. Miss Dinah Devonshire was a living, breathing reminder of why a man should never steal so much as a kiss from a woman he would have to lay eyes on again the next day. Tenterhooks grew from her fingers. If he weren’t careful, he’d wind up fastened among the cloth stretching to dry in her workroom.
“Actually,” he said, “I was on my way to—” Where could he possibly be on his way to that she wouldn’t follow him? Ah, yes. She’d avoid her least-favorite swain. “—Sully’s.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. In fact, if his ability to discern a woman’s manipulations weren’t mistaken, she was batting her eyelids and biting her cheeks in the hopes of drumming up a pitiable expression of watery-eyed misery.
He took a step in the general direction of the tavern. With the way the barman had been making eyes at her lately, there was no way Dinah would follow.
She kept right to his heels.
“Did you know there’s to be an assembly in Bath a fortnight from now? Mr. Forrester mentioned it to me. Next time he’s in town, I think he’s going to ask me to accompany him for the weekend. With chaperonage, of course. He’s a dear soul, and a very good catch, but I’m not interested in going with him if you’re going to ask me to go with you. Were you going to ask me?”
Why, oh, why had he ever allowed his cock to convince him to spend a few moments alone with this woman? As soon as he’d realized her interest was mercenary, he stopped before they could go too far… but she refused to take no for an answer.
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Oh! Good! Then you haven’t asked anyone else. Not that you would’ve. I mean...” High-pitched, rapid-fire giggles shot from her mouth like the jabber of an over-excited squirrel. “We’re more than just friends now, wouldn’t you say? I know you said you weren’t interested in a romantic relationship, but I was thinking I could be your companion to social functions. We might start with riding together to Bath in your phaeton. Nobody else has a phaeton.”
Ah. So she was enamored with his choice in carriages. Evan cursed the day he made that ill-advised purchase. He was probably the only one in Bournemouth who could take her to the stupid assembly.
“I’m afraid I’m out of town that weekend.”
“Oh no, that’s—that’s—” Her eyes widened and her squirrelly voice rose even higher. “That’s perfect! The next assembly won’t be for yet another fortnight, which gives me plenty of time to sew myself a new trousseau in the latest fashions, using all the best materials. Since you don’t lack for coin”—more near-hysterical laughter—“I’m sure you’d wish for the woman on your arm to look as stylish as any Ackermann sketch. It’s settled, then. Next time you stop by, just show me which colors you find the most fetching, and I’ll do the rest.”
That settled it, all right. The only way he’d enter her shop was in a casket.
“Do forgive me for taking up so much of your valuable time, Miss Devonshire. I know how busy you are. I’ll let you get back to your dresses, and I’ll go and pester Sully.”
“Oh,” she said again, the flash in her eyes indicating she’d hoped he would come pick out colors now—most likely for their wedding, too—or at least do the gentlemanly thing and offer her his arm and return her to her destination.
But Evan wasn’t stupid enough to do either of those things. The moment she had him reasonably alone, that friend of hers would pop out of the shadows to claim she witnessed him taking untold liberties, and Bam! He’d be leg-shackled. No, thank you.
“I suppose I should head back....” She glanced over her shoulder, clearly hoping to see someone, anyone, who might stumble across them and assume the worst if she threw herself into his arms at just the right moment.
One of the main reasons he wasn’t already at the altar for having ruined her was that he hadn’t been the one to do so. She’d come to him pre-ruined, believing that would be enough to make him welcome her into his arms and his life. Either she believed him completely without scruple, or she believed herself utterly irresistible.
Evan didn’t know why she had suddenly fixated on him, but he had enough trouble of his own without adding a romantic entanglement to the mix.
He inclined his head. “Until next time, Miss Devonshire.”
Hopefully never.
She wrung her hands in indecision but eventually made tiny hesitant-squirrel movements in the direction of her shop. She shot him hundreds of furtive glances over her shoulder as if expecting him to change his mind at any moment and whisk her to the nearest altar.
Dropping in on the Shark’s Tooth was sounding better and better. The best women within its walls would lie with him expectation-free, and if there weren’t any such women today, well, at least he could have a drink. And look, there was Ollie just stepping inside. Perfect timing.
Evan jogged the last few yards. He pushed open the doors—or tried to, anyway. Ollie’s overgrown form blocked one of them from swinging inward. Not that it was his fault. From the roaring noise and thick smell of liquor, Evan and Miss Devonshire must’ve been the only two souls not inside the tavern. What the devil was going on?
He elbowed Ollie’s meaty ribs and tossed him a questioning look, since the cacophony prevented him from asking any discernible questions aloud.
Ollie gave a disgusted shrug and stepped back outside. His lackey-cum-butler trailed in his shadow. Evan wasn’t surprised to see them cut in the direction of the path leading back up the cliff. Ollie hated crowds. And the lapdog always followed the master.
Evan, on the other hand, did not mind a good drinking crowd, particularly in the mood he was currently in. He pushed his way to the bar, ordered a glass of the brandy he’d sold Sully in the first place, and turned to face a neighboring group of drunken fishermen.
“Why the ruckus?” he shouted in the closest one’s ear.
“Free drinks!” came the slurred reply.
Evan’s brandy glass paused on the way to his lips. Free drinks? The only other man in town with enough money to buy rounds for everyone had just walked off without stepping more than a foot inside. He turned his questioning gaze to Sully.
The barman’s head bobbed in acknowledgment.
Interesting. “Who’s buying?”
“S
he is.” Sully gestured toward the back corner of the tavern.
Evan turned around so slowly he couldn’t be certain he was moving at all. Then he saw her. With her own brandy glass sloshing in her gloved hands. Having a rollicking time, by all appearances. Surrounded by fishermen singing sailing songs entirely inappropriate for a lady’s ears. Even if that lady cursed almost as often as Evan himself.
Miss Stanton.
Although it was impossible for her to hear him breathe her name across all that noise, all that confusion, all that distance—right then, her gaze lifted. Through the glint of her spectacles, he could somehow see her eyes smile at him. She lifted her glass in silent invitation.
He made his way to her as if in a trance, barely registering the grunts of the fools too sotted to stumble out of his way. This was a sea at tempest. He was a ship. And she was his shore.
His sudden obsession was surely nothing more than temporary infatuation borne of lust and challenge. How many women had fascinated him over the years, however briefly? But none of that signified at the moment. Right now, there was only one woman on his mind. And he would have her.
“Miss Stanton,” he said when he reached her. The crowd jostled them together, flank to flank. Or perhaps he’d done that himself.
He didn’t move away.
“Mr. Bothwick,” she returned faintly, her back to the wall. “Good afternoon.”
Yes. Afternoon. Right. He should be asking her what the devil she was doing drinking the day away like a common sailor—although, to be honest, the juxtaposition was putting him half-mast—but what he really wanted to know about was the little catch in her voice when she spoke his name, and the way her body trembled against his with each shallow breath. Was it the crowd? Too much brandy? Or perhaps the effect of having a man pressed against her so close that if it weren’t for their vestments—and the witnesses—they could as easily be making love?
The sudden image was almost his undoing. He backed up slightly. There was now enough room between them for... well, maybe a feather. He fought the urge to press against her again.
