Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  The door slowly creaked open and Janey scampered inside.

  As always, she was nothing more than a tiny jumble of elbows and knees poking out from a life-size ball of hair, as though she’d been swallowed whole by a carnivorous bird’s nest on her way to Susan’s bedchamber.

  But also as before, her deft little fingers worked magic on the myriad ties and buttons that supported modern day-wear. Susan couldn’t help the traitorous thought that Janey was significantly more efficient than her lady’s maid back home, who knew all the latest gossip but hadn’t the least clue what to do with a column of buttons.

  Perhaps Janey was equally efficient in the art of gossiping.

  Susan cleared her throat. “Are you familiar with the dress shop in town?”

  The maid hopped around a bit like a startled grasshopper, but her stick-thin fingers never left Susan’s hair. “I am, mum. That’s Miss Devonshire what runs it, she does.”

  Information at last. “Would Miss Devonshire be the one who looks like a porcelain doll or the one that looks like”—Susan faltered for an alternate description and came up empty—“a nursery-tale witch?”

  “Doll-baby, she is,” Janey answered without hesitation. “Other one’s Miss Grey.”

  “Are those two quite friends with Lady Beaune?”

  Janey froze in place.

  Startled, Susan tried to catch the maid’s eye in the mirror, but her face was hidden as always behind a cascade of tea-colored frizz.

  “Lady B-beaune,” Janey stammered when she returned at last to the daunting task of Susan’s hair, “never has had too many of what one might call... friends.”

  Susan all but purred at this bit of knowledge. Persons without friends were persons with Stories.

  “And why is that, if I might ask?” She bit back a yelp as several strands of hair snapped from her scalp.

  “Begging your pardon, mum. Pardon. It’s just I—well, I can’t rightly say why that is, mum. Imagine only Lady Beaune herself keeps the wherefores of all that past history.”

  Susan could scarce sit still in her chair. Unless her gossip senses were mistaken (and, after being the subject of multiple scandals, her gossip senses were honed to a fault), her lady’s maid had just delivered a barefaced lie.

  Janey knew the truth good and well but was clearly unwilling to part with that information. Susan would have to uncover the sordid details herself.

  “Where might I find Lady Beaune, would you say?”

  “F-find Lady Beaune?” Janey echoed faintly.

  Susan gave her most encouraging nod, which succeeded in divesting her of another strand of hair, but she no longer felt the sting.

  “I suppose... she might be found... out in the gravesite.”

  “Out in the—” A chill shivered along Susan’s flesh. “What gravesite? Where?”

  Janey swallowed audibly. “Out back.”

  “Out back? What do you mean, out back? By the rock garden?”

  “In it, rather. That is to say, some of those rocks are more rightly called... graves, mum.”

  Susan shot to her window and jerked open the sash. A gravesite. Here, at Moonseed Manor. She herself had walked through that very “rock garden” when she’d followed Mr. Bothwick to the trail at the cliff ’s edge. Had she stepped on the final resting places of the dead? Was that who—and why—they plagued her? Perhaps if she apologized, begged them to stop...

  “Shall I... shall I finish your hair, then, mum?”

  Susan turned around as if in a trance, her mind moving too quickly for her eyes to process what they were seeing. “No, no, I don’t think so. I think I’d best go right now and see these graves for myself. And speak to Lady Beaune, of course. Why does she tend the gravesite? Isn’t there a gardener with that duty? Not that it’s my business. I daresay—”

  She caught sight of her reflection, and her limp mane of half-straight, half-curled hair. She twisted it to the nape of her neck and secured it with the first comb in hand’s reach, never mind that the pearls didn’t quite match the flowered sprigs embroidered on her morning dress. She tried to ignore the pang of guilt at Janey’s strangled squeak as she watched her mistress undo all her hard labor with the single turn of a wrist.

  “It’s lovely, Janey, truly,” Susan assured her. She’d have left the maid a sovereign if her parents hadn’t left her penniless. Come to think of it... “Has a letter arrived for me, perchance? From London?”

  If Janey blinked at this change in topic, it was impossible to tell beneath the mass of trembling hair. Her tone, however, could only be described as wounded. “No, mum. Nothing’s come for you, or I’d have brought it with me.”

  “Oh. Of course you would’ve.” Susan mentally chastised herself for her second gaffe in as many minutes. She needed to keep as many allies as possible, and it was probably still too soon for mail. “Pardon my distraction. I’m just eager to hear from my parents... and to speak with Lady Beaune at last.”

  “Family is important,” Janey agreed after only the briefest of pauses. “There is that.”

  Susan had the impression her lady’s maid had wanted to say something quite different. But Janey made a strangled sound, half-collapsed into an awkward curtsy, and fled the room without waiting to be dismissed.

  What did she know? Something about Susan’s parents? Or about Janey’s own parents? But the maid hadn’t said “parents,” had she...? She’d said “family.” Whose family? Lady Beaune’s? Or the unfortunate souls being trod upon between the rocks lining the backyard?

  Susan marched through the still-gaping doorway. It was time to find out.

  Chapter 12

  By the time the clock on the mantel chimed noon, Evan was aware of three disturbing facts: He was exhausted to the marrow, his stomach had begun to consume itself from lack of sustenance, and the missing logbook page was definitely not in Timothy’s house.

  Evan hadn’t left a stone unturned. Literally. Well, figuratively regarding the stone because the house was made of wood, but every single plank had been pulled up or back or to the side in order to peer beneath. Every stick of furniture had been removed, dismantled, and inspected. Every drawer had been opened, overturned, and searched. No logbook page lurked anywhere.

  He slumped against a stack of still-mind-blowing stolen cargo. Was his rule-following brother the captain’s secret link for selling stolen goods? Impossible. Timothy hadn’t even fancied being a smuggler until Evan had joined the crew. And Timothy had never kept a secret from Evan in his life. There had to be an alternate explanation. A clue, no doubt, resided in the missing logbook page.

  So where the devil was it?

  Evan ran a finger along the rims of hand-painted teacups and catalogued the possibilities. One: The log page was never here in the first place, because Timothy wasn’t stupid enough to have stolen it. This was a good theory because it gave his brother some brains, but bad because that meant any given brute could’ve taken the sheet anywhere on Earth, which made searching for it a tad more complicated.

  Two: Timothy was stupid enough to steal the page, but not stupid enough to bring it home. Again, this theory gave his brother some credit, yet opened up the window to the world at large, as far as searching went.

  Three: Timothy was stupid enough to take the page and whoever killed him had already taken it back. This was the worst theory of all because it slammed the door on the idea of Evan coming across the page himself, and he had the distinct suspicion he would never understand what had happened without knowing what was on that page worth killing—and dying—for.

  There wasn’t much he could do about that last scenario, and Timothy wasn’t here to ask about the second situation, so he would have to consider possibility number one: Someone else took the sheet. Since Evan was convinced no one on his crew—including his brother—was suicidal enough to do such a thing, the only remaining suspects were... the other crew.

  He glanced at the clock again. Still noon. Well, five past.

  On the one hand,
there was nothing he wanted more than to go home and sleep for a few hours. He would be wise to be in top form when entering the other crew’s territory. Those soulless jackanapes made Evan’s shipmates look like choirboys.

  On the other hand, every day, every hour, every minute lost was another minute further from the truth, thereby increasing the villain’s head start and diminishing Evan’s chances of ever wreaking vengeance.

  And that possibility was unbearable.

  So he pulled himself together, shut his brother’s front door as best he could what with the ruined hinges, and headed for enemy land. By the time he reached the hidden shore along the distant cliff, his clean clothes were laden with sand and the omnipresent spray of saltwater. This time, he didn’t bother to hide his pistols. He kept them in his hands. Cocked. Ready.

  The familiar rush of power and trepidation surged through his veins as he neared the crevice leading to a secret cavern that opened to the sea.

  They wouldn’t be happy to see him.

  They resented sharing the captain’s ship with another crew, despite the begrudging cooperation being a brilliant scheme of economics and alibis. If these water rats sensed any weakness, they’d have half a mind to make him disappear. To be honest, they only had half a mind among them anyway. That’s what made them so dangerous.

  Evan wished he could just speak to Timothy himself. Goddamn, Evan missed his brother. He glared at the waves raging against the shore. Best not to think too much about the hole in his heart, and keep his mind on unraveling the mystery surrounding his brother’s death.

  He approached the cave with caution.

  This was the one place along the entire coast where his feet were unsure of their placement. Why smugglers sharing the same ship needed individual secret caves, he didn’t know... unless that was the point. To keep Evan’s crew unsure and off-balance. Easy pickings.

  The faint stench of smoke tickled his nostrils. Disquieting, that. No one set something so obvious as a fire in a place they hoped to keep secret. Or maybe they’d seen his approach, set a trap, and were luring him in. Hard to say. Even fools were occasionally clever.

  He tightened his grip on his pistols, then forced himself to relax. They wouldn’t kill him on sight. Probably. But if he gave them the barest scrap of a reason... they wouldn’t hesitate. He had to be on the ready.

  He’d abandoned his boots at the shore—stockings too, this time, despite the icy water. Slip on one of these rocks, and he’d wind up killing himself in the fall. Which the other crew might be hoping for, so they wouldn’t have to explain themselves to the captain. He crept forward, his bare feet making no sound as he scaled the jagged boulders.

  Evan glanced around at all angles, searching the shadows for movement. They were watching him. They had to be. He would be, if in their shoes. The troubling stench of smoke slowly grew stronger. Were they planning to roast him alive? Or were they burning something else... a filched log sheet, perhaps?

  He was through the crevice and into the blackness of the cave when the first gunshot rang out.

  Behind him.

  Still alive. He grinned into the dark as delicious anticipation ruffled the hairs on his arms. A sentry outside had seen him, if belatedly. Which meant there was no going back now. Or possibly ever... but he’d deal with that on the way out. For now he had to keep moving forward.

  Before long, he found himself at a point where the narrow passageway widened into a cavern more than spacious enough to hide a full-size ship and several missions’ worth of cargo. The ship was still in its cave—he hoped—which meant this one was empty of everything but pirates. He double-checked his weapons.

  There would be no way to hide his approach. So he didn’t try.

  He sauntered forward, straight down the center, a well-turned gentleman slightly spiced with dripping seaweed and a pair of loaded pistols.

  They saw him. Of course they saw him. But instead of shooting him, a raspy chuckle scraped forth from the shadows. Then the pirate responsible for the chuckle stepped forth, gun in hand, barrel pointed at Evan’s forehead.

  “Bothwick,” the scar-faced smuggler said, shaking his head as if he found Evan’s attempt at infiltration wholly amusing. “Wot you doing here, you sneaky bastard?”

  “Why, Poseidon,” Evan returned conversationally, trying to keep one eye focused on the pirate and the other on the teeming shadows. “Good day to you, old chap.”

  “Is it, now? And you there, come a-calling with a pair of pistols. Why don’t you put them away now, eh? We’re a right friendly bunch.”

  Evan kept his pistols where they were. Poseidon’s barrel didn’t waver from Evan’s face.

  “Red’s not about, is he?”

  Poseidon let out a bark of laughter. “Bothwick’s stumbled into the wrong cave, boys,” he crowed over his shoulder. He lowered the weapon long enough to use it to gesture the other men forward. “He thinks he’s at home.”

  A half-dozen burly smugglers spread out to surround him in a loose circle. Backing up would do no good, but that was all right because Evan wasn’t ready to leave. He hadn’t come this far to run off now—or lose the back of his skull for his efforts.

  “I think it’s pretty clear which cave I’m in,” was what he did say. Idly, casually, as if he were remarking on something with even less importance than the crisp Bournemouth weather.

  “Aye, I’d guess by now as it’d be obvious. Yellow’s never been your color.” Poseidon slid his gun into his waistband and stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  Evan didn’t think for a moment any of the barrels behind him had abandoned their precision. But he gave his hallmark devil-may-care grin, tucked one—but not both—of his pistols into his own waistband, and gave Poseidon’s hand a hearty shake. And returned both pistols to his palms.

  Poseidon leaned back and spit onto the rocks. “Peering about for Red, then, are you?”

  “Timothy, as well.” When Poseidon didn’t immediately respond to this gambit, Evan cast about for inspiration. “I thought they might be together.”

  Gold flashed in Poseidon’s gap-toothed smile. “That they might be, mate. One never knows about such things, does he?”

  A chill crept down Evan’s spine. He barely restrained himself from demanding, What the devil is that supposed to mean? Wherever he was, Timothy was dead. And if Red were with his dead shipmate...

  “I never know much of anything.” He fought the urge to glance at the faces of the unseen men behind him. “And you? No clue where they might be?”

  Poseidon snorted. “I’d have to see if they listed the port in the logbook, now, wouldn’t I?”

  Evan stared, completely forgetting he was supposed to look carefree, not gobsmacked. Poseidon thought Red and Timothy were together... at sea? Heading to an unknown destination? But how was that possible? Everybody already knew where they’d gone on the last mission. It was more or less the same route a few times a month, and both crews took turns. Not only that, but the ship should’ve docked on Sunday. Red should be at the tavern, and Timothy should be at home doing absolutely nothing, as usual. Poseidon wasn’t making a lick of sense. Unless he was implying Red and Timothy had taken the ship back out.

  Evan’s pistols felt unnaturally heavy in his palms. “They went on a secret mission?”

  “I try not to get involved.” The pirate shrugged one big shoulder in studied unconcern. “Dangerous, you know.”

  If it were dangerous for Poseidon to poke his nose into secret missions, it was the height of stupidity for Timothy to set sail on one without the captain’s blessing. Whose harebrained idea had that been? Red’s? Unless the mission hadn’t been a secret from the captain. After all, Poseidon’s entire crew seemed reasonably informed. Did Ollie know, too? What did it mean if the captain were hiding mission details only from Evan?

  God, how he wished he could ask those questions aloud. But he didn’t dare weaken his already-undesirable position.

  “Fire out, boys?” Poseidon asked sudde
nly.

  A voice from behind them grunted in assent. Footfalls approached, but the grunter did not step into view.

  Poseidon nodded. “Good.” He returned his gaze to Evan. Another flash of gold between the crooked yellow teeth. “Anything else we can be doing for you, mate? Or were you just about done using up our fine hospitality?”

  He should go. They were actually going to let him go. Probably. But he couldn’t go yet, not like this, not with so many questions unanswered and so many more crowding his brain by the second.

  If the captain were hiding missions from Evan, the only logical reason was that he didn’t expect Evan to be a member of the crew for much longer. And the only—the only—way one ceased to be a member of a band of treasonous smugglers was the precise way Timothy had found himself retired from duty. If Evan was about to undertake his last mission come Friday, he had to know. Now.

  “How did you know they’d gone?” he blurted unpiratically. Damn.

  Derogatory laughter sounded from behind him. “Who you think sold ’im an extra night with the ship, ye lubber? We wouldn’t be standing around this fool cave like ladies at a tea party if we wasn’t waiting on those jacks to get back with the damn—”

  A gunshot.

  A yelp of pain.

  It took a split second to realize that although it was Poseidon’s pistol that had fired, it had not been Evan’s cry. He risked a glance behind him. One of the water rats was doubled over, hand to his ample gut, blood seeping between his fingers.

  “Ye shot me!” he choked out, then crumpled to his knees.

  “If you’d shut yer carcass-hole now and again, I wouldn’t have to.” Poseidon gave the pistol handle an expert twirl but didn’t return it to his waistband. No doubt the barrel was scalding hot. “Now, as I were saying. I’m getting right tired of all this chitchat. Anything else got your bonnet in a twist this fine day, Bothwick? Because one way or another, you’re about to take your leave.”