by Erica Ridley
Evan ground his teeth. In this house, it could be anything—biscuit, bullet, chamber pot cleaning schedule. He almost didn’t want to know.
“What’s what?” he asked anyway, despite his better judgment.
“This.” Miss Stanton rose to her feet and came toward him, her prize enclosed in her fist.
He held out his hand.
She placed the back of hers inside his larger palm and uncurled her fingers.
A skull-and-crossbones winked up from the center of a large gold coin.
“That’s a Jolly Roger, isn’t it?” she breathed, awestruck. “But why? What could it mean?”
It meant, Evan realized with another glance at the ruined decor and the cargo-free entryway, that things were far, far worse than he thought.
Chapter 18
When dawn came, Susan was still staring into the blackness of the canopy.
She hadn’t slept. She’d lain in bed, listening for the cries of the belated Lady Beaune and hearing what she feared were the faint whimpers of the present (no doubt soon-to-be-belated) mistress, Lady Emeline.
And, guiltily enough, reliving a certain kiss.
She still couldn’t believe her instantaneous reaction to the illicit contact... and to the man himself. He was nothing but an unapologetic rake. Yet she could no longer look him in the eyes without remembering what he looked like with them closed in passion. And how he felt. How he tasted.
She suffered through the hourlong hair-curling process in uncharacteristic silence. If only because she scarce registered it happening. Her mind swirled with the memory of those heated kisses... and the humiliating realization that she’d liked it.
Despite her blue blood and the family money that came along with her parents’ titles, and the many years of proper upbringing that accompanied a fine education and (mostly) impeccable deportment, when push came to shove...
The inner-Susan was a common hussy.
Still in a bit of a daze from that undesirable conclusion, she eventually found her way downstairs and out the front door. She could not indulge such fantasies. She was a lady out to ensnare a lord. The least she could do was provide said lordling with a worthy bride. A proper bride. A demure and chaste bride. A woman who did not take pleasure in stolen kisses by men far beneath her station.
Worse than anything... she’d wanted more.
But she could not risk it. Her romantic reputation (or rather, lack thereof) was the one thing she had to offer her future husband. A compromise worked only if the man in question believed himself to be the one who had done the compromising. She needed to remain pure and untouched until the day she set foot back in London. She might be in the middle of nowhere, but she was still Miss Susan Stanton, sole heiress of a reasonably wealthy baron, eligible young lady who would, if she played her cards right, be welcomed back home to London… and perhaps even High Society.
The simple thing to do—the smart thing to do—would be to avoid Mr. Evan Bothwick at all costs.
However.
He had a secret.
She didn’t know what it was, but she burned to find out. The tantalizing promise of gossip had always been her one weakness. Not knowing Mr. Bothwick’s secret was eating Susan from the inside out.
Last night, he’d all but thrown her over his shoulder and dumped her back in the Manor without another word. The reprobate. He could’ve at least helped speculate on what manner of ruffian might’ve ripped apart his brother’s home.
Then again, seeing a coin like that in one’s brother’s sitting room would unsettle anyone. Even a libertine like Mr. Bothwick, with little more on his mind than finding a new maiden to deflower. Country folk might not realize the significance of the coin’s insignia, but Susan Stanton certainly did. Gooseflesh rippled up her spine at the unquestionably dangerous raison d’être:
Pirates.
Now, it was possible that the coin was merely a collector’s item and didn’t mean much of anything other than Mr. Bothwick’s brother being a bit of a pig, who ought to have invested a little money in a proper display case for his collection. And perhaps a housekeeper. Who was to say? She wasn’t one to leap to conclusions.
But she’d bet her month’s allowance (assuming it came—Janey had shaken her head no that morning before Susan could even ask) that the slovenly fool had gotten himself killed by the simple virtue of being at home when seafaring footpads came to ransack his house. They’d probably robbed him blind and then killed him. Or possibly the other way around. Or perhaps it had been simultaneous, and he’d perished in the mêlée. She’d tried to speculate but, as before, Mr. Bothwick had been maddeningly unwilling to participate.
But she knew who might.
She reached the foot of the path and cut across the sand and dirt toward the dress shop. Had she not hotheadedly alienated Miss Devonshire and Miss Grey yesterday afternoon, they might have become friends—or, at least, co-conspirators who could help her rescue her cousin. She had to find a way to make up. Decision made, she pushed open the door and stepped inside enemy territory.
They were not alone.
Mr. Forrester, the local magistrate, rested a well-tailored elbow (he couldn’t be that poor) against a ream of crimson silk.
Excellent. She needed his help. Emeline needed his help. Ollie Hamilton was Susan’s current guardian and Emeline’s legal husband, but there had to be something someone could do.
His golden head was bent alongside Miss Devonshire’s in a cozy tête-à-tête. When they both glanced over upon hearing the hinges creak open, the magistrate’s eyes crinkled into a welcoming smile. Miss Devonshire’s, however, sparked with murderous rage.
Susan decided it would be best to just go ahead and give them a minute to finish their conversation. She turned her gaze toward the ginger-haired witch stitching a hem in the dim candlelight. When Miss Grey looked up from her handiwork, her eyes were not filled with hate, but with an intense, watchful craftiness. Susan had been told on many occasions that she wore that look quite often herself.
“Miss Grey,” she murmured, treating her to a curtsy by way of apology.
“Miss Peeks-Through-Windows,” Miss Grey returned, without bothering to set down her needle.
Susan’s eyes widened painfully as she jerked her gaze toward the magistrate. His head remained next to Miss Devonshire’s, their eyes only for each other.
“Don’t worry,” drawled Miss Grey not bothering to hide the bitter sarcasm in her tone. “When Dinah captivates a man, he wouldn’t notice the room catching fire.”
Susan couldn’t help but cast an involuntary glance at the charred rafters, still spicing the dank air with remembered smoke from long-ago flames. Was that what had happened here? She glanced at the couple again.
“I—” she began, then stopped, unusually tongue-tied. “That is to say, you—”
The needle stabbed through the cloth without pause. “We haven’t mentioned your peculiar... proclivity... to anyone just yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Dinah says you’ve realized your mistake and won’t compound it by making another one.”
Susan took a fortifying breath. “And you?”
Miss Grey’s smile was slow and unforgiving. “I say, who cares?”
Well. So that’s how it was. Susan swallowed. At least she knew where she stood.
“I must say,” Miss Grey continued, “you’re the last one I expected to cross that threshold. What demon drove you to put your face back in our line of sight?”
“I...” The response died on Susan’s lips. Her earlier hope now seemed far too silly to voice aloud. Her muscles itched to spring for the door.
Miss Grey’s skinny red brows rose to mock her. “You didn’t think we’d make up and be friends, did you?”
Her cackle was loud enough to earn an annoyed glance from the couple in the corner.
“Of course not,” Susan denied, her voice empty. Even her limbs felt hollow. These women would never believe her, much less help her. “How foolish that would be.”
“Indeed,” agreed Miss Grey, stabbing her needle through the folded cloth again. “Not that it would’ve mattered anyway.” She cast a disgusted glance at the quietly conversing twosome before turning her shrewd gaze back to Susan. “I’m leaving. Forever.”
Susan raised her brows at the giggling porcelain doll entrancing the handsome magistrate.
“Miss Devonshire doesn’t know...?”
“Oh, she knows,” Miss Grey gave a derogatory chuckle. “You think I’d tell you something I hadn’t told my best friend?” The needle resumed its attacks on the fabric. “She just doesn’t believe me, that’s all.”
Miss Grey. Leaving. Forever. Hope blossomed in Susan’s thumping chest. The Stantons’ London connections were far better resources than a mere country magistrate. She could escape and rescue her cousin Emeline. Perhaps today!
“So...” she began carefully, trying to mask her eagerness. “You have a horse? A carriage?”
From Miss Grey’s incredulous expression, Susan might as well have inquired about dragons and magic carpets.
“I have my brother,” Miss Grey responded haughtily. “He’s getting a ship.”
A ship! Susan hadn’t considered that possibility. Largely because the traditional path to London was by land. A ship could make an excellent vehicle of escape. But, unfortunately for them both...
“Your brother?” she repeated, unable to keep the trepidation from her voice. “Have you got more than one, by any chance?”
“No, I haven’t got more than one.” Miss Grey’s tone dripped with condescension. “And Joshua only has the one ship, if that’s your next question. Luckily for me, that’s all we need. No more needles in this lifetime! The moment he gets back, I’m gone.”
“I see.” A cold sweat began at the nape of Susan’s neck, now that she’d been given a conversational opening she truly didn’t wish to take. Miss Grey’s brother was never coming back. And, viper though she might be, she deserved to know. Susan just didn’t want to be the one to tell her. “What if Red—er, Joshua—weren’t coming back? For some reason. Ever.”
Miss Grey stopped sewing. Unguarded fury replaced the scorn in her dark tone. “Why would you say that?”
“I just mean...” Susan wracked her brain, trying to recall exactly what the persistent ghost had told her to say. Where the bloody hell was Red, anyway? “He wouldn’t have left you without instructions, right? That is... you’d know what to do if he weren’t ever returning. Wouldn’t you?”
“Who the hell do you think you are to suggest such atrocities?” The witch’s eyes burned with brimstone as her handiwork fell to the floor. “My brother is coming back. We are leaving Bournemouth. He would never leave me behind.”
“No. No.” Susan floundered for the right words. If any existed. “I’m not saying he wouldn’t wish to return. I’m just saying, what if he’d love to spirit you away forever but couldn’t do so after all? Or get word to you to explain why? You would have an alternate plan, then, wouldn’t you?”
Miss Grey leapt to her feet, destroying the forgotten crumple of cloth with the heels of her boots. “Give me one good reason why that would be possible, Miss Peeping Tom. Did you spy on him planning not to come back? Ha! Impossible. You have no way of knowing what he’s intending to do or not do. He’ll be back as soon as he has the ship.”
“Well, it might be possible to surmise he couldn’t return, if he were... dead.” The syllable floated from her mouth so faintly, Susan could scarce hear herself speak the word.
“He’s not dead.”
“Perhaps Red wished to come back, to send word—”
“He’s not dead.”
“—but most of all, wished for you to take care of both yourself and the situation in whatever manner it was that you’d decided upon in case of emerg—”
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
This time, even the lovebirds in the corner couldn’t help but turn and gape at the spectacle unfolding before them.
Susan backed hastily toward the door. The razor-sharp tip of Miss Grey’s umbrella jabbed into Susan’s chest, to ensure she did so as rapidly as possible.
She fled. But she didn’t get far.
For a doll made of porcelain, Miss Devonshire could sprint across sand at exceptionally high speeds.
“You told Harriet her brother was dead?” she half-screeched, half-panted upon reaching Susan’s side.
Susan stopped running. She’d already been caught.
“I said ‘might’ be,” she mumbled defensively, but this only inflamed Miss Devonshire even more.
“That is the most despicable trick I could ever imagine someone playing on another human being!” Miss Devonshire’s bow-shaped mouth gaped in both anger and shock. Her big blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “I was a fool to want to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. You’re obviously vermin without hope of redemption. But hear me now: I will get you for this, Susan Stanton. You will be sorry.”
“I’m already sorry,” Susan stammered, frantic. “My cousin and I are in trouble. I was hoping for your help to—"
The laugh that escaped Miss Devonshire’s perfect teeth was nothing short of terrible.
“I’d never help you and neither will Harriet. Not after this. You hurt her. All I’ll give you is revenge so swift, you will never see it coming.” Hatred soaked through each snarled word. “You predicted a death, Miss Stanton. I’ll make sure it’s yours.”
Chapter 19
Susan searched the shore for the missing ghost until her legs gave out beneath her. She crumpled alongside the vastness of the ocean, her dry tongue tasting of sand and salt and hopelessness.
The problem with Miss Devonshire’s threat was that Susan believed every word. She wouldn’t have put a premeditated “mishap” past her or Miss Grey, even before today’s interaction. From the sound of things, nobody in Bournemouth would bat an eye. Even the magistrate was blind to everything but Miss Devonshire’s porcelain-perfect beauty.
The bigger problem, of course, was that she could do nothing to change their minds. Short of proving she saw ghosts. How could that happen when even she couldn’t find Red, now that she was looking for him? Had she imagined him after all? Was he nothing but the product of a lonely, overactive mind?
Was Emeline a figment of her imagination, too? Susan had only seen her once, and no one else seemed to think anything suspicious afoot. Being chained beneath one’s own house was more than out of the ordinary. It was insane.
Maybe Susan wasn’t just haunted… maybe she was going mad.
If so, perhaps Miss Devonshire was right to take her revenge. Susan had seen the root of the terror in Miss Grey’s eyes: Susan had voiced the very fear Miss Grey had refused to acknowledge to herself. Red wasn’t coming home. How long had the woman been waiting for her brother’s return? Susan sighed. She hadn’t planted a suspicion. She’d salted an open wound.
And now there was no ghost to prove her words.
She’d tried the tavern, the apothecary, the endless trail curling its way up the cliff. No Red. No ghosts at all. With nowhere else to go, she’d ended up wandering along the beach.
When her heart rate returned to normal, she forced herself into motion. She had to find him. Talk to him. Demand answers. Or at least some help. Surely there was a way for Susan to “accidentally” stumble across Red’s remains. For his sister to bury him. To have peace.
Because without a body to back up her words... Susan shivered in the damp ocean air. That was the only way. Proof or not, she could never admit she saw spirits. She needed her trip back to London to end in Stanton House, not Bedlam.
She clutched her pelisse about her a little tighter. She turned from the fury of the waves, intending to regroup back in her bedchamber, when she caught sight of a telltale flicker farther down the shore.
“Red?” she called out, her voice scratchy in the briny air.
No answer. The beach was empty.
She picked her way along the rocks in
the direction of whatever shadow had caught her eye. A thick wall of rock rose from the sea, as high as the cliff on which Moonseed Manor stood.
When she neared, she realized the giant mass of rock was not as solid as it appeared. A man-size crevice gaped in its side. She crept closer. The narrow opening fell inward as far as the eye could see, swallowing the sun’s meager rays in the thick soup of darkness.
“If you’re in there—” She jumped back, shaken, to hear the distorted echo of her own voice bounce among the shadows. “You can just come out if you wish to talk to me,” she whispered.
Something glimmered in the distance.
The darkness shifted.
A shape. A man. Red? No. Too tall, too slender. Not a ghost, then. Someone real. She should quit the premises posthaste before she found herself compromised after all. Except the incoming shadow belonged to—
“Mr. Bothwick?” she blurted out, simultaneously confused and relieved. “What on earth are you doing here? Don’t you know caves are dangerous? I must admit, you gave me quite a start. You—” She broke off, gulping down a lump of rock-hard fear. “Y-you aren’t moving your feet.”
She fought a swoon. Mr. Bothwick was dead? How? When? Why?
“You can see me?” he said in wonder. Something in his voice was... off.
“Not well,” she admitted, unnerved. She reminded herself that he couldn’t hurt her, that if he touched her he’d simply disappear harmlessly. “You’re doing a fair bit of sputtering, like the flame of a candle. And the shadows aren’t helping much.”
“How did you know my name?”
She paused. Had he completely forgotten her, in death? She’d spent all morning in a pitiable frenzy because of his kisses, and the moment his heart stopped beating, the horrid man had put her out of his mind forever. Oh—God—dead. Her head swam. Suddenly too dizzy to keep herself upright, she slumped against the opening lip of the crevice.
“I’m Susan,” she heard herself say through a thick mist. “Miss Stanton, rather, since we never did first-name ourselves. Don’t you remember me at all?”