Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

Too Sinful to Deny (2 page)

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny

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“Humph. You’re always interested in women.” Ollie poured a fresh glass of brandy and proffered it in one large paw.

Evan made a shooing motion to decline the offer, then watched in silent horror as his host downed the entirety in one swallow, like a shot of cheap whiskey. “I’m interested in wenches, not women, Ollie. Wenches are . . . perfect. Much easier to deal with.”

Ollie swiped the back of his hand across his beard. “How could what’s-her-name be any easier? She’s upstairs. And no lock ever kept you out of somewhere you wished to be.”

“Exactly. She’s upstairs. Whereas if you pick the right wench, you never have to clap eyes on her again.” Evan glanced at the fob in his waistcoat pocket. “Like I said . . . perfect.”

Ollie’s too-loud laughter filled the smoky room. “From what they’re saying in town, you clapped more than your eyes on that scrumptious little Miss—”

“Let’s just talk about Timothy, shall we? He and Red were meant to dock this time last week.”

“Red ain’t here, either.”

“That’s my
point.
” Evan leaned back, his shoulder thudding against the mantel. “Timothy was the lead on that mission, and he’s responsible enough to—”

Ollie shrugged. “Smugglers aren’t responsible.”

Evan’s fingers twitched at his side. “Ollie, could you please be serious for a moment? If I had a pistol handy, I’d shoot you just for prevaricating.”

“There you go. Now you’re acting yourself again. Except for the ‘please.’” Ollie turned back to the sideboard. “Sure you don’t fancy another brandy?”

Evan glared at him. “Red’s a useless corkbrain and always has been, but Timothy would’ve sent word if something went wrong.”

“Then nothing went wrong. Just because you’re a few years older doesn’t mean you’ve got to mother the poor bastard. Perhaps the two of you are cut from the same cloth. Could be he’s shacked up with a few bits o’ fluff and is far too busy being naked to bother sending his brother love notes. He’ll be home when he’s had his fill.”

Evan shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like Timothy at all. He’s irritatingly punctual, and you know it. Time’s running out. Ship has to be seaworthy again by Friday, or heads will roll. Timothy does not need trouble with the captain.”

“They’ll be back.” Ollie downed another shot of brandy. “Like you said—your brother’s a responsible sort.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed. For a fellow water rat, Ollie was far too cavalier about the disappearance of their ship and fellow crew. “If you know something, tell me. Now.”

Ollie slammed his empty tumbler onto the sideboard. “I know you’re becoming well annoying, that’s what I know.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment before Evan growled and turned toward the fire. He wished he’d taken that second brandy after all, just to have something to destroy. “We should’ve all gone together.”

“It was a two-person job.”

“Then I should’ve gone instead of that shit-for-brains Red.”

“I believe Timothy asked you to do just that, but you were occupied with the bit o’ muslin you met on the
last
job.”

“Just for one night.” Evan snatched his greatcoat from the arm of a wingback chair. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed Ollie to wed. Or the type of woman that would want him. Evan himself couldn’t handle the oaf ’s company for long stretches. The little blonde upstairs would soon regret whatever impulse had brought her so far from home . . . and wearing bejeweled Town finery into a den of smugglers. “That new guest of yours is certainly fancy. Hope she knows enough to lock her door.”

“My house.” Ollie lifted his empty brandy glass. “Nothin’ locked to me.”

At that, Evan stalked out of the study. Ollie could be so infuriating. Just because he’d been a member of the crew for several years—as opposed to Evan and Timothy’s mere six months—Ollie took great delight in treating the two of them like imbeciles.

Irritatingly, the overgrown brute did have a point. Evan undoubtedly would’ve been late coming home if he’d been the one on the ship.

But it wasn’t Evan on that ship. It was Timothy. Timothy, with the rule-following soul of a ledger-keeper. Timothy, who’d wanted to create charts and schedules for swabbing the deck and cleaning the privies, for Christ’s sake. If the captain said to dock by Monday, Timothy would’ve docked on Sunday morning.

But he hadn’t.

Evan let himself out of Moonseed Manor. Few stars lit the cloudy sky. He circled the perimeter of the house and crossed through the rock garden to the steep path plummeting down the sandy cliff to the beach below. Timothy would’ve—

Wait. What was that? There, smudged between the shore and the horizon. A ship, the hull rocking with black waves, the sails fluttering with the ocean’s salty breath.

Evan scrambled down the narrow trail, his sure feet keeping him from tumbling to his death even as the sharp rocks and brambles scratched at his boots and clothes.

He leapt the last few feet and sprinted toward the ship. Running in boots on thick sand was never easy, but at least he wasn’t doing so weighted down with large wooden crates. The craft shimmered in the distance, a mirage of sails and shadow. Why weren’t the damn things helm-lashed ? And why cast anchor so close to home? If Timothy didn’t have the ship housed in the usual spot before daybreak, half the town would see the flag from their breakfast windows.

Lungs burning from exertion, Evan slowed to a jog when he got close enough to realize there was no way to board the ship without swimming a fair bit out to it. The crew hadn’t bothered to drop anchor within shouting distance.

Evan sighed and shucked his boots and greatcoat. Lucky that fashionable garments from illegal French silk were free for the taking—for him, anyway—or Evan might be a bit displeased about being forced to dive into frigid saltwater in his evening clothes.

Only one of his stockings remained by the time he reached the bower’s cable. Soaking wet and shivering, he hauled himself up to the deck as quickly as possible. A ruined wardrobe he could forgive, but if he caught cold from dealing with his little brother’s antics and became too ill to go on the next mission, Evan would have to seriously consider fratricide.

“Timothy!” he shouted as he leapt to the deck. His single stockinged foot shot forward every time the silk slid across puddles of water. Evan half-hopped, half-danced his way to a reasonably dry patch and jerked the offending garment free. “Timothy? Red? Where the devil are you two?”

And the rest of the crew, for that matter. A so-called two-person job still required the usual collection of riffraff in order to set sail—or return home. There was no cargo in sight, either. The anonymous local associate who sold their smuggled goods must have made short work of divesting the ship of its booty. The spoils were no doubt long gone, and the captain’s share of the profits already in his pocket.

Damp footprints marked Evan’s trajectory as he made his way through the empty ship, calling out crew-member names and pushing open doors. Timothy was no doubt at home before a fire. That straitlaced rotter would laugh himself silly if he knew his brother was dripping wet and clomping around deck barefoot.

Evan gave the wardroom door a halfhearted shove, convinced by now that he was the only one stupid enough to still be on board. He stepped inside the cramped quarters and jolted to a stop.
Damn
it.

For the second time that evening, his hands convulsed uselessly at his sides. He never had his pistols when he needed them. And neither, it seemed, did Timothy.

A pair of glassy eyes stared right through Evan. His brother’s eyes. A trickle of dried blood seeped from the small black hole in Timothy’s pale forehead, the thin red line separating his face into two ghostly halves. No point checking for a pulse. Evan crumpled to his knees. He lowered his head, no longer able to stare into the eyes that had once looked up to him as if he were a hero. He was no hero. He’d failed Timothy as a shipmate and as a brother. He should’ve been the one aboard the ship. The one to face whoever had attacked Timothy.

Evan forced himself to his feet. He would find whoever had stolen his brother’s life. He’d catch the rotten son of a bitch, no matter who he was or where he’d slunk off to.

And then he’d kill him.

For the first time in her life, Susan Stanton did not sleep past noon. Witnessing a ghostly breeze rip an old woman into strips of nothing was not, as it turned out, conducive to a good night’s rest. Although she considered herself a logical, fact-based, feet-firmly-on-the-ground sort, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn from such an event.

Moonseed Manor was haunted.

The only conclusion that could be drawn from
that
conclusion was that it was more imperative than ever that she return to London posthaste. She absolutely must be on the next carriage out of Bournemouth, even if she had to drive the horses herself.

Susan strode to the bell pull. Her hand had already curled around the cord when a chilling thought wriggled into her brain. Barely dawn. Would a
real
servant answer the call? Or a ghost? Her fingers dropped the cord as if the twine had branded her palm.

Perhaps—whilst she was having a steady series of firsts anyway—she should go ahead and dress herself.

Although she managed to remove her nightgown and don her shift with little incident, lacing stays and a morning gown proved quite impossible to do by oneself. Heart thudding, Susan gave the cursed bell pull a reluctant tug and sat down at a small escritoire in the corner to wait. After staring at a dusty pen-and-ink set for several moments, unlaced gown gaping open at her back, she decided to take this opportunity to inform her family of her impending return.

“Dear Mother,” she scratched across the top of a yellowed sheet of parchment.

I was wrong. I do hate you more than you hate me.

“Moonseed Manor has proven to be an unacceptable choice for accommodation.”

Not that I expect you care.

“While I have not spoken with Father’s cousin—”

—because she’s most likely DEAD—

“—I did meet the master of the house—”

—who could snap my neck as easily as a bird’s—

“—and will inform him of my intent to return to London.”

Unless I can manage to escape without him noticing.

“I have decided to leave at my earliest convenience, which happens to be within the hour. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if I arrive on the heels of this very letter. In order to depart as expeditiously as possible, I shall leave my luggage behind and hire the first available—”

Bloody hell
.

Susan stared at the ink drying before her. Mother hadn’t exactly packed a purse full of money for her daughter’s one-way trip to the edge of the world.

To be honest, the need for physical coin hadn’t occurred to Susan either (not that she’d been given a voice in the let’s-disown-our-daughter planning process), if only because credit was a given in London. Everyone knew her face and the Stanton name. If she wished for, say, an emerald necklace, she walked out of a store with an emerald necklace. Father would settle the accounts later. Well, he would’ve before the Incident that had gotten her locked in her bedchamber. Now what she needed was to marry a titled aristocrat with deep pockets and a generous soul. Not an easy feat, but at least
possible.
In London. Where her name meant something.

In Bournemouth, however . . .

Here, she had no limitless credit. Here she had nothing. She could ask her parents for money, of course. But if they were aware she planned to use their funds in order to defy their wishes by returning home, the likelihood was high that no money would be forthcoming.

Bloody, bloody hell.

She would have to avoid all mention of just how disagreeable she found her exile. Best to act as normal as possible. She crumpled up her missive and began a new one.

“Dear Mother. Please send money. Yours, &c. Susan.”

There. Her monthly allowance should arrive within the week. Assuming she chanced to survive that long in haunted Moonseed Manor.

The sound of the heavy door scratching across the hardwood floor sent gooseflesh rippling up Susan’s arms. The figure that scampered inside made her gasp in horror. Was it terrible of her to
hope
this unfortunate creature wasn’t among the living?

The—maid?—stood less than four feet tall. Her body was nothing more than a jumble of elbows and legs poking out from a shapeless brown sack of a dress. Her face (and neck and shoulders and chest) hid beneath a gravity-defying mass of tea-colored frizz. A cockeyed bonnet perched atop the whole.

How the tiny servant could locate the guest quarters with her face buried behind a waterfall of thick hair was beyond Susan’s comprehension.

“Janey, mum.” As if jerked by marionette strings, the entire collection of wild hair and bony limbs collapsed in an awkward curtsy. “At yer service.”

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny

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